it," Mortain sneered.
Perdeau slipped the automatic into his pocket. The gesture signified his acceptance of defeat.
Mortain smiled.
"You are being sensible. Now, let us get down to practical matters. I will need clothes to replace these rags of mine, and money, and—" Mortain went on, listing his needs, and his demands. His pig eyes shone with delight as he savored the discomfort of the man who was to be his unwilling host.
And Perdeau had been forced to comply. Blackmail though it was, he couldn't risk the chance of his unwholesome past coming to light. Not now . . . .
REMEMBERING those weeks in which he'd been forced to shelter the hulking Mortain, Perdeau was able to smile now as he flicked past another page in his thick laboratory ledger. For tonight, this very evening, was going to be the turning point. Tonight he would have his revenge against the undesirable Mortain. Tonight he would eliminate Mortain's unhealthy knowledge, and Mortain, for good.
For in these past five weeks—weeks in which he'd silently endured the gloating heel of Mortain—Perdeau had carefully made plans. He'd watched Mortain almost constantly, shadowing him on his visits to the cafes, where the hulking creature invariably got riotously drunk and squandered the funds squeezed from Perdeau.
And on two occasions Perdeau had followed Mortain to a certain church. There the thick-witted blackmailer conversed for short periods with an old priest. This was obviously the priest to whom Mortain had given the sealed, damning documents about Perdeau. Perdeau carefully noted the address of this church and learned the name of the old priest. Both factors would be necessary—as would Mortain's heavy drinking—in the completion of the dapper little scientist's plans.
And finally, when his scheme was perfected, Perdeau had waited for the opportune moment to put it into effect. The moment which presented itself most opportunely this very evening. Jacques Perdeau smiled and closed his ledger, thinking of Mortain's drunken entrance to the apartment less than three hours ago. . . .
MORTAIN was very drunk. His eyes were red and puffed and he swayed from side to side as he stood there in the door when Perdeau opened it for him.
"My fine frien' I have come for more money!" Mortain bellowed. "I mus' return to the cafes, where a wench awaits me!" He laughed drunkenly. Perdeau noted carefully that this was the highest point of intoxication at which he'd ever seen Mortain, and reallized that another bottle of brandy would befog the ape-like blackmailer utterly, resulting finally in senseless slumber.
Perdeau found a bottle.
"Stay a moment," he told Mortain, "and have a drink with me."
Mortain slouched heavily down on a divan. He blinked at the moustached little Perdeau owlishly.
"Voila!" he toasted, taking the full tumbler of brandy handed to him. "Even though you killed three helpless women in your wretched past, Perdeau, you are not a bad fellow at times. Drink with me, Perdeau!"
Perdeau smiled, knowing that no one was within earshot of the drunkard's babbling reference to his past.
"You drink first, Mortain," he invited silkily, "while I go to get another glass."
Mortain drank, deeply, gluttonously,
