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Authors: Nicholas Guild
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to find Hornbeck’s, a black 3.8 not more than two
years old. It was a nice car, the kind spies drive in the movies,
but perhaps in England they didn’t have that special aura.
Guinness checked the gas tank—it was right up
to the top—and then emptied in two handfuls of sawdust from a trash
can he had found near the back door. That would do it. In ten
minutes he was walking with studied casualness back to the
underground station.
Now all that remained was to wait, to wait
and to find out as much as he could about his quarry, about Mr.
Peter W. Hornbeck.
Of course there wasn’t very much he could
find out. Not about a man like that, not in any kind of safety.
Hornbeck seemed to be a good agent—hell, he would have to be;
nobody puts out a thousand pound bounty on a punk—and a good agent
would have a sound grasp of the laws of probability and a memory
for faces. If the same one turned up just once too often, he’d know
he was being hunted. No, the very last face Hornbeck would ever see
would have to be one that was utterly strange to him—otherwise
Hornbeck’s might turn out to be the last face he ever saw.
So there was no thought of tailing the man.
Guinness allowed himself just one look at Hornbeck in the flesh,
and that a quick one. On the day after breaking into the garage he
waited in a pub across the street from where Hornbeck worked,
waited most of the afternoon for him to quit and go home.
What he saw wasn’t much help. Hornbeck wore a
hat that covered most of his face, as who wouldn’t in the middle of
a London February?
He was a larger man than Guinness had
expected and he walked with a heavy stride, throwing his shoulder
forward when he took a step. There was something less fierce than
sullen about him, about the way he carried his umbrella far down on
the handle as if it were a club. This was the man whom Guinness had
just two days to kill. He looked dishearteningly durable.
And there was something else. Somehow it made
it different to have seen him like that, just walking down the
street, fighting the wind like a thousand other guys. It might have
been himself.
Before, the whole thing had been like a game,
just dangerous enough to be sort of exhilarating. But the end move
would be to snuff that heavy shape, and it wasn’t any game.
Well, he was committed to it. Either he went
after Hornbeck or all those little nasties who worked for Cruttwell
would be coming after him; and if it had to be Hornbeck or
Guinness, it was going to be Hornbeck.
Maybe it was just as well he had seen him. If
he was going to get the queasies, better now than when it was time
to make the score. He couldn’t afford any second thoughts then. No,
then they might get him killed.
The only other information he could come up
with was that Hornbeck was indeed going somewhere that Friday.
Guinness phoned his office on Thursday afternoon, pretending to be
an Irish importer whose tongue was hanging out over the market
possibilities of cheap Balkan wines. He asked for an interview with
Mr. Hornbeck for late Friday afternoon to discuss brokerage terms,
but the reedy voiced secretary asked if he couldn’t make it the
middle of next week because Mr. Hornbeck would be out of town on
business Friday.
Guinness went ahead and made the appointment
for the following Wednesday. What the hell, Mr. Tyrone would be
happy to see Mr. Hornbeck. Mr. Tyrone didn’t exist, but what did
that matter? By Wednesday one or the other party would be dead
anyway.
On Friday morning Guinness rented a Morris
Minor and took up his vigil two blocks down the street from
Hornbeck’s garage. He had studied his map and had come up with the
route he would have taken if he had wanted to get to Yorkshire and
wasn’t interested in the scenery. It was the obvious way to go and
Hornbeck had no particular reason to start being devious right
away, so one could hope.
According to those maps, the city of Hull was
168 miles from the center of London, well within
years old. It was a nice car, the kind spies drive in the movies,
but perhaps in England they didn’t have that special aura.
Guinness checked the gas tank—it was right up
to the top—and then emptied in two handfuls of sawdust from a trash
can he had found near the back door. That would do it. In ten
minutes he was walking with studied casualness back to the
underground station.
Now all that remained was to wait, to wait
and to find out as much as he could about his quarry, about Mr.
Peter W. Hornbeck.
Of course there wasn’t very much he could
find out. Not about a man like that, not in any kind of safety.
Hornbeck seemed to be a good agent—hell, he would have to be;
nobody puts out a thousand pound bounty on a punk—and a good agent
would have a sound grasp of the laws of probability and a memory
for faces. If the same one turned up just once too often, he’d know
he was being hunted. No, the very last face Hornbeck would ever see
would have to be one that was utterly strange to him—otherwise
Hornbeck’s might turn out to be the last face he ever saw.
So there was no thought of tailing the man.
Guinness allowed himself just one look at Hornbeck in the flesh,
and that a quick one. On the day after breaking into the garage he
waited in a pub across the street from where Hornbeck worked,
waited most of the afternoon for him to quit and go home.
What he saw wasn’t much help. Hornbeck wore a
hat that covered most of his face, as who wouldn’t in the middle of
a London February?
He was a larger man than Guinness had
expected and he walked with a heavy stride, throwing his shoulder
forward when he took a step. There was something less fierce than
sullen about him, about the way he carried his umbrella far down on
the handle as if it were a club. This was the man whom Guinness had
just two days to kill. He looked dishearteningly durable.
And there was something else. Somehow it made
it different to have seen him like that, just walking down the
street, fighting the wind like a thousand other guys. It might have
been himself.
Before, the whole thing had been like a game,
just dangerous enough to be sort of exhilarating. But the end move
would be to snuff that heavy shape, and it wasn’t any game.
Well, he was committed to it. Either he went
after Hornbeck or all those little nasties who worked for Cruttwell
would be coming after him; and if it had to be Hornbeck or
Guinness, it was going to be Hornbeck.
Maybe it was just as well he had seen him. If
he was going to get the queasies, better now than when it was time
to make the score. He couldn’t afford any second thoughts then. No,
then they might get him killed.
The only other information he could come up
with was that Hornbeck was indeed going somewhere that Friday.
Guinness phoned his office on Thursday afternoon, pretending to be
an Irish importer whose tongue was hanging out over the market
possibilities of cheap Balkan wines. He asked for an interview with
Mr. Hornbeck for late Friday afternoon to discuss brokerage terms,
but the reedy voiced secretary asked if he couldn’t make it the
middle of next week because Mr. Hornbeck would be out of town on
business Friday.
Guinness went ahead and made the appointment
for the following Wednesday. What the hell, Mr. Tyrone would be
happy to see Mr. Hornbeck. Mr. Tyrone didn’t exist, but what did
that matter? By Wednesday one or the other party would be dead
anyway.
On Friday morning Guinness rented a Morris
Minor and took up his vigil two blocks down the street from
Hornbeck’s garage. He had studied his map and had come up with the
route he would have taken if he had wanted to get to Yorkshire and
wasn’t interested in the scenery. It was the obvious way to go and
Hornbeck had no particular reason to start being devious right
away, so one could hope.
According to those maps, the city of Hull was
168 miles from the center of London, well within