Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

was at his elbow, also waiting.
    A few minutes later, the boy was at Kip’s door. His eyes were bright and eager.
    “Mr. Morgan! The bellman went to the street, looked up and down, then walked to a Chevrolet sedan and spoke to the man sitting in the car. The man gave him some money.
    “I talked to Tom, down on the corner, and he said the car had been there about a half hour. It just drove up and stopped. Nobody got out.” He reached in his pocket. “Here’s the license number.”
    “Thanks.” Kip picked up the phone and called, then sat down.
    A few minutes later, the call was returned. The car was a rental. And, he reflected, certainly rented under an assumed name.
    The day passed slowly. At dusk, he paid the boys off and started them home, to return the next day. Then he went down to the coffee shop and ate slowly and thoughtfully. After paying his check, he walked outside.
    He must not go anywhere near Helen Whitson. He would take a walk around the block and return to the hotel room. It had been stuffy, and his head ached. He turned left and started walking. He had gone less than half a block when he heard a quick step behind him.
    Startled by the quickening steps, he whirled. Dark shadows moved at him, and before he could get his hands up, he was slugged over the head. Even as he fell to the walk, he remembered there had been a flash from a green stone on his attacker’s hand, a stone that caught some vagrant light ray.
    He hit the walk hard and started to get up. The man struck again, and then again. Kip’s knees gave way, and he slipped into a widening pool of darkness, fighting to hold his consciousness. Darkness and pain, a sense of moving. Slowly, he fought his way to awareness.
    “Hey, Bill.” The tone was casual. “He’s comin’ out of it. Shall I slug him again?”
    “No, I want to talk to the guy.”
    Bill’s footsteps came nearer, and Kip Morgan opened his eyes and sat up.
    Bill was a big man with shoulders like a pro football player and a broken nose. His cheeks were lean, his eyes cold and unpleasant. The other man was shorter, softer, with a round, fat face and small eyes.
    “Hi!” Kip said. “Who you boys workin’ for?”
    Bill chuckled. “Wakes right up, doesn’t he? Starts askin’ questions right away.” He studied Morgan thoughtfully, searching his mind for recognition. “What we want to know is who you’re workin’ for. Talk and you can blow out of here.”
    “Yes? Don’t kid me, chum! The guy who hired you yeggs hasn’t any idea of lettin’ me get away. I’m not workin’ for anybody. I work for myself.”
    “You goin’ to talk or take a beatin’?”
    His attitude said plainly that he was highly indifferent to the reply. Sooner or later, this guy was going to crack, and if they had to give him a beating first, why, that was part of the day’s work.
    “We know there’s a babe in this. You was seen with her.”
    “Her?” Kip laughed. “You boys are way off the track. She’s just a babe I was on the make for, but I didn’t score. Private dicks are too poor.
    “This case was handed to me by an agency in Newark, an agency that does a lot of work for banks.”
    He glanced up at Bill. “Why let yourself in for trouble? Don’t you know what this is? It’s a murder rap.”
    “Not mine!” Bill said. The fat man glanced at him, worried.
    “Ever hear of an accessory? That’s where you guys come in.”
    “Who was the babe?” Bill insisted.
    Kip was getting irritated. “None of your damn business!” he snapped, and came off the cot with a lunge.
    Bill took a quick step back, but Kip was coming too fast, and he clipped the big man with a right that knocked him back into the wall.
    The fat man came off his chair, clawing at his hip, and Kip backhanded him across the nose with the edge of his hand. He felt the bone break and saw the gush of blood that followed. The fat man whimpered like a baby, and Kip ducked a left from Bill and slammed a fist into the big man’s