The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online

a better angle on the door, and crossed. If someone came out shooting they’d expect me to be where I had been, to the right of the door, on the same wall. I folded my arms again to hide the gun, and leaned against the wall and looked at the open door and waited. The elevator stopped to my right and a man in a tattersall vest got off with a lady in a pink pantsuit. He was bald, her hair was bluish gray. They looked past me, rigorously not being curious as they walked by. They were equally careful not to look into the open door of the room. I watched them as they went on. They didn’t look like bombers but who can tell a bomber by his appearance. You have to be a little suspicious of anyone who wears a tattersall vest anyway. They went into a room about ten doors down. Nothing else moved. 
    I would feel like a terrible numb-nuts if the room turned out to be empty and I was poised out here like agent X-15 for hours. But I would be a terrible numb-nuts if I just went and bought the farm right here in Merry England because I wasn’t patient. I would wait. He would wait, too, apparently. But I was betting the tension would get him. The open door would get wider and wider open as he looked at it. If there were two of them it would-take longer. One guy gets scareder than two guys. But I had nowhere to go till ten next morning. I was betting I could wait longer. 
    An Indian woman in a white uniform rolled a laundry cart past me, looked curiously into the open room but paid me no attention. I was finding that more and more women were paying me no attention these days. Perhaps tastes were drifting away from the matinee idol type. The light from my room waned. I kept my eyes on it because I knew there’d be a shadow when the assassin made his move. Or maybe he knew that too and was waiting till dark. 
    Two African men came off the elevator and walked down past me. They both wore gray business suits with very narrow lapels. They both wore dark narrow ties and white broadcloth shirts with collars that turned up slightly at the ends. The one nearest me had tribal marks scarred into his cheeks. His companion had round gold-framed glasses on. They were speaking in British-accented English as they went by me, and paid no attention to me or the door. I watched them peripherally as I watched the door too. Anyone could be an accomplice. 
    The phone was near the door, and in the reeking silence I was pretty sure that the assassin couldn’t call without me hearing him. But there might have been a signal of some sort from the window, or there might be a prearranged time when if he didn’t call the back-up came looking. It was hard watching both the door and the corridor traffic. I was getting tired of holding the gun. My hand was stiff, and with the thing cocked I had to hold it carefully. I thought about shifting it to my left hand. I wasn’t as good with my left hand, and I might need to be very good all of a sudden. I wouldn’t be too good if my gun hand had gone to sleep, however. 
    I shifted the thing to my left hand and exercised my right. The gun felt clumsy in my left. I ought to practice left-handed more. I hadn’t anticipated a gun hand going to sleep. How’d you get shot, Spenser? Well, it’s this way, Saint Pete. I was staked out in a hotel corridor but my hand went to sleep. Then after a while my entire body nodded off. Did Bogie’s hand ever go to sleep, Spenser? Did Kerry Drake’s? No, sir, I don’t think we can admit you here to Private-Eye Heaven, Spenser. I was getting soft standing out there in the corridor. My right hand felt better and I shifted the gun back. No more light came out of the open door of my room. A family of four, complete with Instamatics and shoulder bags, came out of the elevator and walked past me down the corridor. The kids looked into the open door. The father said, “Keep walking.” He had an American accent and his voice was tired. The mom had an admirable backside. They turned right at