I wasn’t nearly as surprised as they were.
Panusky lay on the floor in a pool of blood, his head nearly severed from his neck.
I saw the slice in his neck was a curved arc, extending from almost the back of the neck to a point just under the chin. From the freshness of the still widening pool of blood, it hadn’t happened more than about fifteen minutes ago.
The Russians were staring at the man’s lifeless form as if they couldn’t believe their eyes.
I was thinking about the Rifs. They’d obviously been watching the place, saw the others leave and struck. They wanted to take the Russians one by one, apparently, silently, without any noisy shoot-outs.
“When did I kill him?” I asked. “When you were holding me prisoner in the car? He hasn’t been dead more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Now maybe you’ll believe me.”
The one called Estan spoke to the others in short, rapid sentences, naturally unaware that my Russian was more than passable.
They were shaken up, alarmed, confused. Who, when and why flew in all directions but they kept their damned guns in my ribs.
Finally, Crew-cut turned to me again.
“You are not working alone,” he announced. “You have others with you who did this.”
“Yeah,” I said. “With the Moorish dagger again. We always use them. You know, when in Rome do as the Romans do.”
His hard, pig-like blue eyes studied me, and I could see him trying to think this out in a hurry. It took effort.
“Maybe you didn’t do it,” he said finally. “You might even be an artist. It really doesn’t matter any longer. We will have to kill you anyway. You know too much to let you run around loose.”
“I forget quickly,” I said but the Russian just continued to stare at me.
Hugo was silently waiting against my forearm. It was beginning to look as though I would have to finish what the Rifs had started, if I could finish it, that is.
They kept their guns steady. One sudden move and two slugs would be meeting inside me someplace.
“Where, Estan?” the second Russian asked.
“Here,” Crew-cut replied. “We’ll leave his body here with Panusky’s and work out of someplace else. Take Panusky’s passport and identification card first. I don’t like sloppy work.”
The chauffeur retrieved the dead man’s identity papers and I knew I had to buy some time and buy it fast.
“Wait,” I said. “What if I could take you to where Karminian is staying?”
The Russian’s little eyes opened wider and a slow smile of satisfaction crept over his face.
I let myself look hopeful and apprehensive.
“Well, well,” he said, taking my shirt front with a ham-handed grasp. “Suddenly your memory is returning, eh?”
He shook me back and forth, and I let myself go limp.
“Where is he, pig?” he thundered.
I shook my head. “Only if you promise to let me go afterward,” I said.
The Russian slowly unclenched his big hand and smiled slowly, obviously at my naïveté.
“All right,” he said smoothly. “All right. We don’t want to kill you. All we want is a little cooperation.”
Little naive me smiled in gratitude at his generosity. “I can’t tell you where he is, but I can take you there,” I said. “I only found out tonight. The place was pointed out to me by someone who saw him there.”
Crew-cut did all but lick his chops. “Move,” he commanded. “There’s no time to waste.”
Inside the Mercedes limousine again, they settled back on either side of me, guns still out and ready. The chauffeur, my paint box still on the seat beside him, moved the big car from the curb and I began to direct him up and down streets and avenues.
I put on a good act of searching for the place, looking for landmarks to help me. Actually, I was desperately looking for a spot that would give me a chance. I could feel their impatience growing as I kept the car going up and down side streets, around corners and across boulevards.
I knew I couldn’t keep the charade up much longer and then, suddenly, I found it, a dark street running alongside one of the old
During World War II, Casablanca had been a thriving port, and, at the war’s end, hundreds of thousands of Arab migrants had descended on the port, lured by the promise of easy work. They set up unsightly, unsanitary slum areas that soon virtually overran the city. First the French and then the Moroccan governments attacked the problem and cleaned up many of the bidonvilles.
A number still existed, however, houses made of sheets of tin and tar-paper, nothing more than four walls and a roof, without facilities of any kind. The one I’d found was typical of its kind, its streets mere narrow passageways between the ramshackle huts.
“Stop!” I cried out.
I moved quickly and had the door open before the car came to a halt. The two Russians followed on my heels as I started into the
