The Sword and the Net полностью

It was Altinger’s voice, and it was blandly raucous; even casual. It said;

“I think so, girlie. I think so. But where is he?”

She said: “I told you! He went along to the other store. We ran out of food! He went along to the other store!”

Then a low mutter, aside to his men, from Altinger—and a fresh tramping of feet. How many men were there? One—that was the light, short-stepping tread. Two—that was the long-striding, ponderous tread. Three—that was the sharp, medium tread. Or was the last one Altinger’s?

No, it was not Altinger’s—for his voice came again, from the same spot as before. It said:

“There we are!” just as the light and the heavy feet came back and set something down with a heavy thump. The third man seemed to be wandering. He had left the hallway where the others were, and for a moment Otto thought he had been sent to search the house. But his feet went the other way, towards the big living-room and presently came purposefully back and halted immediately overhead again.

“There!” said Altinger. “Just sit there for a while, Miss Ingolls. . . . You two, use that cord and fix her nicely.”

There were no voices then for hour-long minutes—only a murmuring of movement. Otto found that his whole body was trembling uncontrollably: it had been trying, ever since the first call of “Otto!” to disobey his mind: it wanted to charge up the cellar steps, with the Lüger in its hand, and blaze away and kill and kill. . . .

But his mind would not let the body so much as move. Not yet. Not until the mind knew more; knew enough to make some possibility of real escape for Clare; knew enough to be sure that by letting the body move it would not merely be signing a quicker death-warrant for Clare and himself and his task—their task.

“That’s it!” Altinger’s voice was full of pleasant satisfaction. “She’ll do nicely now!” The voice changed as he spoke to one of the men. “Carson: go outside—no, wait a minute!” He spoke to Clare again. He said:

“Now, dear, suppose you tell me a little more about our friend Jorgensen-Falken and his trip to the store.”

“I’ve told you!” Clare’s voice was rough and broken and sharp-edged with fear.

Otto’s body shook so violently that he was forced to reach out a hand and grip the edge of the table.

“I hope you don’t mind this cigar, dear?” came Altinger’s voice. “Now: how long has he been gone? And how soon will he be back? And are you sure that he hasn’t gone much further—much, much further—than the store?”

“Why do you keep on at me? I’ve told you! I’ve told you!”

Now another voice, guttural and booming. “Want me and Siegel to look around the rooms, Boss? In case he’s hiding out some place.”

“No. If he were, that’s just what he’d want, Carson. And I don’t think he is. I think the young lady’s being truthful.” There was a ruminative, speculatory ring to Altinger’s tone; a ring which Otto knew.

“Listen, dear,” said Altinger. “For a double reason, I’m going to ask you those three questions again. Never mind whether you’ve told me before or not—just answer them. And I’m afraid I’ll have to spoil that pretty shirt.”

And then a little silence—and a sudden sharp sound of tearing silk and a quick, barely heard gasp from Clare. “First, Miss Ingolls, how long has the boy-friend been gone?”

“I told you. It must be . . . half an hour now.”

“Now——”

A sick pause, and then a sudden quick flurry of drumming heels upon the floor-boards; a spasmodic drumming of heels which could not move except to drum. And no other sound; no other sound at all.

“You still say that? After the . . . warmth?” Altinger’s voice.

Then words from Clare—thickened words which came as a muffled groaning. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”

“Very well, dear. Watch the cigar carefully. How soon do you think he will be back?”

“In . . . in . . . oh, in half an hour. That’s all I know! For God’s sake . . .”

“Now—is that really the truth?”

The drumming of heels again—and then a long shuddering gasp which rose to a strange throaty sound like a muffled scream—and then two words. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”

“You know, Miss Ingolls, I’m very much inclined to believe you. But as I said, I’ve a double motive in this rather crude questioning. And you aren’t making quite enough noise. . . .”

Otto found that the trembling of his body had ceased. But sweat had drenched him; it was dripping from his brow and his chin, and his shirt was sodden. He put a hand inside the shirt and took out the pistol and thrust it into a hip pocket. There was a hard, cold lump in his stomach.

“So we’ll dispense with the third question, dear, but well—just—make—quite—sure——”

The heels beat and scraped and rattled, drumming searing flames into Otto’s head. And there were worse sounds—a hoarse groaning from the lovely throat; a hoarse groaning which suddenly and unbearably became a high shrill cry which changed in its turn to a dreadful sobbing whimper which stayed in Otto’s ears and flayed the lining of his belly. He thought he must vomit.