Angel's Inferno E-Book

William Hjortsberg

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 584

Beschreibung

'When the Devil laughs the whole damn world laughs with Him' A mind-bending thriller blending hard-boiled detective fiction, supernatural horror, and metaphysical noir that takes readers on a macabre journey into the occult, from the East Coast to Paris to the Vatican, as private investigator Harry Angel, seeking both answers about his true identity and revenge, hunts down Satan himself. Here is the stunning sequel to the Edgar-nominated novel Falling Angel, the basis for the classic cult film Angel Heart, which also stands alone as a masterwork of noir suspense fiction.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR FALLING ANGEL

‘Masterfully shocking’ – Observer

‘One of the greatest mysteries ever written’ – Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Independent

‘A terrific book… I’ve never read anything remotely like it. Trying to imagine what might have happened if Raymond Chandler had written The Exorcist is as close as I can come’ – Stephen King

‘A sort of ultimate detective story… it is one breathless read in high paced prose’ – Thomas Keneally

‘Brilliant and frightening’ – Thomas McGuane

‘A spellbinding adventure in suspense that rollercoasters the reader towards an ending that is the equivalent of hitting a brick wall at 90 mph. This is a book that you don’t walk away from’ – Richard Brautigan

‘A book to read with the doors locked and every light in the house burning’ – Richmond Review

‘One of the best crime novels of the twentieth century’ – Crime Stories & Weird Tales – Rafe McGregor’s Blogspot

‘Much scarier than The Exorcist, and makes most of Chandler’s oeuvre feel like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm’ – Robert Galbraith, Crime Time

For my lovely, devoted wife,

Janie Camp

And

In memory of my mentor,

Alexander Laing

1903-1976

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

About the Author

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n

John Milton, Paradise Lost

1

When the Devil laughs the whole damn world laughs with Him. Everyone gets a kick from another man’s bad luck. Do unto others, not unto me. The cops wisecracking over my lover’s corpse were all in on the joke. They dug Satan’s eternal punchline. This bitch croaked and we’re still alive enjoying the show. I slumped on the couch, staring down at my manacled hands. The coarse laughter in the bedroom echoed from another universe. A numb chill gripped me. I zipped my leather jacket up over the camera hanging around my neck, locking my fingers together. Looked like I was praying. A complete sham. There were no prayers left.

‘Hey, Angel!’ Lieutenant Sterne leaned out the bedroom doorway, big head blunt as a battering ram. A flashbulb popped behind him. ‘Got your guns mixed up. The rod between your legs is for screwing. Stuck the wrong one into that bitch’s pussy.’

Flashbulbs flared like lightning. Epiphany’s bloody body gleamed in their lurid light. Wedged between her legs, my Smith & Wesson reflected the flashing Speed Graphics. A wave of hatred rose from the numbness in my gut. I choked it back, keeping things deadpan. Anger at these crooked cops and at the man who’d killed Epiphany and set me up to take the rap warmed my icy soul. Raw as a double shot of cheap bourbon. This square asshole Sterne with his dumb black shoes and white athletic socks should’ve shackled me from behind like some mad-dog killer.

Sergeant Deimos strolled in from the hallway. A smug smile brightened his five o’clock shadow. Looked like a cheap B-movie gangster. Black overcoat. Wide-brimmed fedora. I’d first laid eyes on him five days ago. Deimos had been dressed like a longshoreman then. I wore the work clothes now. Dungarees, knitted wool cap, war-surplus aviator jacket. Pair of handcuffs for that cool outlaw touch.

‘What’s the word, Eddie?’ Sterne barked.

‘Wagon’s on the way.’

‘Sooner the better. I want this bastard locked up tight. He snuffed out three people in the last week.’

‘Six feet under sounds better.’

My gorge rose like a bad case of stage fright. ‘I’m sick!’ I yelled, hurrying for the bathroom close to the front door. ‘Gonna throw up!’

Nothing like getting puked on to make the toughest cop duck aside. I slid on my knees across the tile floor to the toilet, heaving a gut-bucket of sour swill into the bowl. Deimos looked away. Policemen learn to live with the sight of blood. Vomit makes them queasy just like everybody else.

A second wave of nausea provided additional moments of privacy. I looked up under the ancient porcelain sink at the derringer secured with duct tape to the drain pipe high and out of sight. A.38 caliber Great Western copy of the classic Remington over-and-under. I’d taped it there a couple years ago after a heavyweight torpedo roughed me up and pushed me on my ass onto the john floor. The gorilla worked for a pair of Wall Street shysters who didn’t like me snooping into their grift. I swore the next time trouble came knocking I’d have a secret surprise. Hitmen always let their marks take one last piss.

I lurched to my feet, grabbing the drain for balance. Played my ace in the hole, yanking the sneak piece free. Hunched over the sink, back turned on Deimos, I made a show of slurping cold water. Stupid flatfoot. Not interested in a sick man cleaning himself up. Pressed my cuffed hands to my stomach, concealing the derringer. Three quick steps took me to the open bathroom door.

I stepped close to Deimos, showing him my heat. ‘Try any cowboy shit,’ I hissed, pressing the two-shot tight to his middle. ‘I blow a hole through your liver.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he whispered. A couple uniforms loitered in my living room, rubbernecking at what was lying on the bed.

‘Out the door. Slow and easy.’

We were in the hallway. Not a second glance from two medical attendants bullshitting by a sheet-covered gurney. I guided Deimos past the central staircase to the fire exit. The door closed behind us on the landing. Told him to shrug off his overcoat.

‘You’ll never get away with it, Angel,’ the detective sergeant said.

‘Already have,’ I said, frisking him down two-handed. Found his service revolver and pulled it free. I gripped the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Bodyguard in my left hand and put the derringer into a side pocket where I found my own pair of lightweight aluminum cuffs. I yanked them out. ‘Hands behind your back.’ I jabbed him with the Bodyguard, getting my message across.

No more jive-ass back talk from Deimos. I snapped on the bracelets. Never trust a cop. Playing it safe, I ran my chained hands down his pant legs. He wore no ankle rig. I scooped up Deimos’s heavy woolen overcoat and draped it over my manacled mitts, concealing the pistol that made me boss. ‘Let’s head downstairs,’ I said.

We drifted down seven flights to the basement with no more gassing. The Chelsea Hotel’s cavernous cellar housed ancient furnaces and boilers. Easy to imagine rodents roaming the shadows in this dank crypt. I’d never seen any but the super had told me horror stories about cat-sized monsters prowling the dark corners.

Scattered islands of light pooled under bare hanging bulbs. I knew my way around. Monthly lease-holding tenants stored things in obscure corners: old steamer trunks, unwanted luggage, cardboard boxes. Quick prods with the Smith & Wesson moved Deimos forward. I intended to gag him so he didn’t scream his head off and give me up to the boys upstairs.

‘Kneel!’ I barked. Deimos didn’t move. I smacked him upside the head with his own .38 and he bent to the floor easy as a choirboy settling at the altar rail. A grunted curse was the closest thing to a supplication he had in him. Dim bulbs cast blurred silhouettes in the gloom. I pulled up a dented footlocker and sat. Set the gun down, fishing my key ring from a jacket pocket. A standard handcuff key hung among the twirls. I had the bracelets unlocked in seconds. Snapped them on Deimos above my pair of S&W Peerless Model 4s.

‘Do yourself a favor, Angel,’ Deimos said. ‘Give up while you’re still breathing.’

I’d had enough of his lip. I shoved his pocket square deep into his mouth. He tried to spit it out then lunged back, almost throwing me off balance. I stuck the .38 in his back. ‘Calm down, Sergeant. I’m holding the gun now.’ I unfastened his ugly cop necktie and laid down the gun so I could wrap the tie around his yap. As I knotted it, a brick wall exploded in my face, the footlocker sliding out from beneath me. My head slammed against the concrete floor as the .38 skittered across the hard surface. Deimos who outweighed me by at least fifty pounds lay on top of me, his heavy shoulders and chest pinning my legs. He used his fat head as a battering ram on my kidneys. The tie had fallen off him and his enraged face looked grotesque as he tried to spit out the gag. Trying to kick free of him, I punched his head, his neck, his shoulders, but he just bore down on me. Sitting up, I landed a blow to his right eye and pulled free, springing to my feet.

Instinctively, I reached for the derringer in my pocket even though I knew I couldn’t use it. The thunder of a gunshot in this windowless cavern would bring down all the cops, if they weren’t already on their way to the basement looking for me. A kick from Deimos had me stumbling. I grabbed the cord from the light bulb socket above me, yanking it from the ceiling in a spray of sparks as I went down, dropping the derringer. Deimos had me pinned again, more securely now, and was slamming his head into my neck and jaw. Pain shot through me. I couldn’t move. He could keep me there until his friends arrived. I managed to move my hands from beneath the gorilla-cop. I still had the socket cord. Pulling both ends tight, I slipped it around his neck when he raised his head and pulled the garrote tight. He leaned back, looking surprised, his eyes bulging as I twisted the cord tighter and tighter. He bucked like a bronco but the handkerchief still jammed in his mouth made things easier, muffling his gargled protests. I kept tightening the cord until he fell on top of me.

Interesting how death fills an empty space with its stillness. The body felt warm but nobody was home anymore. I shoved Deimos off me and rose to my feet. Stupid flatfoot. Shouldn’t have fought back. I hadn’t meant to kill him.

After collecting both guns, putting my derringer in my pocket and tucking the .38 into my waistband, I quickly searched the cop’s clothing, turning up his wallet, a lead-filled leather sap, a pair of cuffs, and a lucky rabbit foot key chain. I shoved the take into his heavy topcoat, tossing Bugs Bunny away into the shadows.

Yanking Deimos’s waistband sheath off his belt, I pushed in the .38 and hooked the rig inside my Levis. With my bulky flight jacket underneath, Deimos’s overcoat fit just fine. His badge pinned to the wide lapel. I picked up the black fedora and put it on my head over my Navy watch cap.

I dragged the stiff to a far corner behind a stack of cardboard boxes and empty suitcases. Might be days before somebody found the dead cop. Let the rat feast begin.

I slipped out a door around the corner from the service entrance. Sheet iron steps led up away from the hotel entrance. Ascending halfway, I stood eye-level with the sidewalk. Two uniformed flatfoots worked on their pensions under the awning twenty feet away. Everything quiet as a hick town.

I climbed the remaining stairs, standing unnoticed on the landing. The safety gate facing the street was secured by a heavy chain. I waited until the cops looked away toward Seventh Avenue, and then swung a leg over the top rail. One of the uniforms turned his head, glancing in my direction.

I froze, straddling the fence. The cop stared straight at me, but must have seen nothing but shadows because a second later he looked away when a wailing ambulance raced down Seventh Avenue. I swung my other leg over and walked west on 23rd Street under the awning of the El Quijote restaurant. Halfway down the block, I unpinned Deimos’s buzzer and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. I chanced a look back. No activity outside the Chelsea. The coast, as they like to say, was clear. I slipped off into the night. Just another stray cat on the prowl.

2

I caught an uptown cab on Eighth Avenue, telling the driver to drop me at the corner of 42nd and Seventh. A big-ass yellow Checker with folding jump seats and enough room in back for a man to stretch his legs and think. I had a lot to think about. My life had been turned upside down and inside out tonight. I’d just killed a cop. Who would believe I acted in self-defense when New York’s Finest were convinced I’d killed three people in the last week? Who the hell was this client calling himself Louis Cyphre? Why was he setting me up to take the rap for his murder spree?

My world went to hell the moment Wall Street lawyer Herman Winesap called on behalf of his big-shot client, the elegant and elusive Louis Cyphre. Routine missing person caper that went south right from the start. Johnny Favorite. Superstar. Sang with the Spider Simpson band before the war. Took a powder from the private hospital upstate where he’d been a vegetable warehoused ever since getting hit on a USO stage during a Luftwaffe strafing in Tunisia. Everyone I talked to from his past got bumped off, up to and including his daughter, Epiphany Proudfoot. The investigation led me to a nest of Voodoo-worshipers and Satanists. Now some of them and Cyphre were trying to make me think I was Johnny Favorite. Partial amnesia from a war wound wasn’t much help in the memory department.

No matter what was true and what was a pack of lies, I had to blow town on the double. To pull it off, I needed stuff from my office. If Cyphre had pinched everything when he’d broken in last night, I was fucked. Big risk going back. Figured the cops would get hip and check the joint out in maybe half an hour. I got nabbed a little after midnight. My Timex read twenty-three past the hour.

Money topped any get-away checklist. I kept two yards in double sawbucks as backup cash in my safe. With luck, it was still there. I pulled Deimos’s wallet from his overcoat. Forty-seven bucks in greenbacks. Added his dough to the five spot and eight sorry aces in my worn billfold. Two hundred and sixty simoleons. A puny escape fund.

Passport was next on my list. Skipping the Apple meant putting an ocean between me and John Law. Ernie Cavalero, my onetime boss, always kept a passport handy. He took me on as his legman when I wandered into the Crossroads office healing from a war wound. Early am New Year’s Day. Maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. Can’t remember exactly. A passport issued to Harold R Angel guaranteed putting my ass in the hot seat.

Ernie Cavalero always kept a blank passport ready for incognito travel. He had a contact on Pell Street in Chinatown. Mr Yin ran a legit import/export business for cover but made his real scratch dealing false identification. All the fake IDs crammed in my extra wallet came from him. Yin’s passport deal included a little do-it-yourself kit in a metal box, tidy as a carved ivory puzzle ball.

‘Here we are, Mister,’ the cabby interrupted my musing. I gave him a couple bucks and didn’t ask for change. The hack sped off. I waited out the red light, staring up at Times Tower. CASTRO BARS PLEDGE TO JOIN US IN WAR. The endless light-bulb headline parade wrapped around the triangular building. Everybody lies, I thought. Traffic light turned green.

Loitering prostitutes and panhandlers ignored me. Not an easy mark. I crossed 42nd, dropping Deimos’s wallet into a wire trash container. Fishing for the key ring, I glanced into the window of the Funny Store, a novelty shop by my office building entrance. A row of cheap rubber masks hung from the edge of the top shelf. Clowns, hobos, pirates, skulls. My all-time favorite, the Devil.

Ernie Cavalero considered himself a master of disguise. He picked up the art of stage makeup somewhere. Loved gluing on fake beards for stakeouts, posing as a homeless bum. Once, he daubed his mug in blackface for a job up in Harlem. I ribbed him about reading too much Sherlock Holmes as a kid. He returned the favor. Made me don a white wig and fake padded paunch for snooping undercover in a retirement home.

The door closed behind me, locking. I crossed the worn linoleum lobby and raced up the fire stairs to the third floor. Faster than the creaking elevator. Ernie worked hard teaching me pancake stick and spirit gum. When I took over the business the year before he passed, I had no further use for the stuff but kept his old makeup kit around as a cornball memento. It might save my ass before this caper played out.

Gold leaf lettering spelled CROSSROADS DETECTIVE AGENCY on the pebbled-glass front door panel. The lights were off inside, the way I’d left things about fifty minutes ago. I never locked the outer office door in case clients came at odd hours. This time, I drew the deadbolt. Wanted an edge if the cops showed up.

Light from the hallway spilled onto my tan Naugahyde couch and the partition dividing the room where Louis Cyphre had forced the lock on the inner door a couple hours ago. Outside my big window, a carnival neon blaze from Times Square lit up the place. I could find my way around but not well enough to get things done in a hurry. I switched on the overhead fluorescent lights.

The safe’s heavy iron door hung open like a broken promise. Cyphre had cracked it, taking what he needed to frame me for murdering millionaire businessman Ethan Krusemark’s daughter Margaret, a high-society astrologer. Johnny Favorite had been engaged to her years ago. I’d found her body in her apartment high above Carnegie Hall. Someone had cut out her heart. Yesterday’s news.

The brown envelope with my last couple centuries lay far back inside the safe. I grabbed it in an adrenalin surge of hope. The bread was all still there along with several fake driving licenses from different states. I stored evidence in an old tin cashbox. Spent pistol shells, fingerprints lifted on transparent tape, drug packets, bullets pried out of plaster walls, that sort of thing. It also contained fifteen tiny film cartridges, shot with a tripod copy stand and a subminiature Minox A the night before last in Krusemark’s fancy office over at the Chrysler Building. I recorded every document I’d dug from his files. A treasure trove of hidden crime.

Soft as a worn fielder’s mitt, my leather Ghurka bag slumped beside the safe, packed with a change of clothing for whenever I had to blow town on a job with no time to pack. I shoved in the cash envelope, along with Mr Yin’s passport alteration kit. Several green passports bound together with a rubber band gave me a draw to an inside straight. The newest Yin forgery went into the Ghurka bag along with my legit ticket. Never faked a passport before. Wanted to make sure I did it right.

Two half-empty cartons of pistol ammunition remained in the safe. Beneath them, an envelope from the law firm of McIntosh, Winesap and Spy, attorneys for Louis Cyphre. It contained their check for $500 made out to Crossroads. My retainer for tracking down the missing swing band crooner Johnny Favorite. I felt I was getting close, maybe too close. Too bad I hadn’t cashed the check. It was a one-way ticket to the electric chair now. I tossed it into the wastebasket.

The .45 caliber rounds were for the Colt Commander the cops took off me at the Chelsea. I dumped them in the trash. Twenty .38 special shells went into my overnight bag. I emptied the pockets of Deimos’s overcoat and my flight jacket, keeping only his black-jack and badge and my three rolls of exposed 35mm Tri-X film. I’d shot the film at a Palm Sunday Black Mass I’d secretly attended last night in an abandoned subway station on the Lexington Avenue IRT Line. A virgin deflowered on the makeshift altar, her tits washed in a throat-slit baby’s blood. I had twenty-four exposures of Ethan Krusemark and other naked Satanists howling and screwing in their animal masks. Got into a beef with him later when he fed me some story about Johnny Favorite eating a young soldier’s heart so he could switch psychic identities with the guy. Krusemark fell on the third rail. Fried him crisp as a potato chip. More food for the rats.

I did a quick rummage through the desk drawers. All useless crap from a past no longer mine. I dumped it all in the waste basket along with everything in my billfold that bore the name Harold Angel, saving only the invitation to the Black Mass and a case I took off a pillow I kept in the bottom drawer for when I was too drunk to go home.

My time had run out. I slapped the postage on a manila envelope, addressed it to Frank Hogan, District Attorney of New York County, 100 Centre Street, and stuffed in the 35mm film, the Minox cartridges and the Black Mass invitation, adding Krusemark’s business card before sealing the flap. Everything cleaned of my prints.

I filled a cigarette lighter with fluid, squirting the rest into the trash container. Struck a match and set the folded cover on fire. When the matchbook flared, I let it fall. The basket went off with a whoosh like a midget volcano.

With the Ghurka bag slung over my shoulder, I grabbed the manila envelope and the fishing tackle box containing Ernie’s makeup kit. Looking back as I made the stairs, I saw the little bonfire dancing behind the blurred glass panel in my office door. There goes Harry Angel. Up in smoke.

3

I hit the street, heading uptown past the Rialto toward the Paramount Theater where Johnny Favorite had had the chicks dancing in the aisles back before anyone called them bobby-soxers. Miles of neon, millions of light bulbs. Times Square, bright as noon. Remnants of the Sunday night crowd in for a good time strolled along rubbernecking. Still plenty of action on the Great White Way at one am.

Reaching the corner, I heard the .45 caliber rounds explode in my office. Sounded like distant firecrackers. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a bright orange glow light up the third-story casement windows of the Crossroads Detective Agency. Flames wavered inside my office. Going out in a blaze of glory. No one else seemed to notice. Didn’t mean shit to me. Let the whole damn building burn to the ground.

I waited for the light on 44th by Walgreen Drug across from the Hotel Astor where Seventh Avenue intersected Broadway and the square became an X. Crossing below the hourglass neck, I saw Disney’s Sleeping Beauty still played at the Criterion. Further up Broadway past Bond Clothes, Marilyn Monroe starred at the new Loew’s State in Some Like it Hot, set to open Easter Sunday weekend. Things were plenty hot enough for me.

I glanced around by the Elpine hotdog stand at the corner of the Hotel Claridge and spotted a mailbox. I jaywalked over, and dropped the fat manila envelope into the chute. Too bad Krusemark had croaked and would never feel the heat.

Broadway was already ancient history. I walked east on 44th. After the brilliant glare of Times Square the shadowy side street provided welcome darkness. An almost-full moon hung in the clear sky overhead, a display lost from sight under the main stem dazzle. Rounding the corner on Sixth Avenue, I came to the Hippodrome Garage where I parked my car. The place was named for a famous turn-of-the-century theater. In the 1920s, Houdini made an elephant disappear onstage. My own disappearing act wouldn’t get as much applause. Unlike the magician’s smoke and mirrors it was the real deal.

Climbing the stairs to Level Four had me pondering my next move. Two hundred and sixty bucks was better than nothing. If I wanted to pull a real Houdini I’d need a lot more bread. My 1953 Chevy Bel Air two-door sat parked far back in a corner space affording protection on one side. I unlocked the trunk, dropping in the Ghurka bag and fishing tackle box. Just an average Joe heading off for some down time in the sticks. I took a screwdriver and pair of pliers from the tool kit and quickly removed my license plate. After midnight always best for petty crime. Moving five cars down to a new model red Caddy with tailfins towering like Flash Gordon’s space ship, I swapped license plates in under three minutes.

I drove east one block on 44th to Fifth Avenue and turned downtown. At 42nd Street, I swung left toward Grand Central. Passing the terminal, I thought how easy it might have been to catch a train. The cops surely had this place and Penn Station already staked out. I cruised past Lexington Avenue and the Chrysler Building, keeping an eye peeled for a parking space. Just beyond Third, I found one with no problem. I locked the Chevy and strolled back west, humming an old Louis Jordan jump-jive tune slightly off key.

I walked past the 42nd Street entry to the Chrysler Building figuring it was closed. Most of the skyscraper was dark. I saw a scattering of office lights on the upper floors. At the main 405 Lex entrance both revolving doors were locked for the weekend. The wide stainless steel and glass central entrance was open and I let myself in. The lobby retained a bygone magnificence even under dim night-time utility lights. Ceiling murals masked by shadow. Red marble walls glowing with inner fire. Somewhere, greedy developers schemed to tear the place down.

A uniformed guard behind the reception desk eyed me with suspicion. I glared hard at him as I approached. ‘Detective Sergeant Deimos,’ I snarled, hauling out my wallet and flashing the dead man’s badge. ‘I’m investigating a complaint on the 45th floor. Let me see the sign-in register.’

‘Who called –’

I cut him off with an angry look. ‘The register,’ I said.

‘Be my guest,’ the rent-a-cop replied, pushing a clipboard my way.

I pretended to study it for a moment then scrawled some bullshit signature and my time of arrival, 1:25 am, beside it.

‘Last car on the end’s a local. Only one working,’ the guard said.

A curt nod and I headed for the elevator bank. The door to the end car was open. I stepped in, punching button 45. I gave the guard the correct floor in case he checked the master annunciator panel to see where I got off. My destination was Krusemark Maritime, Inc. I’d shot all that Minox film there two days ago after an overnight stay at Bellevue, courtesy of a couple goons Krusemark set on me to discourage further snooping. Getting beat up stimulates my curiosity.

I knew a guy who was head of key control at a big outfit handling security for most of the important midtown office towers. He owed me one and loaned me a sub-master to the 45th floor of the Chrysler Building for the day. I made a copy before mailing the original back to him. The corridors high upstairs were fairly drab compared to the opulent lobby, rows of mostly single-room offices housed behind dark wooden doors framing pebbled-glass panels. Uniform gilt lettering identified the occupants. When I got off the elevator I saw the lights on in two separate offices down the long hallway. Good news. Probably accountants working late during tax season. Made me look legit to the guard downstairs.

Krusemark’s headquarters occupied a big corner office with an imposing bronze and glass entryway meant to suggest the security of Fort Knox. A sub-master opens every door on the designated floor of a building. I slipped mine into the lock and I was inside easy as Ali Baba and his magic words. Two previous trips this week had taught me the layout and I passed quickly through the dark outer rooms to the big mahogany door with raised bronze letters spelling out ETHAN KRUSEMARK.

I turned on the lights in Krusemark’s private office. Everything looked just as I’d left it on Saturday. The millionaire shipbuilder kept some excellent old cognac in his alcove bar. I poured a healthy splash into a monogrammed snifter. On my last visit, I wore surgical gloves but no longer gave a damn about fingerprints.

First place I checked was the big marble-slab desk. Not expecting to find anything new, I unlatched the hidden drawer underneath. It slid open. A couple Dunhill pens, a boxed Parker 38 with an overlay of intertwined gold snakes and a sterling silver Waterman. All valuable. I grabbed them and an antique gold-and-ivory mounted dirk. Yanking the pillowcase free from under my belt, I dumped the loot inside.

There had to be something more in Krusemark’s office. I glanced at the French Impressionists gracing his walls. Art was never my strong suit. I once traced a small stolen Rubens all the way from a Park Avenue duplex to a trash-filled basement in Baltimore. To me, these paintings looked like greeting card illustrations. I had no clue what they might be worth. Probably a bundle. Too big to hide under the black overcoat. I’d looked behind all of them on my last visit.

The thought of unseen treasure sitting under my nose made me want a second look. I took the canvases down one by one. Beneath the third, I uncovered something I’d missed before. The geometric wallpaper pattern concealed the edges of a movable panel. A picture hook served as a pull. I tugged on it. The panel opened, exposing a compact wall safe. Playing a hunch, I spun the combination dial right, left and right again, stopping at six each time. 666. The number of the Beast from the Book of Revelation. Epiphany taught me that one. I pulled on the dial and the safe door swung open.

I found a big stack of cash, about forty large in bundles of C-notes, and dumped it by the handful on the desk. The sight of so much mazuma all in one pile kicked the breath out of me. I sat down and drained the brandy. Booze burned away exhilaration’s sudden chill. I’d planned on using the 45th floor sub-master in every unoccupied office, popping petty cash boxes in hopes of scrounging up another couple hundred bucks. That caper was no longer worth the sweat. I lived in fat city now.

Back at the wall safe for a second look, I pulled out a slim red silk-bound book, a gold-tooled leather jewelry box and a small black velvet bag containing some sort of antique silver coin. I pushed a small gilded button on the flat morocco container, popping the lid open. Hanging from a golden chain inside, a gold medallion glittered with cold menace. Set with rubies, emeralds and pink diamonds, the half-dollar-sized pendant depicted an inverted pentagram enclosing the engraved head of a demonic goat. Hebrew letters surrounded the satanic image. Louis Cyphre wore the same sort of inverted star as a lapel pin. I asked him about it at lunch last Thursday. Cyphre said he had it on upside-down, claiming it was the insignia of some patriotic organization. ‘In France I always wear the tricolor,’ he joked.

I dumped all the cabbage, the boxed necklace, the silver coin in the velvet sack and the little red book into my pillowcase. I switched off the lights and was surrounded by the diamond-sparkle of midtown Manhattan outside the office windows. I’d never see this view again. I rolled the pillowcase into a tight bundle and stuffed it under my flight jacket. Leaving my prints behind no longer seemed like such a cute idea. I found a linen hand towel in Krusemark’s private bathroom and wiped down everything I’d touched. After closing and locking the safe, I rehung the paintings and washed the brandy snifter clean, returning it to the mirrored shelf.

The plate-glass front entrance closed and locked behind me in the deserted hallway. I took a little extra time making sure the ornate bronze trident door handle was free of my prints. Krusemark’s monogrammed hand towel went into my coat pocket as a souvenir.

The night watchman had his nose stuck in a copy of Nugget and didn’t have a clue as I rubber-soled up and rapped my knuckles on the desk counter. ‘That was quick,’ he blurted, stashing his stroke book underneath. He slid the clipboard toward me.

‘Much ado about nothing,’ I said, drawing a puzzled look from the guard as I jotted 1:47 pm in the Departure column beside my fake John Henry.

Walking east on 42nd, I unhooked Deimos’s tin from my wallet. His badge marked me now. I tossed it down a storm drain at the corner of Third Avenue. Just as I reached the Chevy, a wino bum stumbled toward me, mitt extended for a handout. In a snap decision, I peeled off Deimos’s topcoat. ‘Try it on,’ I said, handing it over, tossing him the black fedora as a bonus.

The threads fit the beggar worse than me, sleeves hanging to his fingertips, hat wobbling over his ears. ‘Thanks, mister,’ he muttered. ‘Where’d you get these?’ Even he suspected something was not legit.

‘Rummage sale at the morgue,’ I jived, getting into the car.

As I drove north into Spanish Harlem, I whistled Artie Shaw’s ‘Stardust’ solo somehow remembering every perfect note.

4

I needed to get off the island of Manhattan. Most of the bridges out of town required a toll and toll booths might put me behind the eight ball. Toll-takers saw every passing driver. If the cops put out a BOLO with my description, a toll collector might likely make me. The Willis Avenue Bridge, a northbound one-way swing bridge crossing the Harlem River into the Bronx, had no toll because traffic backed up whenever the bridge opened for the passage of barges and freighters.

I pulled onto the bridge at 124th Street. The hum of my tires on the metal road grating sounded sweeter than Bunny Berrigan’s trumpet. When I hit the Bronx, I continued up Willis Avenue and turned off the overpass down onto the old section of the six-lane Major Deegan Expressway. I made good time, staying at the speed limit, passing Yankee Stadium on my right.

A couple hours ago, my plan had been to drive up to Albany, ditch the Chevy and board the Empire State Express to Detroit where I could slip across into Canada. Things felt different now. The golden goose had laid a 24-karat nest egg in my lap. The last place on earth the law would ever look for a bird on the lam was traveling first class. My new scheme involved making it to Boston and catching the first possible overseas flight.

Driving north, I lit a Lucky. As I inhaled, my mind drifted back to the terrible sight of Epiphany lying dead in my room. She was a sweet kid who didn’t deserve to get butchered by a monster like Cyphre. Her father, Johnny Favorite, supposedly had amnesia due to a head injury he’d suffered in North Africa during the war. I’d had a little taste of the big blackout myself when I was injured overseas. I got my boiled potato nose from a botched plastic surgery job. The beauty part was I got hit at Oran in Algeria. Shot by the fucking French. No big deal. Thousands of guys fought in North Africa. Who knows how many were wounded around the same time. Louis Cyphre parlayed my memory loss into making me think I was Johnny Favorite, a cat who had sold his soul to the Devil in return for big-time fame.

Maybe I was Johnny Favorite. What fucking difference did it make? I can’t remember a damn thing anyway. It didn’t turn Cyphre into Satan. Never mind his double acrostic name. Calling yourself Louis Cyphre doesn’t make you Lucifer, except to suckers with too much hoodoo in their voodoo. I’d seen Cyphre in the flesh, watched him eat fancy lunches and smoke expensive cigars. He was a tricky magician sure as shit but still remained flesh and blood. A man who breathed and dreamed like any other patsy. Let’s see how metaphysical he was when I pumped hot lead into his belly. A shyster’s phone call got me into this mess. A couple slugs from my .38 would set me free.

Louis Cyphre, man of mystery. I’d seen him less than three hours ago, right before he killed Epiphany. Too bad I couldn’t stick around and hunt him down here – if he was still here. I had a good idea of where he would go eventually. His lawyer Winesap told me Cyphre traveled under a French passport. ‘In France I always wear the tricolor,’ Cyphre said at lunch. I planned on finding him. La Belle Paris! City of light, laughter and sin. If the Devil was human why wouldn’t he choose to be a Frenchman? Sophisticated and suave. Fabulously rich. A man about town, full of parley-voo and savoir-faire. See Paris and die. Why the hell not? Made sense to me.

No bookie would give my chances of finding Cyphre better than a hundred to one. Even with the odds against me, I knew I’d track the bastard down. A guy pretending to be the Devil stands out in a crowd.

I stopped for the night in Hartford. I wasn’t looking for some flea bag where cops snooped for fugitives. I could afford the best hotel in town. The Hotel Bond looked posh enough for me. The next morning, after shaving my black mustache, I used the contents of Ernie Cavalero’s tackle box to cover up the wounds Krusemark’s goons had given me a few days ago. Lieutenant Sterne had paid me a visit in Bellevue and seen the injuries, now doubtless part of my official description. Ernie’s blond wig covered the shaved patch above my left temple where nine stitches zigzagged in an uneven line. My left ear, badly lacerated from the kid’s blackjack, and my split lip I painted with flexible collodion, amazing stuff that is kind of an invisible Band-Aid.

After a shopping spree that included stops at a fine men’s clothing store, a camera shop, a sporting goods store, a luggage shop and a bookstore, I was a new man. Dressed in suit pants, black shoes and an Aquascutum raincoat, I ditched the Bel Air in a long-term parking garage, shelling out thirty bucks for three months in advance, and boarded the 5:39 train to Boston. I stuck my ticket on the seat back for the conductor and settled in for a closer look at the newspapers I’d bought that morning.

I re-read the three-paragraph article headlined PRIVATE EYE WANTED on page five of the New York Daily News. The article said a private investigator named Harold R Angel was suspected in three brutal Manhattan murders committed during the previous week. His whereabouts were currently unknown. An arson fire at the office of the Crossroads Detective Agency at 1481 Broadway was believed to have been set by Angel. Only an emergency call from a concerned citizen and the prompt response of firefighters had saved the entire building from destruction.

No mention in the paper of Dr Albert Fowler in Poughkeepsie, the first of Cyphre’s victims, but that death was officially a suicide. A small photograph of me accompanied the article. Taken twelve years ago when I applied for my first PI ticket. I sported a GI-style crew cut back then. Aside from the tuberous nose, the picture looked nothing like me.

Detective Sergeant Deimos didn’t make the story. Nothing about my escape from police custody. I figured this revised version of events had been decreed from the commissioner himself. Top brass didn’t want the press to know how badly their boys in blue had screwed up. Embarrassing for the big shots. Big black mark on New York’s Finest. Better to make things sound like an ongoing investigation, a dragnet closing inexorably around the suspect. Cops and politicians always cover their asses when the shit hits the air-conditioner. I didn’t see anything about me or the string of New York homicides in the HartfordCourant. This was a good thing. The less said about a gumshoe on the lam the better my odds of a clean getaway.

As the rushing landscape outside grew dark, I pulled my new passport out of the handsome new wallet I’d bought. Thanks to Mr Yin’s handy kit, I was now John X Favorite, born June 2, 1920. Smart money might make using Favorite’s name a dumb call. I figured it a wise bet. Only Herman Winesap and Louis Cyphre knew Harry Angel had been hired to find Johnny Favorite. Winesap was dead. With any luck, I’d soon add Mr Cyphre’s name to the obituaries.

A couple minutes before nine, I entered the splendid lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in the heart of the Back Bay where I’d reserved a room. The man at the desk treated me like visiting royalty. ‘Welcome to Boston, Mr Favorite. We have room 925 ready for you.’

When I asked about a nearby travel agency, the polite gentleman in the gray suit said, ‘Our concierge will be happy to help assist you with any travel plans.’

Concierge. I liked the sound of that. Almost a preview of Paris. I said I’d like to leave my bags at the desk while I ate. The diplomatic deskman told me he’d send them up to my room. Big tippers get the best service so I slipped him a fin, adding a buck for the bellhop, and walked across the gleaming marble lobby to the concierge desk. Another diplomat seated there told me he’d be happy to make my plane reservations. I said I wanted to fly first class to Paris ASAP. No problem. He’d get right to work on it.

‘Would you like me to arrange hotel reservations in Paris?’ the concierge asked. ‘Do you have a preferred place to stay?’

‘Let’s keep it simple,’ I replied. ‘Book me in at the Ritz.’

The dining room looked about half-full. After checking my hat and coat with the twist at the door, I was shown to a two-top and ordered a double Manhattan, straight up. My favorite drink for as long as I could remember. Probably longer. Harry Angel had been a rookie cop in Madison, Wisconsin, before he went in the army. Fancy mixed drinks didn’t seem like his thing. Beer sounded more like it. Manhattans better suited Johnny Favorite’s nightclub tastes. But sometimes people surprise you.

I followed my cocktail with a dozen Wellfleet oysters, a whole steamed Maine lobster and a Caesar salad tossed tableside, all washed down with a fine crisp bottle of Sancerre Blanc. This was living large. Johnny Favorite sold his soul for the high life. Harry Angel made do with hot pastrami sandwiches, always pinched by an occasional splurge. I liked it much better here on the sunny side of Easy Street.

I put the bill on my tab. The concierge approached me in the lobby on my way out. ‘Excuse me, Mr Favorite,’ he said, handing me a small square envelope embossed with the Ritz-Carlton crest. ‘I’m afraid the only direct Boston to Paris flights are on Fridays and Saturdays. Knowing you wanted to leave right away, I’ve made a reservation for you tomorrow on TWA out of New York.’

‘But…’ This was bad news.

‘Not to worry. There’s an American flight leaving Logan at noon. It gets you into LaGuardia at 1:45. Plenty of time for a cab ride to Idlewild. The Paris flight departs at six. I’ve written down all the flight numbers and departure times.’

I thanked him and walked to the elevators. Going back to New York struck me as a dumb move. All the local airports would be staked-out by now. On the other hand, bold bets often paid off in spades. I had my disguise. The cops wouldn’t be watching in-coming flights at LaGuardia. And they’d never figure on me traveling first class, dressed like a swell. Sticking around Boston for three days seemed a riskier option. Chances of getting nabbed increased the longer I holed up in one place. I liked the notion of taking a powder right away.

My bags waited in number 925, the swankiest pad where Harry Angel ever hung his hat. Johnny Favorite on the other hand lived the life of Riley. A high pillow who took boss cribs like this for granted. Corner room furnished with replica French antiques. Brocade bed-covers turned back beneath a gilded baroque headboard. As if long accustomed to such luxury, I checked the Continental breakfast on the order card for a 7:30 am delivery, hung it on the outside doorknob and strolled down the hall to the fire stairs entrance. Always good to know the back way out in case of emergencies.

I tossed the .38 on the bed and dumped the Ghurka bag’s contents out on the bedspread, putting the latex surgical gloves and hair dye I’d bought in Hartford into the shoebox with my makeup. Needing to camouflage any contraband in case French customs examined my luggage, I planned to gift-wrap anything suspicious. Presents for friends. A low-level official might hesitate before ripping open the packages of some fat-cat executive.

The phone rang as I packaged the blackjack, making me jump and grab for my heater. Who in hell would be calling? It was the concierge. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Favorite,’ he said, ‘the Hotel Ritz is completely booked for Wednesday night. I can check the availability of comparable establishments in the area if you’d like.’ I said that would be aces.

After gift-wrapping my sap, I considered the small silk-bound book beside me on the bed. Maybe I should toss it? Krusemark kept it locked in his safe so it had to be worth something. I took a look. Small and narrow, about two-and-a-half by five inches, the slim volume had a faded gilt inverted pentagram embossed on the front cover. Flipping through the pages, I saw dozens of intricate arcane symbols, each accompanied by printed passages in Latin, Greek and Hebrew. All were set in an archaic typeface even someone hip to the lingo might find difficult to read. The signs of the zodiac I knew. The rest was pure mumbo-jumbo. Some kind of satanic guidebook, I guessed. Figuring it might come in handy, I wrapped the little volume in silver paper.

Half an hour later, I had everything wrapped and stashed in the bag. After double-locking the door and drawing the security chain, I wiped off the pan stick and lip rouge, washing the collodion from my ear. Facing my reflection in the mirror, I wondered who was the real me. The bleary-eyed ex-private dick staring back out of the glass, the blond big shot I’d been ten minutes ago or maybe an unknown pretty boy crooner with a taste for Devil worship. The truth lay in the near-forgotten past. Deep down in what was left of my soul, I knew the time was coming when I might recognize that the monster grinning out of the mirror was truly Johnny Favorite.

5

The next morning, the courtly ambassador behind the front desk handed me a small envelope. Inside, I found a card with a Ritz-Carlton letterhead from the concierge. ‘Wednesday night reservations have been made for you at the Vendôme, 1 Place Vendôme, in the 1st arrondissement. On the same city square as the Ritz. A smaller hotel but very chic.’ I put the card into my satchel and slipped a five spot into the envelope. ‘See that the concierge on duty last night gets this,’ I told the desk clerk, handing him the envelope. ‘I’ll be back next month.’ That last bit meant to insure he didn’t pocket the tip.

I got to Logan a little before eleven. Only a couple travelers stood on line ahead of me at the American Airlines counter. I checked my bags and paid $14.05 for the one-way ticket. There was a forty-five minute wait before boarding. I spent my time leafing through Time magazine, feeling conspicuous as a circus clown in my wig and makeup. No one gave me a second glance. To the other passengers, I was just another square businessman like them.

Flight 417 left ten minutes late. A favorable tail wind made up the time and we landed in LaGuardia at 1:48 pm. I waited for my luggage, trying not to look over my shoulder. Just as I figured, no one was staking out Arrivals. Plainclothes cops were just as easy to spot as the jerks in uniform. Not a flatfoot in sight.

It was a beautiful New York day in the mid-fifties. Blue skies and no wind. I grabbed a cab right away with no waiting. Two in the afternoon was not the rush hour. As the driver hustled my bags into the trunk, I watched one of the boys in blue standing off by the Departures loading zone. He never looked my way.

All along the drive, the Grand Central Parkway connecting into the Van Wyck Expressway, I stared out the window at the city I thought I’d never see again, thinking about what I’d do if things went wrong. Suppose I got behind the eight ball at the airport? No way I’d go down alone. Shooting the works made sense to me. I had five lugs in my heater. Another ten in the speedloaders. Make every last round count. Take a couple coppers along with me before buying the big one. Cash out like a winner. Better than frying up at Sing Sing.

The cab ride took less than fifteen minutes. We pulled into Idlewild about a quarter to three. The tail end of the parkway curved through Terminal City, an enormous unfinished airport expansion designed to accommodate the coming jet age. The cab dropped me off at the temporary terminal. I paid, tipping the driver after he wrestled my luggage from the trunk. Four uniforms stood along the lengthy departure zone. One of them gave me a hard stare. I ignored him, gathering up my stuff and heading for the terminal building. Crossing the entrance hall toward the TWA counter, I clocked a couple undercover fuzz. The one closest to me, a shambling oaf in an ill-fitting gray suit, pretended to read a newspaper. I figured he had a printout of my photo hidden inside. He tried playing it cool but there was no hiding his expressionless cop stare. I paused, setting down my suitcase. The Ghurka hung from my left shoulder, the new satchel from my right. My raincoat and jacket were unbuttoned. The .38 was an easy reach even with the hanging bags. If he started my way, I’d blow him down.

The dick stuck his big shnozzle back into the scandal sheet. I picked up the two-suiter and continued on to the first class line. I knew he still watched me. I felt it even with my back turned. Only a couple people stood ahead waiting to check in. I put my bags down and chanced a look, gun hand free for a quick draw. The copper was giving a new passenger the up-and-down and I relaxed just a bit. The line for coach seats wound through a rope-enclosed maze like payday at the corner bank. Yesterday, I’d have been standing in there with the rest of the cattle.

I set my luggage on the scale as the pretty gal at the counter checked my reservation and asked to see my passport, barely giving it a glance before sliding it back. She was a looker all right. ‘Smoking?’ she asked.

I said yes, requesting an aisle seat. I paid $455 cash for my ticket. When the babe gave me change from the five centuries, she told me TWA was pleased to invite me to their Ambassador Club, a first class lounge, where I might relax in comfort before departure. ‘Complimentary cocktails,’ she said with a pert smile, as she handed me my boarding pass.

I thanked her and strolled off, pretending to study the ticket jacket while glancing sideways at the plainclothes cop who faked reading his newspaper. He gave me a quick eyeball before sizing up the other passengers walking in from the loading zone. My flight didn’t board for another two and a half hours. No way I was cooling my heels in the Ambassador Club where some asshole might corner me for bullshit chit-chat.

I bought a copy of the News at a magazine stand and found my way to the Kitty Hawk, a plastic airport bar and grill with framed photos of biplanes and Eddie Rickenbacker on the walls. The place was packed, couples sitting at little round tables, a line of standing travelers chowing down in a hurry at a narrow counter along one side. The bar was a rectangular island in the middle of the room. I wedged in between two squares at the far end with my hat, coat and satchel bundled on my lap.

The tabloid’s banner headline read:

TRAIL 300 GIRLS

IN SIN FILMS

Police Break Code on Names

I folded the paper to page three. There it was at the bottom, Cop Missing in PI Murder Case. ‘What can I getcha?’ the bartender barked before I read any further. I ordered a draft of whatever they were pouring along with a ham and Swiss on rye, hold the lettuce.

My new reading glasses were more than a disguise, the specs really helped with the small print. The article reported the ‘unexplained disappearance’ of homicide Detective Sergeant Edelio Deimos, age 36, during the early Monday morning ‘vanishing act’ escape of Harold R Angel, a private investigator under arrest for several recent murders. The police department’s official position maintained Deimos was the fugitive’s hostage, although when pressed by reporters, their spokesperson admitted that the possibility of him being an accomplice could not be ruled out.

The bartender set a beer at my elbow. I dropped a buck on the bar top and slurped off the head, focusing on the scandal sheet while he grabbed my money and brought back change.

I read the story over slowly a second time, savoring a quote from an unidentified patrolman. ‘It was like magic. This Angel must be some kind of Houdini. We had him in cuffs, surrounded by officers, and then, poof, he’s gone.’ Good news for me. They still hadn’t found Deimos’s body by the morning edition deadline. If the law considered him missing, the coppers were looking for two suspects traveling together. With Deimos my hostage, they’d figure I’d keep him close and alive for security. I knew the bulls preferred believing that fiction instead of one of their own selling them out.

My food arrived and I ordered another brew. Folding the News to the sports section, I read about the ass-kicking the St Louis Hawks gave to the Minneapolis Lakers, 127 to 97, in the third game of the Western Division NBA playoffs as I ate my sandwich.

‘Hey you! Angel!’ A loud voice called out somewhere along the bar. The words stabbed through me like an icepick. I froze, not looking up from the newspaper, pretending to still read about basketball. ‘I’m talking to you, Blondie! Don’t high-hat me. You were in my office twice last week. Shaving the ’stache makes the nose look worse.’

I chanced a look over the top edge of the News and spotted the loudmouth jerk sitting kitty-corner across the end of the bar, a pipsqueak four-eyed creep with curly red hair and freckles. He looked like a drunken ventriloquist’s dummy. It was Warren Wagner Jr, a third-rate talent agent. His father had been Johnny Favorite’s manager back before the war when he was a rising star. Junior recently started representing Louis Cyphre, aka Dr Cipher, flea circus magician. Having this little shit show up out of the blue was really bad news.

I ignored him, turning back to my newspaper. Emboldened by booze, the asshole agent was not to be denied. ‘Hey, Angel, Harry Angel,’ he shouted, ‘you don’t fool me with your phony wig.’ Rudeness was the essential tool of his jerk-off trade. No one else sitting around me seemed to know at whom the pint-sized idiot was yelling. Wagner lurched to his feet and came around the corner of the bar carrying his briefcase. ‘I been in show business all my life and can smell greasepaint a mile away.’

He was bellowing as he staggered toward me. I knew I better split before the scene got out of hand and stood up, sticking the News and my satchel under my arm.

‘People are looking for you,’ Wagner said with a big smirk. ‘Flip over five simoleons and I never saw you here.’

‘You’ve made a mistake,’ I said, walking away. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

‘Bullshit!’

I made a beeline for the men’s room, pulling the pigskin gloves from my coat pockets. Stay cool, I told myself as I tugged them on and pushed open the bathroom door.

‘Angel…?’ The ten-percenter staggered behind me.

A short tile wall provided privacy from the tables outside. I ducked around it and stood with my back against a cloth towel dispenser. My newspaper fluttered to the floor when I unzipped the satchel. A counter with four sinks stretched toward three toilet stalls. Four urinals stood on the opposite wall to my left. ‘Do yourself a favor, dickhead,’ I thought. ‘Don’t come in here.’

Hearing the door open, I reached inside my satchel and gripped the dirk’s gift-wrapped handle. ‘Peek-a-boo!’ Wagner crooned, coming around the corner without seeing me. In one motion, I tossed the satchel aside onto the counter and grabbed the little man from behind, clamping my gloved left hand over his mouth and yanking him back against my chest. The toes of his shoes tapped on the tiled floor as I drove the dirk through the wrapping paper upwards under his sternum. I angled the blade to the left, seeking the agent’s heart, if he had one. ‘Surprise,’ I whispered in his ear.

Wagner’s muffled protests continued under my grip, his tiny feet doing a pathetic dance against the bathroom floor as I worked the blade back and forth inside his chest. The scuffed briefcase dropped from his hand. He grabbed feebly for the knife as we turned a slow circle in our death waltz.

I didn’t want anyone walking in on us and dragged Wagner toward the stalls. The door to the one in the middle hung ajar. I elbowed it open, hauling the limp body inside. When I let go of his mouth, Wagner’s head slumped forward, a gargling strangled sound escaping from his throat. He was way beyond screaming for help. I closed the stall door, flipping the latch to lock it.