The Betrayers (10 page)

His blue eyes regarded me coldly. “You don’t fool me, Eric. You don’t fool me at all. You never did.”

I grinned. “Friend, I never tried to. I merely told you what I wanted and made you like it. And now I’m telling you again. You know and I know and Washington knows that I’m clean. What difference does it make whether or not I approve of what’s going on in Asia or anywhere else? Hell, I’ve killed men for policies I didn’t like before now,
and I probably will again. That’s the way this business works, and everybody knows it. So I tell you again, don’t waste everybody’s time trying to pin something on me, because there’s nothing to pin and because you don’t want to annoy me. Do you, Monk? I get awfully damn peevish when I’m annoyed by people who don’t do what I tell them. Remember, Monk?”

He remembered, all right. I’d managed to break through to him at last, although I’d had to talk like a boastful jerk to do it. I saw his eyes narrow and his muscles tense, and I figured the first thing I’d better do was kick off those damn sandals as he came for me. But he was older than he had been the last time. He’d learned some things about control that he hadn’t known then.

He just wheeled and marched out of the room, closing the door very gently behind him. But I’d got to him. If there had ever been a chance of his leaving me alone, there was none now. I had him sewed up. Well, in a manner of speaking, like the cowboy who lassoed the bear.

I glanced at my watch. It was still early, and I had nothing to do until lunch, which reminded me of Isobel McLain, who’d been asking questions about me, who’d wanted to meet me, and who’d asked me to be sure to bring my gun along on our date because she’d never had lunch with a man with a gun.

I got the weapon out and looked at it. Normally I don’t believe in playing games with firearms. Guns are for shooting people or animals, or targets if you have nothing better to do and need the practice. They should
be reserved for those purposes only. Play games with knives, if you like, play them with swords or spears or clubs, but leave the damn firearms strictly to the uses for which they were designed, because if you try to be tricky they’ll louse you up every time, and somebody’ll wind up dead regardless. It might even be you.

That’s the principle as it’s drilled into us in training, and it’s a good one. On the other hand, the woman had given me a clear warning and I’d have been a fool to ignore it. I therefore got out my little tool kit and, being very careful not to leave marks, pulled the bullets out of five cartridges, poured the powder into the john, and flushed it out of sight. Then I stuck the lead bullets back into the empty brass cartridge cases, and reloaded the snub-nosed revolver, now relatively harmless.

I say relatively, because the cases were still primed, and I didn’t know how far the explosion of a primer alone, in a powderless case, would kick a pistol bullet. In a long-barreled weapon I’d have been fairly sure the projectile wouldn’t even make it all the way to the muzzle against the friction of the rifling, but with a short-barreled gun like this I wasn’t sure.

However, if it were now turned against me somehow, it probably wouldn’t kill me. And probably I was doing a lovely lady a terrible injustice, and maybe I’d wind up needing the gun with real loads in it and die because, on suspicion, I’d got too clever and armed myself with a weapon that wouldn’t shoot…

After getting showered, shaved, dressed, and
breakfasted, I spent the rest of the morning studying maps and thinking hard and telling myself firmly I wasn’t really responsible for the safety of a girl called Jill, who looked just a little like a girl called Claire, whose safety I hadn’t been responsible for either.

Isobel McLain was late. At least I hoped she was only late, when I knocked on her door and got no response. Whoever she really was, I had a hunch she might prove useful, properly handled. Maybe I shouldn’t have voiced my suspicions so openly to Monk, but pretended to play along with the gag, if it was a gag. Maybe he’d decided, since I was wise, to pull Isobel off the job as well as Jill.

And if it wasn’t a gag—or at least not the Monk’s gag—there could be more drastic and disturbing reasons for Mrs. McLain’s absence. I was just starting to run them through my mind when I heard quick footsteps approaching through the garden, and there she was, dark glasses and all, in a white suit that managed to look summery and smart at the same time, unlike some of this thin summer stuff they wear that’s really pretty amorphous.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, coming up a little breathlessly, which was flattering. I had the impression she was a lady who didn’t hurry for just anybody. She
even offered an excuse for her tardiness, “I simply had to have my hair done after last night, and the girl took practically forever.” She hesitated. “If you want me dressed up, you’re going to have to wait a little longer while I change.”

I said, “I don’t mind waiting, but you look pretty dressed up to me. Judging by what I’ve seen around here so far, at least half the lady patrons will be dazzling in bedroom slippers and old flour bags.”

“Well, all right,” she said, smiling. “I guess there’s nothing I need in my room.” She took my arm as we turned away and leaned close to ask softly, “Did you bring it, as I asked, Mr. Helm?”

“What?”

“The gun.”

“Sure.” I opened my coat surreptitiously to give her a glimpse of the butt protruding above the waistband of my pants on the left side.

“Is it loaded?”

“Naturally,” I said. Well, it wasn’t really a lie, the weapon did hold cartridges of a sort. Buttoning my coat again, I went on, “Who’d carry an unloaded gun? Might as well pack around a chunk of scrap iron.”

“Do you carry it all the time?”

“It depends. In foreign countries, a gun can cause you more trouble than it’s worth. As a matter of fact, firearms are highly overrated implements, particularly short-range firearms like this. There are lots of quieter and tidier ways of killing people close up if you really have to. However,
we’re on American soil, and I’m not impersonating anybody for whom a gun would be out of character, and as it happens, I may need the damn thing for its moral effect, which is about all it’s good for, anyway.”

She absorbed this lecture with bright-eyed interest, as if I were recounting a piece of fascinating social gossip. “Don’t you use a holster?” she asked. “I thought they were always worn in funny-looking holsters under the left armpit.”

I grinned. “That’s movie stuff, ma’am. Or gangster stuff. And the F.B.I. likes belt holsters under the coat on the right hip, I understand. They’re supposed to do real fancy quick-draw work from that position. But they operate in a more friendly environment, so to speak, than we do. They’ve got badges to flash if anybody questions the artillery. Me, I’m just as likely to have to get rid of it fast as I am to have to shoot it fast. And getting rid of a gun alone isn’t too hard, but just try jettisoning a holster rig that’s got your belt through it, or your whole left arm.”

“Why, I never thought of that,” she said. She laughed happily and tightened her grip on my arm possessively. “And to think that yesterday I was practically bored to extinction with not a ray of excitement in sight!”

“You make it sound real desperate, ma’am,” I said. “Was that before you’d checked on my arrival or afterward?” She stopped abruptly, bringing me to a halt as well. I looked up and said, “My God, bananas! Did you know that each banana tree like that produces only one bunch of bananas before it dies clear back to the root?
That’s kind of sad, when you come to think of it.”

She smiled at my irrelevant nonsense. “So you’ve found me out, Mr. Helm. Well, that’s more or less your business, isn’t it? Once I learned that you were a professional, I knew I wouldn’t fool you very long.”

I looked down at her. She was really a very attractive woman, and I liked the calm way she took things. “Are you going to tell me about it, ma’am?”

“Of course,” she said. “But suppose you call me Isobel and I’ll call you Matt. Ma’am, indeed! And suppose we claim our table at the Royal Hawaiian before they give it to somebody else. And then suppose we promote me a large double Scotch before we make me lay bare my guilty soul. Sitting under hair dryers always gives me a thirst.” She gave me a reproachful glance. “And you haven’t even asked how my head is this morning!”

I grinned. “I don’t have to ask. I can see there’s not a damn thing wrong with your head, inside or out. That’s what scares me.”

The Monk’s moon-faced youth tailed us from the Halekulani in his little Datsun. Well, I hadn’t really expected friend Monk to pull everybody off me just because I’d talked tough; I’d have been disappointed if he had. It was a short drive, and soon we were sitting on the terrace of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, surrounded by important-acting people who seemed to be trying to prove something to each other, I couldn’t figure out just what. Isobel picked up her loaded highball when it arrived, saluted me with it, and drank gratefully. She set the
glass down and produced a cigarette, which she lit with a butane lighter before I could make like a gentleman. I was glad for the small sign of nervousness. It showed she was human after all.

“All right, first tell me what you already know about me, Matt,” she said.

“Well, you’re not on any of our lists,” I said. “To the best of my recollection, there’s nobody who’d meet your description.”

“Lists of what?”

“Of local operatives working for nations friendly and unfriendly.”

She looked pleased. “Did you really think I might be an agent? A real mystery woman? That’s very flattering. I like that. What else do you know?”

“That you probably don’t live in the District of Columbia as you claim. That information comes from other people. I haven’t checked it personally.”

“The other people are quite right. I don’t live anywhere near Washington, and McLain isn’t my real name. What else?”

“That you nevertheless know the area pretty well.”

“I was born practically on the shore of Chesapeake Bay. I went to school in Washington. Go on.”

“You’ve been inquiring about me. You asked the hostess to introduce us.” She nodded brightly. I said, “Just one thing before we go on, Isobel. You’re having lots of fun, I can see. Well, some people jump out of airplanes for kicks and others play Russian roulette. It’s
fine with me. I’ve never believed in making people do things for their own good, or stop doing them. But I feel I ought to point out to you, as I started to last night, that the party can get rough. You’ve already had a taste of it. I don’t know what your game is, but you’d be a lot safer if you played it somewhere else. I’ve got some unsavory friends and I’m not really a very pleasant guy myself. I mean, if a pretty lady insists on hanging around, I’m apt to start figuring how I can best make use of her—and I don’t mean just in bed, although I won’t turn that down, either, if it’s offered.”

There was a little silence. Her face was paler than it had been, and there was anger in her eyes. She drew a long breath and said, “That was… you shouldn’t have said that, Matt. I mean, the last part. It… well, it kind of spoils things. You’re entitled to think it, but you shouldn’t say it. You make me feel like a tramp, and I don’t like it.”

I said, “Better to feel it now than after it’s too late, sweetheart. Now you know how my low-down mind is running. I’ll use you if I can and I’ll lay you if I can, and if you get messed up in other ways, or even killed, I’ll hoist one drink in your memory and go on to the next job.”

“And the next woman?”

“Sure.”

She laughed softly. Her dark glasses reflected the beach behind me as she looked at me. “You’re very tough, aren’t you?”

“It’s a tough racket.”

“There were flowers on the grave,” she said quietly. “Fresh flowers.”

I stared at her. “What grave?”

“Winifred’s grave. In a little village cemetery in southern France. The gatekeeper said the tall man who left the money for the flowers had tears in his eyes. That couldn’t be you, of course, Matt. You’re the tough guy who lays them and leaves them without a backward glance.” She smiled gently. “My husband thinks you’re a murderer. He was very fond of his little sister. She was probably the only human being, besides himself, that he ever really cared for. He thinks you married her for her inheritance and did away with her. We were both sure of it, when we saw the lengths to which you’d gone to make it look like a simple car accident. We learned you were coming here…”

“How?” My voice sounded rusty.

“The lawyers got a forwarding address from some government department. We, Kenneth and I, decided that it would be best for me to fly out and be waiting to tackle you alone. I was to see if I couldn’t get you to incriminate yourself somehow.” Her smile widened and turned faintly bitter. “Of course, our motives aren’t quite unselfish, Matt. There’s a good deal of money involved, nearly half a million dollars apiece, and my husband has already run through or obligated most of his share. If we can prove you murdered Winifred, then of course you can’t benefit from your crime, and her legacy will revert to the estate, meaning Kenneth and me.”

I had to clear my throat before I could speak again. “Just who the hell are you?” I asked.

“Why,” she said, still smiling brightly, “why, I’m your sister-in-law, darling. I’m Isobel Marner.”

The unexpectedness of it kind of took my breath away. Since my divorce several years ago, I’ve been strictly a non-family man. I’m not used to having relatives walk up and introduce themselves in the middle of a job, especially relatives by a marriage that was never performed. To cover up, I reached for the white purse on the table.

“Do you mind?”

Isobel had started to protest, but she laughed instead. “No, of course not. Go right ahead. Is this what they call a frisk?”

I said, “No, a frisk is lots more fun. My God, the junk you women carry in those suitcases!”

Actually, the purse was reasonably uncluttered and quite innocent of surprises. There was nothing in it you wouldn’t expect to find in the purse of any modern woman who used cigarettes and cosmetics, or if there was, it was well enough camouflaged that I could afford to let myself be fooled by it. The small, lady-type wallet
held a California driver’s license and various other cards issued to (Mrs.) Isobel Caroline Marner, 1286 Seaview Drive, San Francisco. I remembered that the letter from the lawyers had also originated in San Francisco.