this Moyland lives.”
“And get your throat cut, too. I’ll take you.”
“What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?”
“You can’t prove it by me. He’s a black market broker, but that doesn’t
prove anything. He’s not part of the organization but we haven’t anything
against him.”
Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a
playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a
false alarm, then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark
byways. The man seemed to have a nose for the enemy; there were no more
alarms. At last he brought them through a cellar door into a private home.
They went upstairs and through a room where a woman was nursing a baby. She
looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They ended up in a dark attic. “Hi,
Jim,” Hobart called out softly. “What’s new?”
The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night
through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louvre. He rolled over
and lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head
as he did so. “Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks
like.”
“I’d like to know where Moyland gets it,” Hobart said. “Has he telephoned?”
“Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they
didn’t amount to anything, so I let him talk.”
“How do you know they didn’t amount to anything?”
Jim shrugged, turned back to the louvre. “Moyland just pulled down the
shade,” he announced.
Art turned to Hobart. ‘We can’t wait. We’re going in.”
Benz arrived at Moyland’s house in bad condition. The wound in his
shoulder, caused by Carter’s grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a
handkerchief up against it as a compress, but his activity started the
blood again; he was shaking for fear his condition would attract attention
before he could get under cover.
Moyland answered the door. “Is that you, Zack?” Benz demanded, shrinking
back as he spoke.
“Yes. Who is it?”
“It’s me — Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack — quick!”
Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. “Get
inside.” When the door was bolted, he demanded, “Now — what’s your trouble?
Why come to me?”
“I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They’d pick me
up.”
Moyland studied him. “You’re not registered. Why not?”
Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, “You know what I can get
for harboring a fugitive. You’re in the Underground — aren’t you?”
“Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m just a — a straggler. I gotta
get registered, Zack.”
“That’s blood on your coat. How?”
“Uh . . . just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some
iodine.”
Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. “You’ve
got no troubles we can’t fix. Sit down.” He stepped to a cabinet and took
out a bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed
it to Benz. “Work on that and I’ll fix you up.
He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. “Sit here with your back
to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You’ll need it
before I’m through.”
Benz glanced nervously at the window. “Why don’t you draw the shade?”
“It would attract attention. Honest people leave their shades up these
days. Hold still. This is going to hurt.”
Three drinks later Benz was feeling better. Moyland seemed willing to sit
and drink with him and to soothe his nerves. “You did well to come in,”
Moyland told him. “There’s no sense hiding like a scared rabbit. It’s just
butting your head against a stone wall. Stupid.”
Benz nodded. “That’s what I told them.”
“Told who?”
“Huh? Oh, nobody. Just some guys I was talking to. Tramps.”
Moyland poured him another drink. “As a matter of fact you were in the
Underground.”
“Me? Don’t be silly, Zack.”
“Look, Joe, you don’t have to kid me. I’m your friend. Even if you did tell