desk, saw me and waved me over. “He went by again. Same car. I was just gonna call you.”
“Get the number?”
“Damn right.” He handed me a slip of paper with the license number scrawled across it. “Last year’s Chevy, dark blue sedan and there’s a dent in the left rear fender.”
“Thanks, buddy. Can I use this phone?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I caught Charlie Corbinet at his apartment, read the number off and hung up while I waited for him to check it through. His contacts were damn thorough. In ten minutes he was back to me with the information that it was a rental car operating out of Surfleet Corporation on Fifty-first Street and a check there said it had been taken out two days ago by a John Clark identified by his driver’s license. The same license had been reported stolen a month ago and reissued to John Clark with a Buffalo, New York, address.
Charlie let me note it all down, then said, “What’s it mean, Tiger?”
“I may have to move faster. Anything from Interpol on the .22?”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You were right. Same gun used in those other kills. Hal Randolph is jumping all over the place. There isn’t an agency left who hasn’t been alerted. They’re going all out now.”
“And the by-pass control?”
“Nothing.” He paused, then: “Tiger ...”
“What?”
“We can’t afford to miss.”
“I know it, buddy.”
“We can’t afford to let this thing leak, either,” he said. “One word and there will be a panic like we never saw before.”
“Hell, the papers will cooperate. Washington is big enough to demand that if somebody tries to break the story.”
“That isn’t the angle I mean. Supposing the Soviets let the story out themselves. There are enough left-wing and liberal-type publications that drool the Moscow line to get it started. All it takes is one—one lousy do-gooder, one-worlder garbage-eater to get the nitheads screaming in the streets.”
“Yeah, I know. All we have left is the element of time. If they’re sure Agrounsky pulled the trick off with the by-pass control they might try it, but they have to be sure or it will backfire on them and at this stage of the game they can’t afford adverse criticism.”
“And how much time have we got?” Charlie asked softly.
“Hardly any,” I said and hung up.
Rondine was watching over the doorman’s shoulder, keeping him out of earshot. I shoved the phone back, walked over and picked up her bag. “Where does that rear exit lead to?”
“Goes into the courtyard,” the doorman said.
“There’s a service alley that runs along the west side of the building behind this one?”
“You got to jump the fence.” He thought about it a second and added, “The garbage cans are back there. You could stand on them. That fence is about eight feet high.”
I took Rondine’s arm. “Show me,” I said.
With the doorman leading the way we turned left at the rear of the lobby, went through a fire door into a bare concrete corridor that had service rooms opening off it to the door at the back. At the far end was another metal plated fire door with a red exit bulb over it and a three foot horizontal latch handle stretched across its middle. Like all emergency doors, it opened out, but had an added safety lock of a length of two inch angle iron resting in arms attached to the door with the ends butted against the door jambs to keep it from being opened from the outside.
He pried out the bar easily, stood it on end, and pushed against the handle. The door swung out easily and he turned to me with a grin, half stepping outside to let us go past, and just as I reached for the bag the angle iron in his hand jerked back as if somebody had pulled a string and caught him flat across the forehead and he went down like a poleaxed steer, the door swinging shut until it hit his legs.
I gave Rondine a shove to one side, hit the floor and pulled the angle iron away from his face and checked the massive bruise that
“Get the number?”
“Damn right.” He handed me a slip of paper with the license number scrawled across it. “Last year’s Chevy, dark blue sedan and there’s a dent in the left rear fender.”
“Thanks, buddy. Can I use this phone?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I caught Charlie Corbinet at his apartment, read the number off and hung up while I waited for him to check it through. His contacts were damn thorough. In ten minutes he was back to me with the information that it was a rental car operating out of Surfleet Corporation on Fifty-first Street and a check there said it had been taken out two days ago by a John Clark identified by his driver’s license. The same license had been reported stolen a month ago and reissued to John Clark with a Buffalo, New York, address.
Charlie let me note it all down, then said, “What’s it mean, Tiger?”
“I may have to move faster. Anything from Interpol on the .22?”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You were right. Same gun used in those other kills. Hal Randolph is jumping all over the place. There isn’t an agency left who hasn’t been alerted. They’re going all out now.”
“And the by-pass control?”
“Nothing.” He paused, then: “Tiger ...”
“What?”
“We can’t afford to miss.”
“I know it, buddy.”
“We can’t afford to let this thing leak, either,” he said. “One word and there will be a panic like we never saw before.”
“Hell, the papers will cooperate. Washington is big enough to demand that if somebody tries to break the story.”
“That isn’t the angle I mean. Supposing the Soviets let the story out themselves. There are enough left-wing and liberal-type publications that drool the Moscow line to get it started. All it takes is one—one lousy do-gooder, one-worlder garbage-eater to get the nitheads screaming in the streets.”
“Yeah, I know. All we have left is the element of time. If they’re sure Agrounsky pulled the trick off with the by-pass control they might try it, but they have to be sure or it will backfire on them and at this stage of the game they can’t afford adverse criticism.”
“And how much time have we got?” Charlie asked softly.
“Hardly any,” I said and hung up.
Rondine was watching over the doorman’s shoulder, keeping him out of earshot. I shoved the phone back, walked over and picked up her bag. “Where does that rear exit lead to?”
“Goes into the courtyard,” the doorman said.
“There’s a service alley that runs along the west side of the building behind this one?”
“You got to jump the fence.” He thought about it a second and added, “The garbage cans are back there. You could stand on them. That fence is about eight feet high.”
I took Rondine’s arm. “Show me,” I said.
With the doorman leading the way we turned left at the rear of the lobby, went through a fire door into a bare concrete corridor that had service rooms opening off it to the door at the back. At the far end was another metal plated fire door with a red exit bulb over it and a three foot horizontal latch handle stretched across its middle. Like all emergency doors, it opened out, but had an added safety lock of a length of two inch angle iron resting in arms attached to the door with the ends butted against the door jambs to keep it from being opened from the outside.
He pried out the bar easily, stood it on end, and pushed against the handle. The door swung out easily and he turned to me with a grin, half stepping outside to let us go past, and just as I reached for the bag the angle iron in his hand jerked back as if somebody had pulled a string and caught him flat across the forehead and he went down like a poleaxed steer, the door swinging shut until it hit his legs.
I gave Rondine a shove to one side, hit the floor and pulled the angle iron away from his face and checked the massive bruise that
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