The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [172]
His back against the rough wall to my right, Emerson watched the other man intently. “You must take me for a fool,” he said with a curl of his lip. “I saw a great deal of you during those days when I was your guest. How many pleasant hours of conversation did we enjoy, you lounging in that tasteless overstuffed chair and me in—a less comfortable position? I could hardly be mistaken as to your identity. How did you manage to involve von Bork in this dirty business?”
“That sickly little wife of his is in need of medical attention,” was the reply. “Sentimentality is weakness; a clever man knows how to use it to his advantage.”
A hand grasped my arm. I shook it off. There was nothing Cyrus could do now. He knew if he tried to seize me I would struggle, and that would betray our presence to the smiling blackguard with the very large gun.
Emerson shook his head. “You have played your hand well in the past, I admit, but you have already lost this latest move. My friends are on their way. You cannot hope to carry me away from here before they—”
“I fear you do not understand. The rules of the game have changed. I am no longer in need of the information I hoped to get from you. When I leave this place you won’t be coming with me.”
“Hmmm.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “I always thought of you as a practical sort of fellow, Vincey. If you have what you want, why risk your neck chasing after me?”
Vincey’s smile widened till it stretched the muscles of his face into a ghastly grimace. “Because you would continue to risk yours to prevent me from carrying out my plan. I can’t have you breathing down my neck for the rest of my life. I admit I will derive a certain personal pleasure—call it sentimentality if you like—from killing you. You defied me, you defeated my deadliest schemes—and worst of all, you had the audacity to patronize me when I was down and out!” His voice rose in pitch. “I am going to do this slowly. The first bullet in the leg, I think. Then an arm—or perhaps the other leg—”
I had only delayed because I was curious about what he had to say. Aiming with care, I pulled the trigger.
Emerson prudently dropped to the floor. The bullet hit Vincey in the left arm. He let the lantern fall, but the wound must have been slight, for with a violent oath he swung around and pointed the gun in my direction. I pointed mine in his direction, but something spoiled my aim; it must have been Cyrus, plucking at me, or the fact that a bullet hit the wall beside me, causing me to start. My next two shots, fired in rapid succession, went wild. One of them, I was distressed to observe, struck the floor quite close to Emerson’s outstretched hand, causing him to swear loudly and pull his hand back. I fired again—and heard the hammer fall on an empty chamber. I had forgotten to refill the pistol after Emerson used it to summon help.
There was nothing for it but direct attack. I burst out of the mouth of the tunnel, straight at Vincey. Unfortunately the same idea had occurred to Emerson. We collided heavily; as we toppled, he twined his arms around me and tried to turn me so he would be on top. Again, our minds worked as one. My efforts succeeded; I landed on top of him, and strove to shield his body with mine.
It was a little difficult to keep track of what was happening, for I was busily occupied in trying to protect Emerson, who kept squirming. Vincey had been somewhat confused, I believe, by the rapidity and apparent randomness of our actions. He hesitated for a perceptible moment before taking careful aim.
I closed my eyes and clung to Emerson. We would die in one another’s arms, as he had once proposed. The idea did not appeal to me any more now than it had on that occasion.
The echoes of the shot deafened me. It took me some time to realize I was still breathing—unhurt, unwounded—and that there had been two shots, so close together the reports had blended into one. I opened my eyes.
Directly in front of me was Emerson’s arm. His elbow was braced against the floor; in