Fallen Sparrow

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He drained his. He mocked, “Shall I take you home now?”

  She seemed to draw on fading strength and she refused. “Not just yet.”

  He didn’t understand. He said, “You know now I’m one of their kind, on the opposite side.”

  She said, “Maybe you are.” She closed her eyes. “I have loved beauty and right and peace. I have loved all little quiet things. These will come again. You are wrong if you shut them from you. They will come to those who wait for them. They will not die as long as some believe in them and wait for them.”

  He scorned. “The meek shall inherit the earth?”

  “Yes. Still I can believe that. And I know, far more than you could know, the viciousness of these times.”

  He said, “The meek will inherit when they destroy the strong. It won’t be their meekness that hands them the earth. It’ll be their bombs that are heavier, their gases more poisonous, their leaders more ruthless.”

  Her cloudy hair fell across her cheeks. “I am sorry for you. It hurts you to believe as you do. Nor do you have to hold this belief. You are not forced as I, as many others. You are free.”

  He stated, “I’ll be free when I have destroyed one man, the man I spoke of before. The man I call the Wobblefoot. He was sent here to destroy me. You are working for him. The Prince and the Skaases and José all work for him. One of you will be sent to lead me to him. When I meet him, I will kill him. You know who he is.”

  She didn’t speak; she didn’t look at him.

  “If you wish to warn him, tell him that.”

  She murmured, “I will not warn him.”

  He finished the wine. He said, “We will go now. I’ve had a hard day. I’m tired. I don’t want to be tired.”

  She moved with reluctance.

  Duck asked, “The Park, Boss?”

  “Not tonight.”

  She was small and shadowy in the far corner of the cab.

  He asked, “Where does José come into this?”

  “He is a musician; he cares only for his career. But he is poor and only beginning. He was educated at the best universities and conservatoires. For his help in certain matters, he is paid well. And he expects a fortune when they obtain the treasure; they have promised to buy it from him. He truly claims the goblets belong to him, as bastard of Mad Manuel.”

  They had reached the apartment. She didn’t move. He put his hand on the door and she spoke, spoke hurriedly, “Need this be goodbye, Kit? Can’t we have another meeting?” It came then, slowly. “Why do you not come to dinner with us tomorrow night? A farewell before—your Mil.” Red circled her cheeks. “We will invite Det, and Barby with Otto, José and Content. We will make a party. Music and song—”

  A party. The violin. Tsigane. It had come. He helped her out. “If I came—do you suppose it would be possible for me to slip upstairs and take a look at Dr. Skaas’ desk? There might be something there that would lead me to the man I want, to the Wobblefoot.”

  He was casual. “Could you arrange it?”

  She wasn’t fooled. “You really want that?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was steady. “I will arrange it.”

  7

  DET WAS SHORT OF breath. “Kit, you mustn’t go to dinner at Prince Felix’s tonight.”

  He yawned. It was too early for realities.

  Her face was frozen. “It will be dangerous for you. It will mean your death.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Did Toni send you?”

  “No.” She clutched her coat. “But I know it”

  He interrupted, “Did she say anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m going.”

  Her eyes turned hard as pavement She said, “I’ve warned you not to hurt Toni.”

  “I haven’t hurt her.”

  “What happened between you last night?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “She won’t tell me but she’s frightened. And she won’t talk about you.” She said wearily, “I’ve tried to help you both.”

  He spoke slowly. “These are not the times for the middle of the road, Det. It’s one side or the other.”

  Her lips closed. Wordless she walked to the door.

  He asked, “Why is Toni so important to you?”

  She didn’t turn. She said, “Once I too was controlled by a madman.” She added with impact, “I’ll be there tonight myself to see that she’s safe.”

  He rang Tobin when she left. “Will you call off your dogs for twenty-four hours? I can wind it up if you will. But I’m afraid there’ll be a slip otherwise. They’ve too many mice.”

  Tobin was afraid of it; Kit was convincing. He didn’t want police witnesses when he killed a man. He didn’t want to pay, not until it was all over.

  He said, “I’ll ring you later. Stand by.” He added, “As a favor don’t let Det go to dinner at the Prince’s apartment tonight.”

  She was about ready to break now; she wasn’t up to a plunge into the unknown dangers that would develop. He couldn’t trust her in her zeal for Toni; she could be a real hindrance. She knew too much and too little. Tobin could work out a way to restrain her.

  A second call. To Barby. Too early to disturb her but stressing of the urgency put her on the wire. He said, “I’m on my way down to see you.” He ignored her protest. “Can you reach Otto and have him meet me there? Something important has come up. I need his help.”

  It wouldn’t be difficult for her to arrange; she’d probably moved him in, with the family in Florida. She asked for an hour’s delay; he granted thirty minutes.

  He had to go at it convincingly, make lies truth. He had to get rid of Otto Skaas for tonight. He didn’t doubt that Otto had been the strong arm squad, although not necessarily the murderer, when Louie was killed. A man who walked as did the Wobblefoot would need armed assistance. Kit couldn’t risk the gunman in his way tonight. He didn’t need to kill underlings. Better to save Otto, turn him over to the F.B.I. and the police. They could knock a confession out of him easily enough.

  Barby received in the dining-room. “I knew you wouldn’t have had breakfast at this hour, so I ordered for all of us.” She was radiant in something that covered but revealed her, something that went with the ivy and the silver wall paneling. Otto was pleasantly smug.

  Kit began without preliminaries, “You offered to help me out, Otto. Are you still willing?”

  There was but the faintest hesitation but the enthusiasm was well-tempered. “Certainly.”

  Barby was excited. “What’s up, Kit?”

  “I need you too. I had a call earlier from Washington. A fellow named Southey says he can get hold of proof of who killed Ab and why. He doesn’t have it but he knows the man who does. It’s in copies of certain documents and cables, part in German. That’s where you come in, Otto. I need someone I can trust to translate these, know if they’re not phonies. This fellow Southey spoke of wants money. I’m willing to pay but I don’t want to be rooked. Will you help out?”

  The sleek head just moved. “Yes.”

  “Barby, I want you to see Dantone this afternoon. You and Otto. Don’t tell him any of this but get him to talk about what Ab was doing.” Sidney wouldn’t give out a thing but it would keep the two busy. “Tell him your doubts as to the correctness of their verdict. You know how to go about it. Get all you can out of him.” He consulted his watch. “If you’ll dress now, you can make the eleven o’clock plane. I’ve a cab waiting. I’ll join you at the Wardman Park this evening. I wired for reservations—two rooms—just ask in my name.”

  Without knowing why, Otto was suspicious. “You don’t go with us?”

  Kit scowled. “I’ve got to go to Centre Street this morning and answer some more fool questions from that fool Inspector. I’ll fly down as soon as I can get away, join Southey and make an appointment with this fellow for tonight in my rooms at the hotel. I’ll meet you there. If the fellow comes before Southey and I get there, you hang on to him, pump him.�
��

  Barby said, “I’ll dress.” She was delighted.

  Otto was still hesitant. This wasn’t in the Wobblefoot’s plan and he rightfully had doubts. He said, “We promised the Prince to have dinner with him tonight.” Kit spoke impatiently. “I promised too. I’ll call Toni and explain for all of us. See if she’ll make it for tomorrow night.”

  He had to out-talk Otto’s thought procession. But that made it right. If Kit were not going to show up at the apartment tonight, Otto needn’t be there. A trip with Barby was more interesting. His bold eyes said that.

  Kit urged, “Hurry, Barby. I’ll give Otto some more dope while you change.” The fellow mustn’t get to a phone for conference. This must not be vetoed.

  He didn’t exhale until he saw the wings of their ship in the sky. The rest of the day was his. To build his defense. To prepare. He stopped at a shooting gallery on Broadway. Neither hand had lost its cunning. The admiring Duck drove him to the apartment. Kit said, “I won’t need you until dinner time. I’m not going out again until then.”

  He felt good. He wasn’t nervous. He oiled the Luger, reloaded it. He checked the midget carefully. He’d carry the extra bowstring tonight. He wondered where Content was. Evidently she’d left his rooftree for good. He didn’t care; he preferred aloneness, thought. He had good appetite; he could rest. He wasn’t afraid at all. He could do it, walk into the trap open-eyed, close it on the man who’d set it for him. He’d never killed a man in cold blood. He wondered how it felt. No more than hitting a tin can on a fence post, a painted duck on a treadmill. When the man deserved death, worse than death, it would be that easy.

  He’d have a chance to do it; he wouldn’t be murdered as Louie and Ab had been. The trap wouldn’t be for that purpose yet; it would be to take him captive. No one would dare kill him, not until he had been forced to talk. But this time the Wobblefoot wouldn’t give up. He would make Kit talk. He knew he’d broken him in Spain; a convalescence wouldn’t mean complete recovery so quickly. Kit would break more easily a second time. He wiped the dampness out of his hands. The Wobblefoot wouldn’t be allowed this second chance. Kit would shoot to kill.

  He was curious as to how their plan was to be accomplished. He wasn’t nervous about it, merely curious. He stopped pacing, sat down in a chair, avoided the drink at hand. Toni would give him the nod. The pattern of Louie’s death repeated. All the hirelings vouched for while the victim invaded a supposedly empty room. One deviation: he wouldn’t be killed quickly. He wiped his hands on his trousers. He wouldn’t be killed at all; he would kill. Would the Wobblefoot be waiting in that room? Or would it all fall through with the gunsel out of town. Was that the reason why he’d sent Otto away, because within him he wanted it to fall through? No. He would do nothing to necessitate the agony of waiting again. He wasn’t afraid.

  The telephone jangled. He answered before Elise could reach it.

  Content said, “Kit.”

  He felt good. He said, “Where’ve you been, lady?”

  She repeated, “Kit.” She found it hard to speak. “Kit, you mustn’t go to dinner at Prince Felix’s tonight.”

  He laughed. “Why not?”

  “Kit. You mustn’t. I can’t tell you now. But trust me. Don’t go tonight.”

  He said, “I promised Toni.”

  “Kit!”

  “Not jealous, baby?”

  Her voice was desperate. “Kit. I heard José—”

  He didn’t want to know. She had no business disturbing him this way. He wasn’t afraid; he knew what he was doing even if he couldn’t tell her. He laughed again, “See you there,” rang off.

  He sat quietly, pressing down the phone. He would do it. He would give Toni this opportunity to save him from the trap if she so wished. She would be at the shop yet; she could speak without directions. He called. “Toni, I’m going to have to run down to Washington tonight. It will mean leaving the dinner early if I come.”

  She could postpone it; she could call it off. She didn’t. She said without inflection, “But I’ve planned everything, Kit. You can’t do that.” She suggested, “We could have dinner early.” It was a laugh; all the girls but Toni trying to keep him safe.

  She would make it really early, a bit past six. It didn’t matter after all. Postponement wouldn’t be solution, only delay. He must go through with it. It was better this way.

  He showered in stinging cold; it braced his backbone, cleared his head. He wouldn’t dress; he had the Washington excuse. The Luger could be, not hidden, but less prominent in the deep pockets of his tweeds than in a dinner jacket. He wouldn’t leave it in his overcoat tonight; he wanted it at hand. And it must be the Luger which would kill Wobblefoot; return to the man what he had given. If by any mischance it was taken from him, they wouldn’t know about the little fellow in his armpit. Torch in his other pocket.

  Young Arsenal calls on His Girl. She wasn’t his girl. For all her fine abstract speeches on peace and beauty, she was willing to set him up as target. He whistled dolefully. “The minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him.” He wasn’t a bit sad. He wouldn’t be entering any ranks of death. He’d thrown away his wild harp. Sober bullets were better than song, better than proud soul, better than love and bravery.

  He was ready. He went to the library, reached high for the book of poetry. Elise entered the hall as he opened the pages and removed the folder. He asked with deliberate swagger, “Want to see a picture of me?”

  She drew back.

  He pointed it under her eyes. “That’s me and my best friend. His name was Louie Lepetino. And that’s a letter I wrote him from Spain. Did you know I was in prison in Spain for more than two years?” He put the folder in his pocket. “It wasn’t much fun.”

  The second floor bay window was alight. Someone was standing there watching. The shadow glided to invisibility. Sister Anne was announcing the news. He took a deep breath and he turned back to Duck. He said, “Drive around the block before you park. I don’t know how long I’ll be but wait.”

  His fist was cold against the door. Toni opened it. Her voice said, “I’m so happy you could come, Kit.” Her eyes were deep circles. She took his hat and coat and he followed her. There was a rock, a cold one, somewhere in his middle. But there were no strange faces. The strangeness was the lack of faces. Only Dr. Skaas; Content, her face whiter than her dress; José. There was the one blazing absence.

  Kit inquired.

  The scientist’s thick sweet voice said, “My poor friend Felix. This afternoon he is sudden ill. He cannot be with us.”

  Toni’s throat was steady. “His heart can stand no strain. He is in the hospital.”

  Kit knew the identity of the Wobblefoot now. The man who was never present. Cold courage quieted Kit’s nerves. The Prince had never seemed real. He would be easy to kill. For his enslavement of Toni if for nothing else, he deserved death.

  Skaas turned sadly to Toni. “I am hungry. Must we wait longer for the others?”

  She protested, “We are so few. Det sent a message that she couldn’t make it.”

  Kit guffawed. “I vote we eat. Barby probably had a half dozen cocktail parties to drag Otto to. She’s never on time for meals, particularly not for an early dinner.” He spoke his apology for not dressing. “It was good of you to change the hour for me.” He didn’t explain the protruding gun. They were supposed to guess that Washington would be a dangerous place for him.

  Skaas stated, “We shall eat now.” José wheeled him to the dining room.

  Kit could be as unsuspecting as any at the table. He could discuss headline history with Christian Skaas, music with José. He could ignore the terrible silence of Content, the wraith of Toni. To Dr. Skaas’, “What business is it takes you to Washington?” he could fling the folder on the table, the soiled letter protruding. “I’m trying to find out what caused the suicide of a friend of mine. Here’s a picture of him taken when we were young fellows. He was working for the government when he
died.”

  “You are working for your government?”

  He could brazen, “I hope to get a crack at it soon.”

  He was on his toes, without fear, but he could be wary. He didn’t touch his Babylon goblet. Drugged wine would be too easy a way. There could be a new pattern for him. Content wouldn’t believe their plausible explanation of too much to drink but she was too little to fight. She couldn’t keep one of them from taking him home, removing him from the face of the earth.

  Dr. Skaas concluded the meal as he had ordered its beginning. He said, “Fill the goblets once more, José. We drink now a toast.” He lifted his, savored it in his fingers. His sticky eyes touched Kit. “To us. Success in the new world.”

  Kit raised his cup to the ambiguity. But he coughed and spluttered the first mouthful. He swallowed none. Toni said, “The dishes will wait. We will have music and song as my grandfather planned until Kit must leave us.”

  She made a rite of lighting candles, leaving the lamps darkened. It could have been beauty out of the past. Simple songs, peasant melodies from an old, old world. Joy and sorrowing of the ages. They sang together. Kit sang with them full-throatedly, as if he were a child who knew no better.

  He sang and waited, waited until Christian Skaas said, “Now you will sing joost one special song for an old man? Joost one?” The brown eyes licked Content.

  Kit watched her grow rigid, certain of the request to come. He too was certain; his signal would be given during that music. Suddenly he was frozen with fear; he had never known such a degree of fear in his life. It wasn’t a shivering cold; it was electric; it was the cold of Northern lights over a continent of ice. He had never killed a man of his own volition; soon now would be the time.

  Dr. Skaas urged, “Joost the one. How you call it—Tsigane?”

  Content’s eyes moved in a wide frightened arc to Kit. He didn’t glance at her; he turned his head, formed a deliberate fatuous smile on Toni.

  Content whispered stiffly, “No.”

  Rose madder burned on José’s cheekbones. “Yes! Tsigane!” His hands hovered in the air. “Yes. Yes.”