with These Hands (Ss) (2002) (19 page)

The champion staggered, and as the crowd roared like a typhoon in the China Sea, the Tiger tore in, punching furiously.

There was no stopping now. Science was cast to the winds, it was the berserk brawling of two killers gone mad!

Round after round passed, and they slugged it out, two fighting fools filled with a deadly hatred of each other, fighting not to win but to kill!

Hayes, panic-stricken, was fighting the fight of his life, backed into a corner by Fate and the enemy he thought he had left behind for good-the man he had cheated and left to die.

Now that man was here, fighting him for the world's title, and Hayes battled like a demon. Staggering, almost ready to go down, the champion whipped up a desperate right uppercut that blasted the Tiger's mind into a flame of white-hot pain! But the Tiger set his teeth, and bored in.

Shifting quickly, he brought down a short overhand punch, and then deliberately stepped back. As the champion lunged forward instinctively, the Tiger Man knocked him flat with a straight right.

Then the champion was up again at the count of seven.

Suddenly, with every ounce of strength at his command, he whipped up a mighty left to the Tiger's groin-a deliberately foul blow! The crowd leaped to its feet, roaring with anger; cries of rage came from officials at the ringside.

The Tiger, tottering, collapsed to his face in the center of the ring-just as the bell rang. The referee angrily motioned the champion to his corner amid a thunder of boos, and the Tiger was helped up.

Even Tom McKeown looked in disgust at his fighter as he worked over him. The angry referee strode to the Tiger's corner, and asked whether he could continue. The official, thoroughly enraged at the foul blow, was all for declaring the Tiger the winner, then and there.

But the Tiger, through his daze of pain, shook his head.

"Not that way!" he gritted. "We fight ... to the finish!" and the referee, cursing the champion, let the challenger have his way.

Then the bell rang. But now it was different; and even the maddened crowd sensed that. Deke Hayes looked over at the slowly rising Tiger with real fear in his eyes. Why, the man wasn't human! No one could take a blow like that and keep coming!

Eyes red with hatred, the Tiger came out in a steelcoiled crouch. Hayes, wary now, had come to the end, and he knew it. He advanced slowly to the center of the ring, and the Tiger met him-met him with a sudden, berserk rush that drove the now frightened champion to the ropes.

There he hung, while the Tiger ripped punch after vicious punch to his body, pounded his ears until they were swollen and torn, cut his eyebrows with lightning-like twists of hard, smashing gloves.

A bloody, beaten mess, marked for life, the champion slipped frantically away along the ropes. Trembling with fright, he set himself desperately, shot a steaming right for the Tiger's chin.

But the Tiger beat him to the punch with an inside right cross that jerked Hayes back on his heels! Before the blood-covered champion could weave away, the Tiger--

Bart Malone-whipped up a lethal left hook that started at his heels. Spinning completely around, the champion toppled to the canvas, out like a log, his jaw broken in three places!

The referee dismissed the formality of a count as the crowd went wild. Without a word, the referee raised the Tiger's hand in victory, as the rafters shook with the roaring of thousands of frenzied voices.

Ruby Ryan was beside himself with joy. "You made it, kid!" he yelled. "You made it! I never saw such nerve in j j my life! The greatest fight I ever seen! Damn, how did you I! do it?"

| " The Tiger looked down at him, grinned, though his body was a throbbing pain from the punishment he had absorbed.

"Somethin' I learned in the jungle," he growled.

*

". . . Car 134 ... 134 ... cancel your last call, 135 will handle...."

Tom Sixte stopped turning the dial and listened. He was far over on the right side of his radio and was for the first time aware that it could pick up police calls. The book he was reading had failed to hold his interest. He put it down and lit a cigarette.

"42, station call . . . 1047 South Kashmir . . . 218, MT, Clear ..." The signal faded in and out.

Sixte leaned back in his chair, listening with only half his attention. He had been in town to study a plan for moving an industrial plant to San Bernardino and the study was complete, his report written. At thirty-two he was successful, single, and vaguely discontented.

With only hours remaining of his stay in town, he was profoundly bored. His work had given him no time to make friends, and he had seen too many movies. Waiting got on his nerves, and he was leaving in just forty-eight hours for Bolivia.

"All units ... stolen truck... commercial... Charles ...

Henry. ..." The voice trailed off again and Sixte turned in his chair and poured his glass half full of Madeira, then relaxed.

The dispatcher's voice came in suddenly. "179 . . .

Redondo and San Vincente, neighbor reports a man hurt, a woman screaming...."

Tom Sixte sat up abruptly. That was only two blocks away! He sat still for a moment but boredom pulled him to his feet. He shrugged into his coat and, hat in hand, stepped out the door.

Upon reaching the street, he hesitated. What was he rushing for? Like a ten-year-old kid after a fire truck!

But, why not? He was doing nothing and the walk might do him good. He went to the corner. He could hear no screaming, although far off he heard the wail of a siren approaching.

He turned the corner and started for Redondo, but just before he reached it, he saw a girl cutting across a lawn, coming toward him. Her coat was open, hair flying, and she was running.

She was in the middle of the street when she saw him.

She slid to a stop and in the light reflected from the corner her face seemed set and strained. Her right hand was in her pocket.

"What's the trouble?" he asked. "Do you need help?"

"No!" She spat the word. But a glance over her shoulder and her manner changed. She came up to him quickly.

"Sorry, I do need help, but you frightened me. I just got away from a man."

"The police are coming. There's nothing to worry about now."

She paused, listening to the siren. "Oh, but I can't meet the police! I simply can't! They'd . . . my parents would hear..." She caught his arm impulsively. "Help me, won't you? Daddy and Mother didn't know I was out "

They were walking back toward the corner he had turned. A siren shrilled to a stop somewhere behind them.

She clutched his arm. "Do you live close by? Can't we go there? Just until the police are gone? I... I fought him off, and he fell. He may be hurt. Take me to your place .. . oh, please!"

Tom Sixte shrugged. No use letting the kid get into trouble, and it would be only for a few minutes. He could not see her face well, but her voice and her figure indicated youth.

He led the way upstairs and unlocked the door. The room was small and simple. Aside from the clothes and his bags the only things in it that belonged to him were a half dozen books.

When he saw her face under the light, he felt his first touch of doubt. She must be ... well, over thirty.

She saw the bottle. "Can I have a drink?" Without waiting for his reply, she picked up his own empty glass and poured wine into it. She tossed it off, then looked startled.

"What was that?"

"It's wine. It's called Malmsey."

"It's good." She picked up the bottle and looked at it.

"Imported, isn't it?" She glanced swiftly around the room, and saw the telephone. "May I make a call?"

She moved the phone and dialed. He heard the phone ringing, then a hard male voice. "Yeah?"

"Kurt? This is Phyllis. . . . Can you come and get me?"

Sixte heard a male voice asking questions. "What d'you think?" Her voice became strident with impatience.

"Rhubarb? I'll say! The place is lousy with cops.

"No, I'm all right . . . some guy invited me up to his place." The male voice lowered a little. "How do I know who he is?" Phyllis grew more impatient. "Look, you're in this as deep as I am! You come an' get me!... Sure, I'll stay here, but hurry!"

Worried now, Sixte turned on her as she hung up the phone. "I didn't bargain for this," he said, "you'll have to go. I had no idea you were running from the police."

"Sit down." There was a small automatic in her hand.

"I'm not fooling. That man out there is dead."

"Dead? " Sixte was incredulous. "You killed him?"

Her laugh was not pleasant. "He was a drunken fool. It was that woman spoiled it all."

"Woman?"

"Some dame who came up while I was going over him.

She started to scream so I hit her."

Tom Sixte sat down, trying to focus his thoughts. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been reading, faintly bored. Now, he was mixed up in a murder and robbery. Kurt was coming to take her away, and then ... his good sense intervened.

That would not, could not be the end. They could not afford to let him go. And if she had killed a man ...

She poured another glass of the Madeira. Steps sounded outside the door. There was a careful knock. Keeping her eyes on Sixte, the gun out of sight, Phyllis opened the door.

The man who stepped in was cadaverous, but handsome.

He could have been no more than thirty, and he wore a dark suit. The eyes that measured Sixte were cruel.

Phyllis pulled him to one side and whispered rapidly.

Kurt listened, then shook out a cigarette. "Who are you?" he said then. "What are you?"

"My name is Sixte. I'm an architect."

"Get up and turn around."

Sixte felt practiced hands go through his pockets, remove his wallet, some letters.

He was told to be seated and Kurt went through his billfold. There was seventy dollars in cash, some traveler's checks-and the tickets were with his passport.

"Bolivia, huh? Whatya know about that? I got a guy wants to leave town. He'd pay plenty for this passport and these tickets."

Sixte tried to sort out his thoughts. For the first time he began to appreciate his true danger.

Kurt smiled, and it was not a nice smile. "This is sweet, Phyl, real sweet. This joker has stuff here I can sell for a grand, easy. Maybe two. Rubio has to get out of town and this is it. Rubio pays, takes the ticket-this guy is gone and nobody even looks for him."

Tom Sixte sat very still. His mind seemed icy cold. He was not going to get out of this ... he was not going to ... he reached over to his radio and adjusted the hands of the clock, then the volume....

Detective Lieutenant Mike Frost walked back to the lab i truck. "Roll it, Joe," he said, "nothing more you can do here."

Suddenly the radio lit up. "179 . . . you up the block : from the coroner's van? If so turn your radio down. We're getting complaints." j Frost picked up the microphone. "Dispatch ... ? What's | this about my radio?" |

After a brief conversation Mike Frost got out of the car, spoke to Joe, and walked up the block. The sound was rolling from the hallway of a rooming house and Frost went up the steps two at a time. The door was open, and as people were emerging from the rooms and staring, Frost shoved through the door and went in. The blasting sound filled an empty room, with the light switch off.

Turning the lights on, he stepped to the radio and turned it off with a snap. Joe had come into the door behind him. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, some crazy fool went off and left his radio turned on." He scowled. "No, it's one of those clock radios. Must have just switched on."

"Who'd want that volume?" Joe wondered. "And on a police band, too."

Mike Frost looked at Joe thoughtfully, then turned slowly and began to look around the room. It was strangely bare.

No clothes, no personal possessions. The bathroom shelves were empty, no razor, shaving cream, or powder.

No toothbrush.

The simple furniture of a furnished room, towels, soap ... a clock radio and some books. The clock radio was brand spanking new ... so were the books.

Frost stepped back into the bathroom. The sink was still damp. Whoever had been here had left within a very few minutes. But why leave a new radio and the books? The only other thing remaining was an almost empty bottle of Madeira. The glass on the table was still wet. . . and there was lipstick on the rim. In two places . . . some woman had taken at least two drinks here.

And not twenty minutes ago, a woman had fled the scene of a killing just two blocks away.

Somebody had left this room fast. . . and why was that radio set for a time when no one would want to get up and tuned for a police band with the volume control on full power?

"Get your stuff, Joe. Give it a going-over."

Joe was incredulous. "This place? What's the idea?"

"Call it a hunch, Joe. But work fast. I think we'd better work fast."