spider into a corner.
Rizzato was around the desk as quick as a weasel. He grabbed her short brown hair from behind as she emerged, jerked her head up and then back and sideways to rap it just hard enough on the edge of the well. The girl made a strangled sound in her throat as if she were trying to retch. He rapped again. The girl quit fighting his hands.
‘That’s it, dearie,’ he chirped. His eyes and voice were cheerfully birdlike. He bent his own face over hers, so he could look down into her fear-haunted eyes. ‘Now tell me about the package.’
‘There wasn’t any—’
Rizzato reached down his free hand and almost contemptuously massaged one of the small ripe globes beneath her fuzzy yellow sweater. The girl’s body stiffened, her mouth opened as if in rictus, but she made no sound.
Rizzato removed his hand. Blood congested his face, either from rage or arousal. ‘Answer my questions, dearie, or I’ll strip that sweater off you and suck on that nipple until it’s the size of a grape. Now out from under the desk and on your feet, no tricks. Right?’
There was a long pause. Pamela finally nodded her head, mutely. Her face was nauseated. A thin line of blood had run down one corner of her mouth where she had bitten herself.
‘That’s my girl. Now tell me about the package.’
Rizzato stepped back three swift paces, stood poised on the balls of his feet as she awkwardly crawled out from under the desk. The girl was shivering as if with cold. She shot a single shamefaced look at Rizzato, then looked at the stairwell.
‘I locked the downstairs door, dearie. Neil Fargo, Investigations is closed temporarily for inventory.’
‘If Neil should come back—’
‘He’s out looking for Docker.’
The girl shuddered. She pressed back against the edge of the desk. Her body shielded her right hand from Rizzato’s view. The hand crept back, spiderlike, toward the telephone.
Rizzato had removed his suitcoat, carefully hung it over the back of a chair. To go with his six-inch-wide necktie, he wore bright golden suspenders three inches wide. Somehow, these did not make him look ridiculous.
He reached back as if to scratch the back of his head, then his arm was a sudden blur and a slim black commando’s knife was lying on his open palm. The girl’s hand leaped back to her side as if scalded. Rizzato laughed complacency.
‘Fargo must have told you why they call me Peeler.’
The girl made her eyes find his face. Her pupils had dilated with emotion like a cat’s, so almost no iris showed. Somehow she made her voice low and steady.
‘You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’
‘That’s my girl. Did Fargo bring a package with him when he came in this morning?’
‘Package?’
‘Dearie …’ He pointed the flat black blade at the front of her dust-marked skirt. ‘Maybe I’ll open you up down there so you can take a stallion right to the balls and yell for more.’
The girl’s face became exactly the shade of parchment. It took her lips, so dry had they become, three times to whisper, ‘Please … I … don’t know what you mean. He … was empty-handed. Completely.’
‘There’s this morning’s Chronicle on top of the file cabinet.’
‘I brought that myself. I bring it every morning.’
‘Now we find out if you’re lying.’
The office was small, with few hiding places. Only one filing cabinet was locked, and that one Rizzato dumped on its face and opened by working loose the lock-rod. There was no package, no money. Finally he heaped up some of the dozens of file folders he had dumped out, unplugged the coffee pot, carefully removed the basket which held the sodden grounds and dumped them over the files. He completed the destruction by pouring the steaming coffee over the grounds. Then he sat down on the edge of the girl’s desk.
‘And now, dearie, tell me about this car Docker is driving …’
He left exactly twenty-two minutes after he had
Rizzato was around the desk as quick as a weasel. He grabbed her short brown hair from behind as she emerged, jerked her head up and then back and sideways to rap it just hard enough on the edge of the well. The girl made a strangled sound in her throat as if she were trying to retch. He rapped again. The girl quit fighting his hands.
‘That’s it, dearie,’ he chirped. His eyes and voice were cheerfully birdlike. He bent his own face over hers, so he could look down into her fear-haunted eyes. ‘Now tell me about the package.’
‘There wasn’t any—’
Rizzato reached down his free hand and almost contemptuously massaged one of the small ripe globes beneath her fuzzy yellow sweater. The girl’s body stiffened, her mouth opened as if in rictus, but she made no sound.
Rizzato removed his hand. Blood congested his face, either from rage or arousal. ‘Answer my questions, dearie, or I’ll strip that sweater off you and suck on that nipple until it’s the size of a grape. Now out from under the desk and on your feet, no tricks. Right?’
There was a long pause. Pamela finally nodded her head, mutely. Her face was nauseated. A thin line of blood had run down one corner of her mouth where she had bitten herself.
‘That’s my girl. Now tell me about the package.’
Rizzato stepped back three swift paces, stood poised on the balls of his feet as she awkwardly crawled out from under the desk. The girl was shivering as if with cold. She shot a single shamefaced look at Rizzato, then looked at the stairwell.
‘I locked the downstairs door, dearie. Neil Fargo, Investigations is closed temporarily for inventory.’
‘If Neil should come back—’
‘He’s out looking for Docker.’
The girl shuddered. She pressed back against the edge of the desk. Her body shielded her right hand from Rizzato’s view. The hand crept back, spiderlike, toward the telephone.
Rizzato had removed his suitcoat, carefully hung it over the back of a chair. To go with his six-inch-wide necktie, he wore bright golden suspenders three inches wide. Somehow, these did not make him look ridiculous.
He reached back as if to scratch the back of his head, then his arm was a sudden blur and a slim black commando’s knife was lying on his open palm. The girl’s hand leaped back to her side as if scalded. Rizzato laughed complacency.
‘Fargo must have told you why they call me Peeler.’
The girl made her eyes find his face. Her pupils had dilated with emotion like a cat’s, so almost no iris showed. Somehow she made her voice low and steady.
‘You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’
‘That’s my girl. Did Fargo bring a package with him when he came in this morning?’
‘Package?’
‘Dearie …’ He pointed the flat black blade at the front of her dust-marked skirt. ‘Maybe I’ll open you up down there so you can take a stallion right to the balls and yell for more.’
The girl’s face became exactly the shade of parchment. It took her lips, so dry had they become, three times to whisper, ‘Please … I … don’t know what you mean. He … was empty-handed. Completely.’
‘There’s this morning’s Chronicle on top of the file cabinet.’
‘I brought that myself. I bring it every morning.’
‘Now we find out if you’re lying.’
The office was small, with few hiding places. Only one filing cabinet was locked, and that one Rizzato dumped on its face and opened by working loose the lock-rod. There was no package, no money. Finally he heaped up some of the dozens of file folders he had dumped out, unplugged the coffee pot, carefully removed the basket which held the sodden grounds and dumped them over the files. He completed the destruction by pouring the steaming coffee over the grounds. Then he sat down on the edge of the girl’s desk.
‘And now, dearie, tell me about this car Docker is driving …’
He left exactly twenty-two minutes after he had
Similar Books
