The Intimidators (12 page)

“Yes, how could I suspect her when she’d apparently almost got killed, herself, by that dreadful Commie gunman?” I shook my head quickly. “And of course I had no suspicions at first. But, well, in spite of what I told her when she was dying—there was no need to rub it in—she really wasn’t very good, sir. I mean, psychologically the character she wanted me to believe in was a mess. Hell, she was positively vicious about Pavel Minsk after he was dead, to take just one example. Now, you know that a nice young university liberal with an assortment of bright intellectual degrees would never, never come out in favor of violence, even if said violence had saved her life. She’d feel morally obliged to express all kinds of mushy regrets about the terrible incident that had resulted in a man’s death, even if it had prevented hers. But this particular young lady
had
to say nasty things about Minsk, alive or dead—or felt she had to—so nobody could possibly suspect there was a connection between them.”

Mac didn’t say anything. I watched a boat heading out of the harbor; a big, sportfishing boat with tall outriggers. As I watched, the mate started lowering one of the long poles into fishing position. I wished I were on board, with nothing to worry about except sailfish and marlin, and maybe a small bonito or two.

I said, “And then, of course, there was that business of cooperating with the police to put me on the spot, even though I’d risked my life for her. Again, she just didn’t dare antagonize them and maybe have them digging into her background and discovering she wasn’t the real Lacey Matilda Rockwell—but it was hardly proper behavior for a young Maine lady with a stern New England sense of obligation.” I turned away from the window to look at him where he sipped his coffee at the small table by the wall. “It didn’t come to me all at once, sir, but it kept adding up. When she went into that corny white-lighthouse routine, it got to be a little too much to swallow. Waiting for her to change for dinner last night, I sat down and re-figured the situation on the basis of her being a complete phony, and saw that everything added up much better that way.” I waited for Mac to speak. When he didn’t, I said: “I guess that just about wraps up the job, unless you want me to carry on with the Haseltine business just to keep fifty million dollars happy. Or is it five hundred million?”

Mac looked up, surprised. “We can hardly call it wrapped up, can we, Eric? After all, there’s still that Florida marina named after a lighthouse to be investigated. I’m informed that the place does exist and that it is part of a well-known and very pleasant and respectable resort complex in the town of Marathon, on Key Vaca, about midway between the Florida mainland and Key West. And then, of course, there’s the person who put the finger on you in the first place, who must be dealt with—”

“No, sir,” I said.

He regarded me closely. I was pleased to see that he had to squint a little. For once I was the one with the bright window behind me.

“Explain yourself, Eric,” he said.

I said, “We both know the name of the person involved. At least I do, and your memory is usually at least as good as mine. Hell, I don’t have so many vindictive females in my past that I can’t spot one who (a) is knowledgeable about boats, and (b) speaks with a refined American accent, east and a little south. The fact that the female in question is supposed to have drowned in Chesapeake Bay when she deliberately ran her eighty-foot schooner aground one night in the tail end of a hurricane is irrelevant. No body was ever found; and that lady wasn’t good drowning material, hurricane or no hurricane.”

Mac said, “You are assuming that the girl really received a telephone call sending her to that deserted hotel; and that she described the voice of her caller correctly.”

“Why not? Everything indicates that they staged this whole thing very carefully, why not a real phone call? And why not describe a real voice? I have a hunch that phase two of the original plan involved leading me to the Keys with that lighthouse story and getting me interested in the mystery lady in question, so my little blonde girl friend could lower the boom while I was looking the other way. Something like that. Only something I said or did tipped her off that I wasn’t quite happy with her, so she tried to rush the job.”

“That’s not airtight,” Mac said, “but assuming I accept it, how does a knowledge of boats become significant?”

I moved over to fill my coffee cup again. I said, “I was entertained all through dinner with a long lecture on nautical subjects. The girl, whatever her real name was, had all her terms perfectly straight, as far as I could determine by reference to my own limited seagoing vocabulary. Okay, she was impersonating Lacey Rockwell, and she’d have done a certain amount of homework; and okay, she’d even talked to the real, captive Lacey Rockwell enough to get a feeling for the character she was to play; but that salty jargon is hell to master, sir. Somebody had really drilled it into this kid but good.”

“That somebody being the mystery lady you think you can identify?”

“Our girl never got all that stuff out of a book, or a frightened girl prisoner, either. Somebody had learned a lot about Harlan Rockwell and his boat—just about everything about them—and passed it along. Well, the boy spent several weeks in the Keys preparing for his round-the-world jaunt. I figure he made the acquaintance of a nice lady down there—maybe a nice lady with a boat in the same marina—who could talk his sailor-language like an expert; and who listened to his plans and dreams and nautical problems, and gave him advice and encouragement. She may have had nothing sinister in mind at the time. Later, however, after young Rockwell had sailed away, she spotted me hanging around the Keys making like a fisherman, and remembered her old grievance. She got in touch with her former associates, I figure, if she hadn't been in touch with them right along. When a plausible cover story was needed, she remembered the vanished
Ametta Too
and all the recent publicity about the deadly Bermuda Triangle. She remembered the boy and his boat; maybe the sister—the real Lacey Rockwell—really gave her the idea by turning up in the area making inquiries about her brother, missing at sea. Our ingenious, vengeful lady saw how all these elements could be combined into a story I’d be likely to swallow—”

When I paused, Mac said, “You are, of course, thinking of the Michaelis case. The lady’s name, as I recall, was Mrs. Louis Rosten. As you say, she was officially declared dead—after some pressure was exerted by her husband who, as you undoubtedly recall, had very good reasons for wanting her dead.”

“Yes,” I said, “like a busted face, a broken arm, and a million-odd dollars, now legally his, I suppose. Well, I guess Louis earned it the hard way. That black henchman of his wife’s really worked him over that last night. Nick, that was the big guy’s name. I don’t suppose she’s forgiven me for Nick or any of the rest of it.”

“Obviously not, or she wouldn’t be trying to have you killed—if your assumptions are correct, and Robin Rosten is actually the person you have to thank for it.”

“She’s the one,” I said definitely. I stood there for a moment, remembering a big schooner roaring through a stormy night with a dark-haired woman at the wheel and a black giant stalking me through the rigging.... I shook my head quickly. “To hell with it,” I said. “It was just the old cobra reflex, sir. I cost Robin Rosten a great deal. She was a fine society lady living on a great estate; and on account of me—well, her own behavior had something to do with it; but she’d disregard that—she wound up a name less fugitive crawling ashore on a dark coast with nothing but the wet clothes on her back. So she spotted me and took a crack at me, or had somebody else take a crack at me, so what? We got Pavel Minsk out of the deal; a guy we’d been wanting a long time. Actually, she did us a favor. To hell with Robin Orcutt Rosten, whatever she’s calling herself these days. Let her sit in the Florida Keys and wonder when I’m coming after her. Forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Eric—”

“Goddamn it, sir,” I said, “I can take care of myself. There are quite a few folks who’d like me dead, and you, too, sir; are we going to track down every one of them? Unless she’s threatening the safety of the country in some way, and I’ve heard nothing about it, for God’s sake leave the dame alone! I’ve seen enough dead females to hold me for a while; and if you send me after this one I’ll probably wind up having to arrange for her death in some devious, Machiavellian way—”

“I see,” he said, regarding me thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m just another sentimental, chivalrous slob like Fred. The only difference is that I wait until they’re dead before I commune with my goddamn conscience.”

“I’m afraid,” Mac said slowly, “that you are going to have to disregard your goddamned conscience here, Eric.”

“Why?” I demanded. “It’s all over. It was a very simple Moscow deal to eliminate two agents they found embarrassing: one of ours, me, and one of theirs, Minsk. It’s finished.”

“There are three important personages still missing—”

“That’s got nothing to do with this,” I said. “We were wrong in thinking there was a connection—except insofar as a missing boat, and the general reputation of the area, gave the Rosten and her associates the notion of cooking up a disappearance of their own involving a poor little girl searching for her lost brother, just the right sucker bait for the notoriously susceptible M. Helm.”

“You feel quite certain that it was a coincidence, Eric? That Moscow has nothing to do with the other disappearances?”

“Well, one stimulated the other, as I just said,” I told him, “but I’d be willing to bet a large sum that the people who kidnaped Lacey Rockwell so another girl could take her place haven’t the slightest idea what happened to the two millionaire yachts....” I stopped. “Wait a minute! Young Rockwell wasn’t all that important, except to his sister. You said three
important
personages?”

Mac nodded. “Yes. We just got word that a private plane flying a wealthy French politician to Martinique has failed to arrive. We can’t be certain, yet, that it’s another Phipps and Marcus case; but there were no radio messages of distress, although the fuel would have come to an end several hours ago, so the plane must be down somewhere.” He paused, and went on: “All governments involved are seriously concerned, Eric. Washington has congratulated us on disposing of Pavel Minsk; but he is now a minor detail—”

“Sure, we’re all minor details when we’re dead,” I said sourly.

“The fact is that we—you—seem to have a finger on one feeble thread that might, just possibly, lead to an explanation of all these disappearances.”

“My hunch, and I’m a pretty good huncher, is that it won’t,” I said. “Okay, so somebody is apparently, as I said before, making a collection of seagoing—and airgoing—millionaires, but Lacey Rockwell wasn’t one of them, and neither was her brother; and the collector isn’t Robin Rosten.”

“Then Mrs. Rosten is in a very unfortunate situation,” Mac said smoothly, “because she will soon be questioned intensively by people acting on the assumption, not really as implausible as you make it sound, that she
is
connected with these disappearances. And the minute she is investigated, her true identity will come out, and no matter what else happens, she’ll be brought back to Maryland to face several old charges including, I believe, one that reads accessory to murder.” Mac paused significantly. “That is, of course, unless the interrogation and investigation are conducted by somebody more or less sympathetic to the lady’s cause.”

I drew a long breath, regarding him grimly. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “I hear it, but I don’t believe it, sir. You are actually trying to blackmail me into doing a job that’s really none of our concern by threatening a woman who tried her damndest to kill me?”

Mac said dryly, “One must work with what one has, Eric. And if what one has is a self-styled sentimental, chivalrous slob—”

The Florida Keys are an ecological disaster perpetrated, or at least initiated, by a gent named Flagler who had the crazy notion of running a railroad—Flagler’s Folly, it was undoubtedly termed at the time—a hundred miles out to sea, island-hopping his rails from the Florida mainland all the way out to Key West. His project, after actually functioning for a while, was wiped out in a hurricane, but the eager-beaver highway builders, always looking for places to spread their sticky asphalt, promptly followed his lead.

As a result, a string of lovely tropical islands has been transformed into what may be the longest motel-and-filling-station blight in the world, very similar to what you’ll find leading into any big city, except that there’s water on both sides of it. At least that’s the view from the Overseas Highway, so-called: a long, rough, suicide strip interrupted by endless narrow bridges that serve, I suppose, the worthy purpose of helping to reduce overpopulation in the area to a slight, bloody degree.

Off the dismal, crowded highway, however, there are still quite a few pleasant green pockets of privacy more or less untouched by the greasy fingers of progress. (Actually, as I’d learned staying here with Laura earlier in the year, the best part of the Keys is getting off them in a boat—the farther you get from them, either on the deep Atlantic Ocean on one side or the shallow Gulf of Mexico on the other, the better they look. When they’re barely visible on the horizon, you can imagine what this oceanic paradise was like before the dredges and concrete mixers and paving machines moved in.)

The Faro Blanco Marine Resort, to give it its full name, was such a palmy waterfront enclave in a hostile, hamburger-and-hotdog environment. It was a big, parklike place on the Gulf of Mexico side of Key Vaca—the north side—with guest cottages scattered at random under the shady trees. Stopping outside the office, I got out of the rented car that had been waiting for me at the Marathon airstrip, where I’d been deposited by the small plane that had first dropped off Mac at the Miami airport to catch a flight north.

“Be careful, Eric,” he’d said as we parted. “On the record, that’s a fairly dangerous woman.”