I was feeling grubby. I had not showered for two days, and the only sleep I had had in those days was a much broken nap on last night’s train.

I sat on the arm of the sofa. If I sank into its overstuffed embrace, I might never get up again. The blonde gestured toward the bar and said, “You want a drink?” I probably looked like I needed one.

“Do you have coffee?”

He spoke into the phone briefly, paused to look at me and asked, “Food, too?” I nodded.

Then I waited.

A couple of minutes later, the phone rang. The blonde answered, covered the receiver, and shouted, “Senator? California.” Daniel Cabral came out of the back room to take the call.

His white shirt was open at the neck and his necktie hung loosely. He was lean and athletic, about five ten with black hair swept back, and blow dried. Dark skinned, of course, but not so dark as many Mexican-Americans. More cafe-au-lait, like Raven. I knew he was over fifty, but I would have guessed his age at ten years younger.

While he talked, I revised my first impression of the blonde.  He was no hired bodyguard. His attention was on the wrong things. He was a partner of some kind.

Room service came. I took coffee with sugar and cream, wolfed a croissant and began to nibble on a second. Finally the senator finished his phone call and turned to me. He had a politician’s handshake, a quick and vigorous double pump. Take command, impress, release, and be ready for the next voter in line.

He sank into one of the chairs, regarding me. “I owe you a debt, it seems,” he said, “for saving my daughter’s life. But it also seems that you took her into new danger and then abandoned her.”

“No.”

“No? Explain, please.”

“I took her out of danger, and was protecting her by keeping her hidden when she abandoned me.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why did I take her away, or why did she abandon me?”

“Both.”

I sighed. The tension of the last days was draining away, leaving me numb. How to explain a relationship that I did not understand myself? Simply would be best. Tell the core and let the details follow.

“I took her with me because I loved her, and she finally left me because she did not love me. Or at least, not enough to tolerate my feelings for her.”

Cabral’s eyes were riveted on me, but now there was some sympathy in them. And some old pain. “In what manner, exactly,” he asked, clipping off the words, “did she abandon you?”

“I woke up one morning to find her gone.”

The eyes never wavered. He said, “Go on.”

“That’s all.”

“She is my daughter, Mr. Gunn. I know her well. Tell the rest.”

“She was gone with another man named Eric Sangøy.”

Cabral closed his eyes then and sighed. Then he opened them again and made a pushing-away gesture. Set that aside. He said,  “According to what you told Mr. Hayden, this happened thirteen days ago.”

“That seems right. I’d have to count up the days to be sure. I’ve been searching for her since then.”

“With some female who claims to be my secretary? That’s what Hayden said.”

“She called herself Susyn Fletcher.”

Cabral slowly shook his head. “I don’t know her.” more tomorrow

My heart stopped. I thought Davis’ body had been connected to me. But it was something else.

“That woman Fletcher. She isn’t Senator Cabral’s secretary.”

“I know.”

“You know. How?”

“Later, Will. It’s a long story.” Self preservation is the first instinct. I wasn’t about to tell Will about a death in Venice.

“The senator called here a few hours after I talked to you in Paris. I called the embassy, but no one had seen Fletcher. And they said you never came in.”

“By then I had come and gone.”

“Then why don’t they have a record of you?”

That was easy. I had been checked by the French guard at the entrance, but he had not written down my name. Susyn was waiting for me when I walked in and had hustled me out immediately. I had never talked to any actual embassy personnel.

“Where is she now?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. We parted unfriendly.”

“Where is Raven?”

“I don’t know that, either. Fletcher and I searched for her until I found out Fletcher was a fake, but we had no luck.”

Thank God!

I could hear Will muttering under his breath. He went on, “Senator Cabral flew in four days ago. He stopped at the consulate here first, and then went on to Paris. He’s still there.”

“Angry?”

“Oh, yes.”

Sometimes, something gets you by the throat, and the only way to get loose is straight ahead. I said, “There’s no point in telling you my story. Call the Senator and tell him I’m coming to Paris to report directly to him.” 

The Alps lay between Milan and Paris. An end around proved faster, since the TVG was available for a part of the trip. Nineteen hours later, I was there.

Chapter Twenty-five

The senator was staying in an old style hotel three blocks from the embassy. There was a fruit market on one side and a pharmacy on the other, but once past the plain facade, the waiting room was elegant. I took a creaking, open cage elevator to the second floor.

The door was opened by a short, athletic looking man with a blonde brush cut. He looked to be about forty and he appraised me swiftly with the eyes of a bodyguard. He said, “Gunn?” and I nodded. He stepped aside and said, “Sit down.” Not exactly a threat, not exactly an invitation, but his tone left no doubt that he expected to be obeyed.

I stepped inside and slipped out of my pack while he closed the door. The room was narrow and long, with a couch and a couple of heavy chairs. There was a mini-bar at the far end, end tables with heavy, ugly lamps. A door led to inner rooms and the single narrow window was hidden by drawn curtains. The blonde went to the inner door and said something softly into the room beyond. more tomorrow

“Jeeze, you don’t know a lot.”

“Today I don’t know as much as I knew yesterday. Anyway, one story is that the P. I. turned in a report saying this person was clean, when he wasn’t. When he or she wasn’t. Then went out and sold the truth to a heavy, and later on tried to up the ante and got killed. The name I was given for the heavy is Adrian Brock, Sacramento contractor and distributor on the side for local pot farmers. But the person who gave me that name is a liar who tried to have me killed, so it’s probably a blind alley. The rest of the story comes from a reliable source, Raven Cabral herself.”

“Did you say ‘tried to have you killed’?” Joe asked mildly.

“Last night.”

“Didn’t succeed?”

“I’m not much in the mood for jokes this morning, Joe.”

“Sorry, Son. I thought when you left me that you were giving up the profession?”

“This one fell into my lap. If I told you how it all began, you just wouldn’t believe it. What I want is for you to find out how much of this is true, and follow any side issues that come up. I’m up to my ass in alligators and I don’t even know the name of the swamp. But I can’t pay you.”

“Consider it a favor. I owe you a couple. I can tell you part of the story right off. Harvey Jacks is a P. I. out of San Francisco. Was, I mean. They pulled him out of the bay about six months ago. The sharks had been at him, but he never felt it because there was a 9 mm. hole in the back of his head. He wasn’t any more honest than he had to be. A blackmail scam would be right up his alley, and getting in over his head would match his intelligence. Not too bright.”

“Thanks, Joe. Keep the file close at hand and expect another collect call.”

“Give me a couple of days, Boy. The investigation I can afford, but these overseas calls are going to break me.”

I hung up and closed my eyes. There have been few men in my life who have meant much to me, but Joe Dias was one. When I was going to college in San Francisco and I didn’t have any skills to sell but a strong body and an ability with weapons, Joe Dias had taken me under his wing. In a profession noted for sleaze and dishonesty, Joe Dias was a gentleman. I had run errands, questioned people, and done stakeouts, squeezing them in between classes. Occasionally I had found myself in the thick of some heavy action. Joe had called me three-quarters of a P. I.

I stayed with it several years because it was good money for the hours, and because of Joe. And, I had a knack for it. But I had wanted a wider world and a better class of associates.

I called Marseille and waited for Will to come to the phone.

“Ian?” Will was breathless, “Am I glad to hear from you. Every piece of fecal matter in the universe has hit the fan.”

My heart stopped. I thought Davis’ body had been connected to me. more tomorrow

The bridge where Davis died was the only direct way back to the hotel and the Ferrol. The way I had to take was long and I got lost more than once. It took me an hour to reach the Rialto Bridge and cross the Grand Canal, and another hour to worm my way through the maze of streets back to the area of the train station by another route.

Susyn had fled. The concierge at the hotel said she had not checked out, but her suitcase and clothing were gone. Had she panicked when Davis did not return, or had they already planned to go separately? Did she know he was dead, and I was alive? There was no way to be sure.

I retrieved my pack and walked down to the station. My train was long since gone and there would not be another until early morning. I changed my ticket and went out of the station. It was two in the morning. The traffic on the Grand Canal had lessened, but it never ends. The steps of the station were covered with a hundred bodies, mostly rolled into sleeping bags, as the students and street wanderers bedded down for the night in the only place they could afford. I had a good room already paid for, but I chose to join them. I found a place where I could put my back against the side of a stone block and sat sleepless among them, watching. It was unlikely that Susyn was still in Venice, and less likely that Skinny Alan was here, but there was no way I could trust my life to sleep. Nor my peace of mind to the nightmares that would be waiting in sleep.

Chapter Twenty-four

The six o’clock train carried me to Milan. I wasted five dollars in lira before I found an English speaking operator who would help me make a collect overseas call. After the third ring, a familiar voice said, “Dias Investigations.”

“Carmen, it’s Ian Gunn.”

“Hey, Stud, you back in San Francisco? I thought you were on your way to Europe.”

“I’m in Italy, and I’m in trouble. Put Joe on.”

“Hey, when I accepted the call, I thought you were someplace local.”

“Carmen, put Joe on.”

“He’s kind of busy.”

“Emergency, Carmen. Don’t dally.”

Less than a minute later, Joe Dias came on the line. “What’s up, Ian. Carmen said it was some kind of emergency. Who’s shooting at you?”

“No one today. Last night they were.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not on an open line. I’ll give you all the details you want later. Here’s what I need from you now. Ramona Maria Elvira Cabral, known as Raven, daughter of state senator Daniel Cabral, hired a P. I. sometime between four and eight months ago. P. I.’s name was Harvey Jacks, working out of San Francisco, I think, but he may have been out of Sacramento. I never got that part of the story quite straight. Are you getting this copied?”

“Tape recorder’s running, Son. Go as fast as you want.”

“Raven hired this guy to investigate some member of the Senator’s staff, name unknown, because she suspected some kind of crime, also unspecified.”

“Jeeze, you don’t know a lot.” more tomorrow

We smashed together, and I pushed him off. He still had the knife in his right hand and the gun was now in his left. He should have used the knife, but he was caught in a moment of indecisiveness – lesser weapon in the strong hand, or better weapon in the weak hand? I put a left cross into the middle of his perplexity and he staggered back. I followed him. I could run from the knife, but not from the gun. I caught his knife hand in my right and spun it up and over. Pinned it behind him. He reached up with his left hand over his right shoulder and fired blind at point blank range.

I was blinded by the flash and deafened by the sound. My cheek flamed with powder burn and some of it went into my eye. Frantic, I jerked upward with all my strength, lifting Davis off the ground by his pinned wrist. Something gave, the knife clattered to the pavement, and Davis went face first to the ground.

He rolled left and brought up the gun. I kicked out as he fired. Again I felt the burn of powder, on my leg this time. He had missed, but he still held on to the gun. I stamped downward, into his face with hard heeled hiking boots. His head hit the pavement with a sickening smack. He still kept hold of the gun. He lunged upward, straining to rise. I slammed the heel of my boot between his eyes, smashing his head back down again.

It sounded like a melon bursting.

All was silent and still. After echoes of his shots chased themselves down the street. I thought there would be cries and lights flashing on, but there was nothing.

What had happened, after all? Two gunshots. 9 mm., probably. Inside the houses of this nearly deserted section of the city, with their high, closed windows and drawn blinds, it would have been no more than two firecracker pops. Nothing to cause alarm.

Davis did not move.

I squatted beside him. His eyes were open and he stank of death. He had lost control of his bowels. He had no pulse. His head seemed to have fallen too far back on his neck, as if his head were half sunk into the pavement.

I was not about to raise that head. In imagination, I could see the rush of blood and brains that would come flushing out.

My throat locked. Later I could vomit, but not here. Not now.

I left the gun where it lay and did not touch the knife. When I ran – and I was going to run any second – I did not want to be caught with them.

His eyes were open. In the dimness, there was no color. Even the pool of blood seeping out of him was black. But I had seen those eyes, inches from my face, on the Wahini the last time we fought. They were blue, deep blue, almost violet-blue eyes. In the cheekbones and the slant of the eyebrows was the resemblance I had suspected these last few minutes. The resemblance I should have seen two weeks ago. Brother or cousin, he was some close kin to Susyn.

Someone was coming. I could hear quick footsteps in the distance. I faded into the shadows, scurried up a side street, then turned purposefully but not too fast into the night. A strange feeling filled me. I was ten feet tall, alert in every sense, ready to meet any challenge. Full to the eyes with adrenaline and alive, gloriously alive, moments after I might have died. Nothing bothered me now. Not even the sight of Davis’ dead, open eyes. Not even the black pool of blood and the stench of his dying.

That would come later. more tomorrow

I was searching for any angle, and conversation was all I had to work with. “That sounds like Alan,” I said. “A real sense of humor. The kind of guy who would rape a girl before throwing her over the rail.”

“If there had been time, sure. Why waste it?” A few steps later, he added, “I would have done the same myself, if there had been time.”

A cold, calculating man. The kind who could calmly talk about the opportunity to rape, and as calmly pass up a chance if it wasn’t convenient. Like I had been convenient. And wasn’t convenient now. The kind of guy who would shoot you in the back without preamble and toss you into a canal. He would not feel the need to gloat and crow, or to make you feel small before he destroyed you. No real cruelty; just a straightforward, businesslike approach to his life and your death.

A far more dangerous man than skinny Alan, despite that one’s touch of mania.

I had gained something. I knew when and how he would try to kill me. It would come swiftly, without warning, in the first place that provided convenient escape and convenient disposal of the body.

My body!

We were now among dark piazzios. There was an empty feeling to this quarter. Only a few of the upper windows showed light, and in the valley between the high buildings there was only moonless darkness. My eyes had become so accustomed that I could see the debris stacked against the walls and the garbage in the gutters. Davis was behind me now. Here would be a good place for murder. I tensed with waiting, but no indication came. There was a lightening of the gloom ahead. A small side canal was crossing our path, with a typical high-arched bridge. Someone had left a two wheeled cart standing in the road at our right side. It gave me an excuse to slide sideways and cross the bridge against the left. I could hear Davis’ shoes scuffing the pavement behind me. I thought of throwing myself from the bridge into the canal, but it was lighter here and I would be outlined against the moon-bright water when I came to the surface again.

I felt Davis close the distance between us. It was coming. My only hope was to give him an opportunity he could not resist, so that I would know the moment I had to act.

As I came to the top of the arch, I put my hand on the railing and looked left, with a slight turn of the shoulders, and an almost imperceptible pause in my forward motion. I had calculated the movement to look natural, just as anyone coming to the top of the arch would turn his attention momentarily to the view below. And I held the pose for half a second while I planted my right foot, then lunged sideways, slashing blindly with my left arm and driving back toward Davis.

A heartbeat later would have been too late. My arm was jerked sideways momentarily. I heard the tearing of cloth. The knife he had been driving toward my back caught in my left sleeve and scored the back of my upper arm as it tore free. more tomorrow