great that it made even the murder of an old pal a thing to be committed without question if that pal got nosy.
The truck went on, bearing the dead gunman and the unconscious rich man.
CHAPTER VIII
Mike and Ike
Benson was in his suite at the Hotel Ely. MacMurdie, who had been given a room adjoining, was in there, too. Benson was opening the small, heavy package MacMurdie had picked up for him yesterday.
The man with the still, white face took two things from a mass of wrappings. One was a knife, the other a gun. But they were like no knife or gun the dour Scot had ever seen before.
The knife was about eight inches long over all, and had practically no handle. The blade was double-edged, with a reinforcing spine down the middle. When Benson titled the weapon a bit, MacMurdie saw that the handle was a light, hollow tube.
“It’s a throwing knife I designed myself,” said Benson, lips barely moving with the words. He stared at the thing, eyes like frosty steel, face as dead as a mask of ice. “Heavy in the blade, light in the handle. Look.”
Benson held the knife, handle down, about shoulder-high, and dropped it. In midair the blade overbalanced the handle and came down point first. Even that short drop was enough to sink it lightly into the floor, so sharp was the point and so easily did it needle into the carpet.
Benson picked it up again and, it seemed without really looking, threw it. His arm didn’t even draw all the way back. It lashed forward in an abbreviated arc. And the knife, with a deadly swish, snipped a coat button off MacMudie’s breast, over his heart, and went on to sink two inches into the wood of the door a yard beyond.
“I’ve gone a little rusty,” Benson said. “But then it’s been three years since I used it—ten since a Javanese taught me the trick in Singapore. I’ll pick it up again.”
He took up the gun.
It was a .22, but that, the caliber, was the only thing standard about it. The barrel was almost as long as the barrel of a target pistol. The cylinder, to streamline the gun, was small and held only four cartridges. The butt slanted so that it was almost in a straight line with the barrel. Altogether, it was almost like a straight piece of blued steel tubing with a little bulge for a cylinder and a slight bend for a handle.
There was a silencer on it.
“I’ve never seen the like of them before,” said MacMurdie, staring at the two weapons.
“You’ll probably never see the like again,” Benson replied, clipped words sliding from immobile lips.
He rolled his trousers legs up to the knee. To the inside of the left calf he strapped a slim sheath, and in it he slid the razor-sharp knife. To the inside of the right calf, so that it conformed to the bulge of steely muscle there, he strapped an almost-as-slim holster into which he slipped the tiny gun.
“Mike and Ike,” he said, pale-gray eyes glittering with a deadly light. “Mike’s the gun. Ike’s the knife. They are true friends. They’ve saved my life a great many times. I’d thought I’d never need them again. But they come back into active service now.”
“Mon, ye couldn’t kill fast enough with that popgun, stacked against a .45, we’ll say. The big one would blast ye to bits before the little one could sting enough to take life.”
“I don’t kill with Mike,” retorted Benson. But he didn’t bother to explain at the moment.
“So the cab driver who took me and my wife to the airport that day can’t be traced,” he said.
“Right,” nodded MacMurdie glumly. “If he’s in town, he’s hidin’ out. He’s driving no cabs now.”
“I rather thought he’d be missing. They’re cleaning up the loose ends, Mac. The driver was a loose end. I, or some investigator in my employ, might get to him—and he might eventually talk. So he has been put out of the way. But the lead I got has turned into something.”
“Ye mean what ye heard the mon say in the car that took you to the farmhouse? The
The truck went on, bearing the dead gunman and the unconscious rich man.
CHAPTER VIII
Mike and Ike
Benson was in his suite at the Hotel Ely. MacMurdie, who had been given a room adjoining, was in there, too. Benson was opening the small, heavy package MacMurdie had picked up for him yesterday.
The man with the still, white face took two things from a mass of wrappings. One was a knife, the other a gun. But they were like no knife or gun the dour Scot had ever seen before.
The knife was about eight inches long over all, and had practically no handle. The blade was double-edged, with a reinforcing spine down the middle. When Benson titled the weapon a bit, MacMurdie saw that the handle was a light, hollow tube.
“It’s a throwing knife I designed myself,” said Benson, lips barely moving with the words. He stared at the thing, eyes like frosty steel, face as dead as a mask of ice. “Heavy in the blade, light in the handle. Look.”
Benson held the knife, handle down, about shoulder-high, and dropped it. In midair the blade overbalanced the handle and came down point first. Even that short drop was enough to sink it lightly into the floor, so sharp was the point and so easily did it needle into the carpet.
Benson picked it up again and, it seemed without really looking, threw it. His arm didn’t even draw all the way back. It lashed forward in an abbreviated arc. And the knife, with a deadly swish, snipped a coat button off MacMudie’s breast, over his heart, and went on to sink two inches into the wood of the door a yard beyond.
“I’ve gone a little rusty,” Benson said. “But then it’s been three years since I used it—ten since a Javanese taught me the trick in Singapore. I’ll pick it up again.”
He took up the gun.
It was a .22, but that, the caliber, was the only thing standard about it. The barrel was almost as long as the barrel of a target pistol. The cylinder, to streamline the gun, was small and held only four cartridges. The butt slanted so that it was almost in a straight line with the barrel. Altogether, it was almost like a straight piece of blued steel tubing with a little bulge for a cylinder and a slight bend for a handle.
There was a silencer on it.
“I’ve never seen the like of them before,” said MacMurdie, staring at the two weapons.
“You’ll probably never see the like again,” Benson replied, clipped words sliding from immobile lips.
He rolled his trousers legs up to the knee. To the inside of the left calf he strapped a slim sheath, and in it he slid the razor-sharp knife. To the inside of the right calf, so that it conformed to the bulge of steely muscle there, he strapped an almost-as-slim holster into which he slipped the tiny gun.
“Mike and Ike,” he said, pale-gray eyes glittering with a deadly light. “Mike’s the gun. Ike’s the knife. They are true friends. They’ve saved my life a great many times. I’d thought I’d never need them again. But they come back into active service now.”
“Mon, ye couldn’t kill fast enough with that popgun, stacked against a .45, we’ll say. The big one would blast ye to bits before the little one could sting enough to take life.”
“I don’t kill with Mike,” retorted Benson. But he didn’t bother to explain at the moment.
“So the cab driver who took me and my wife to the airport that day can’t be traced,” he said.
“Right,” nodded MacMurdie glumly. “If he’s in town, he’s hidin’ out. He’s driving no cabs now.”
“I rather thought he’d be missing. They’re cleaning up the loose ends, Mac. The driver was a loose end. I, or some investigator in my employ, might get to him—and he might eventually talk. So he has been put out of the way. But the lead I got has turned into something.”
“Ye mean what ye heard the mon say in the car that took you to the farmhouse? The
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