The Day of the Guns by Mickey Spillane

anything.
    “Who were they?”
    “Ballistics check the slugs?”
    “Seven-six-five millimeter, a forty-five and thirty-eights.” He tapped the table top with his fingertips. “We know where the last two came from.”
    “I take it Toomey gave you the gun we picked up?”
    Watford nodded. “Unregistered. Russian make. There are a lot of war souvenir weapons like that in this country.”
    “And others brought in deliberately,” I added.
    He was noncommittal. “Perhaps.” He glanced around, then said, “What about the first attack?”
    “Can I make a phone call?”
    “Need a lawyer?”
    “Nope.”
    He pointed to a phone on the sideboard.
    I got up, dialed Toomey at the Chester and asked, “You get the ballistics report on the test shot from the gun?”
    Toomey was brief about it. “One of the ones used the first time. You’re right in line.”
    “Thanks.” I hung up and went back to my seat. “It was the same bunch who tried for the first hit.”
    For the first time the heavy guy spoke. He leaned forward to stare down the table at me, his mouth trying to hide the natural nasty curl of his lip. “It isn’t our habit to divulge information of any nature, Mann, but there is a top level over us again who can alter the code of procedure. How your group manages to exercise such influence I can only guess. I don’t have to like it and one day I’m going to be instrumental in breaking it, but at the moment we have instructions.”
    “Fine.”
    He ignored the sarcasm. “We ran a ballistics check on that gun too. It had been used before, once to kill one of our couriers and again to kill two supposedly minor British Embassy employees.”
    “Minor?”
    “They happened to be members of British Intelligence.”
    “At least you know which side I’m on then.”
    “We don’t need you, Mr. Mann.”
    “But you got me, brother. Now get to the point.”
    “Ah, yes, I will. We are very interested in uncovering the one who pulled the trigger. Since you seem to be a first-class target and insist upon offering yourself up for sacrifice, we’re going to take advantage of the fact that you might be able to draw this person out in the open. Whatever happens to you is of no importance to us. In this case you are quite expendable and if you go down several purposes will have been served. One, another lead to this killer; two, the opportunity to rid ourselves of unwanted interference. Am I being blunt?”
    “Not a bit,” I said. “Only don’t forget one thing.”
    “For instance?”
    “This target doesn’t fall easily.”
    “A matter we will help along if we can.”
    “You still haven’t made your point,” I reminded him.
    He got a little red in the face and had to suck in his breath. “One of those British Intelligence men lived long enough to give us a description of his killer. Not a big man, thin, high forehead with rather long dark hair combed in the European fashion. He had a peculiar trait ... he pulled the trigger of the gun with the second finger of his hand, not the forefinger.”
    “A pretty acute observation from a guy getting shot.”
    “He was a well-trained operator. There was another one with him, slightly taller, medium build. All he remembered was his mouth. He said he had a round mouth. That’s a peculiar description and our man died before he could explain, but it should be apparent if he’s spotted again.”
    “You have more than just that,” I said.
    The guy hesitated, then nodded slowly, the information coming out of him reluctantly. “A name. We think ... not know ... think, that the first one is a Red agent named Vidor Churis. Until now he has been assigned to and involved in the various situations in Central and South America.” He stopped then, and looked at me squarely. “I’m surprised you don’t know him, Mr. Mann.”
    My eyes held his a long second. “I’ve heard of him,” I said.
    Heard of him? Hell, I had shot him two years ago and that’s why he couldn’t use his