talking to him about Marie Calvante had been insane too: mad of Versallo to do it, he surely should have known that no one talked about Marie Calvante to Wulff.
No one,
not even David Williams who had been in the patrol car that night, had seen the girl lying on the floor, had been with Wulff to see what had happened, no one talked about it and yet here was Versallo, an armed man standing in a locked office with Wulff, having him totally at bay, calling the girl a
cunt.
This could not be. If it was so, if Versallo could be permitted to get away with this then Wulff was a fool, everything that he had done so far had been a fool’s act because it had been based on a lie. It was intolerable. The man, no man could be permitted to get away with this.
Wulff sprang-at Versallo.
He sprang at him without forethought, without measuring the situation at all, and this is probably what gave him a chance at the start because Versallo was alert and he would have seen the calculation in Wulff’s face an instant before the spring. That would have been all that he would have needed to have used the gun. But Wulff had not calculated; his spring was almost as much of a surprise to him as it was to Versallo and so he was able to take the man off guard, at least a little, rammed a knee over the desk and, with a hand extended, was at Versallo’s throat before the man could prepare himself.
But Versallo did have the gun. He had the gun and for a man of fifty-three he had extraordinary reflexes and even as Wulff was in midair, his body arched, one hand extended to seize Versallo by the throat and wrench the life out of him, Versallo had snatched the gun off the desk and had fired. The bullet went high, passing just above Wulff’s wrist and then the second shot came with booming impact, aimed toward Wulff’s belly. Somehow, though, Wulff had been able to turn his body away from the line of fire so that he was falling upon Versallo from a sidewise angle and this shot, too, missed, roaring into the wall opposite. Dull splinters rained out of the ceiling and then Wulff had fallen upon the man, the force of the dive carrying them both to the floor. He had his palm outstretched flat to Versallo’s forehead. As the man hit the floor hard on the back of his head he could feel his palm going into the forehead and could feel something literally
splattering
within there. Softness lurched against Wulff’s palm, he could feel a moistness—which he took for a moment to be brains but it was not, it was only blood—exploding upward from some open part in the rear of Versallo’s skull and quickly he felt his hand palpating with warm, red glue.
At the least Versallo had a concussion; he might have a skull fracture. Nevertheless the man was strong, desperately so; almost reflexively he reared up against Wulff, bringing a knee toward the groin, missing, settling for a dull impact in the belly and Wulff heard a sound like a sack hitting wet sand, realized that it was the sound of Versallo’s knee into his belly and almost simultaneously the pain opened within him as the secondary impact of Versallo’s fist came up from the floor, striking him on the cheek. The man was fighting desperately, singlemindedly, no thought of going for the gun undercutting his counterattack. Versallo, concussion or not, was functioning coolly and splendidly under the circumstances. He was a murderous alley fighter. Now his other knee was battering up, still seeking Wulffs groin, settling for another part of stomach, and Wulff raised his hand, chopped the flat of it hard into the adam’s apple, heard Versallo gag, squawk like a bird and then vomit into his hand as he used his full weight to pin the man like an insect underneath him.
Versallo fluttered and squawked, his feet kicking away at the floor, and then he made one final effort, bringing up both legs simultaneously, getting Wulff in the solar plexus and thus breaking the interlock. Wulff fell away from him, momentarily
No one,
not even David Williams who had been in the patrol car that night, had seen the girl lying on the floor, had been with Wulff to see what had happened, no one talked about it and yet here was Versallo, an armed man standing in a locked office with Wulff, having him totally at bay, calling the girl a
cunt.
This could not be. If it was so, if Versallo could be permitted to get away with this then Wulff was a fool, everything that he had done so far had been a fool’s act because it had been based on a lie. It was intolerable. The man, no man could be permitted to get away with this.
Wulff sprang-at Versallo.
He sprang at him without forethought, without measuring the situation at all, and this is probably what gave him a chance at the start because Versallo was alert and he would have seen the calculation in Wulff’s face an instant before the spring. That would have been all that he would have needed to have used the gun. But Wulff had not calculated; his spring was almost as much of a surprise to him as it was to Versallo and so he was able to take the man off guard, at least a little, rammed a knee over the desk and, with a hand extended, was at Versallo’s throat before the man could prepare himself.
But Versallo did have the gun. He had the gun and for a man of fifty-three he had extraordinary reflexes and even as Wulff was in midair, his body arched, one hand extended to seize Versallo by the throat and wrench the life out of him, Versallo had snatched the gun off the desk and had fired. The bullet went high, passing just above Wulff’s wrist and then the second shot came with booming impact, aimed toward Wulff’s belly. Somehow, though, Wulff had been able to turn his body away from the line of fire so that he was falling upon Versallo from a sidewise angle and this shot, too, missed, roaring into the wall opposite. Dull splinters rained out of the ceiling and then Wulff had fallen upon the man, the force of the dive carrying them both to the floor. He had his palm outstretched flat to Versallo’s forehead. As the man hit the floor hard on the back of his head he could feel his palm going into the forehead and could feel something literally
splattering
within there. Softness lurched against Wulff’s palm, he could feel a moistness—which he took for a moment to be brains but it was not, it was only blood—exploding upward from some open part in the rear of Versallo’s skull and quickly he felt his hand palpating with warm, red glue.
At the least Versallo had a concussion; he might have a skull fracture. Nevertheless the man was strong, desperately so; almost reflexively he reared up against Wulff, bringing a knee toward the groin, missing, settling for a dull impact in the belly and Wulff heard a sound like a sack hitting wet sand, realized that it was the sound of Versallo’s knee into his belly and almost simultaneously the pain opened within him as the secondary impact of Versallo’s fist came up from the floor, striking him on the cheek. The man was fighting desperately, singlemindedly, no thought of going for the gun undercutting his counterattack. Versallo, concussion or not, was functioning coolly and splendidly under the circumstances. He was a murderous alley fighter. Now his other knee was battering up, still seeking Wulffs groin, settling for another part of stomach, and Wulff raised his hand, chopped the flat of it hard into the adam’s apple, heard Versallo gag, squawk like a bird and then vomit into his hand as he used his full weight to pin the man like an insect underneath him.
Versallo fluttered and squawked, his feet kicking away at the floor, and then he made one final effort, bringing up both legs simultaneously, getting Wulff in the solar plexus and thus breaking the interlock. Wulff fell away from him, momentarily
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