the country together. To live in sin in some foreign place.
Briscoe reckons that if Tischman has been tripled, he will inform the Corporation of this development. And the Corporation will pull Heimdall off the case and assign a new field agent.
But before Briscoe has a chance to put this outlandish scheme into operation, he receives evidence of the detective’s guilt from another source. A voice-actuated tape recorder in Sally Abaddon’s motel picks up an anonymous phone call.
“Miss Abaddon?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Let’s just say a friend. I think you should know that Harry Dancer’s home is wired. All the phones are bugged, picking up and recording phone calls and interior conversations. For the benefit of your employers.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, Miss Abaddon.”
“Who are you?”
Click!
Briscoe listens to this tape twice. Then considers…Only he, the Director, Tischman, and the techs who installed the bugs know of the electronic surveillance of Dancer’s home. But the techs have no knowledge of Sally Abaddon. And, of course, Briscoe eliminates the Director and himself. That leaves Herman K. Tischman.
The Chairman is right; the detective has been twisted. He snitched to the Corporation, who set up the anonymous call. Briscoe tells the Director.
“Terminate him, sir?” he asks. “Extreme prejudice?”
“Yes,” the Director says. “Immediately. An accident.”
“Of course,” Briscoe says. Miffed because the Director thinks it necessary to tell him how to do his job.
At 6:00 P.M. that evening he finds Tischman. The detective is slouched in his rusted Plymouth outside Harry Dancer’s office. Briscoe parks his own car. Gets out. Strolls over to the Pi’s heap. Leans down to speak through the opened window.
“Any action?” he asks.
“He had lunch with the Heimdall dame,” Tischman reports. “Then they went to her place. Long enough for a matinee. That’s all.”
“You and I have got to talk.”
“About what?” Tischman says. Chewing on a wet cigar.
“A new assignment. More bucks. You can use the loot, can’t you? The hospital bills for your little girl and all.”
“Well, yeah, sure. Climb in, and we’ll talk.”
“Not here. Too public. Knock off early tonight. I’ll see you at your office at nine. Okay?”
“You’re the boss.”
“That’s right,” Briscoe says.
He gets to Tischman’s office a half-hour early. Parks a block away. Walks back. Carrying two liters of cheap vodka in a brown paper bag. He uses a surgeon’s scalpel on the door lock and presses with his knee. Door pops open. He goes in. Closes the door. Switches on a desk lamp.
He pours a liter of vodka into the littered wastebasket. Over the upholstery of a garish couch. The rug. He wets the drapes. Rolls the empty bottle under the desk. Uses half of the second bottle to make a puddle beneath Tischman’s swivel chair. Then he waits. Sitting.
Tischman shows up a little after nine o’clock. He is shocked to see Briscoe behind his desk.
“How the hell did you get in?” he demands.
“The door was open,” Briscoe says. Rising.
“Bullshit it was. I always make sure to lock up. My God, this place smells like a brewery.”
“I’ve been having a few,” Briscoe says. Grinning. Holding up the half-empty bottle. “Want a shot?”
“What is this?” the detective says. “The place is soaked.”
“Yeah,” Briscoe says. “And look at that.”
He points a thick forefinger at the wastebasket. It bursts into fire. Blue flames flicker upward.
“My God!” Herman K. Tischman cries. “What’s going—”
“And that,” Briscoe says. Aiming his forefinger at the drapes. Couch. Rug. “And that. And that.”
The office roars. Conflagration spreads. The detective turns to flee. Briscoe grapples him with heavy arms. Flings him into the swivel chair. Tischman’s clothing ignites. Body lurches upward. Briscoe slams him down. Pours the remaining vodka over him.
The office is
Briscoe reckons that if Tischman has been tripled, he will inform the Corporation of this development. And the Corporation will pull Heimdall off the case and assign a new field agent.
But before Briscoe has a chance to put this outlandish scheme into operation, he receives evidence of the detective’s guilt from another source. A voice-actuated tape recorder in Sally Abaddon’s motel picks up an anonymous phone call.
“Miss Abaddon?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Let’s just say a friend. I think you should know that Harry Dancer’s home is wired. All the phones are bugged, picking up and recording phone calls and interior conversations. For the benefit of your employers.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, Miss Abaddon.”
“Who are you?”
Click!
Briscoe listens to this tape twice. Then considers…Only he, the Director, Tischman, and the techs who installed the bugs know of the electronic surveillance of Dancer’s home. But the techs have no knowledge of Sally Abaddon. And, of course, Briscoe eliminates the Director and himself. That leaves Herman K. Tischman.
The Chairman is right; the detective has been twisted. He snitched to the Corporation, who set up the anonymous call. Briscoe tells the Director.
“Terminate him, sir?” he asks. “Extreme prejudice?”
“Yes,” the Director says. “Immediately. An accident.”
“Of course,” Briscoe says. Miffed because the Director thinks it necessary to tell him how to do his job.
At 6:00 P.M. that evening he finds Tischman. The detective is slouched in his rusted Plymouth outside Harry Dancer’s office. Briscoe parks his own car. Gets out. Strolls over to the Pi’s heap. Leans down to speak through the opened window.
“Any action?” he asks.
“He had lunch with the Heimdall dame,” Tischman reports. “Then they went to her place. Long enough for a matinee. That’s all.”
“You and I have got to talk.”
“About what?” Tischman says. Chewing on a wet cigar.
“A new assignment. More bucks. You can use the loot, can’t you? The hospital bills for your little girl and all.”
“Well, yeah, sure. Climb in, and we’ll talk.”
“Not here. Too public. Knock off early tonight. I’ll see you at your office at nine. Okay?”
“You’re the boss.”
“That’s right,” Briscoe says.
He gets to Tischman’s office a half-hour early. Parks a block away. Walks back. Carrying two liters of cheap vodka in a brown paper bag. He uses a surgeon’s scalpel on the door lock and presses with his knee. Door pops open. He goes in. Closes the door. Switches on a desk lamp.
He pours a liter of vodka into the littered wastebasket. Over the upholstery of a garish couch. The rug. He wets the drapes. Rolls the empty bottle under the desk. Uses half of the second bottle to make a puddle beneath Tischman’s swivel chair. Then he waits. Sitting.
Tischman shows up a little after nine o’clock. He is shocked to see Briscoe behind his desk.
“How the hell did you get in?” he demands.
“The door was open,” Briscoe says. Rising.
“Bullshit it was. I always make sure to lock up. My God, this place smells like a brewery.”
“I’ve been having a few,” Briscoe says. Grinning. Holding up the half-empty bottle. “Want a shot?”
“What is this?” the detective says. “The place is soaked.”
“Yeah,” Briscoe says. “And look at that.”
He points a thick forefinger at the wastebasket. It bursts into fire. Blue flames flicker upward.
“My God!” Herman K. Tischman cries. “What’s going—”
“And that,” Briscoe says. Aiming his forefinger at the drapes. Couch. Rug. “And that. And that.”
The office roars. Conflagration spreads. The detective turns to flee. Briscoe grapples him with heavy arms. Flings him into the swivel chair. Tischman’s clothing ignites. Body lurches upward. Briscoe slams him down. Pours the remaining vodka over him.
The office is
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