Dealer of Death (Dirty Harry, Book 12)
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That's what the papers are calling Dirty Harry. Someone who's no friend of Harry has stolen his prize Magnum revolver and is blasting some of his worst enemies out of this world. Harry wants to get his name clean, his gun back, and put an end to the "dead man" who's playing Harry's hand in a game of life and death.
be booked in a holding cell. Three hours after returning to San Francisco, Harry was back at his office in the Justice Building. It was late at night, and there were few people about. For some reason, the damn phone kept ringing. Hoping to finish some obligatory paperwork, the constant interruptions had him greatly irritated. In any case, usually the caller wanted to speak to someone else. But the fifth call was somewhat more important. “This is Brevoort,” the man on the other end said.
hesitation, he said that it was a little past midnight. Gallant was vastly relieved. Luck hadn’t deserted him yet. If he drove quickly, he could be in San Francisco before the hit was attempted. That meant he would have to borrow—well, steal—someone’s car since Turner had taken his away from him to prevent him from leaving the shelter. But to James William Gallant, car theft was nothing new. One could say it was almost a habit. Mulqueen and the man called Hennessy—not because that’s what his
the afternoon, through blazing sun and thickening fog, never removing his eyes from the road. After more than a week, he thought he pretty well had the chauffeur’s schedule down. Twice during the week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, the long gray limousine would appear, with Silk himself. The limousine wouldn’t return until the evenings. Gallant assumed these were the two days that the retired Silk still went into town, maybe to his private club or to a business luncheon with his accountants. On the
engage in acts that might possibly bring dishonor on my name or on my household. It is for your personal integrity as well that I must insist on this.” “Of course, sir. You have my word,” said Gallant with as much conviction as he could muster, “as a gentleman.” As Gallant was leaving, escorted by a manservant who seemed nearly as old as the Manguin cabinet, he caught a glimpse of Sheila walking with her daughter along one of the garden paths. She stopped and stared at him. He stared right
Sheila, he realized the man wasn’t lying. He realized also this was what Gallant had wanted from the start, having gotten his full measure of revenge, he was really sated. Killing them would be almost an afterthought, an epilogue to a story which had already reached its conclusion. There was bile in his throat. Whatever Sheila’s motivation had been when she’d gone to bed with him, however ingenious his deception, such things didn’t matter to him very much. But the act itself was all that was