Manhunt Is My Mission
Page 18
“Maybe I’m stupid,” I said. “But I don’t get it.”
“You did like hell want to back him against the wall so you could fill your little tape when he started running off at the mouth. All that would have earned him was a swift boot here and his walking papers in Motamar. You had your beef against him. Who am I to say you weren’t right morally? He was a killer. But I’m a law officer. I’m not wild about being an accomplice before the fact of premeditated murder. Because that’s what it really was. Why don’t you admit it? You wanted to back him against a wall, all right. So he’d try to kill you. So you could kill him and get away with it.”
We stared at each other. “Is that your idea of premeditated murder?” I said. “Maneuvering three of them into taking me for a ride?”
“Okay, so you’ve got guts. And you’re a pretty handy guy with a gun. That doesn’t change anything. I offered you help, remember? A couple of plain-clothes men? You turned that down.”
“If El Thamad made them—”
“Don’t hand me that. If they were around, you couldn’t have committed murder. That’s why you turned me down.”
I said he was wrong. I told him he was off in orbit somewhere. We lost our tempers and shouted at each other. He clamped his teeth and was silent for a minute and then said, very softly: “Kindly get the hell out of my office.”
I got out. I took a taxi home. I told myself he was crazy. What I’d wanted was the tape. Premeditated murder and a planted self-defense alibi? Was he nuts? I took a hot shower and a cold one. I made a tall drink and it wasn’t strong enough, so I made another.
You think you know what you’re after, and you do everything you can to pull it off. But are you ever sure? The more I pondered it, the less I knew. In my line of work I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what made people tick. And then when a guy like Borah clamps, his mind on you, you start to wonder. It gnaws at you. Because you realize you don’t even know for sure what makes yourself tick.
I’d done my fancy maneuvering, and if I’d backed El Thamad against the wall, I’d backed myself against the wall too. Still, I had refused Borah’s offer of help. Why?
Way down deep in the back of my mind, wasn’t it possible that I’d played my con-game aiming for the kind of showdown which would end the way it had? Maybe Borah was right. I didn’t think so, but then, I didn’t want to think so. Maybe.
And anyway, hadn’t El Thamad and Osman and Galib Azam deserved to die?
That wasn’t the answer. It never is.
The answer, as much answer as I would get, came special delivery that afternoon. It was a package from Motamar, and the return address was the royal palace in Qasr Tabuk. What was inside the package had nothing to do with what happened here in Washington.
It was a curved ceremonial sword with an edge as sharp as a razor and beautiful gem-work on the hilt. The note from Princess Farat said it had been in her family for centuries. It also said King Khalil showed signs of settling down and becoming the kind of monarch Motamar needed. With thanks to you, Princess Farat wrote—my people’s thanks, and mine.
Borah or the princess. You pay your money and you take your choice.
THE END
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copyright©1961 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
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