Matt Helm--The Interlopers (17 page)

“You mean… you mean you’re going right ahead and—”

“That’s right,” I said. “And if you boys behave yourselves, I’ll let you play your little juggling tricks with any material I get, just the way we had it worked out in San Francisco. But if I get any more static from you, I’ll just go it alone. You can blame yourself if the stuff gets delivered in Anchorage unaltered.”

“You… you’d turn over the information intact? You’d betray your country’s secrets…”

“You know how to prevent it from happening. All you have to do is carry through just the way we planned.”

He frowned at me suspiciously. In a perverse way, I was happy to see that he was at least smart enough to spot the logical fallacy behind my position. I’d hate to think the next generation of agents is going to grow up totally brainless.

“But why?” he asked. “What reason have you for wanting to go on independently? You said you had other work to do. We’re releasing you from this operation; why don’t you just go back and do it?”

I said, “Oh. Now you’re releasing me. A minute ago it sounded very much like you were kicking me out for behavior unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.” He flushed and didn’t answer. While I had the advantage, I went on quickly, “I make a habit of finishing my missions, Junior. I wouldn’t want to get in the habit of copping out every time the going got tough, even when it’s my own people who make it tough. It’s a psychological thing. You can always find some excuse for quitting a job if you look hard enough. I just don’t want to get started looking.”

This was nonsense, of course, but it was, I hoped, the kind of inspirational psychological hogwash he was used to hearing. Anyway, it silenced him, and saved me from having to tell him that I was actually sticking with the crummy, cockeyed little job assigned me by his Mr. Smith only because it happened to be part of a much more important mission assigned me by somebody else. To keep him from asking any more embarrassing questions, I reached into my pocket.

“Here’s Hank’s collar,” I said. “Where’s the temporary replacement?”

Junior hesitated; then he brought out a second collar, identical to the one I was holding except that it was just a little blacker, shinier, and new-looking. We made the trade.

“I… I’ll have to confer with Washington,” he said.

“You do that,” I said. “But at four o’clock this afternoon, I’ll be at the field at the edge of town specified in the original instructions. I’ll heave a training dummy out into the brush in the place I was told, the place somebody’s supposed to be hiding. I’ll send the dog after it, with this phony collar on him. And if he doesn’t come back wearing the right one, the one you’re holding now, with the contents looking just as they should, that’s the last contact I’ll make with you people. Tell Mr. Washington Smith I said so.” I stood up. “Okay, you go find your gun while I call in the pup. You’d better ride back here again. I’ll tap the horn when it’s safe for you to unload. Where do you want me to let you off?”

“My partner is waiting in the lab truck. It’s parked just around the corner from the transportation building or whatever they call it…”

After dumping him in the proper area, I drove down to the waterfront, cooked and ate a rudimentary lunch, and slept until three-thirty. Then I went through the contact routine as specified. I could only guess at Mr. Smith’s reaction to my ultimatum—he didn’t look like a man who’d approve of backtalk from the hired help—but the collar I got was the right one with the right stuff in it. At least it looked right to me, and would to anyone who didn’t examine it too closely, which was all that mattered.

I had dinner at a motel restaurant, fed the pup, and caught up on some more sleep, parking out by the ferry terminal this time, a mile or so out of town. Well before dawn, cars started lining up at the entrance to the boarding area. I got dressed and drove over, putting my rig in line behind a Volkswagen bus loaded with kids and camping gear. Then I went in back and cooked some breakfast, sticking my head out frequently to see what progress was being made. I could have saved myself the trouble. The ferry was three hours late, delayed by fog up the coast.

After it arrived it had to unload, so the morning was more than half gone before we were permitted aboard, first doing the customs-and-immigration bit once more since the next stop was U.S. territory. Because I was riding almost to the end of the line, I was shunted to the farthest depths of the car deck, a cavernous space that looked very much like the flight deck of a small aircraft carrier roofed over, except that the island was in the center of the ship rather than at the side.

It was a tricky piece of driving—they were packing us in like sardines—and I had no opportunity to study the cars around me until I finally got the truck parked to the satisfaction of a man in a nautical cap who undoubtedly did jigsaw puzzles in his spare time. He left me barely room enough to open the left-hand cab door and the door to the camper. The right-hand door to the cab, he said, I wouldn’t be needing anyway.

I’d wiggled out into the tiny space between the truck and the car alongside and had started making my way toward a marked stairway when I saw a yellow Cadillac convertible with a dark-haired woman at the wheel being guided into a slot three cars back.

The motor vessel
Matanuska
was a good-sized ship. Above the car deck was a deck of staterooms for those who wanted privacy on the two-day voyage up the coast and were willing to pay for it. The purser seemed to be doing a good business in accommodations; however, I got the impression that most of the passengers were planning to divide their time between their cars below, and the numerous upholstered chairs and airplane-type seats up above.

Over the stateroom deck was the observation and nourishment deck, with glassed-in lounge, snack bar, restaurant, and a cocktail bar called the Totem Room, not open at this hour of the morning. I made a special note of its location, since that was where I was to make my next pickup at five o’clock that afternoon.

Outside, a promenade deck for fresh-air lovers ran clear around the ship. It was out here, after doing enough exploring to get my bearings, that I stopped to await developments while watching the last cars driving aboard. Developments weren’t long in coming. Almost immediately a feminine voice spoke softly in my ear.

“You’re a hard man to catch.”

“I didn’t know if I was supposed to be caught,” I said without turning my head. “If I was, I figured you were just the girl to do it.”

Libby Meredith laughed. “Well, now that I’ve found you, you’d better kiss me, darling,” she murmured. “Do a good job. I know it’s rough but it’s in the line of duty. You’re supposed to be Grant Nystrom and mad about me, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

I turned to face her. She was wearing another smartly cut pantsuit, yellow-brown corduroy this time, with a rather long tailored jacket buttoned over a brown turtleneck sweater. Pants or no pants, the outfit looked too fashionable, and her short dark hair was too smooth and her makeup too perfect, for a lady about to plunge into the great northern wilderness. One was tempted to muss her a little so she’d fit the rugged scenery to come. Maybe that was the idea. Unlike Pat Bellman, I reminded myself, this was a girl who’d been around long enough to know all about temptation.

“Libby, darling!” I said, putting amazement and delight into my voice. “What a wonderful surprise!”

I took her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her hard, to the amusement of the camera-toting passengers on both sides of us.

“Grant, please!” She made a pretense of flustered embarrassment as she freed herself. “Not among all these people, dear!” Then she relented and patted my cheek affectionately, smiling. “But I’m glad you’re glad to see me.”

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said. “I’ve seen a boat leave a dock, haven’t you?”

I led her away, with my arm around her waist. Corduroy isn’t my favorite material by a long shot—I’m an oldfashioned silk-satin-and-lace man at heart—but somehow she managed to make me very much aware of the woman under the ribbed, velvety cloth.

“Have you got a stateroom?” I asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Because you owe me three nights of bliss, sweetheart.”

I felt her hesitate, and keep on walking. “That many? You’ve been a busy little man.”

“Somebody else said that. Is it supposed to be funny?”

“Did you get the girl?”

“I had her,” I said, “but I let her go.”

This time, Libby stopped abruptly and swung to face me. We were on the other side of the ship now, away from the shore, and we had it pretty much to ourselves.

“You let her go!” Libby’s voice was incredulous. “But
why
?”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to seem greedy.” I said. “Or maybe I figured that after three wonderful nights together we’d probably be getting on each other’s nerves anyway.”

She said stiffly, “I don’t think that’s very amusing!”

I went on, “Or maybe I just figured I’d left enough dead people around for the cooperative authorities of a friendly foreign nation to dispose of. In that, I seem to have been right. The Canadians aren’t a bit happy with me, I’m told, and neither are the boyscouts I’m supposed to be working with, or for.”

Libby was studying my face carefully. “Of course, the fact that the child is fairly good looking had nothing to do with your decision.”

“Child, hell,” I said. “She could wring you out and hang you up to dry.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t a tall child, or a strong child, or a smart one. A very smart one, apparently.”

“Sure,” I said. “But say she twisted me around her little pink finger and made a fool of me, so what? Are you going back on your bargain, Libby? Or changing the rules of the game after the starting whistle? The original deal, as I understood it, was that any dead body would count for points, as long as it had, alive, had something to do with the outfit that murdered your backward lover. Well, these were all members of the same gang, there’s no doubt about it. But now you’re acting as if I had to produce one particular female cadaver to qualify—”

“Don’t!”

“Don’t what?” I asked innocently.

“I… I didn’t realize…” She stopped and her throat worked. “Anyway, don’t talk about it like that. So… so cold-blooded!”

I had been pushing hard for a reaction. Now that I’d got it, I had to decide whether it was genuine or phony. I made a sound of disgust.

“I might have expected it!” I said bitterly. “I’ve never yet known a woman to arrange for a killing that she didn’t get squeamish when the job was done and the payoff was due. Very damn convenient, I must say!”

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped. “I’m not backing out of any deals. I just don’t want to talk about… about the gory details, or hear you talk about them, that’s all!”

We faced each other for a moment longer, and I still had no clear sign to tell me whether or not she was really the rich bitch on a vengeance kick she’d claimed to be, now a little subdued by the actual fact of homicide. I had to admit to myself, however, that I wasn’t quite as sure she was faking as I’d been when I talked with Mac two days before.

Abruptly, Libby shrugged, dismissing the subject. “If you know the coordinates of the dining room on this bucket and are willing to guide me there, I’ll let you buy me some breakfast. I thought we’d be under way hours ago, so I came down to the dock without anything to eat. Now I’m starving.”

“Sure.”

As we went inside, the big ferry began backing out of its slip; by the time we’d settled at a table in the dining room, it was moving forward and the spruce-clad shores were slipping by the windows at a respectable rate of speed. It was a relief, I found, to be under way. I hadn’t been quite sure that I wouldn’t be yanked off the boat by the Canadian police, perhaps egged on by an offended Smith or two.

Now I had a contact to make on board today; and then, tomorrow, there was the island town of Sitka coming up, and another pickup. That was as far ahead as I let myself think; the business up north on the mainland could wait. I glanced at my watch.

“What’s the matter, am I boring you?” Libby asked sharply.

“Go to hell,” I said. “I’m a working man; I’ve got a schedule to keep. I’m not supposed to be wasting time on stray brunettes.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re to contact somebody right here on shipboard, aren’t you?”

She still had no more notion of security, it seemed, than a gabby parakeet. Furthermore, Mac has a thing about people who use “contact” that way, and it seems to have rubbed off on me. Or maybe I just found her irritating today, on general principles.

I said sourly, “Wait a minute and I’ll have the head waiter arrange for a P.A. system so you can tell the whole ship all about it.”

“Don’t be so stuffy. Nobody’s listening to us. Matt?”

“Call me Grant, just for practice.”

“All right,
Grant
.” She wasn’t very fond of me, either, at the moment. “I don’t want to run the subject into the ground,
Grant
, but aren’t you afraid that little girl you let go is going to louse up the whole mission. If she talks…”

I said, “Look, you play your hunches and I’ll play mine. My hunch said it was time to stop killing people and turn one loose alive. Maybe I was right and maybe I was wrong, but that’s the way it stands. And at the moment I’m not half as worried about the girl I let go as about the girl I can’t seem to get rid of. Just what are you supposed to be doing here, Libby?”

She looked surprised. “Last time we talked, you were very anxious to know I’d be around if you needed me.”

“Sure, and it’s great as far as I’m concerned, but how did you wangle it without arousing suspicion elsewhere?”

“It’s all right,” she said confidently. “It’s been cleared with everybody who counts, all the way to Moscow. Well, almost. As a matter of fact, you’re looking at a competitor in the Communist-courier business. I’m running a special message up to Anchorage for them. I asked if it would be all right if I arranged to make the ferry ride with you. Permission was granted with an indulgent laugh and a crude joke or two.”