He heard the puffing whisper of a silenced gun being triggered as he hit the old man full in the face, knocking him to the floor. He saw the chunk of wood erupt from the floor not six inches from his head. And then Murphy’s gun was in his hand, and Hawes threw himself flat on the floor and fired. The gun made hardly any sound at all. The scene was being played with deadly cold ruthlessness, but it was being played in paradoxical whispers. His first shot dropped Ruther. There were two down now, and one to go.
Miller backed off against the door, leveling his pistol.
“Drop it, Miller!” Hawes shouted. “I’m shooting to kill!”
Miller hesitated a moment, and then dropped the gun. Hawes kicked the gun to one side and then whirled on Murphy. The old man was unconscious, incapable of drawing the fourth gun from his waistband.
Frank Ruther, sitting on the floor clutching his bleeding shoulder, shouted, “Why didn’t you shoot him, you fool? Why didn’t you shoot him?”
And Miller, standing wearily and dejectedly, answered, “I’m a lousy shot. You know that, Frank. I’m a lousy shot.”
It was then that the door burst inward.
Steve Carella lowered his leg from the flat-footed kick that had sprung the lock. His service revolver was in his right hand. He looked around the room quickly. Then he shrugged.
“All over?” he asked.
“These our birds?”
“Um-huh,” Hawes said.
“The Kramer kill?”
“Um-huh.”
“Um,” Carella said.
“You sure must have broken a lot of traffic regulations getting here,” Hawes said. “Boy, what speed!”
“I thought you were nuts when I first spoke to you on the phone,” Carella said. “It took me about five minutes to realize you were in trouble. I thought my call had broken in on you and a girl.”
“You’ve got an evil mind.”
“Turns out you didn’t need me, anyway,” Carella said. Again he shrugged.
“If you’d got to the squad at eight, when you were supposed to,” Hawes said, “you could have been here in time for the party.”
“I had a stop to make first,” Carella said. “I went there from my house, and then I went to the squad.”
“Where was that?”
“Lucy Mencken’s place.”
“What for?” Hawes asked suspiciously.
“I gave her half a dozen pictures and negatives. I didn’t like the idea of somebody living in fear for the rest of her life.”
“Was she appreciative?” Hawes asked.
“We cooked hot rum toddies over the fire the stuff made. It was very cozy.”
Hawes raised one eyebrow.
Hawes made a rule of never replying to accusations that were true. He walked to the phone, lifted the receiver, and waited for an operator. When the operator came on, he said, “Frederick 7-8024, please.”
Carella was busily handcuffing Miller to Murphy.
All at once, Hawes felt very sleepy. He yawned.
“Don’t go to sleep on us, Cotton,” Carella said. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
Hawes yawned again and then watched Carella as he walked to the window and lifted the shade. Sunlight spilled into the hotel room.
“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” a voice said.
“Dave, this is Cotton. I’m at the Parker Hotel in Isola. I’ll need a meat wagon and some…”
Murchison listened patiently, taking notes. Across the street from the station house, he could hear the kids playing in Grover Park. He wished he were a park attendant on a day like this. When Hawes finished talking, Murchison cut the connection. He was about to order the ambulance and the uniformed cops Hawes had requested when the lights on the switchboard began blinking again.
Murchison sighed and plugged in his socket.
“Eighty-seventh Precinct,” he said, “Sergeant Murchison.”
Another day had started.
