The Removers (4 page)

“Yes,” I heard the girl say, “they can run pretty fast. In rough country, they can outrun a greyhound.”

“Gee!”

Logan was laughing at Beth. “I don’t know how safe the animal is, my dear,” he said. “But I assure you the boys are perfectly safe. Afghans are quite gentle, and this one seems to be rather a shrinking violet, even for its breed.”

Beth was still looking over there. Her face had again that strange hardness that I couldn’t recall having seen before.

“Why did you bring her here?”

“It’s a male dog, Elizabeth,” Logan said. I gave him a quick look. He was absolutely deadpan, but he was kidding her just the same, in his quiet British way.

“I wasn’t referring to the dog,” she said sharply.

“Oh,” he said, still deadpan. “Why, I met her on the street. She asked about Peter. They used to be quite good friends, you know. Childhood playmates and all that. When I said he was home, she asked if she could come out with me. I could hardly refuse. She’s had a rather rough time, you know, with both parents. She used to consider us as her second family, somewhat preferable to her own. I did not want to hurt her feelings, even if. Here comes Peter now, with his hair combed, something parental authority has never been able to accomplish. Let us go inside and leave the children to their play. Are you a martini or a bourbon man, Mr. Helm?”

“Either one,” I said. “It depends on the circumstances. For the long haul, bourbon, but for a quick jolt, nothing beats a martini. I think tonight may be classed as a martini night, Mr. Logan.”

“Ah, yes,” he said.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

He glanced towards the door, where a colored maid was just bringing Betsy out, scrubbed and shining in a crisp little dress.

“We’ll be in the living room,” Logan said, taking Beth’s arm and moving tactfully away.

I gave him a glance. It occurred to me that if I didn’t watch myself I was going to start liking the guy. Then I turned to greet my daughter who, it turned out, wouldn’t have known me from Santa Claus, except that Santa has a beard. When I came into the high-ceilinged living room, it was empty. Then Logan came in through a door near the fireplace which apparently led into a study or office with an outside door of its own. He was carrying a tall drink. He gestured towards a stemmed glass awaiting me on the little bar in the corner. I took a quick drink out of it.

He said, “It’s always a bit of a shock when they don’t remember you, isn’t it? I had the same experience during the war.” He raised his glass. “Well, cheers, and all that sort of thing.”

“Cheers,” I said. “I gave them a few presents, stuff I picked up over in Europe recently. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Where’s Beth?” I asked.

He said, “I asked Elizabeth to withdraw temporarily. There is something I wish to say to you, Mr. Helm. I thought it would be easier for us to talk in her absence.”

“Sure,” I said. “Do we conduct the negotiations sitting or standing?”

He smiled quickly. “I say, I am making this sound terribly formal, am I not? Have a seat, by all means. I recommend that big chair by the window.” He indicated the one, and started forward to take another, facing it. “Mr. Helm.”

I’d picked up my drink. As I turned from the bar, I brushed against it, and the camera in my hip pocket struck wood with a solid, quite audible thump. I reached back instinctively to check on its welfare. He was still speaking in his polite way; but at the sound, and my motion, his voice stopped and his hand moved, very fast, towards the lapels of the khaki bush jacket he was wearing.

It was a gesture that called for some violent response on my part. Fortunately, my encounter with the boy, earlier, had put a guard on my reflexes. I merely stood still and waited. His hand stopped. I drew a long, slow breath and continued reaching back without haste, drew the Leica from my pocket, and laid it on the bar.

“I thought I’d get some pictures of the kids before I left,” I said.

His face was quite wooden. His hand rose to straighten the knot of his necktie. “Quite so,” he said.

Then there was silence in the big room. I wanted to laugh, or to cry. I had him taped now. The practiced, instinctive gesture had told me everything I needed to know about him. That’s the trouble with holsters. They give you away too badly, shoulder-holsters in particular.

Not that a shoulder-holster isn’t a neat rig for carrying a heavy weapon outdoors in winter; it is. It puts the weight up where it belongs, supported by a substantial harness, instead of down on a narrow belt that tries to cut you in two. You don’t have to open your coat much to get at it if you need it, and the gun doesn’t freeze up in the coldest weather. A good spring shoulder rig is surprisingly comfortable, the gun is safe even if you stand on your head, it’s protected from the elements, and it doesn’t get in the way around camp the way a belt gun will. The fact that it’s relatively slow needn’t worry the outdoorsman, who’s not apt, these days, to meet a grizzly on the trail without warning.

That’s speaking of a big revolver carried by a hunter or trapper. When it comes to small, flat, inconspicuous automatics, packed by competent-looking gentlemen with exaggerated British accents, you’re speaking of a different matter entirely. I looked at him grimly. I knew him now. I knew what it was I’d smelled or sensed about him, that Mac had noticed, too. It was the smell of smoke, of gunsmoke. It never quite blows away, as I had reason to know.

It was funny, I suppose. This was what Beth had married, after leaving me because she couldn’t stand being married to a man of violence—this slightly superannuated soldier of fortune, one of the armpit-gun boys, for God’s sake!

Neither of us said anything. He came forward slowly and put his glass on the bar. He was a pro; he hadn’t spilled a drop. Well, neither had I. He picked up the camera idly.

“Wetzlar, Germany,” he read, and looked up. “Can’t say I’m terribly fond of the Germans, but they do make fine optical equipment, what?”

“Right,” I said.

There was a kind of sadness in his face. He was clearly wondering if he should try to explain himself to me and ask for my understanding, not knowing that he already had it. I understood him, all right. I’d retired from violence once myself, right after the war. I’d been a respectable, reasonably prosperous citizen, with a nice home and family, only something had happened and it hadn’t worked out. Something was happening to him, or he wouldn’t be carrying the gun again.

Oh, it would be the same gun, the one from his old, bold, smoky days. He would have kept it, we all do, telling ourselves it’s just a memento now, a souvenir of a life we’ve left behind, an old retainer pensioned after years of faithful service. I’d had a gun in a locked drawer for close to fifteen years after the war; then one day I’d had to take it out again. I’d used it and lost it, and now I had a soulless, new, issue .38 in my boot, and one day, no doubt, I’d try putting that away in a drawer with all the memories that would have attached themselves to it by that time—but I’d still put it away loaded and ready.

He would have put the key in the lock and opened the drawer and buckled on the leather gear and slipped the gun into place, doing it reluctantly, for some compelling reason I still didn’t know about—but he might just possibly have felt the cold breath of an old excitement touch him lightly in the moment he held the weapon in his hand. I had. Of course, he was older. Maybe he had forgotten. Some men did, or said they did.

I understood him perfectly. I even sympathized with him in a way. That didn’t mean I was going to give him any help, or that I wouldn’t take away from him anything that wasn’t nailed down—and I didn’t have the feeling Beth was nailed down very tightly.

I said, “There was something you wanted to tell me.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. He took a sip from his glass, looked into it briefly, and looked up again. “My wife wrote you a letter,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Afterwards,” he said, “not certain that it had been the right thing to do, she told me, don’t you know?”

“I see.”

He hesitated, and spoke bluntly: “I do not need any help in taking care of my family, Mr. Helm.”

“Right,” I said.

“I hate to seem inhospitable,” he said, “but you don’t look like a chap who’ll suffer greatly from one delayed meal. You can buy a good dinner when you get back to Reno. In the future, if you wish to see your children at reasonable intervals—I’ll make no objections to that, of course—let me know and I’ll arrange for them to meet you away from here. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s an easy accent to mimic, isn’t it? I do it myself to a certain extent. It is part of the camouflage, shall we say? I think you know what I mean. I intend to maintain it, just as I intend to maintain the other aspects of my life here, free from disturbance.”

I said, “It’s nice work if you can get it. I couldn’t.”

“I know,” he said. “As I said earlier, I’ve heard much about you and, shall we say, guessed more? I intend to profit by your errors. You did make some, you know.”

“Everyone does,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But one can try to make as few as possible, don’t you know? An error I don’t intend to make is to let you stay here. It is too bad. From what I’ve heard and seen, you’re a man I might like. I wish we could go hunting together, for instance. It would be an interesting experience, at least. And of course it would be highly civilized of both of us. But in some cases, civilization can be overdone. Please don’t think I like being rude. You are the first person who has ever been turned away from this house hungry. But at least you did get a drink.” He smiled at me in a thin sort of way. It wasn’t a very nice smile. It hinted that this man could be an ugly customer when he wanted to. “I’d settle for that, old chap,” he murmured. “I really would.”

When I got outside again, the sun was low above the mountains to the west. I hadn’t bothered to bring an exposure meter—the light out there is fairly predictable— so I just made an estimate and set the camera accordingly. As I did so, the voice of young Peter Logan reached me from around the corner.

“If you were in Guadalajara, you should have stopped by Lake Chapala to see us.”

“I didn’t know you’d be there. Anyway, I didn’t feel much like seeing people.” After a little, the girl said, “Did I tell you I’ve got a new car? Kind of a consolation prize, I guess, but who’s going to complain about a Mercedes 190SL? Real leather upholstery and fitted luggage, no less. Choice!”

The boy laughed. “What’s with this choice?”

“Hadn’t you heard? Nothing’s cool any more. Everything’s choice. Keep current, man!”

The dialogue made me feel older than the Sierras. I moved away from it, rounded up the kids, and posed them for a group picture in front of the house. Then I moved in for a few individuals, starting with the boys, since I didn’t intend to spend much time on them. One snapshot of a little boy does about as well in your wallet as another. With a little girl, though, you want to make sure you get her looking pretty.

Betsy got restive, waiting, and ran off to play with the monkey-dog, as she called it—and it did look kind of like a great gray monkey, with its long tail and fur-framed face. It was lying peacefully beneath the hitching rack to which it had been tied. I figured the child was safe enough there, and turned back to the boys. The next thing I knew, Betsy was screaming and the dog was rearing wildly. Apparently she’d startled it out of a sound sleep, causing it to jump up and away. The leash, pulling tight, had knocked her over; and the animal, towering above her in panic, had frightened her further.

The dog was crying, too, fighting the choke collar and wailing like a lost soul. The girl in the bright green pants came running around the corner of the house. I started forward, putting the camera away, not hurrying too much. I hadn’t been an acting papa for some time, but I could still tell the difference between a hurt child and one that was merely scared and indignant.

The girl snatched the leash loose and led the prancing dog off a little ways, trying to talk it in to a landing. It was all over her, still hovering on its hind legs, but she didn’t seem concerned about a little dust on her fancy costume. On the other hand she wasn’t taking her weird pet’s troubles too seriously, either.

I heard her laughing tolerantly at the animal’s antics as I bent over Betsy; then somebody shoved me violently aside. Beth was there, snatching up the child and hugging her tightly, and swinging around to look at the girl.

“Get out of here!” Beth gasped. “Get out and take that... that beast with you!”

The girl’s laughter died. “But, Mrs. Logan, Sheik didn’t mean—”

“Get out!” Beth cried. “We don’t want you here, can’t you understand? Not you or anybody else named Fredericks!”

It actually took me a little while, say a full second, to remember where I’d heard the name before.

Then I was back in Washington, in the basement room with the projector, and Smitty’s voice was saying:
Martell was seen in Reno recently, carrying a gun for a racketeer named Fredericks.
It wasn’t an uncommon name; it could have been a coincidence. I’d worked for Mac much too long to believe it for an instant, but the meaning escaped me, for the moment.

Beth was still kneeling in front of me, hugging Betsy and glaring at the Fredericks girl. I would have thought she was being very unreasonable, if I hadn’t remembered the guns on the saddles and under Logan’s armpit, and her own evasive talk of cattle rustlers, for God’s sake! Obviously everyone here was under heavy pressure of some kind.

“Get out!” Beth cried.

There was a little silence. The girl turned sharply away. “Sheik, heel!” she commanded, and marched off down the road with the big dog moving obediently beside her.

We watched them draw away. Beth raised her head abruptly. “Peter, where are you going?”

The boy had started across the yard towards a rustic carport, beneath which stood a racy-looking green Jaguar two-seater, and one of those big four-wheel-drive Land Rover station wagons they use for hunting in Africa— apparently the master of the place still went in for British machinery. Peter stopped and looked back defiantly. It was time for me to take a hand, before this developed into a serious family crisis.