“I don’t know,” I said, “and I’m not going to try to find out. Curiosity can be justified only up to a point, and this is no time to stretch it. We’ll have to sit it out, at least until six o’clock.” I glanced at my wrist. “That’s only an hour and twenty minutes. Then we’ll see if Mr. Wolfe has cooked up a charade. If not, he may at least invite you to dinner. See you later.”
As I turned to go Carl sprang and broke my neck.
I have had enough unpleasant surprises over the years so that I am never completely off guard, but I admit I was careless that time because I underestimated him. He was a full three inches and thirty pounds under me, but I should have known that a guy who had managed a getaway from a concentration camp, and also from a continent, must have learned some good tricks. He had. The one he tried on me took him off the floor and through the air at my back, got his knees in my spine and his arm hooked under my chin. I was careless, but not quite careless enough. I heard and felt his rush too late to wheel or step, but in time to arch my back and drop my chin. He fastened onto me piggyback, and his muscles were a real surprise.
If he was that quick on the spring he might be just as quick with his left hand getting out a knife, so I didn’t try to get subtle. I bent my knees, called on my legs for all they had, jumped straight up as high as I could with him on me, jerked backwards in the air to horizontal, and hit the floor — or he did, with me on top. It squashed air out of him and jolted his arm loose. I bounced off to the right, got my feet under me, and came up, facing Tina in case she was prepared to help.
She wasn’t. She was just standing there, frozen, with no blood left in her, anyway not in her face. I moved my head a little from left to right and then slowly in a circle. “I thought he broke my neck,” I told her, “but he didn’t. He only tried to.”
She had no comment. Carl was on the floor, pulling air in for replacement. I stepped to him, reached down for his arm, yanked him upright, and went over him good. The only tool he had was a pocket knife with two little blades.
I backed up a step and remarked, “You act on impulse, don’t you?”
“I couldn’t break your neck,” he said, as if his feelings were hurt. “You’re too strong.”
“You sure could try.”
“No. I only wanted to go. If we stay here there is no hope. It would have made you numb, that was all.”