jg.thepelicanbrief-第34部分

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　　He　cussed　her　in　the　shower　for　ten　minutes；　then　stepped　out；　and　dried　himself。　It　was　more　like　two　hundred　and　fifteen　pounds；　and　all　of　it　was　situated　badly　on　the　five…nine　frame。　It　was　painful　to　look　at。　Here　he　was；　about　to　meet　this　gorgeous　woman　who　suddenly　trusted　him　with　her　life；　and　what　a　slob　he　was。　
　　
　　He　opened　the　door。　The　room　was　dark。　Dark？　He　had　left　on　the　lights。　What　the　hell？　He　headed　for　the　switch　next　to　the　dresser。　
　　
　　The　first　blow　crushed　his　larynx。　It　was　a　perfect　blow　that　came　from　the　side；　somewhere　near　the　wall。　He　grunted　painfully　and　fell　to　one　knee；　which　made　the　second　blow　so　easy；　like　an　ax　on　a　fat　log。　It　hit　like　a　rock　at　the　base　of　the　skull；　and　Gavin　was　dead。　
　　
　　Khamel　flipped　on　a　light；　and　looked　at　the　pitiful　nude　figure　frozen　on　the　floor。　He　was　not　one　to　admire　his　work。　He　didn't　want　carpet　burns；　so　he　lifted　the　pudgy　corpse　onto　his　shoulders　and　laid　it　across　the　bed。　Working　quickly　without　any　wasted　motion；　Khamel　turned　on　the　television　and　raised　it　to　full　volume；　unzipped　his　bag；　removed　a　cheap。25　caliber　automatic；　and　placed　it　precisely　on　the　right　temple　of　the　late　Gavin　Verheek。　He　covered　the　gun　and　the　head　with　two　pillows；　and　pulled　the　trigger。　Now　the　critical　part：　he　took　one　pillow　and　placed　it　under　the　head；　threw　the　other　one　on　the　floor；　and　carefully　curled　the　fingers　of　the　right　hand　around　the　pistol；　leaving　it　twelve　inches　from　the　head。　
　　
　　He　took　the　recorder　from　under　the　bed；　and　ran　the　telephone　wire　directly　into　the　wall。　He　punched　a　button；　listened；　and　there　she　was。　He　turned　off　the　television。　
　　
　　Every　job　was　different。　He　had　once　stalked　his　prey　for　three　weeks　in　Mexico　City；　then　caught　him　in　bed　with　two　prostitutes。　It　was　a　dumb　mistake；　and　during　his　career　he　had　been　assisted　by　numerous　dumb　mistakes　by　the　opposition。　This　guy　was　a　dumb　mistake；　a　stupid　lawyer　pilfering　around　running　his　mouth；　passing　out　cards　with　his　room　number　on　the　back。　He　had　stuck　his　nose　into　the　world　of　big…league　killing；　and　look　at　him　now。　
　　
　　With　a　little　luck；　the　cops　would　look　around　the　room　for　a　few　minutes　and　declare　it　to　be　another　suicide。　They　would　go　through　the　motions　and　ask　themselves　a　couple　of　questions　they　could　not　answer；　but　there　were　always　some　of　those。　Because　he　was　an　important　FBI　lawyer；　an　autopsy　would　be　done　in　a　day　or　so；　and　probably　by　Tuesday　an　examiner　would　suddenly　discover　it　was　not　a　suicide。　
　　
　　By　Tuesday；　the　girl　would　be　dead　and　he　would　be　in　Managua。　
　　
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　　HIS　USUAL；　official　sources　at　the　White　House　denied　any　knowledge　of　the　pelican　brief。　Sarge　had　never　heard　of　it。　Long…shot　phone　calls　to　the　FBI　produced　nothing。　A　friend　at　Justice　denied　ever　hearing　about　it。　He　dug　all　weekend；　and　had　nothing　to　show　for　it。　The　story　about　Cal…lahan　was　verified　when　he　found　a　copy　of　the　New　Orleans　paper。　When　her　call　came　in　at　the　newsroom　Monday；　he　had　nothing　fresh　to　tell　her。　But　at　least　she　called。　
　　
　　The　Pelican　said　she　was　at　a　pay　phone；　so　don't　bother。
　　
　　〃I'm　still　digging；〃　he　said。　〃If　there's　such　a　brief　in　town；　it's　being　closely　protected。〃
　　
　　〃I　assure　you　it's　there；　and　I　understand　why　it's　being　protected。〃
　　
　　〃I'm　sure　you　can　tell　me　more。〃
　　
　　〃Lots　more。　The　brief　almost　got　me　killed　yesterday；　so　I　may　be　ready　to　talk　sooner　than　I　thought。　I　need　to　spill　my　guts　while　I'm　still　alive。〃
　　
　　〃Who's　trying　to　kill　you？〃
　　
　　〃Same　people　who　killed　Rosenberg　and　Jensen；　and　Thomas　Callahan。〃
　　
　　〃Do　you　know　their　names？〃
　　
　　〃No；　but　I've　seen　at　least　four　of　them　since　Wednesday。　They're　here　in　New　Orleans；　snooping　around；　hoping　I'll　do　something　stupid　and　they　can　kill　me。〃
　　
　　〃How　many　people　know　about　the　pelican　brief？〃
　　
　　〃Good　question。　Callahan　took　it　to　the　FBI；　and　I　think　from　there　it　went　to　the　White　House　where　it　evidently　caused　quite　a　fuss；　and　from　there　who　knows。　Two　days　after　he　handed　it　to　the　FBI；　Callahan　was　dead。　I；　of　course；　was　supposed　to　have　been　killed　with　him。〃
　　
　　〃Were　you　with　him？〃
　　
　　〃I　was　close；　but　not　close　enough。〃
　　
　　〃So　you're　the　unidentified　female　on　the　scene？〃
　　
　　〃That's　how　the　paper　described　me。〃
　　
　　〃Then　the　police　have　your　name？〃
　　
　　〃My　name　is　Darby　Shaw。　I　am　a　second…year　law　student　at　Tulane。　Thomas　Callahan　was　my　professor　and　lover。　I　wrote　the　brief；　gave　it　to　him；　and　you　know　the　rest。　Are　you　getting　all　this？〃　
　　
　　Grantham　scribbled　furiously。　〃Yes。　I'm　listening。〃
　　
　　〃I'm　rather　tired　of　the　French　Quarter；　and　I　plan　to　leave　today。　I'll　call　you　from　somewhere　tomorrow。　Do　you　have　access　to　presidential　campaign　disclosure　forms？〃
　　
　　〃It's　public　record。〃
　　
　　〃I　know　that。　But　how　quickly　can　you　get　the　information？〃
　　
　　〃What　information？〃
　　
　　〃A　list　of　all　major　contributors　to　the　President's　last　election。〃
　　
　　〃That's　not　difficult。　I　can　have　it　by　this　afternoon。〃
　　
　　〃Do　that；　and　I'll　call　you　in　the　morning。〃
　　
　　〃Okay。　Do　you　have　a　copy　of　the　brief？〃　
　　
　　She　hesitated。　〃No；　but　it's　memorized。〃
　　
　　〃And　you　know　who's　doing　the　killing？〃
　　
　　〃Yes；　and　as　soon　as　I　tell　you；　they'll　put　your　name　on　the　hit　list。〃
　　
　　〃Tell　me　now。〃
　　
　　〃Let's　take　it　slow。　I'll　call　you　tomorrow。〃　
　　
　　Grantham　listened　hard；　then　hung　up。　He　took　his　notepad　and　zigzagged　through　the　maze　of　desks　and　people　to　the　glass　office　of　his　editor；　Smith　Keen。　Keen　was　a　hale　and　hearty　type　with　an　open…door　policy　that　ensured　chaos　in　his　office。　He　was　finishing　a　phone　chat　when　Grantham　barged　in　and　closed　the　door。
　　
　　〃That　door　stays　open；〃　Keen　said　sharply。
　　
　　〃We　have　to　talk；　Smith。〃
　　
　　〃We'll　talk　with　the　door　open。　Open　the　damned　door。〃
　　
　　〃I'll　open　it　in　just　a　second。〃　Grantham　spoke　with　both　palms　facing　the　editor。　Yes；　it　was　serious。　〃Let's　talk。〃
　　
　　〃Okay。　What　is　it？〃
　　
　　〃It's　big；　Smith。〃
　　
　　〃I　know　it's　big。　You　shut　the　damned　door；　so　I　know　it's　big。〃
　　
　　〃I　just　finished　my　second　phone　conversation　with　a　young　lady　by　the　name　of　Darby　Shaw；　and　she　knows　who　killed　Rosenberg　and　Jensen。〃　
　　
　　Keen　sat　slowly　and　glared　at　Grantham。　〃Yes；　son；　that's　big。　But　how　do　you　know？　How　does　she　know？　What　can　you　prove？〃
　　
　　〃I　don't　have　a　story　yet；　Smith；　but　she's　talking　to　me。　Read　this。〃　Grantham　handed　over　a　copy　of　the　newspaper　account　of　Callahan's　death。　Keen　read　it　slowly。
　　
　　〃Okay。　Who's　Callahan？〃
　　
　　〃One　week　ago　today；　he　handed　a　little　paper　known　as　the　pelican　brief　to　the　FBI　here　in　town。　Evidently；　the　brief　implicates　an　obscure　person　in　the　killings。　The　brief　gets　passed　around；　then　sent　to　the　White　House；　then　beyond　that　no　one　knows。　Two　days　later；　Callahan　cranks　his　Porsche　for　the　last　time。　Darby　Shaw　claims　to　be　the　unidentified　female　mentioned　there。　She　was　with　Callahan；　and　was　supposed　to　die　with　him。〃
　　
　　〃Why　was　she　supposed　to　die？〃
　　
　　〃She　wrote　the　brief；　Smith。　Or　she　claims　she　did。〃　
　　
　　Keen　sank　deeper　into　his　seat　and　placed　his　feet　on　the　desk。　He　studied　the　photo　of　Callahan。　〃Where's　the　brief？〃
　　
　　〃I　don't　know。〃
　　
　　〃What's　in　it？〃
　　
　　〃Don't　know　that　either。〃
　　
　　〃Then　we　don't　have　anything；　do　we？〃
　　
　　〃Not　yet。　But　what　if　she　tells　me　everything　that's　in　it？〃
　　
　　〃And　when　will　she　do　this？〃　
　　
　　Grantham　hesitated。　〃Soon；　I　think。　Real　soon。〃　
　　
　　Keen　shook　his　head　and　threw　the　copy　on　the　desk。　〃If　we　had　the　brief；　we'd　have　a　helluva　story；　Gray；　but　we　couldn't　run　it。　There's　gotta　be　some　heavy；　painful；　flawless；　and　accurate　verification　before　we　can　run　it。〃
　　
　　〃But　I've　got　the　green　light？〃
　　
　　〃Yeah；　but　you　keep　me　posted　every　hour。　Don't　write　a　word　until　we　talk。〃　
　　
　　Grantham　smiled　and　opened　the　door。　
　　
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　　THIS　WAS　NOT　forty…bucks…an…hour　work。　Not　even　thirty；　or　twenty。　Croft　knew　he'd　be　lucky　to　squeeze　fifteen　out　of　Grantham　for　this　needle…in…the…haystack　Mickey　Mouse　crap。　If　he'd　had　other　work；　he'd　have　told　Grantham　to　find　someone　else；　or　better　yet；　do　it　himself。　
　　
　　But　things　had　been　slow；　and　he　could　do　a　lot　worse　than　fifteen　bucks　an　hour。　He　finished　a　joint　in　the　last　stall；　flushed　it；　and　opened　the　door。　He　stuck　the　dark　sunglasses　over　his　ears；　and　entered　the　hallway　that　led　to　the　atrium　where　four　escalators　carried　a　thousand　lawyers　up　to　their　little　rooms；　where　they　would　spend　the　day　bitching　and　threatening　by　the　hour。　He　had　Garcia's　face　memorized。　He　was　even　dreaming　of　this　kid　with　the　bright　face　and　good　looks；　the　slim　physique　draped　with　an　expensive　suit。　He　would　know　him　if　he　saw　him。　
　　
　　He　stood　by　a　pillar；　holding　a　newspaper　and　trying　to　watch　everyone　from　behind　the　dark　shades。　Lawyers　everywhere；　scurrying　upward　with　their　smug　little　faces　and　carrying　their　smug　little　attache　cases。　Man；　how　he　hated　lawyers。　Why　did　they　all　dress　alike？　Dark　suits。　Dark　shoes。　Dark　faces。　An　occasional　nonconformist　with　a　daring　little　bow　tie。　Where　did　they　all　e　from？　Shortly　after　his　arrest　with　the　drugs；　the　first　lawyers　had　been　a　group　of　angry　mouthpieces　hired　by　the　Post。　Then　he　hired　his　own；　an　overpriced　moron　who　couldn't　find　the　courtroom。　Then；　the　prosecutor　was　of　course　a　lawyer。　Lawyers；　lawyers。　
　　
　　Two　hours　in　the　morning；　two　hours　at　lunch；　two　hours　during　the　evening；　and　then　Grantham　would　have　another　building　for　him　to　patrol。　Ninety　bucks　a　day　was　cheap；　and　he　would　give　this　up　as　soon　as　he　got　a　better　deal。　He　told　Grantham　this　was　hopeless；　just　shooting　in　the　dark。　Grantham　agreed；　but　said　to　keep　shooting。　It's　all　they　could　do。　He　said　Garcia　was　scared　and　wouldn't　call　anymore。　They　had　to　find　him。