Read Online Have Gat—Will Travel by Richard S. Prather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard S. Prather
Ads: Link
me with the extended little finger.
I'd half expected it, been needling him with words because of my growing suspicion, but it shocked hell out of me anyway and I blurted, ""Lewis Tollman!"
Even before I said his last name, his right hand came out of his pocket, a short-barreled gun gripped in his fingers. I was half out of that deep leather chair, hand slapping against the revolver under my coat, but he had me.
And he knew it. His face suddenly looked harder, older. "You fool," he said. "You miserable fool."
I said softly, "You killed Jim."
"Of course." He was casual, a man talking to a corpse. "Not personally; Donna handled it, burned the manuscript and carbon. She's a real artist. You were incredibly lucky." He smiled, went on. "It was a million-to-one chance, Brandon's learning about me. Years ago arrangements were made so that if anybody ever asked at the Merriman Hospital about Lewis Tollman or Arthur Harris, the National Committee would be informed." He stopped, smiled grimly at me. "The National Committee. That's how important I am, Scott."
I swore at him, almost ready to grab my gun in the hope I could get off at least one shot. But my movements were cramped in the deep chair.
Tollman â Goodman â said calmly, "I prefer not to shoot you here in my home and have to drag you away. But I shall, if it becomes necessary." He paused to let that sink in, then said, "Take out your gun. Use your left hand. Just two fingers, Mr. Scott."
I did what he said; he knew his business. He told me to stand up, clasp my hands behind my head, and I did. He had a self-satisfied, almost gloating look on his face, and he started talking to me, telling about himself. At first I thought he was just bragging, perhaps trying to build himself up in his own eyes, but then I realized that Barney Goodman had little or no opportunity to tell others what a really important man he was. Probably only a few other Communists high in the party, possibly only the National Committee, knew who he really was, what was planned for him. He must often have itched to tell others what he was telling me.
"Lewis Tollman died the day I entered Merriman Hospital. I got a new face, younger, to match the age on my new birth certificate. My hand was operated on. I established the new identity thoroughly and came to Los Angeles. I was provided with sufficient funds to start a publishing firm. And you'll have to admit that I've been careful. Not a single flaw."
"Wrong. You forget the guys like Jim Brandon. And the fact that you have to lie all the time. You can't help making slips â that hand of yours, for example. Besides, you're not useful until you start really working for the party. You'll give yourself away. Once you start spouting the Commie line â"
He laughed. "Don't be naive, Mr. Scott. You know that's not true. Even if it were, a man still has a right to honest opinions in this republic." He laughed again.
I'd just been talking, mainly for time, thinking I didn't have a prayer. But Goodman had told me to kick my gun toward him and it had been lying at his feet. Keeping his eyes on me he bent, picked my .38 up and dropped it into his pocket â and I remembered Jim's gun.
I'd forgotten that I'd had Jim's little .32 in my coat pocket ever since leaving his house. Muscles and nerves seemed to stretch taut in my body. Just a flicking away of his eyes on me, a momentary lapse, and I meant to grab for that gun. But he kept his eyes on me all the time. I caught the flash of headlights through a window beyond him. They approached the house, started to swing in before going out of sight.
Goodman was saying, "Besides, I'll be in the Senate soon."
"You have to be elected first."
"That's all settled, Scott. The number of votes I'll have to get, everything. It's planned for the next twenty years. I am elected."
I unwound my hands from behind my head, lowered them slightly. "I think a car has just pulled in, Goodman."
He kept smiling. I
I'd half expected it, been needling him with words because of my growing suspicion, but it shocked hell out of me anyway and I blurted, ""Lewis Tollman!"
Even before I said his last name, his right hand came out of his pocket, a short-barreled gun gripped in his fingers. I was half out of that deep leather chair, hand slapping against the revolver under my coat, but he had me.
And he knew it. His face suddenly looked harder, older. "You fool," he said. "You miserable fool."
I said softly, "You killed Jim."
"Of course." He was casual, a man talking to a corpse. "Not personally; Donna handled it, burned the manuscript and carbon. She's a real artist. You were incredibly lucky." He smiled, went on. "It was a million-to-one chance, Brandon's learning about me. Years ago arrangements were made so that if anybody ever asked at the Merriman Hospital about Lewis Tollman or Arthur Harris, the National Committee would be informed." He stopped, smiled grimly at me. "The National Committee. That's how important I am, Scott."
I swore at him, almost ready to grab my gun in the hope I could get off at least one shot. But my movements were cramped in the deep chair.
Tollman â Goodman â said calmly, "I prefer not to shoot you here in my home and have to drag you away. But I shall, if it becomes necessary." He paused to let that sink in, then said, "Take out your gun. Use your left hand. Just two fingers, Mr. Scott."
I did what he said; he knew his business. He told me to stand up, clasp my hands behind my head, and I did. He had a self-satisfied, almost gloating look on his face, and he started talking to me, telling about himself. At first I thought he was just bragging, perhaps trying to build himself up in his own eyes, but then I realized that Barney Goodman had little or no opportunity to tell others what a really important man he was. Probably only a few other Communists high in the party, possibly only the National Committee, knew who he really was, what was planned for him. He must often have itched to tell others what he was telling me.
"Lewis Tollman died the day I entered Merriman Hospital. I got a new face, younger, to match the age on my new birth certificate. My hand was operated on. I established the new identity thoroughly and came to Los Angeles. I was provided with sufficient funds to start a publishing firm. And you'll have to admit that I've been careful. Not a single flaw."
"Wrong. You forget the guys like Jim Brandon. And the fact that you have to lie all the time. You can't help making slips â that hand of yours, for example. Besides, you're not useful until you start really working for the party. You'll give yourself away. Once you start spouting the Commie line â"
He laughed. "Don't be naive, Mr. Scott. You know that's not true. Even if it were, a man still has a right to honest opinions in this republic." He laughed again.
I'd just been talking, mainly for time, thinking I didn't have a prayer. But Goodman had told me to kick my gun toward him and it had been lying at his feet. Keeping his eyes on me he bent, picked my .38 up and dropped it into his pocket â and I remembered Jim's gun.
I'd forgotten that I'd had Jim's little .32 in my coat pocket ever since leaving his house. Muscles and nerves seemed to stretch taut in my body. Just a flicking away of his eyes on me, a momentary lapse, and I meant to grab for that gun. But he kept his eyes on me all the time. I caught the flash of headlights through a window beyond him. They approached the house, started to swing in before going out of sight.
Goodman was saying, "Besides, I'll be in the Senate soon."
"You have to be elected first."
"That's all settled, Scott. The number of votes I'll have to get, everything. It's planned for the next twenty years. I am elected."
I unwound my hands from behind my head, lowered them slightly. "I think a car has just pulled in, Goodman."
He kept smiling. I
Similar Books
