And on the other end of that number I reached Zorchi.
"The junior assassin," he sneered. "And calling for help? How is that possible, Weels? Did my avocatto lie?"
I said stiffly, "If you don't want to help me, say so."
"Oh—" he shrugged. "I have not said that. What do you want?"
"Food, a doctor, and a place for three of us to hide for a while."
He pursed his lips. "To hide, is it?" He frowned. "That is very grave, Weels. Why should I hide you from what is undoubtedly your just punishment?"
"Because," I said steadily, "I have a telephone number. Which can be traced. Defoe doesn't know you've escaped, but that can be fixed!"
He laughed angrily. "Oh-ho. The assassin turns to blackmail, is that it?"
I said furiously, "Damn you, Zorchi, you know I won't turn you in. I only point out that I can—and that I will not. Now, will you help us or not?"
He said mildly, "Oh, of course. I only wished you to say 'please'—but it is not a trick you Company men are good at. Signore, believe me, I perish with loneliness for you and your two friends, whoever they may be. Listen to me, now." He gave me an address and directions for finding it. And he hung up.