Frogmouth by William Marshall Page A

like a mountain goat.
    Auden the Magnificent, laughing gaily, was a second behind him like an enraged yeti. By God, Errol Flynn had had it right in moments of triumph. Auden the old swashbuckler, wishing only that there was a dewy-eyed girl to fall into his arms panting at the top of the hill when he triumphed, when he ascended, when he charged, when he came through, yelled, "Ha, ha, ha, ha." It was the old sword-fighting with the Sheriff of Nottingham laugh. Auden, his brain still protesting—Auden yelled to his brain, " Shut up! "—yelled with a flick of his head, "Hee, hee—ho! Ho!"
    He reached the eighth step and his legs gave up. The ninth step and his legs came back, the tenth and the legs gave out. Willpower. The conquest of the flesh. Auden, accelerating, forgetting it was a hill, deep in psychic running, running for nothing, but running, running through , yelled, "You're done! You can't make it!"
    The Tibetan yelled back, "Slob! European slob!" He was scampering up the hill, but not in a straight line .
    Auden shrieked, "Tactics! There's more to success than brute force!" He was gasping. It was his brain complaining again. Auden, turning red, sucking in air wherever he could find a bit, yelled, "Never underestimate a European!" The Tibetan still had the cash clutched in his hand. Venality, it was always your undoing. It was the sport of the thing, the amateur triumph. Even as they begged him, Auden the Fleet would never turn professional: it was something deeper than mere cash—it was the triumph of the will. He heard the crowds at Nuremberg roar. He heard the people on the street looking up, gasp, he heard—
    He heard Spencer shout, "Phil! Phil! I've got Wang's pension on you at twelve hundred to one!"
    He was gaining on the Tibetan, inches away. He put out his giant, great glistening hand to grab him by the scruff of the neck. He looked down. He looked back. He was halfway up the sheer face of a mountain. Auden's brain said, "Shit—!" Auden said, "Shut up!" The Tibetan, in terror, said—
    The Tibetan said, "Ow-wah!" and staggered. A tenth of an inch—a single lousy, miserable tenth of an inch from him—Auden saw his hand fly up and the money cascade into the air. He saw the Tibetan turn and look shocked. The Tibetan said— Coming a second after, Auden heard the sound. It was a popping sound. It echoed. The Tibetan said, "I've been shot!" He looked hurt. Auden, wavering, going down a few steps with the momentum, said, shaking his head as the man looked at him, "No . . . No, it wasn't me . . ."
    He saw Spencer looking up with something in his hand. Auden shrieked, "You shot him!"
    "I didn't!"
    "You did!" Auden, only mouthing the words, mouthing with no air left, his legs all stilled and stopped and hurting like hell, shrieked, " You shot him! "
    There were people running up the steps. They were after the falling money.
    Auden, aghast, shrieked, "You— That wasn't fair!" Spencer yelled, "I didn't!" What he had in his hand was his stopwatch. Spencer yelled, "I didn't!"
    "That wasn't sporting!" He never thought he'd live to hear himself say it. Auden, hopping up and down on the spot like a grasshopper with hemorrhoids, yelled with the minuscule amount of air his brain, getting even, allowed him, "YOU SHOT HIM!"
    "HE'S GETTING AWAY!"
    "YOU SHOT HIM!"
    "I—" The Tibetan had reached the top of the hill, hobbling a little. Then he was gone. Spencer, shaking his head yelled, "IT WASN'T ME!"
    Wasn't it?
    No, it wasn't.
    Spencer, ever mercenary, yelled, "GET THE MONEY!"
    Auden reached down to get the money.
    And something odd happened. Someone, somewhere, somehow . . .
    . . . shot him too.
    The door to the Detectives' Room flew open. Framed in the doorway, a vision of mirrors, trigrams, amulets, charms, lo pans and determination, was not the Assistant Feng Shui Man, but the ultimate, the great, the Master Feng Shui Man. They were playing in the big league.
    The Master Feng Shui Man, the Clint Eastwood of the spirit