Matt Helm--The Interlopers (2 page)

“Guns, yes,” I said. “It’s been a while since I handled a fishing rod, however.”

Mr. Smith dismissed this objection. “It’s not something a man forgets, I gather. You’ll be briefed on the latest angling techniques, of course, as used by the man you’re to impersonate. How do you get along with dogs?”

I shrugged. “We have a nonagression pact. I don’t bite them and they don’t bite me.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Eric. You have an impressive record and we’re glad to have your help.” Mr. Smith regarded me benevolently for a moment; then his expression hardened. “Of course you’ll keep in mind at all times that security is paramount on this assignment. Absolutely paramount. My people will supply you with the information you need to do your job, no more. Well, I must start for the airport if I’m to make it back to Washington today.”

That had been in California, last week. Now I was standing knee-deep in the Columbia River, a couple of states to the north, all made up like a fisherman, with my hair bleached almost white and a black dog watching me expectantly from the bank. Daylight was upon us, and a sporty-looking coupé—one of those glamorized compacts with slanting rear decks and fancy wheel covers—was nosing its way off the dirt road and down through the brush to where my truck was parked.

It stopped there. A tall, blondish girl in jeans got out, opened the trunk, and began to climb into the kind of chest-high waders that look like baggy rubber pants with feet in them.

I wasn’t supposed to display any curiosity, of course. In fact, I was supposed to do nothing whatever except present myself, complete with dog and whistle, on the riverbank at dawn. Perhaps because—in my Nystrom incarnation—I was so easily described and so readily identifiable, the approach was to be made by the other party.

If this leggy female was my contact, the next step was up to her. And if she wasn’t, the less interest I displayed, the better. If I ignored her, maybe she’d go away. I just glanced at her rather coldly, therefore, like any angler finding his private fishing spot invaded by a stranger.

Then I went back to heaving my lure, which I had freed, out into the wide Columbia and cranking it back again. On the next retrieve, as it came into sight flashing erratically in the dark water, the biggest fish in the world made a lazy roll right behind it. I mean, for a trout, if it was a trout, it was a monster. Any red-blooded American boy would have found his heart beating faster at the sight of such a fish. I had no trouble doing a reasonably convincing job of impersonating a fisherman, therefore, for the next half hour or so, as I dragged everything in Grant Nystrom’s fancy tackleboxes past the spot where I thought the giant was lurking.

Nothing happened. No more fish investigated my lures—if that’s what the big one had been doing—and no humans made contact with me, either. When I looked around for the girl, she was standing in waist-deep water a couple of hundred yards upstream, swinging a heavy, two-handed, steelhead-type spinning rod with the ease that comes only with years of practice.

I cast some more, gaining skill but losing enthusiasm as the morning wore on. Finally I gave up on fish and waded ashore to make myself a little more available to people. My watch said that the contact deadline was getting close. If nothing happened by seven, my instructions were to leave the place and try the alternate rendezvous that had been provided for later in the day.

I went back to the camper, poured myself some coffee from a thermos jug, and got a doughnut out of a paper bag. Munching and sipping, I stood by the door looking out at the river. Another car had come down to join us: a rather elderly white Plymouth station wagon. The occupants, two men, were fishing downstream from my spot. Nobody seemed to be catching anything.

As I turned to reach into the camper for another doughnut, having had no breakfast, I became aware that the girl had left the water and was coming toward me. The pup, whom I’d given permission to run, was romping along behind her; obviously he’d found a friend. I felt the familiar tightness come to my throat. No matter how long you’re in the business, I guess you never get over that slightly breathless feeling just before the first card is dealt to open the game. Of course, it still remained to be proved that this blond kid was in the game. She could just be a friendly female who liked fish and dogs.

She stopped in front of me. The baggy rubber waders, held up by suspenders, did nothing for her figure, but I could see that she was the reedy, rather fragile kind of tall girl: a little girl stretched out long rather than a well-proportioned Amazon. Everything about her was rather small and delicate except for the long bones, and they looked as if they’d break rather easily. She had a small, tomboy face, framed by streaky blondish hair that was parted on one side, combed down straight all around, and whacked off level an inch or so below the ears. Her eyes, I saw, were blue and innocently direct, as if she’d never heard about fluttering eyelashes and maidenly reticence.

“Is this your dog?” she said. “He’s perfectly beautiful.”

It wasn’t exactly what she was supposed to say, and it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I mean, a Labrador isn’t really a beautiful dog like, say, an Afghan hound or an Irish setter.

I said, “He’s a good pup. Would you care for some coffee and a doughnut?”

“No, thanks. Well, yes, if they’re handy, I guess I will, please.” She waited until I’d brought her the stuff. “Are you having any luck?” she asked after a bite and a sip.

I shook my head. “No. I saw a big one roll out there, but I couldn’t interest him further. Of course, I’m not an expert on the tastes of your local fish.”

“What are you using?”

I showed her my current lure. It didn’t impress her. “Well, they sometimes take that,” she said. “But I have more luck with this rig, usually. A brass spinner and a single hook with a grasshopper on it. Of course, you’ve got to use a sinker to make it cast right. Here.” She showed it to me.

“Where do you get the grasshoppers?” I asked. I was trying hard to show the proper interest, but I wasn’t really interested in grasshoppers or even in big steelhead trout. I hadn’t been sent here for any fish, no matter how spectacular, and the interview wasn’t going right. There were certain things she was supposed to say in a certain way, if she was the right person, and she hadn’t said them. She’d been close, but in our business close isn’t good enough. The actual, specified words are supposed to be spoken.

“The grasshoppers?” she said. “Oh, you can chase them in the daytime, but I generally just pick them off the leaves after dark. What’s his name?”

Her mind wasn’t on angling either, I saw. She obviously was more interested in the pup.

“Hank,” I said.

“No, I mean his real name.”

“Oh. Well, officially he’s Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate.” I grinned. “If you want the works, his sire was Field Champion Avon’s Prince Rufus, and his dam was Holgate’s Black Donna… What’s the matter?”

There was a funny look on her tomboy face. “He doesn’t look like one of the Avon dogs. I’ve seen pictures of them in the magazines, and they’re all built like greyhounds.” She laughed quickly. “Not that I’m running down your dog; I like the small, stocky type of Lab myself. After all, if you’re going to have a retriever, it ought to look like a retriever and not a racehorse, don’t you think?” She hesitated but went on before I could speak. “Of course you have papers on him.”

“Sure,” I said. She had me baffled; I couldn’t guess what she was driving at. I tried another grin. “But I’m afraid he’s not for sale.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of buying him. But I have a little bitch who’s just come into heat and the dog to which I was planning to breed her… well, it didn’t work out, and I was wondering… could I see his papers?”

We’d considered all kinds of possibilities, setting this up, but the pup’s love life hadn’t really entered into our calculations.

I said, “Well, he’s pretty young to be used at stud, and I’m only in town for a day or two.”

She gave me a nice, unselfconscious grin. “How long does it take, actually? And I shouldn’t think it would hurt him to learn the facts of life.” She looked down at the black pup. He’d got wet again, visiting with her upriver, and now he was on his back, rolling himself happily in the dirt. In that position it was rather obvious that he was a little boy dog and not a little girl dog. The blond girl laughed. “He seems to have all the necessary equipment. He might as well learn how to use it.”

She was kind of a refreshing young lady, but if she wasn’t the person I’d come here to meet, I was wasting my time on her; in fact, she was an obstruction I’d better dispose of fast, before her presence scared off the real contact.

I said curtly, “I don’t really think—”

“Please,” she said softly. “I really want to get a good litter out of Maudie before she’s too old. She’s been… she’s been pretty great.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Where are you staying in town? Or are you camping out?”

“No, I got tired of pioneering. I’m staying at the Thunderbird Motel, but…”

She said, “Please. I’ll pay any fee within reason. Your dog is really lovely. He’s just what I’ve been looking for. They’ll be beautiful pups. How about twelve o’clock? I’ll buy you a lunch and we can talk it over, and I’ll take you out to see Maudie. Of course I have to keep her penned up right now. She’s a very good Lab. You’ll like her…”

Ten minutes later, I was driving away, pretty well committed to officiating at a canine love-in. The time was up and the right words hadn’t been said to make the contact official. Either she wasn’t the one, or she was stalling for some reason, perhaps suspicion. Well, if she really knew dogs—and she seemed to—she had good reason to be suspicious.

I’d told Mac from the start that Mr. Smith from Washington was a damn fool, having me go to all the trouble of making my hair an exact match for the dead man’s but giving me a pup that, aside from being black and a Labrador, hardly resembled the dead dog at all.

Mac had called me into the San Francisco office he was using temporarily, to ask for a progress report. This was at the end of the third and final day of indoctrination and general remodeling, designed to make me think, look, and act like Grant Nystrom. More study would have been useful—on other occasions I’ve taken weeks, even months, to work up a character properly—but Nystrom’s schedule didn’t allow it. I had to be on the banks of the Columbia on time.

As always, Mac had managed to pick an office with a bright window behind his chair, but after working with him for quite a few years, I didn’t need to see him clearly. I knew what he looked like, crisp gray hair, black eyebrows, and all. I knew his business expressions by heart. He doesn’t have too many that he uses in the line of duty. You could call him poker-faced and get no argument from me. What he’s like at home, if he’s got a home, I wouldn’t know.

“Well, Eric?” he said.

“Just a minute, sir,” I said, and turned to the pup, who was showing signs of wanting to investigate the office, perhaps with ulterior motives. “Hank, sit! Now stay there.
Stay!
”

I sat down and looked across the desk apologetically. “I’m supposed to take him everywhere I go. He even sleeps in my hotel room. It plays hell with my love life—or would, if they gave me time for a love life.”

“I gathered they were keeping you pretty busy.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “They’re trying hard, all those bright young characters working for Mr. Smith. But it isn’t going to work, sir.”

There was a little pause. When he spoke, the tone of the voice told me that the black eyebrows had lifted a fraction of an inch. “Why not? They seem to have done a good job on your hair. It’s a close match for that of the man we were taken to see in their private morgue. And I gather they have been able to give you a thorough knowledge of the late Mr. Nystrom’s likes and dislikes, his personal habits, and his current identification routines and itinerary.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “They know more about Grant Nystrom’s private life than seems quite reasonable; more than they could possibly have got from simple surveillance, and they won’t tell me how they got it. Another thing they won’t tell me is why the guy was killed, although it’s a subject in which I have, I feel, a legitimate interest.”

“Maybe they don’t know.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe they do know and just aren’t saying. They’re very selective about telling me things. The story I got was that the agent tailing the guy heard a couple of rifle shots. He’d been waiting in his car out of sight while Nystrom worked at training the pup out in the country somewhere. Hearing the shots, the agent decided he’d better drive up and take a look. He found them lying out in the field dead, man and dog both. As he got out and hurried over to them, a guy took off through the brush, jumped into a car, and drove away.”

Mac grimaced; he dislikes inefficiency. “Maybe Mr. Smith should teach his people a little more common sense and a little less security.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It was a pretty sloppy performance, all right. Maybe the agent in question couldn’t keep his subject from getting shot—maybe he wasn’t even supposed to—but he could at least have refrained from barging in clumsily until he’d got a good look at the murderer and learned what the guy was up to. Incidentally, the rifle was a .243, a pretty small caliber for a pro. It may be significant. I don’t know.”

“It seems to have been a professional enough job of shooting, Eric. Two shots; two dead bodies.”

“Yes, sir. But most pros would prefer to stack the deck in their favor by using somewhat bigger bullets. That six-millimeter rifle is pretty light. You’ve got more leeway with, say, a seven-millimeter or thirty-caliber gun. You’ve got some extra power in reserve, in case you don’t put the shot in exactly the right place.” I shrugged. “Anyway, after letting the murderer get away unseen, the agent started behaving with reasonable intelligence for a change. He quickly bundled both stiffs, human and canine, into Nystrom’s pickup camper and drove it out of sight. Then he came back for his own car, taking time to clean up the premises. So the only people besides us who know Nystrom is dead, we hope, are the people involved in having him killed. At least we’re gambling that the outfit we’re trying to get the goods on—the Communist spy ring for which he was playing courier—hasn’t got the word.”