Free The Night People by Edward D. Hoch Page B

had no purpose in leaving the party to visit Falconi.”
    “All right, I had it. But when I entered the hotel a while ago I gave it to someone for safekeeping. I hid it in the binding of a book and gave the book to someone.” He wondered if they would believe the lie without searching him.
    “Who?”
    “One of the Americans.” A long chance, but the only one.
    “All right,” Tweller said. “I’m willing to accept your word. You have exactly five minutes to get the man up here with the book. After that I will shoot you. Then Moscow can find another way out of their foolishness.”
    “I’ll phone him.”
    Tweller blinked his eyes. “Martha will phone him. His name?”
    “Sam Wren. He’s a press agent.”
    A questioning look to Martha. “What about it? Is it a trick?” Tweller asked.
    She shrugged. “He barely knows Sam Wren. They met at breakfast downstairs.”
    “All right, call him. Ask him to bring the book up.”
    Martha asked the operator to ring Sam Wren’s room. After a few seconds’ waiting, she said, “Mr. Wren, this is Martha Myers, Win Chambers’ secretary. He’d like you to bring that book back for a few minutes, if you could…. The one he gave you tonight … That’s right, thank you.” She hung up.
    “What did he say?”
    “He seemed puzzled at first, but then he said he’d bring it right up.”
    Tweller blinked at Win. “If it’s a trick, he dies with you.”
    “It’s no trick.”
    They waited then, in silence growing more tense by the minute. “I didn’t get the list for you, Win,” Martha said, almost apologetic.
    “It doesn’t matter now.”
    Tweller moved around in position to watch the door. He motioned to one of the Russians who drew a snub-nosed revolver, then placed his right hand behind his back, effectively hiding the silenced gun from anyone who entered the apartment. “You were clever to notice that misplaced book, Mr. Chambers. But the French print their book titles in the same manner. The visitor to Falconi’s apartment could just as well have been a Frenchman.”
    “But it’s doubtful if a Frenchman would have that taste in American literature. An Englishman would, though, and especially an ex-teacher.”
    There was a knocking at the door. Win felt his whole body go tense, knowing that he might be only seconds away from death. “Come in,” he called out.
    Sam Wren entered, clutching a small briefcase under his right arm. He seemed puzzled and a bit uncertain. “Oh! I didn’t realize you had guests, Mr. Chambers.”
    “That’s all right, Sam. Come on in.”
    Tweller stepped forward. “Do you have the book?”
    Wren hesitated. “Uh, yes. It’s right in here.” Behind him, the Russian with the gun pushed the door closed.
    Tweller smiled and brought his right arm around. The silenced gun came up almost slowly, until it was level with Wren’s stomach. “We’ll relieve you of it, then.”
    Sam Wren’s hand came out of the briefcase, but it didn’t hold a book. Instead it held a large ugly gun of an unfamiliar type. Tweller’s eyes widened, and the soft puff of his silenced weapon was lost in a thundering chatter as the ugly gun jumped and spat in Sam Wren’s fist. Tweller staggered back against the wall, desperately trying to fire again, trying to piece together his torn chest!
    And almost in the same deadly motion Wren whirled, his gun still spitting. The Russian at the door fired a wild shot into the floor and died on his feet, toppling slowly. The second Russian screamed something and backed against the far wall, clawing for his gun. Wren’s bullets cut a path along the wall, finding him, blotting out his face in a final spurt of blood.
    At Win’s side Martha was screaming uncontrollably. Sam Wren looked at her quizzically as he slipped the weapon back into his briefcase. Then he walked over to where Tweller sat dying and kicked the silenced pistol away from his still clutching fingers. “Shut her up, Chambers,” he said flatly. Win slapped