The silence lasted for what seemed like a long time. Then we heard a little clinking sound as something metallic hit the dirt outside. It wasn't the choice I'd have made, but then, I've never liked postponing things, nor has chivalry ever been my ruling passion. The Duke, unlike me, was a gentleman.

Martell moved instantly. He knocked Beth aside, brought up his gun, and fired once. We heard, on the heels of the report, the slapping sound of the bullet striking flesh, the little involuntary gasp of the Duke as be was hit, and the sound of his body falling. Well, he must have known that would be the next thing. For a lady-his lady-he must have considered it worth while.

Martell drew a long breath, watching. "If you move one inch more, Duchess," he said without turning his head in the slightest, "you're going to need a set of false teeth, which would be a pity… Joey."

"Yes."

"How's your patient?"

"Doing well, Fenn."

"Keep him covered, but come here."

There was a shuffling sound as Joey circled around me and backed towards the door.

"Duchess." Beth, crouched along the wall, her face shocked and white, didn't answer. Martell said sharply, "You're asking for it, Duchess! Right smack in the teeth. When I talk, you answer!"

"What… what do you want?"

"Get over there with your boyfriend. Not too close, not too far away. When I turn, I want to see two feet between you, no more no less. If there's a discrepancy, Gorgeous, I'll correct it with a bullet. You can have lots of fun guessing which one of you I'll shoot."

He still hadn't turned his head. He was keeping watch through the open door, pistol ready. He waited, as Beth moved across the room to me.

"Joey."

"Yes, Fenn."

"Are they over there? Together?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Now listen carefully. He's shamming unconscious right now, but all he's got is a bad leg. The gun's about a yard this side of him. I'd say it was out of his reach, but don't count on it. Anyway, he could be packing another. Now you come here, tell me when you've got him covered, and I'll swing around to watch those two… Okay?"

"Okay, Fenn, but-"

"But what?"

"Why just the leg? Why monkey with a guy like that, he's supposed to be a real-"

"Never mind the questions. Sing out when you've got him."

"I'm turning… I've got him."

Martell pivoted sharply, bringing his gun to bear on us. He sidestepped, so that he was no longer in line with the door.

"Joey. Is he still playing dead?"

"He hasn't moved."

"All right. Now go out there and tell him this. Tell him I've got a bead on the dame again, and if I hear one single wrong sound behind me, I'll pull the trigger.

Then kick the gun away, frisk him, and drag him in here. Put him on the cot. Okay. Get going."

Joey vanished. We could hear his voice outside. After a little, he came into sight again, backwards, dragging Logan by the shoulders. He dragged him across the room and heaved him up on the cot. One of the Duke's legs hung at an odd angle, and his khaki pants-leg was stained with blood above the knee. Joey picked up the dangling leg and arranged it beside the other, with the fussy delicacy of an undertaker preparing a corpse.

Martell said, "Okay, Joey. Now go look in the trunk of his car. Bring in whatever you find there, like a spare tire full of something besides air."

We waited. Logan's heavy breathing was the loudest sound in the room. He hadn't opened his eyes, but I didn't think, any more than Martell, that he was unconscious, although being dragged around with a broken thigh-bone couldn't have been any fun. At that, he was lucky. Apparently none of the large blood vessels had been damaged, or there would have been a lot more blood and he wouldn't have been breathing much by this time. They go fast when the femoral artery is cut.

There was a sudden, scrambling sound outside, and Joey came running in. "Fenn! Fenn, it isn't there!"

"What isn't there?"

"The damn trunk's empty, except for a gallon of lousy Mex rum. There's no sign of the lousy spare the!"

Chapter Twenty-three

LOGAN'S labored breathing didn't change rhythm. He was out cold with shock, to look at him: he hadn't heard a thing. Martell stared at Joey, and turned towards the cot. He walked closer and stood looking down at the wounded man. Slowly, his thick lips formed a grin.

"They told me you were tricky," he murmured. "Cute, real cute." He glanced at Joey again. "Now you see why we had to keep him alive? He came driving up here a little too innocent-looking for a man of his experience. I figured he must have left himself something to bargain with… Stand still, Duchess!"

Beth said breathlessly, "But I've got to… He'll bleed to death if you don't let me help him!"

Martell studied her for a moment. Then he nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, sure."

He reached into his pocket and brought out my little knife. He glanced at Joey to make sure the other man had everything under control. Joey nodded. Martell put his gun away, and opened the Solingen knife, and used the sharp blade to slit the Duke's trouser leg, baring the bullet-hole, from which blood was still welling thickly. He stepped back and tried to close the knife, but as I've said, it locks open. He glanced down irritably, looking for a catch. I opened my mouth to tell him how to do it

– you press on the back of the small blade to let the large one close-but before 1 could speak, he'd snapped the knife in two and thrown the pieces aside.

Well, I'd done the same for Tony, so I suppose I had it coming, but it was a funny thing: it did what all the face-slapping and shin-kicking and general roughing-up hadn't succeeded in doing. I mean, that was all part of the job, but I'd carried the little knife a long time. It was an old friend and wartime comrade. It made things personal between Martell and me. He knew it, all right, and he gave me a kind of challenging glance, asking what I intended to do about it. I started to speak angrily, stopped, and lowered my glance quickly, letting him know I was afraid to antagonize him, lest he come over and hit me again.

Martell laughed. "All right, Duchess," he said, and gestured towards Logan. "Fix him up so he'll last a little while."

Beth had caught the silent exchange between us; she was looking at me in a half-puzzled, half-scornful way. I wasn't measuring up to what she'd expected of me; I wasn't making the right, courageous speeches. She turned at Martell's words.

"Yes," she said quickly, "of course." She walked rapidly to the cot, and I heard her breath catch as she saw the ugly wound at close range.

Martell had stepped back to let her by. Now he put his hands on her shoulders from behind. "They don't look like much, flat on their backs, do they?" She tried to shrug his hands away. She was looking around helplessly for something to use to stop the bleeding. Martell chuckled. "Is this what you need, Duchess?"

His hands closed on the collar of her blouse, and jerked apart and down. There was a shrill, ripping sound, and a stifled cry from Beth as the cloth cut into her here and there before yielding to the strain. Some buttons rolled on the floor. Martell opened his hands and let the wrecked blouse fall, in two halves, to her waist.

"There you are, Duchess. Plenty of bandages, but if you need more, we can probably find you some."

He was looking her over with a lot of pleasure, although I didn't see anything to merit all that attention. She didn't look very exciting to me as she freed herself from the torn silk: just a woman wearing a handsome chino skirt and, above the waist, a business-like brassiere more or less concealed by a nice, white, obviously quite expensive slip with some lace on it-attractive, but hardly world-shaking.