The Revengers (30 page)

“I’ll need a hotel room,” I said. “Oh, and check if a sailing yacht called
Jamboree
or a motor yacht called
Ser-Jan
or both are in the harbor. I’ll call when I get in. Eric out.”

After a little silence, the male voice came on, “Are you finished with Nassau, sir?”

“Finished,” I said. “Give me your name again.”

“Maestas. Backup. That’s spelled Em-aye. . . ."

“I’ve lived in New Mexico; I know the Spanish spellings,” I said. Another goddamned amateur, eager and respectful; and I’d trade a bushel of them for one tough, reluctant, snotty old pro I wouldn’t have to feel responsible for.

“May I ask about Brent, sir?”

I said, “There’s only one man we normally ‘sir’ around here and I’m not him. Brent’s alive and talking, doesn’t look too bad, but the medical verdict isn’t in yet.” I frowned. “He said he had a list of five boats lying around there. Can you find it?”

“Right here. . . He bit off the “sir.” Well, at least he knew the word and wasn’t too proud to use it, a point in his favor. There are a lot of proud dead men around. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

“Yes.”

They call boats the damndest things. I made him go through the list a second time, and repeated it back to make sure I had it right, although I couldn’t see any immediate use for the information.

When I was through, Maestas said, “Question.”

“Yes?”

“There was a ... a young lady in here throwing her weight around; said Brent had sent her. I checked her out with Washington and they said okay, but I’d like to clear it with you. Is she for real?”

I glanced toward Martha, sitting on the waiting bench nearby, trying not to look impatient. I grinned.

“She’s for real,” I said. For some reason I thought of a girl called Serena Lorca, whom I’d never seen. I said, “Life would be a lot simpler if people would stop producing strong-minded daughters, Maestas; particularly important people. But not nearly as much fun.”

When I hung up the phone, Martha got up and patted her dark hair and smoothed down her white suit. I waited for her to join me and we headed out the door. Before crossing the street to the hospital parking lot, I stopped, stooped, and palmed the .25 auto I was still wearing in my sock, just in case they thought they had a good thing going for them in parking lots. I’d stripped the little monster hastily, earlier, and wiped it clean with a wrung-out handkerchief before reassembling it; but as wet and muddy as it had been, I wasn’t counting on it to function reliably even if the ammunition fired. Still, it might scare somebody long enough for me to say boo, or kick them in the balls or something. But nobody bothered us. Although it was a clear night, the parking-lot lights made the stars look far away. I remembered a night not too long ago, back in Santa Fe, visiting the same girl who now walked crisply beside me on her high heels, when the stars had seemed much closer. But this was Miami, Florida, with ratty-looking palm trees rustling in the warm breeze off the Gulf Stream.

Martha unlocked the driver’s door of the racy-looking Datsun I remembered Brent chauffeuring me around in, down in the Keys. She got in, reached over to unlock the far door, opened the glove compartment and brought out the revolver Brent had just told us about.

“I suppose you’ll want this,” she said, giving it to me. “Who’s Einar Kettleman?”

“A seaman who was on the bridge of a tanker called
Fairfax Constellation
when it was sunk off the Bahamas recently by a mysterious explosion. There was a young officer on watch, too, but he was murdered before he could answer all the questions Elly wanted to ask him. She’s undoubtedly hoping to get the answers she wants from Kettleman.”

“And the fact that she may get him murdered, too, couldn’t concern her less.” Martha’s voice was tart.

I said, “I’m not too worried about her getting Kettleman into trouble. What bothers me is the possibility of Kettle-man getting her into trouble. If he’s actually alive, or even if he isn’t.”

“Oh, you think it may be just a trick to get her. . ."

‘They’ve peeled away her protection very nicely, haven’t they?” I said grimly when Martha stopped. “First, I’m sent off to chase terrorists, and then Brent is put out of action. Meanwhile, she’s lured out of the country by a fancy story, true or false, with an escort who barely knows one end of a gun from another; and doesn’t have a gun, anyway. I’ve got his piece right here.” I glanced at the revolver, checked the loads, tucked the weapon into my waistband, and pulled my sweater over it. I stuck the .25 back into my sock. Two-gun Helm. I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’d better get into some halfway respectable clothes and pack my suitcase and head for the airport. . ."

“I’ll drive you,” Martha said.

“I’ve got wheels of a sort right over there. Thanks just the same.”

“You can leave it and get somebody to pick it up, can’t you?”

I glanced at her. After a moment, I shrugged. “Sure, if you don’t mind taxiing me around.”

“What else would I be doing except catching up with my jet-lag? Get in.” After we’d driven for a while, she said carefully, “I guess you’ve gotten to know Elly Brand pretty well by this time.”

I said, “Cut it out, Martha. You’re a big girl now and this is the tired tail end of the twentieth century. If you want to know if I’ve been to bed with her, ask.” When she didn’t speak, I said, “The answer, ma’am, is negative. And if you’re wondering why we’re protecting her in spite of the kind of stuff she’s been writing about us, I think we kind of touched on that in Santa Fe. Use your brains and you’ll realize the kind of stuff she’s been writing about us is exactly why we have to keep her alive if we can. She’s not making it easy.”

' Martha was looking straight ahead as she drove, employing the sports car clutch and gearbox with considerable skill but a little too much emphasis. Even in the darkness of the car I could see that her face was pink. Her voice was quite soft when she spoke.

“My God, was I that obvious?”

“Pretty obvious,” I said. “But don’t give me too much credit for my pure relationship with the lady; there were circumstances that made it advisable. Normally I probably wouldn’t have been all that strong-minded. She’s rather an attractive person when you get to know her.”

“Attractive!”

‘You’re letting your prejudice get the better of you,” I said. “If Eleanor Brand is so damned unattractive, how did it happen that she was your friend for years, until you learned what a ruthless and single-minded person she really is when the chips are down?”

Martha said stiffly, “I consider loyalty very important, Matt.”

“Sure, but loyalty to what, a person or a profession? Try putting me on that spot, sweetheart, and see how fast I throw you to the wolves.”

She laughed abruptly, triumphantly. “That’s what you say now, but when you were on that spot once, years ago, you didn’t.”

There was a little silence. She was perfectly right, of course. Once on that long-ago assignment that had brought us together, when I should have been shooting a rifle at somebody totally different, I’d picked off a man who was about to kill her instead, jeopardizing the whole mission so that Fd had to scramble like hell to retrieve it. Just as she had once compromised her sturdy humanitarian principles to save my life, as well as her own. You might think it would cancel out, one life for another, even-steven, but it doesn’t work that way. A bond remains.

Martha spoke quietly, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “You haven’t asked me what I’m doing in Miami, Matt.”

I glanced at her. “What are you doing in Miami, Mrs. Devine?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

I said deliberately, “It’s a big city. There are lots of them around. Any particular man?”

Character named Helm,” she said. “Totally undesirable. Roving eye, itchy trigger finger. Does perfectly horrible things. You did a perfectly horrible thing tonight, didn’t you, my dear?”

"That’s right,” I said. “Perfectly horrible.”

“I can always tell by your eyes. There’s a bleak look they get. I’m not asking about it; I don’t want to know, the only trouble is . . .” She stopped and swallowed hard. The only trouble is, this perfectly dreadful creature is . . . kind of nice sometimes; and I’ve known him a long time, and when he goes away, I kind of miss him. In fact, I find miss him very much, now that I don’t . . . don’t have a man around the house any longer. So I thought that if I came here and saw him again, maybe even talked with him little, I’d know . . ."

Her voice stopped. I heard her make a small sniffing sound. She gave each rear-view mirror a careful look, switched on the turn signal, pulled the Datsun to the curb, and set the hand brake. Then she took a Kleenex out of er purse and blew her nose.

“I don’t know what the hell there is to cry about,” she lid. “I guess I’m making kind of a spectacle of myself, ren’t I? I was going to be very calm and sensible about lis, Matt. I was going to discuss it with you very intelligently. So what do I do? I act like a jealous bitch, first, and then I break into helpless tears.” She drew a ragged breath. "All I can say is that the house was damned lonely after you left and I kept wishing you—we—hadn’t been so damned respectful of my new-made widowhood. If we hadn’t, if we’d just said to hell with propriety that night, I think we’d have got something settled, one way or another, don’t you?”

I said, “Well, it was certainly on my mind.”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, I could see what you were thinking; and I liked having you think it. But then you started having noble afterthoughts, didn’t you, about how the poor girl had made one mistake and you were going to keep her from making another?” She made a quick gesture. “Oh, I knew you thought Bob was a mistake, for me. You liked him, he was your friend, but you thought I was . . . too good for him, really. You’ve even gotten a silly notion I’m too good for you. Well, just stop idealizing me, my dear. Remember that talk we had about wolves and cocker spaniels. You’ve spoiled me for the spaniel-men; isn’t it about time you stood still for the consequences?” She drew another long, uneven breath. When I didn’t speak, she went on, “Well, I seem to have got it out after a fashion, what I wanted to say. I just wanted you to know; you don’t have to commit yourself tonight. I know what you’re thinking.” She grinned abruptly. “You’re thinking: oh, Jesus, what a time the dame picks for a gripping love scene, with the plane warming up on the field! Well, at least you’re a gentleman; you haven’t looked at your watch once.”

Then we were laughing and she leaned over and kissed me lightly before letting off the hand brake and putting the Datsun into gear. Three hours later, with no hint of dawn in the sky ahead, the silent moustached pilot whose name I’d finally learned, Murray Delman, set me down on Providence Island without speaking and handed me my suitcase without saying goodbye.

Inside the airport building I found a telephone and made my arrival call, identifying myself as required, although our girl in Nassau ought to know my voice by now. Somewhat to my disappointment—you like to maintain friendly relations with the troops—her voice was remote and businesslike again as if we’d never kidded each other even a little: perhaps she was regretting her momentary lapse into informality. Perhaps she’d been lonely in the middle of the night; but it was getting close to morning now.

“Reservation: Paradise Towers Hotel as before,” she said curtly.

“Check.”

“The yacht
Jamboree
has not yet been located. The yacht
Ser-Jan
is here in Nassau, berthed in the Islander Marina just above the bridge.”

“Check. Any word from Fred?”

“I was coming to that.” Her voice reproved me for my impatience. “The subject has made contact with Fred voluntarily. She says she has obtained information she must discuss with you at once. She has interviewed Einar Kettleman.”

“Where do we meet?”

“Warren Peterson will take you to her. He should be at the airport by now. Rental sedan, green intermediate, make unspecified.”

“I bet he just loves playing chauffeur for me, fond as he is of me,” I said. “What’s the matter with Fred and his borrowed cab?”

“It was decided that Fred had better accompany Brand, since he has a gun and some experience in using it.”

“Accompany her where? What the hell is our screwball girl reporter up to now?”

“I believe she’s following up some of Kettleman’s information. Peterson will brief you as you drive. Over and out.”

I stood for a moment staring at the telephone grimly, before hanging it up.
Over and out
, for God’s sake. It never had been proper radio procedure, but the movies had used it so often nobody really questioned it. Even if the guy who was listening knew better, he just assumed you didn’t. To us it was the big red light and the siren and the warning rockets. No wonder the girl had turned formal again.
Over and out
. It meant grab a life jacket and head for the boats, Buster, the lousy ship is sinking. I drew a deep breath. Another long, damned day, and night; but if I’d wanted a simple and quiet life I could undoubtedly have gotten a job as night watchman somewhere, with my experience. It occurred to me that Martha would probably think that was great, although she might prefer a slightly more respectable occupation that didn’t involve my wearing a gun at all. But it was no time to be thinking about Martha Borden, who’d become Martha Devine, and now seemed to be toying with the notion of becoming Martha Helm; and I could muster a few arguments in favor of the idea, myself. . . .

The sedan that pulled to the curb when I came outside was green all right, and I could see why the make was unspecified. It was one of the anonymous middle-sized conveyances Detroit keeps producing stubbornly, instead of the little ones people really want to buy these days. I suspect that, where this car is concerned, the manufacturers have secretly consolidated their facilities for the sake of efficiency and economy, using a single assembly line that turns out Chryslers on Monday, Fords on Tuesday and Wednesday, and General Motors products on Thursday and Friday, just changing the trademarks and radiator grills accordingly. I remembered the old days when you could really tell the difference, when a Ford man wouldn’t associate with a Chevrolet man and neither one would bother to spit on a Plymouth aficionado; but nowadays we’re all driving Datsuns or Toyotas, or Mercedes or VWs anyway, while we wait for the U.S. industry to get its finger out. And these thoughts were all totally irrelevant, too, of course, just like Martha Devine; but there really wasn’t anything to think about that I wanted to think about. I tossed my suitcase into the back seat and got in front with the driver.