Matt Helm--The Interlopers (23 page)

“Davis,” he said. “Lester Davis, sir.”

I regarded him for a moment. He was a chunky, powerful-looking young man, wearing jeans, a heavy sweater, and the zippered windbreaker. His beard was reddish and so was his hair, which was fairly long. It had to be a disguise. His chief, Mr. Washington Smith, would just naturally take a dim view of hair, attributing all kinds of high moral values to razor blades and clippers.

Personally, I’m not all that sold on the virtues of barbering. I just like to be able to tell the boys from the girls, but in this case no confusion was possible. Hair or no hair, whiskers or no whiskers, I rattier liked the rugged appearance of Lester Davis. At least he didn’t have the hungry look of fanatic self-righteousness that seemed to run in the Smith family.

“Are you going to break down and tell me what this is all about?” I asked him. “Does your friend make a habit of going ape in the middle of the public highway or does he have some particular reason for flipping his wig today?”

“Ronnie’s upset,” Davis said. “We just got word that a couple of our friends have been shot.”

This information, imparted under these circumstances, made no sense at all. At least I couldn’t see how it applied to me—and the idea of having friends in this business was fairly outlandish anyway.

I said, rather helplessly, “Honest,
amigo
, I haven’t shot anybody all day.”

“They were shot by an Indian called Pete,” Davis said. “Ronnie seems to feel that you’re responsible, sir.”

I blinked, trying to figure out what might have happened, but the only answer I got was so incredible I didn’t want to believe it. Before I could speak, a car appeared on the road, far away, approaching from the direction of the coast. Davis stepped forward to grab one of young Smith’s—well, Ronnie’s—arms; I grabbed the other and we straightened out the casualty and leaned him against the truck, more or less surrounding him sociably until the tourist couple in the big Lincoln had passed. By that time, he could stand by himself.

I looked at the red-bearded man. “I don’t get it,” I said. “I suppose the friends you mentioned are the agents who’ve been watching over me and spotting all the people with whom I made contact—”

“That’s right. They’ve been switching operatives and cars on you pretty frequently on this job, sir, but these two are the ones who made the ferry ride up from Prince Rupert with us.”

“Sure,” I said. “I figured some of them might be along, but it seemed best not to look for them too hard. But they were supposed to be keeping an eye on
me.
How the hell did they get mixed up with Pete, for God’s sake!”

Davis started to speak, but it was Ronnie Smith who answered indignantly: “They couldn’t just leave the man to die by the roadside after what you’d done to him, could they?”

I stared at his gaunt young face and at his eyes burning with anger and idealism, if that’s what it was. Sometimes I have an uneasy feeling that the rest of the world operates on a different wavelength from the one to which Mac and I and a few other hard-working agents are tuned.

I mean, back there near Haines were a couple of presumably well trained and carefully briefed operatives who’d been given a job to do. It had undoubtedly been impressed on them, as on me, that the safety and welfare of their country depended on their doing it right. But instead of minding their assigned business, they’d wandered off to perform a totally irrelevant rescue of a totally irrelevant gent in a wrecked car!

All right, if you want to get technical, Pete wasn’t completely irrelevant to the mission. Nevertheless, he was a known quantity. The work on Pete had all been done, or should have been. They’d had a week, more or less, to study up on him, circulate his description, and arrange to have him grabbed when convenient. They had absolutely nothing to learn, nothing to gain, by meeting the guy face to face, and they could lose the whole ball game if their mission of mercy misfired. Apparently, they’d gone right ahead and lost it.

Ronnie said harshly, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts: “You ran him off the road and drove away and left him.
Somebody
had to go down there!”

“Why?”

“You can’t just leave a human being pinned in the wreckage of—”

“He can’t have been pinned very hard,” I said sourly. “At least he seems to have got an arm free to shoot with. Your friends could have figured on that. Why the hell do you think I went off and left him? Because I don’t tackle any wounded grizzlies unless I have to, certainly not when I’ve got important work to do. You people did say this job of yours was important, didn’t you?”

Ronnie started to speak angrily, but drew a long breath and decided against it. He glared at me instead and turned away. Walking a little stiff-legged, he marched to the lab truck and got behind the wheel, slamming the door hard. He cranked down the window and stuck out his head.

“Come on, Les!” he called. “We aren’t getting anywhere with this guy. Let’s go!”

“Just a minute.” Davis looked at me and said, “Actually, the man wasn’t in the wreckage, according to the report we got. He’d crawled off into the bushes a little way and was lying there with his gun, waiting. When the boys started looking for him, he let them come in close and shot them both. One was hit in the face. He was unconscious for quite a while afterward. When he came to, both his partner and Pete were dead. He managed to struggle back to his car and raise us on the two-way radio.”

“And now you’re hurrying back to, hold the poor guy’s hand?”

Davis flushed. “He’s badly hurt, sir.”

I glanced at my watch. “At nine this evening you’re supposed to take some important material off
my
hands at a place called Beaver Creek. You’ll never make it if you drive clear back to Haines, particularly if you get tangled up with doctors and cops.”

“I know. That’s why we stopped, sir. To ask you to hold things up until tomorrow morning. There’s nobody to cover you now and see who slips you the stuff, and we need that lead to the commie cell operating up here. You’d better pass up the evening rendezvous altogether, on one excuse or another, and use the alternate contact at breakfast instead.”

“And where do I make contact with you afterward?”

“We’ll set up an emergency drop down the road. Stop for coffee at The Antlers Lodge, east of Tok, Alaska. That’s where you check back in through U.S. customs and immigration. The road divides, one branch going to Fairbanks and one to Anchorage. Turn left toward Anchorage like you’re supposed to anyway. It’s fifteen or twenty miles to the lodge. Try to make it as soon after nine as you can. We’ll be waiting. Run the dog as usual before you go into the café. I’m told there’s good cover east of the main building. Give us fifteen minutes and turn him loose again for a bit before you take off. After that, we’ll handle the Anchorage part as originally planned, and tie it all up with pink ribbons. Okay?” The horn of the Ford blared impatiently. Davis glanced that way and called, “I’m coming, Ronnie.”

I said, “Okay, but there’s one thing you’d better keep in mind.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Pete wouldn’t have burned down just any two Good Samaritans who wandered down there. Since he shot your boys, that means he knew who they were. Maybe, not realizing their warm and friendly intentions, he thought they’d come to finish him off. Or maybe he was just doing the best he could to strike a final blow at me. But the important thing is that he knew them; and that therefore the two of you could be known, too. So watch your steps, every damn one of them. Now you’d better go before your friend blows a gasket.”

I watched them drive away; then I got back into the truck and headed toward Haines Junction, where the ferry cutoff from Haines joins the Alaska Highway. As I drove, I tried to dream up a plausible way of killing a few hours so I’d be late for tonight’s contact without being obvious about it. I needn’t have bothered. The excuse I needed was ready and waiting for me.

A good fifteen miles before the junction, I came upon a muddy Cadillac convertible stopped in the road. It was kind of slumped toward the left rear, like a bogged-down horse, and that wheel—not only the wheel and tire, but the brake drum and part of the axle—lay in the road nearby.

As I approached, a slender figure in yellow-brown corduroy jumped out of the crippled car and waved me to a halt.

The timing worked out as well as if I’d planned it that way. It took a couple of hours to get Libby’s car towed into the town ahead: a handful of buildings bunched around the bleak and lonely highway junction. Then we had to arrange to have replacement parts sent out from Anchorage. By the time all the necessary phone calls had been made, it was plenty late enough in the afternoon that I could start driving again without any fear of arriving at my destination on time.

We reached Beaver Creek well after dark. The Canadian officials checked us out of their country, leaving us in a kind of international limbo, since we wouldn’t be officially admitted to Alaska until the corresponding U.S. authorities had looked us over in Tok, over a hundred miles ahead.

The border community we’d just entered was no bigger than Haines Junction, if as big: just a few businesses scattered along the road to keep the customs shack from getting lonely during the long winter nights. We had no trouble at all in finding the motel, since it seemed to be the only one around. Like many of them up there, it looked as if it had been concocted by a house-trailer manufacturer and trucked here in sections, and maybe it had. In other words, it was a long narrow, railroad-car kind of building, of typical mobile-home construction, covered with ribbed, white-painted metal.

The room to which we were shown had two beds, a heater, a chair, and a tiny dresser, all crowded into a space barely adequate for a clothes closet. However, it was clean and warm and we were happy to have it. It had been a rough day, and we hadn’t really slept much the night before. When the proprietor had left us, Libby tossed her trench coat on the chair and started to unbutton her jacket. I went to the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’ve got to feed the pup, give him some air, and lock up the truck. Which bag do you want?”

“The same little one… Oh, hell, if it’s any trouble, never mind. I can sleep in my undies, and I hope to God you’re not feeling masculine and virile, because I’m not feeling a bit feminine and seductive. God, what a drive! If you insist on eating dinner or something, be quiet when you come in, because I’ll be asleep.”

It was almost like being married again. I grinned and went out, stirred up a bowl of food for the pup and, while he was eating, took her suitcase and mine and shoved them inside the motel-room door. When he was through, I turned Hank loose briefly, then locked him up and walked slowly toward the part of the building that served as a café. There were cars parked in front of the units of the long motel, and suddenly I found my glance drawn to a mud-covered, beat-up-looking little two-door job that seemed vaguely familiar.

At least, the sloping rear deck reminded me of a car I’d seen before and so did the fancy wheel-covers simulating wire wheels, although one of these was now missing and the rest were so dirty that no hint of chrome was visible any more than the original color of the car could be determined in the dark, through the coating of mud. There was a star-shaped crack in the windshield and a broken headlight; the kind of mementos one tends to pickup during, say, a fast thousand-mile dash along a wilderness road full of loose stone and gravel.

I stood there only a moment; then I moved on into the café and ordered a hamburger, and a beer since they served nothing stronger.
The damn little fool
, I thought.
I told her to go home; what the hell does she think she’s doing up here?

But that was a silly question. Obviously, Pat Bellman had trailed me clear to Alaska to take revenge for the friends I had killed; or she still had her eye on the dog collar that, properly filled, was worth fifty grand to a Chinese gent called Soo.

I was awakened by something wet and cold applied to my face. I sat up in bed, wondering how the hell the pup had got into the motel room. Then I remembered that I’d brought him in last night. It had been one of the times when there were obviously a million precautions that should have been taken, but that had been the only one I could think of.

As I sat there, yawning in the half-darkness, Hank put his forepaws on the bed and tried to give me another slobbery lick. I pushed him away halfheartedly.

“Down!” I whispered, glancing toward the other bed where Libby was sleeping soundly. “I get the message: you want out. Just hold your goddamn little black horses.”

I glanced at my watch and found that it was later than it felt: six thirty-five to be exact. My alarm clock was set for seven—I reached over to switch it off—and I had an appointment outside the café at seven-fifteen sharp.

I got up and went into the bathroom. Threats to the contrary notwithstanding, Libby hadn’t slept in her undies: she’d washed them and hung them on the shower rod to dry. It was another homelike, wifely touch. Fighting the early-morning battle of the nylons—well, just brassiere and panties in this case—reminded me again, nostalgically, of the comfortable state of matrimony from which I had resigned, or been fired, a long time ago.

When I got outside, there was enough light to see by, but yesterday’s fine weather was gone and rain was falling: a slow misty drizzle. Hank thought it was great. He was a water dog; he liked rain. He took off happily through the puddles to transact his morning business while I zipped up Grant Nystrom’s ski jacket against the cold and pulled down Grant Nystrom’s Stetson to shield my face from the dripping moisture. Waiting, I checked the truck, and nobody’d been at it. I checked the parked cars, and the hard-driven little Mustang with the stone-cracked windshield was missing from its slot.

“Excuse me,” said a male voice in my ear, “excuse me, but isn’t that a Labrador retriever? He’s a beauty. What’s his name?”

I turned to look at a plump man in his early thirties. His rather citified hat and plastic raincoat proclaimed him a tourist, as did the rubbers he was wearing over his city shoes. Behind him stood a similarly plump woman almost totally wrapped in waterproof, semi-transparent plastic, except for her lower legs, which displayed very tight green pants ending just below the calves. Her bare ankles looked unbearably cold, and her low shoes were too flimsy to serve adequately as anything but bedroom slippers, which was exactly what they looked like.