He withdrew the antique service revolver from his pocket. It shone from constant polishing and was worn to perfect smoothness, like an object come back from the sea. It was the brightest thing in the room.
“Cease, desist!” shouted the man with the blond beard, lunging at him.
The colonel responded to these words as though to a battle cry. He growled and locked arms with his adversary, spittle flying from his lips. Neither of the men was very strong; they circled one another in a jerky dance, the colonel straining backward to keep the beard from brushing his face. He fell, and the man with the blond beard fell with him. Then came the shot.
Colonel Baker rose to his knees. He took hold of the edge of the table and pulled himself up. The man with the blond beard remained on the floor. His teeth were chattering. It sounded, Unwin thought, like coins falling through a pay phone.
“Just the one thing,” the colonel said. The old service revolver was still in his hand. He looked surprised to see it there. “I took only what I needed.”
Screed had his pistol out, but there was nothing he could do to stop the colonel from turning the gun on himself. Unwin looked away just before the shot that signaled the fourth and final death of Colonel Baker.
Screed dropped his pistol on the table and picked up the napkin. He put it to his face and breathed quickly, making little sounds into the fabric. A minute later he put the napkin down and drank his whiskey sour. When that was gone, he started drinking Unwin’s.
Unwin stood with his back against the restaurant’s dappled green wallpaper. He could not remember when he had risen from his chair. Screed was saying something to him, but Unwin could only see the detective’s lips moving. Gradually his hearing returned.
“You were telling the truth,” Screed said. “About Sivart’s cases.”
On the floor the man with the blond beard had stopped chattering.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want the cases,” Screed said. “I want Enoch Hoffmann.”
Unwin allowed himself a few more breaths, taking time to think that over. “And in exchange you’ll let me go.”
Screed’s mustache twitched, but he said, “Yes, I’ll let you go.”
A plan was forming in Unwin’s mind. It was full of holes, and he did not have time to check it against the recommendations of the Manual. Still, it was all he had. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“What do you need?” Screed asked.
“I need my alarm clock.”
Screed fished it out of his jacket and thrust it at him, its alarm bell jangling.
“Go to the Cat & Tonic at six tomorrow morning,” Unwin said. “Go to the room that was Colonel Baker’s study and wait.”
“Why?” Screed asked.
“Hoffmann will be there, and he won’t be ready for you. You have to wait for the right moment, though. You’ll know it when it comes.” It was the sort of bold statement Sivart would have made in order to buy himself more time. Sometimes the detective delivered, sometimes he changed the rules enough that his promise no longer mattered. Unwin would be lucky, he thought, if he managed to survive the night.
He put the alarm clock in his briefcase and left through the front door. In the alley he found his bicycle chained to the fire escape, right where he had left it the night before. He had been correct about one thing. The chain would need a good deal of oiling.
SEVENTEEN
On Solutions
A good detective tries to know
everything. But a great detective knows
just enough to see him through to the end.
Unwin walked his bicycle toward the street but found the Gilbert’s bellhop at the entrance of the alley, blocking his way. The boy stood under a broad black umbrella. He held it out to Unwin and said, “This was in lost and found. I thought you might need it.” The boy’s voice was perfectly clear, but his eyes were half closed and unfocused.
Unwin approached slowly, then ducked under the umbrella with him. “Tom,” he said, reading the name tag on his red jacket, “what makes you think I need this more than anyone else?”
Without looking at him, the bellhop said, “It’s a long ride from here to the Cat & Tonic.”
Unwin felt suddenly colder. In spite of himself, he stepped back into the rain, rolling his bicycle with him. He remembered his vision of that morning—the game at the cottage, Hoffmann’s blank stare: The magician could be anyone.
“Tom, how do you know about the