boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

498 Anthony Boucher
“No. I don’t. I was tight, just tight enough so things made sense. I wouldn’t
swallow it sober myself. But I know it’s true, and that’s why I’ve got to kill you,
MacVeagh.” His voice rose to a loud, almost soprano cry.
The white hand was very steady. MacVeagh moved his body slowly to one side
and watched the nose of the automatic hold its point on him. Then, with the fastest,
sharpest movement he’d ever attained in his life, he thrust his chair crashing
back and dropped doubled into the kneehole of his desk. The motion was just in
time. He heard a bullet thud into the plaster of the wall directly behind where he’d
been sitting.
His plans had been unshaped. It was simply that the desk seemed the only armor
visible at the moment. And to fire directly into this kneehole would mean coming
around and up close where he might possibly grab at Rogers’ legs. The wood between
him and Rogers now should be thick enough to—
He heard a bullet plunk into that wood. Then he heard it go past his ear and bury
itself in more wood. His guess was wrong. He could be shot in here. This bullet had
gone past him as knives go past the boy in the Indian basket trick. But Phil Rogers
was not a magician slipping knives into safe places, and no amount of contortion
could save MacVeagh from eventually meeting one of those bullets.
He heard scuffling noises. Then he heard a thud that was that of a body, not a
bullet, and with it another shot.
MacVeagh crawled out from under the desk. “Undignified posture,” he said, “but
what would you do if you were hemmed in and this maniac started— Is he hurt?”
It took a while for exchange of information, MacVeagh giving a much-censored
version which made it seem that Phil Rogers was suffering a motiveless breakdown
of some sort, the other telling how he’d been waiting outside, heard Phil’s denunciations—though
not their words—and then the shots, and decided to intervene.
Rogers was so intent on his victim that attack from behind was a snap. The last shot
had gone into Rogers’ own left shoulder as they struggled. Nothing serious.
“Don’t know how I can ever thank you, Johansen,” said John MacVeagh.
“Any time,” said his wife’s lover. “It’s a pleasure.”
Rogers was on his feet again now. MacVeagh turned to him and said, “Get out.
I don’t care what you do or how you explain that bullet wound. I’m not bringing
any charges. Get out.”
Rogers glared at them both. “I’ll settle with you, MacVeagh. You too, Johansen.”
“Uh-uh. You’re having a nervous breakdown. You’re going to a sanitarium for a
while. When you come out you’ll feel fine.”
“That’s what you say.”
“Get out,” MacVeagh repeated. And as Rogers left, he jotted down a note to
print the sanitarium trip and the necessary follow-ups on convalescence.
Without a word he handed a bottle to Johansen, then drank from it himself.
“Thanks,” he said. “I can’t say more than that.”
The tall blond man smiled. “I won’t ask questions. I’ve had run-ins with Rogers
myself. The boss’s sister’s nephew— But to tell the truth, John, I’m sorry I saved
your life.”
MacVeagh stiffened. “You’ve still got his gun,” he suggested humorlessly.