The Terrorizers by Donald Hamilton Read Free Book Online

either compound the goof by running like a rabbit the first time somebody waved a gun at me, or I could play along with this lovely, amateurish, double-crossing chick and her silly firearm, and learn a few things like where she was planning to take me and who’d be there to greet me.
    She was, after all, the best contact I had with my lost past. Everything indicated that I’d gone to a lot of trouble to make her acquaintance; furthermore, it didn’t seem likely that she was going to all this trouble just to have me killed. Away from her, not knowing what it was all about, I’d be a blind man trying to find a book in a library he didn’t know in order to read the print he couldn’t see…
    I saw sudden apprehension in Kitty’s eyes. “No, Paul! Don’t do anything… anything rash. Please!”
    She was way behind the times. The decision had been made.
    “It’s your party, Kitty, darling,” I said, relaxing beside her. “Your party, complete with my funny Australian wine and your special ice cream sauce.”
    She looked hurt. “Don’t!” she pleaded. “Please don’t be angry. You… you don’t understand. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re just going to… to detain you a little while for your own protection, your own good. Please try to understand!”
    I noticed that she kept her voice low, as well as her gun. Apparently the taxi driver was not an accomplice. He jockeyed the cab through the dense downtown traffic, unaware of the drama—or melodrama—behind him. Presently he turned into a narrow driveway between two tall buildings and pulled up at the hotel’s rear door, complete with a uniformed doorman, who stepped forward to let us out, and to lift our scanty luggage out of the trunk of the taxi. Kitty maneuvered to stay behind me. The little Astra was out of sight, but her hand was hidden in her purse.
    “Pay the nice man, darling,” she said, and I got rid of some Canadian bills that, although dry now, hadn’t been improved by being thoroughly soaked in sea water not too long ago, along with the other contents of my wallet. I tipped the doorman lightly and picked up the bags. Kitty said, “Let’s go inside for a drink first, dear; it’s a long drive home,” but that was just for public consumption. Once we were inside the high, oldfashioned lobby she said, “No, just walk straight through to the front, please.”
    I was very much aware of her walking beside me as we marched past the lounge and the desk. I was very glad that the Astra was a double-action-type weapon that, uncocked, took a long, strong pull on the trigger for the first shot. I didn’t feel she really knew what she was doing with it—which made her, of course, twice as dangerous as if she had known.
    “Right through the front door and across the sidewalk,” she said.
    Out of the corner of my eye I could see that her face was pale and shiny with strain. I’d have been happier if she hadn’t taken it quite so hard. She was tense enough to blow me to hell by mistake and have regretful hysterics afterwards. With a bag in each hand, deliberately handicapping myself to reassure her, I shouldered my way through the big doors, to see a wide, busy street outside. As if on signal, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up at the curb. The rear door opened and a beefy, dark-haired man got out. He was wearing a shabby, dark suit that didn’t go with fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of vehicle; and a black turtle-necked sweater. His hand was in the pocket of his jacket.
    He said, “In the front, Miss. Quick, we’re holding up traffic. You, throw that gear on the floor and get in back!”
    A moment later we were driving away. The darkhaired man, who’d got in beside me, took his hand from his pocket and displayed a snubnosed Colt revolver in a casual way as if he thought I might be mildly interested. The man behind the wheel was wearing a chauffeur’s cap. He seemed to be another beefy muscleman; his neck was broad and red. Kitty, in the