Big Jim 4 by Marshall Grover

Author:Marshall Grover
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Seven – Face Death in Anger

An hour had passed. Jim was sprawled on his bed, his arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes fixed on the flyspecked ceiling. There was a rapping at the door and Benito called to him. Some thirty minutes before, he had sent the little Mex downstairs to eat, with instructions to bring something back to the room for himself.

The little Mex strutted in, hefting a laden platter and a large china mug. Ten minutes passed before Jim raised his eyes.

He finished eating, shoved the empty platter aside and began drinking the coffee. The Mex was ambling across to the window and Jim was swallowing the last mouthful of coffee when, with infinite clarity, the sound of the gunshot reached their ears. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, indicating that the weapon had been discharged somewhere outside the hotel. And, simultaneous with the report, they heard the half-stifled scream from the next room, followed by a thudding sound. Benito whirled, blinking at Jim.

Jim’s leap carried him over Benito’s bed to the door. He opened it and hustled out into the corridor with the Mex tagging him. Into Sarina’s room they dashed, to find her crouched on the floor near the opened window. Her eyes were dilated. She was trembling in shock. Through the fingers of her left hand, which was clasped to her right shoulder, blood trickled.

In response to Jim’s muttered command, Benito dropped to all fours, crawled to Sarina and began helping her clear of the window.

“I was—raising the window higher ...” she mumbled to Jim, “… because it was—stuffy in here. And then I felt—something cutting at my shoulder …”

“The shot came from somewhere outside,” growled Jim. “My guess is you were sniped at from a window on the other side of the street—or maybe a rooftop.” He inched half of his face around the edge of the window and, one-eyed, scanned the building opposite. It was a general store, double-storied. He doubted if the shot had been triggered from either of the second-storey windows. But the roof? That roof would have made a perfect stakeout. Was his vision playing tricks on him? No. A figure—male—was just disappearing over the rear edge of the roof. Down below, people had paused on the boardwalks, gazing curiously to right and left, wondering about that one sharp report. “Don’t leave her,” he ordered Benito, as he retreated to the door. “Holler for the manager and have him send for a doctor—but you stick close to her, savvy? Don’t let her out of your sight.”

He barged along the corridor and descended the stairs at speed. Emerging from the hotel, he headed directly across the street to the alley separating the general store from the next building in line and—sure enough—a man was now quitting that alley.

Even had the circumstances been otherwise, Jim would have distrusted Rio Purdew on sight. The man was one of the breed Jim most despised, if appearances were any criterion. The fancy garb marked him as a tinhorn.

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