The Drill Is Death by FRANCES & RICHARD

Author:FRANCES & RICHARD
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

XI

At about the time Shapiro climbed a flight of stairs, shaking water off his hat, the man he wanted parked a black Porsche in East Twentieth Street, between Gramercy Park East and Third Avenue. He was a good deal wetter than Shapiro and, in all that mattered, he was as baffled. The cut over his eye was bleeding again, slightly, and his face, in general, ached. In addition to everything else, he was now subject to a charge of car theft. But beyond these things, which under the circumstances he could consider minor things, there was a major thing—a thing which might be very major indeed.

The chances were high, Reginald Grant thought, moving quickly off through the rain, that he had flubbed it once more. And if he had, it would be the girl who paid for it. He knew that much now, whatever he didn’t know. He moved fast through rain and fog—a tall man, hatless and without a coat, stooping a little; a man moving fast because he was desperately afraid that he was late.

Now I could use a policeman, Reg Grant thought. I’m off that high horse now; it isn’t adventure now. Where, for God’s sake, is a policeman? Why, for the love of God, isn’t there time to go looking for one? What’ll they do to my red-haired filly? If not a cop, anybody’ll do—anybody to go for help while I go to help.

Reg could guess where everybody was, as he went a short block through an empty street and turned right on East Twenty-first Street. Everybody on this cold and wet November evening was under shelter—the lucky sat in front of fires, and mixed the evening’s first drink; the lucky stood or sat in cozy pubs. People didn’t even walk dogs on a night like this.

He reached a familiar flight of sandstone steps. He’d know, soon enough. If they had put two and two together, they’d be waiting for him; he would be doing precisely what they most hoped for. If the little pro hadn’t been found, he’d be getting damn uncomfortable—which was all right with Reg Grant, although he hoped mildly that the little pro hadn’t choked on the dish cloth. It had been several hours since Reg had left him in the storage room and gone cautiously along a corridor to find a girl with red hair who might be for him in this strange, incomprehensible business, and might as well be against him.

The corridor had ended with a closed door. Reg listened at the door and heard nothing, and pushed at it carefully. He discovered that that was wrong, and pulled at it. When it was open far enough, he looked around it. Beyond was the square entrance hall he had been brought through when they brought him to the house to see a “captain.” There was light there; the light was far up, in a stair well, lighting curved staircase and upper hall and lower hall; not brightly lighting anything. There was nobody in the square hall.

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