Strip for Murder by Richard S. Prather Page A

hand was clutching my right wrist and his other fist was balled, held in front of him. I reached across my body slowly with my free hand, looking at his face, and trying to smile pleasantly, but as soon as my left hand closed around his wrist I stopped smiling.
    I jerked my arms up, pulling my elbows in close to my stomach, pushing with my right wrist against his loosened thumb and pressing the thumb of my own hand forward against the back of his hand as it turned. Husky grunted and twisted to his right, mouth coming open as I got both thumbs together on the back of his bent hand and leaned into it. And then he was facing away from me, left arm sticking out behind him, and bending over like a man trying to bite the carpet.
    I didn't want him stooped over like that, the center of all eyes, so I stepped close to him, bent his arm up behind his back, then held it with my left hand while I transferred my right hand to his right biceps and straightened him up. He straightened almost eagerly, because I was digging my fingers into the axillary nerve underneath his armpit. Now we could coexist nicely.
    He whistled, but so softly that nobody more than three feet away could have heard him, like a tire going flat. I glanced around. The whole operation hadn't taken more than four or five seconds. Two people were looking at us. I put on a big, toothy grin and wiggled my eyebrows at them. The puzzled looks went away and they chuckled. It was nothing after all; just a couple of slobs.
    â€œOK,” I said to Husky, “let's go see Norman.”
    He started to say something, but I put a little pressure on the fingers of both my hands, and wondered idly if the pain going up his left arm would meet the pain going up his right arm. “You just lead the way,” I said. “And don't talk about calling guys to play games with my head. I'm in a beastly mood tonight.”
    We made it, chums together, to the rear of the room and to a door there that I kicked a couple of times, gently. It opened and another apelike stranger looked out and stepped aside. As we went past him he walked along with us and said to my guide, “What's the matter with him? Huh?”
    I answered for Husky, who wasn't able to say much of anything. “I can hardly stand up,” I said, grinning at him. “He hit me in the stomach.”
    He grinned back at me, as if that pleased him. Then his grin went away. He looked at Husky. “Why's he so happy about it?”
    Then we were at another closed door. The mental giant opened it, let us through, then pulled the door shut behind us, remaining outside. This would be Ed Norman's office, and the big heavy-faced guy behind the desk would be Ed Norman. His coat was still too tight; he was still stolid and unsmiling. I'd seen him before—last night, in fact, at Mrs. Redstone's. The tall, broad character who'd been with Garlic, and briefly with Poupelle. Some wheels started spinning in my head. There were several questions I'd wanted to ask Ed Norman, but now it seemed unlikely that I'd get any answers. None, at least, that I'd like.

Chapter Ten

    I said, “So you're Ed Norman.”
    â€œThat's right, Scott. And ... What in hell's the matter with you, Foster?”
    Foster, no doubt, was the large gent I was so wrapped up in. I'd tightened a little on seeing Ed Norman, and I had consequently tightened Foster. He was bent forward with his mouth wide open, making little noises.
    I said, “He got fancy with me. I don't quite know what to do with him now that I've got him.”
    The muscles at the sides of Norman's thick jaw bulged, then relaxed. Last night I'd noticed his marked-up face, and now I saw that he had a scar at the side of his right eye, another over one cheekbone. They looked like knife scars. Norman said, “You push your luck pretty far, don't you, Scott?” He said it casually, his deep voice soft, almost soothing. It didn't soothe me, though, and I didn't answer.
    Norman