Morning computations done, Maggot rose from the table and went to a small bar-type refrigerator in a corner of the room. He extracted six bottles of pills, opened them, and began to count them out on a clean saucer he took from a closet.
Six vitamin Es, eight Cs, two multi-vitamins, four capsules of B-12, an assortment of tablets of wheat germ and rose hips, and high protein pills.
He capped the bottles tightly and replaced them in the refrigerator. Then he peeled off his gloves, so he wouldn't get lint on any of the tablets and began to pop them down, one after another, without water, the ultimate mark of skill for a pill popper.
He was five-feet-eleven, weighed 155, and he credited his pills with giving him a resting pulse rate of fifty-eight. He neither smoked nor drank; he had never used a drug; and he went to the Episcopal Church every Sunday, a feat made simpler by the fact that without his Maggot makeup and fright wig, and without lamb chops hanging from his chest, no one was likely to recognize this tall thin WASP as the singer that Time magazine had labeled «a cesspool of decadence.»
Maggot walked toward the front of the suite, where the three Dead Meat Lice shared rooms and were probably playing cards, when the door bell rang once, timidly.
He looked around for a servant, saw none, and because he could not stand ringing doorbells or telephones, he picked up his white gloves, put them back on and opened the door.
A lissome, red-haired girl stood there. She looked at him dreamily and spoke softly.
«You're Maggot, aren't you?»
«Yes, but don't touch,» said Cadwallader, who believed in the truth above all.
«I don't want to touch,» said Vickie Stoner. «Let's ball,» she said, and fell, slumping onto the floor. Cadwallader who barely had a chance to recoil and get out of her way lest her falling body touch him, began to shout for the Lice to come and take care of her.
«Help. Strange woman. Help. Come quick.» Maggot yelled the same words again, then turned and ran to the refrigerator to get calcium tablets, which he had been assured would be good for his nerves.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The land rover had been driven through the night, all the gas in the spare ten-gallon drum in the back had been used, and now when the vehicle crested a hill and the morning sun knifed into the eyes of the driver, he realized how tired he was.
Gunner Nilsson pulled off to the side of the narrow, rock-strewn dirt road. He hopped from the open rover and went to a nearby tree, where, using a handkerchief, he wiped morning dew from its low hanging leaves, and carefully washed his face and eyes. The cool feeling lasted only a few seconds before the handkerchief turned damp and hot and sweaty, but Nilsson redoused it again and washed his face again and then felt better.
It had taken a while for Lhasa to interest him in the project, but now Gunner Nilsson was fully committed to carrying out the million-dollar contract on the girl. A million dollars. It could build him a real hospital. It could buy him real medical supplies and surgical equipment, instead of the leftovers he now used. The million dollars could put meaning into his life and he was at the age when meaning was all that was left to his life.
He and Lhasa were the last of the Nilssons. There would be no more. No one to carry on the family name, or its sour tradition, but what better way for it to end than in a final act of assassination that would be a tribute to life, to humanity, to healing?
The end justified the means, at least in this case, just as the end had justified the means twelve years before, when he had operated on Lhasa for appendicitis and while the younger brother was out, had performed on him a vasectomy that would guarantee the extinction of the Nilsson killers.
As eldest, Gunner had been the keeper of the tradition, and he had determined that the tradition was not worth keeping. Except for this one contract. For all the good it could do.
Gunner Nilsson clambered back into the rover, no longer afraid of falling asleep at the wheel, and drove the steep three miles down the mountainside to the small waterfront village which had most of the necessities of life, including a telephone in the home of a British field officer.
Lhasa was to have telephoned a message to the field officer which should have arrived by now. It made a difference-being a millionaire medical missionary, or a penniless overeducated crank trying to bring healing to natives who were not ready for healing that did not involve the mask and the dance and the song.
Field Lieutenant Pepperidge Barnes was at home when Dr. Gunner Nilsson arrived; he was openly delighted to see the old man. He often worried about the kindly, harmless gentleman alone up there in the hills with those insane savages, and he had been meaning to drive up to see him.
No, there had been no message for Doctor Nilsson. Was it anything important? Oh, just a message from his brother on vacation? Well, of course, feel free to use the telephone. Lt. Barnes was going to walk to his office to see what mischief the retarded inhabitants of this retarded land had committed on Her Majesty during the night. Perhaps when Dr. Nilsson had completed his call and had rested, he would stop at Lt. Barnes' office and the two could play a game of chess?
After Barnes left, Gunner Nilsson sat for a long time, looking at the telephone, half-expecting it to ring. He did not consider it possible that Lhasa had failed. After all, he was a Nilsson with Nilsson instincts and Gunner had told him how to do it, and Nilssons did not fail. Still, he should have called by now.
Gunner waited, but after an hour elapsed he began the laborious process of placing a call to the number Lhasa had told him about in Switzerland.
He sat for another hour with the telephone in his hand, staring at his hand, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that it was old and tanned and had of its own volition put down the weapons which for six hundred years had been the legacy of the Nilsson family, father to son, generation to generation, century to century.
No more killing. Just this one by Lhasa and then no more.
He felt the telephone vibrate in Ms hand and he raised it to his ear.
«We have your number in Switzerland,» the female voice said.
«Thank you,» he said.
«Go ahead,» she said.
«Hello,» a man's voice said.
«I am calling in regard to certain moneys due to a Mr. Nilsson for performance of a certain service,» Gunner said.
There was a pause, then the voice said, «Who is this?»
«My name is Dr. Gunner Nilsson. I am Lhasa Nilsson's brother.»
«Oh, I see. Dr. Nilsson, I am sorry to have to tell you this. There will be no payment made on that contract.»
Gunner Nilsson's hand tightened around the telephone. «Why?»
«The contract has not been concluded.»
«I see,» Nilsson said slowly. «Have you heard from Lhasa?»
«Again, I am sorry, Doctor. I have not heard from him. However I have heard of him. I'm afraid your brother has met with an untimely end.»
Nilsson blinked hard. He caught himself doing it, and reacted by opening his eyes wide.
«I see,» he said again. «Do you have any details on the matter?»
«Yes. But I am not-able to discuss them on the telephone.»
«Of course, I understand,» said. He cleared his throat. «I will speak with you again in a few days. But now there is something you must do.» He cleared his throat again.
«What is that?»
«Close the contract. I will carry it out myself. Without interference.»
«Are you sure you wish to do that?»
«Close the contract,» Nilsson said and hung up the phone without saying good-bye. His old and tanned hand rested on the telephone cradle. He picked up the receiver again. It fit smoothly in the palm of his hand and was cool to the touch, just, he realized, like the butt of a revolver.