Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 (22 page)

           
He blinked. I'd got back at him, a
little, for the tarpon and the prima
donna
agents,
and he wasn't used to being got back at. Then he grinned and saluted me with
the bottle in his hand.

           
"To fair winds and gentle
seas."

           
"
Salud
."

           
"Talking about votes, there's a
little political meeting scheduled here for this evening. You might be
interested in listening. Eight o'clock sharp."

           
I looked at him for a moment. He
wasn't going to order me to come, I saw, or tell me what

           
I'd learn if I did come. I was
supposed to be bright enough to come of my own accord.

           
"If you say so, sir," I
said. "Eight o'clock. Front door or back?"

           
"Use the boat if you like. It's
just a short run down from the lodge. Go in the kitchen door, over there, and
turn right. You'll find a good place to listen right off the pantry. Don't
cough or sneeze and
nobody'll
bother you. I'll have
your guide waiting in the kitchen afterwards. I'll have some equipment for you,
too."

           
"I'll be there." Looking
through the wide deckhouse windows, I saw the slim, brown, bikinied shape of
Martha Borden emerge from the kitchen door just mentioned. The girl paused to
say goodbye to a thin, white-haired woman in slacks. "Is there anything
else 1 ought to know, sir?" I asked.

           
"A shoal-draft houseboat,
around thirty feet long, powered by twin
outdrives
,
came by the day before yesterday and disappeared among the islands. Judging by
the whiskers, she had some pretty good communications gear on board. We can't
positively connect her with anything or anybody, but she's still in there
somewhere. I'd say it was a hopeful sign, wouldn't you?" He was watching
the girl come running down towards the dock, and took my nod for granted, not
looking aside. He went on, "Well, I'd better get you oriented. Let's have
a look at the chart." He spread it on the dinette table; and raised his
voice slightly. "The place you want is Cutlass Key.

           
Here. Don't forget the name. The
south end of Cutlass Key. That's where the cabin is. You'll see the old dock on
the point."

           
"Yes, sir," I said, as
Martha dropped into the cockpit, causing the Frances II to rock slightly.

           
"I won't forget, sir. Cutlass
Key.. .

           
The lodge was a pleasant, rambling
hostelry overlooking the marina and the Waterway. Our ground-floor room was in
one of the outlying buildings, white clapboard like the main structure which,
I'd been told, had once been a rich gentlemen's fishing club. Entering, I went
over to my suitcase to unpack some clean clothes. I was aware of Martha
examining her tanned reflection in the big mirror on the bathroom door.,

           
"You'd better cover up if you
go out again," I said. "You're pretty well cooked already."

           
"It doesn't hurt," she said.
"I don't burn very easily. Did Uncle Hank tell you where Daddy's
hiding?"

           
It was still a little difficult for
me to think of Mac as anybody's daddy. "He told me," I said.

           
She glanced at me quickly. "But
you're not telling me?"

           
"That's right," I said.

           
After a moment, she laughed.
"Don't you trust me, Matt? Not even where my own parent is
concerned?"

           
"Trust?" I said.
"What's that? You're speaking to a pro, sweetheart. And as Lorna said, if
you didn't know, it wasn't you who told, not even under torture or scopolamine.
If anybody asks, refer them to me." I rearranged the remaining clothes in
the suitcase a certain way, and closed the bag, making a mental note of its
position on the luggage rack. "How about lunch? Are you hungry?"

           
"No, darling," she said.
"I'm not hungry."

           
Her voice came from directly behind
me. I turned, and there she was, smiling a little, all pinky-brown and shiny
from the sun. She'd made it at last. The blue-striped bikini, discarded while
my attention was elsewhere, lay in a little heap on the rug where she'd been
standing.

           
I made a little whistling sound to
indicate my appreciation of the view that was being offered me. "Why is
it," I asked, "that every time I start talking about food, the girl
gets one of her nymphomaniac spells. . .

           
Much later, lying on the bed beside
me, she said softly, "Matt. Are you awake?"

           
"Uh-uh. Now I am."

           
"You've been asleep for
hours."

           
"Must be all that sun," I
said. "Or something."

           
"Now I'm getting hungry,"
she said. "It must be almost dinnertime. Matt."

           
"Yes?"

           
"If anything should
happen-"

           
"Call him Matthew after his
daddy," I said. "Or Matilda. I'll even make an honest woman of you if
you insist."

           
She giggled. "That's not what I
meant!"

           
"There's no indication that
anybody knows where we are or gives a damn," I said. "All we have to
do now is stall for a couple of days-your dad is a punctuality fiend, meaning
people don't keep appointments with him either late or early. On the night of
the sixteenth of the month we take a little boat ride with a guide the admiral
has lined up for us. Then I looked discreetly away so as not to intrude on the
happy family reunion. Okay?"

           
"I suppose so." She drew a
long breath. "That means if nothing happens. . . . well, it's almost over,
isn't it?"

           
"Yes," I said. "One
way or another, it's almost over."

           
"It's been kind of nice,"
she said slowly. "Actually. It started out so awfully, but it ended up
being. . . . well, kind of nice. I want you to remember that, no matter what
happens."

           
First the standard striptease, I
thought, and now the ancient no-matter-what-happens-it-was-nice speech. Every
cliché in the book. Amateurs!

           
"I'll remember," I said.
"Shall we flip for who gets the first shower?"

           
"Matt."

           
I looked at her. "What?"

           
"Take me seriously.
Please."

           
"I've never taken you any other
way, Borden," I said. "You can remember that, no matter what
happens."

           
When I came out of the shower, she
was still lying naked on the bed approximately where

           
I'd left her, but my suitcase had
been disturbed. I suppose I should have been happy. Things were working out
very well, just the way Mac had planned them, if I was reading his mind
correctly. The funny thing was, I didn't feel nearly as triumphant as I should
have. I guess the trouble was that it didn't seem quite fair, two old experts
at intrigue like Mac and me ganging up on a young beginner. Of course fairness
was, as always, totally irrelevant.

           
I watched her get dressed in the
blue sleeveless dress we'd bought her in Phoenix, Arizona, the one with the
pleated skirt. It was rather intriguing to watch the amateur mind at work.

           
Obviously, if I had any suspicions
of her at all, after the last amorous interlude, her choice of costume would
lull them now. I was supposed to figure that, if she was expecting a hectic
night full of action, she'd have put on slacks, not the only pretty dress she
owned here in Florida.

           
Finished, she smiled her confident
Mata Han smile and presented herself for inspection and approval.

           
"Nice," I said. "The
admiral will like it, too."

           
"Are we going to see Uncle
Hank?"

           
"After dinner," I said. He
wants me to make arrangements with the guide; and there's some kind of a
political meeting he wants me to listen in on, for some reason. I'm sure he
won't mind your coming along." Actually, I wasn't a bit sure; but I didn't
give a damn if he did mind. I didn't work for Congressman Priest. I glanced at
my watch. "Well, maybe we'd better get started since we have to be back
here before eight. He told me to come by boat and stay inconspicuous."

           
"Why do you call him
'admiral'?" she asked curiously. "He never made the stars, you know.
He didn't want to."

           
I said, "He may be captain to
the US Navy, but he's admiral to me."

           
It seemed odd, driving the station
wagon without the weight of the boat and trailer dragging behind. We had dinner
at the other end of the island, in a dark supper-club kind of place I'd
spotted, driving by the night before. It turned out to be passable as to food
but terrible as to service. I can see why a waitress might have trouble
bringing a steak before it's ready, but why it should take her most of an hour
to write out a check always baffles me. Well, somebody once told me it's a
theory: they think the customer will feel rushed and insulted if the bill is
presented with the coffee. All I can say is that any enterprising girl who
wants to try insulting me like that is going to wind up in possession of a much
larger tip than the haughty serving lady who makes me wait all night before she
condescends to take my lousy money.

           
In this case, however, it worked out
pretty well, saving me from having to think of other ways of stalling. It was
ten minutes of eight, and the light was fading, when we reached the new
development on the way back. I slowed down as we approached the stone posts of
the Priest gateway, just beyond.

           
"Is there a place I can hide
this hearse, not too far away, from which we can reach the kitchen door without
climbing any barbed-wire fences?" I asked.

           
Martha glanced at me sharply.
"I thought you said you were supposed to come by water."

           
"I did. So, being a suspicious
secret-agent type, I'll come by land. Anyway, it's late and you're not really
dressed for a boat ride."

           
"You can't possibly suspect
Uncle Hank-"

           
"Who can't? I don't even trust
me around the block. .

           
My God, look at the limousines in
the admiral's driveway! Even if I wasn't feeling shy, I wouldn't dare park my
cheesy little six-thousand-dollar Chevy in there. Those aristocratic heaps
would snub it and hurt its feelings."

           
"If you turn right just around
the curve up ahead, there's an old lane leading down to the water."

           
I stopped the station wagon near the
end of the lane, backed it in between two trees and went around to open the
door for Martha. She led me down the lane, which ended abruptly at a concrete
embankment. Beyond was the Waterway. I could see the Priest dock to the right,
the little outboard boat with the funny name, and the big
sportfisherman
,
through a chain-link fence. The outriggers and tuna tower made a tricky, lacy
pattern against the darkening sky.

           
Martha made her way along the
embankment to the fence. She gathered her brief, pleated skirt around her
thighs so it wouldn't snag, with one hand, and, holding on with the other,
swung herself around the end of the fence, four feet above the water. She
waited for me to follow, less gracefully. We stole along the Priest seawall to
the dock, and took the path that led up to the house. A slight black man of
indeterminate age, not young, not elderly, opened the screen door to admit us.

           
"Why, it's
Jarrel
!"
Martha said. "You must be the guide we've been talking about. Matt, this
is
Jarrel
White. He knows every local water moccasin
and alligator by its first name, and I wouldn't be surprised if he'd poached a few
in his time."

           
The black man grinned. "Now,
Miss Marty, who'd waste time poaching water moccasins?"

           
"Where does Uncle Hank want us,
Jarrel
?"

           
"On the back porch, Miss Marty.
That door over there. Well, you know. You can sit on the old sofa in the corner.
There's a window open to the living room and you can hear all you want."
He opened the door for us, and looked at me. "I'll be talking with you
after all those folks are gone, Mr. Helm," he said softly.

           
"Sure."

           
The kitchen door closed noiselessly.
Martha and I stood for a moment in the darkness, that seemed darker for the
pattern of light thrown by an open window halfway down the porch, from which
came the sound of men's voices. I heard Priest's quarterdeck tones greeting
somebody and offering a drink.

           
"Doesn't sound as if they've
got down to business yet," I whispered to the girl beside me.

           
"Whatever the business of the
evening may be. Doesn't your Uncle Hank believe in air-conditioning?"

           
"Oh, he's got it, but it's a
pleasant spring evening, and he doesn't turn it on unless he has to.

           
Deep down, I think he feels that if
God had meant us to be cool in Florida, He wouldn't have made it hot in the
first place." She hesitated, and touched my shoulder lightly.
"Matt."

           
"Yes?"

           
"I'm sorry."

           
The needle went into my biceps. It
was a healthy jab that must have rammed home the plunger of the hypodermic
syringe she'd stolen from my suitcase, with the same motion. The trouble with
carrying weapons of any kind is that somebody may get hold of them and use them
against you, but this is also something you can turn to your advantage if you
work it right.

           
I had plenty of performances on
which to pattern my own:
Hollingshead's
and Sheriff
Rullington's
to mention only two. I'd even had the stuff
used against me before, on an assignment not too long ago. I knew exactly how
it was supposed to feel and how fast it was supposed to act. I gave a little
start, reached instinctively for the instrument that had punctured my skin, now
being withdrawn; but I never finished the movement. Instead, I let myself slump
helplessly, hoping she'd catch me, which she did, easing me gently to the
floor.

           
"I'm sorry," I heard her
breathe. "I'm so sorry, darling, but I have to do it. You understand that
I have to do it, don't you?”

           
For a neat ending, that should have
been all, but she didn't leave. She stood beside my presumably unconscious body
for interminable minutes. I realized she was listening to the laughter and
chatter drifting through the open window, probably waiting for a clue to the
purpose of the meeting, but like most meetings it was slow in starting. At last
she made a small, irritated, breathy sound indicating that her time or her
patience had run out. I heard the sound of her sandals receding, very soft and stealthy,
along the porch. There was a faint, metallic rattling that after a moment I
identified as the noise of a screen door hook being released. A door creaked,
and she was gone.