heel of a heavy shoe. Killing Hallander was a pleasure.
Hallander did not live in a house like Milani or go to women like Baron. Hallander had no use for women, only for a gun. He lived alone in a small apartment on the outskirts of town. His car, four years old, was parked in his garage. He could have afforded a better car. But to Hallander, money was not to be spent. It was chips in a poker game. He held onto his chips.
He was well protected—a doorman screened visitors, an elevator operator knew whom he took upstairs. But Hallander made no friends. Five dollars quieted the doorman forever. Five dollars sealed the lips of the elevator operator.
Castle knocked on Hallander’s door.
A peephole opened. A peephole closed. Hallander drew a gun and fired through the door.
And missed.
Castle shot the lock off, kicked the door open. Hallander missed again.
And died.
With a bullet in the throat.
The elevator operator took Castle back to the first floor. The doorman passed him through to the street. He got into his car, turned the key in the ignition, drove back to the center of Arlington.
Three down.
Just one more.
“WE CAN DEAL,” Mike Ross said. “You got your money. You hit three out of four. You can leave me be.”
Castle said nothing. They were alone, he and Ross. The brains of the Arlington enterprise sat in an easy chair with a slow smile on his face. He knew about Baron and Milani and Hallander.
“You did a job already,” Ross said. “You got paid already. You want money? Fifteen thousand. Cash. Then you disappear.”
Castle shook his head.
“Why not? Hot-shot Harper won’t sue you. You’ll have his ten grand and fifteen of mine and you’ll disappear. Period. No trouble, no sweat, no nothing. Nobody after you looking to even things up. Tell you the truth, I’m glad to see the three of them out of the way. More for me and no morons getting in the way. I’m glad you took them. Just so you don’t take me.”
“I’ve got a job to do.”
“Twenty grand. Thirty. What’s a man’s life worth? Name your price, Castle. Name it!”
“No price.”
Mike Ross laughed. “Everybody has a price. Everybody. You aren’t that special. I can buy you, Castle.”
Ross bought death. He bought one bullet and death came at once. He fell on his face and died. Castle wiped off the gun, flipped it onto the floor. He had taken chances, using the same gun four times. But the four times had taken less than one night. Morning had not come yet. The Arlington police force still slept.
He dropped the gun to the floor and got out of there.
A PHONE RANG IN CHICAGO. A man lifted it, held it to his ear.
“Castle,” a voice said.
“Job done?”
“All done.”
“How many hits?”
“Four of them,” Castle said. “Four off the top.”
“Give me the picture.”
“The machinery is there with nobody to run it,” Castle said. “The town is lonely.”
The man chuckled. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re very good. We’ll be down tomorrow.”
“Come on in,” Castle said. “The water’s fine.”
PROFESSIONAL KILLER
HE WAS SITTING ALONE in a hotel room.
He was, possibly, the most average man in the world. His clothes were carefully chosen to pass in a crowd—dull brown oxfords, a brown gabardine suit, a white shirt, and a slim brown tie. On his head he usually wore an almost shapeless brown felt hat, but the hat now rested on a chair in a corner of the room. He was neither short nor fat nor tall nor thin.
Even his face was uninteresting. His features were unimpressive in themselves, and they didn’t add up to a distinctive face. He had the usual number of noses, eyes, mouths, and so on—but somehow each feature seemed to be lifted from another dull face, so that he himself possessed no facial character whatsoever.
In many professions such a lack of individuality would be a handicap. A salesman without a face has a difficult time making a living. An executive, a merchant—almost anyone has a better chance of success if people remember his face and take notice of him. But the man in the hotel room was very pleased with his nondescript appearance, and did what he could to make himself even less noticeable. In his business it was an asset—perhaps the most important asset he possessed.
The man in the hotel room was named Harry Varden. He lived with his wife in a small house in Mamaroneck, in lower Westchester County. He had no children and no close friends.