Mac was at my feet, the back of his head exposed. Even, without the reinforced shoes we used to wear whenever possible, one good kick would have done the job. But the girl was yelling instructions now, and other people were rushing towards us from the open door; there wasn't time to make the kill.

They were all over me as I turned. I couldn't reach the knife in my pocket. I'd spent too much time on Mac; I never got set to give them a real battle. There were too many of them; I knew they had me. There was nothing to do but grab a throat out of the melee and hang on. I used the guy as a shield in front and concentrated on squeezing the life out of him, trying to ignore the characters beating on my head and back. If I couldn't get them all-and I couldn't-I might as well do a good job on the one I had. We went down together. Presently I felt my fingers slipping. He was getting away from me, but not under his own power; and I didn't think he'd be singing in the choir next Sunday. Well, neither would I…

When I came to, I was lying on one of the room's twin beds. In the other bed, somebody was having trouble with his breathing. I can't say it bothered me. I mean, it was a matter of professional pride. I hadn't been very bright tonight. I'd been sentimental and gullible by turns, I'd let myself be licked and overpowered, but at least they couldn't say they got me free of charge. I looked up to see Mac standing over me. I didn't seem to have hurt him much. That was all right. I didn't hate him. He'd taught us that, too. He used to say that hating an enemy was a waste of time and energy. It was only necessary to kill him.

"You damn explosive lunatic!" he said softly. There was an odd, possessive note in his voice. It sounded very much like pride, although that didn't seem likely. "One forgets," he murmured. "I should have remembered that I was dealing with one of my old wartime people, instead of this new crop of pampered incompetents. I shouldn't have made the mistake of threatening you with a gun. How do you feel?"

It didn't seem like the proper time for a recital of aches and pains. "I'll probably live long enough to suit you," I whispered. "However long-or short-that may be."

He smiled. "You're soft, Eric. You should have killed me when you had me down."

"There wasn't time."

He chuckled. "You almost broke young Chatham's neck."

"My apologies for an incomplete job," I whispered. "I'll try to do better next time."

"I should be angry with you. We went through four years of war together. Do you really think I'd…?" He checked himself. "I retract the question. The mistake was mine. I shouldn't have tried to be clever with the gun. After all, you were taught to go for the throat when threatened, all of you, like savage dogs."

I whispered, "What are you trying to say, sir?"

He said, "Use your head, Eric. You're in your own room, in one of the best hotels in south Texas. There have been shouts and screams and violent blows. Where's the house detective? Where are the police?" I watched his face and said nothing. He went on: "Does it seem likely, if I'm working for the people you think, that I'd also have the full cooperation of the authorities and the hotel management? We had the rooms on either side of you emptied, also above and below, to avoid any chance of having a guest killed by a stray bullet. That is why we closed in on you here, where we could control the surroundings. In the open, in a running fight, innocent people might have been hurt. At first we'd hoped to be able to approach you when you were alone and enlist your aid, but there was some doubt about your attitude, and anyway, you were never alone. So we laid our plans to take the two of you together. I'm glad it worked out this well. Knowing you, I was afraid we might have to kill you."

I licked my lips, still watching him closely. "Sorry to have caused you. concern."

He smiled briefly, and said, "The F.B.I., as a matter of fact, isn't at all happy about your position in this matter, which is why I took the trouble of getting some statements from you on the record… Oh, yes, there's a microphone in the room." He shook his head quickly, as if reproving himself. "No, I won't pretend to be omniscient. lb be perfectly honest, I wasn't quite sure where you stood myself, until I talked with you. After all, she's quite beautiful. She's made men forget their loyalties before now."

"Tina?" I whispered.

He looked down at me. "Eric, just because an attractive woman gives you a fifteen-year-old recognition signal and a plausible story…! Tina left us just three weeks after you did, right after the war. She was discharged in Paris. She's had no connection with us since. In fact, there's strong evidence to indicate that she'~ formed other connections… – The next time somebody tries to engage you in criminal activities in m~ name, I wish you'd get in touch with me directly!"

"I certainly will," I said drily. "Just leave a carc with your address and telephone number."

He sighed. "I suppose that's a fair criticism." H was silent briefly. Then he asked, "You believe me, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. I believe you. I guess."

I was tired, and I didn't want to think about it any more. I didn't want to think about Tina tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

CHAPTER 23

IN the morning, I woke up alone in the room. There was sunlight at the window. They'd cleaned up the place. It looked tidy and innocent, like a room in which nothing had ever happened-and when you came right down to it, not much had. There'd been a little scuffle, that was all. Suspense and surprise, deceit and disillusionment, in themselves don't mark up the furniture.

The other bed was empty and neatly made up. I remembered vaguely hearing its erstwhile occupant being carted off to the hospital for some repair work on his larynx and windpipe. This should have made me feel terrible,-of course-a bright and patriotic young fellow undergoing emergency surgery on my account. But as I've mentioned, we were never strong on esprit de corps. The dope should have had sense enough to keep his throat out of other people's hands; and if he'd had any training at all, he'd been taught how to break a strangle-hold, either with a smashing upward drive of both arms-hands locked together-or finger by finger. It wasn't my fault if he panicked and forgot his ABC's.

The whole affair seemed, in retrospect, like a remarkably stupid business; and my part in it had certainly been no less stupid-to put it very charitably- than anybody else's. Well, you can't be smart all the time, but I had to admit that some people seemed to maintain a slightly higher average than others.

There was a knock on the door, and Mac came in without waiting for my response, followed by another man, who closed the door and made certain it was locked before coming forward. He gave the impression of being a man who'd spent his life locking doors carefully before discussing matters of vast importance. Since Mac had said there was a mike in the room, and I had no reason to believe it had been removed, I wasn't too impressed by this concern for locks and doors.

The man was, I judged, a well-preserved fifty, with the rangy, powerful build of a college football star who'd put on a little middle-aged weight and would have put on more if it hadn't been for the rowing machine and the handball court. His face had a hint of Lincolnesque angularity, of which he was aware. It was the only angularity about him. In all other respects he was a real smoothie.

I was interested to see that he was carrying Tina's handsome fur piece carefully folded. He held it gingerly, with a hint of dramatized embarrassment, the way some' men handle anything recognizably feminine, as if they want to make damn sure you understand they're not in the habit of fondling items of this kind and get no kick from it. You see them in the dress shops around December, putting on an act as if they thought the black lace Christmas lingerie would bite them.