He stopped, pretending interest in the shape the red puddle was taking. I knew pain had stopped him, but I knew lie would go on talking as soon as he got himself in hand. He meant to die as he had lived, inside the same tough shell. Talking could be torture, but he wouldn’t stop on that account, not while anybody was there to see him. He was Reno Starkey who could take anything the world had without batting an eye, and he would play it out that way to the end.
“I got tired of waiting,” he went on after a moment. “I hit her door and asked how come. She takes me in, telling me there’s nobody there. I’m doubtful, but she swears she’s alone, and we go hack in the kitchen. Knowing her, I’m beginning to think maybe it’s me and not Whisper that’s being trapped.”
Mickey came in, telling us he had phoned for an ambulance.
Reno used the interruption to rest his voice, and then continued with his story:
“Later, I find that Whisper did phone her he was coming, and got there before me. You were coked. She was afraid to let him in, so he beat it. She don’t tell me that, scared I’ll go and leave her. You’re hopped and she wants protection against Whisper coming back. I don’t know none of that then. I’m leary that I’ve walked into something, knowing her. I think I’ll take hold of her and slap the truth out of her. I try it, and she grabs the pick and screams. When she squawks, I hear a man’s feet hitting the floor. The trap’s sprung, I think.”
He spoke slower, taking more time and pains to turn each word out calmly and deliberately, as talking became harder. His voice had become blurred, but if he knew it he pretended he didn’t.
“I don’t mean to be the only one that’s hurt. I twist the pick out of her hand and stick it in her. You gallop out, coked to the edges, charging at the whole world with both eyes shut. She tumbles into you. You go down, roll around till your hand hits the butt of the pick. Holding on to that, you go to sleep, peaceful as she is. I see it then, what I’ve done. But hell! she’s croaked. There’s nothing to do about it. I turn off the lights and go home. When you–”
A tired looking ambulance crew–Poisonville gave them plenty of work–brought a litter into the room, ending Reno’s tale. I was glad of it. I had all the information I wanted, and sitting there listening to and watching him talk himself to death wasn’t pleasant.
I took Mickey over to a corner of the room and muttered in his ear:
“The job’s yours from now on. I’m going to duck. I ought to be in the clear, but I know my Poisonville too well to take any chances. I’ll drive your car to some way station where I can catch a train for Ogden. I’ll be at the Roosevelt Hotel there, registered as P. F. King. Stay with the job, and let me know when it’s wise to either take my own name again or a trip to Honduras.”
I spent most of my week in Ogden trying to fix up my reports so they would not read as if I had broken as many Agency rules, state laws and human bones as I had.
Mickey arrived on the sixth night.
He told me that Reno was dead, that I was no longer officially a criminal, that most of the First National Bank stick-up loot had been recovered, that MacSwain had confessed killing Tim Noonan, and that Personville, under martial law, was developing into a sweet-smelling and thornless bed of roses.
Mickey and I went back to San Francisco.
I might just as well have saved the labor and sweat I had put into trying to make my reports harmless. They didn’t fool the Old Man. He gave me merry hell.
The End