The Silencers (12 page)

He paused, surveyed us briefly as if committing us to memory, made a gesture towards raising his snappy little hat to Gail and stalked away. Bronkovic, looking puzzled, followed. I walked around the truck and got in and drove away, not fast, but as fast as I could without looking too much like a man with a guilty conscience.

“Well!” Gail said. “What was that? Why did he let us go?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said, “but he had our description from somewhere, once he got around to thinking about it, that’s obvious. I guess various people in Washington have decided to cooperate after all, and the word’s gone out to lay off a tall, skinny man, a beautiful woman and a truck with California plates.”

“Oh.”

“I must say it’s a relief,” I said with a grin. “He didn’t have what you’d call a reasonable attitude, and he was a little too free with his hands. If he hadn’t already had the official word, I might have run into trouble trying to make him listen to my explanation of what I was doing with a loaded revolver and an illicit film capsule in my boot.”

I felt a little guilty saying it, now that we were back on a moderately friendly basis again, but there were some things she was better off not knowing—and after all, it wasn’t really a lie. I hadn’t said there was any film in the capsule.

They pulled out a little after eleven. We could see them go from the window of a tourist court near the highway junction. Security or no security, nobody could have missed the caravan of government cars heading out across the valley.

“Well,” I said, “I guess there’s no doubt about who won the argument. Okay, let’s get to work. I didn’t want to risk bumping into any of Peyton’s minions—no sense pushing our luck—but now they’re gone, let’s grab some lunch and take this town apart. We’ll do it on foot this time, street by street. If you’ve got anything in the way of boots or overshoes, you’d better put them on. It’s getting pretty damn slushy out there...”

It was a rough afternoon, and the snow didn’t help a bit. When we weren’t wading through the slush, it was being splashed on us by passing cars. At dinner time, the tally stood at no Wigwams, one Tepee, two telephone subscribers named Hogan—a hogan is a Navajo hut—and a small Eskimo igloo constructed by a bunch of Spanish-American kids with happy dark faces. They thought the snow was real great. It had closed the schools for the day.

We checked every name and every structure that could possibly be taken to represent an Indian dwelling of any kind, and finally, at dusk, we stumbled into the Cholla Bar and Grill defeated and so tired that we couldn’t even talk until we’d polished off the first round of Martinis.

“I still think,” Gail said, “that our best bet is the Tepee.”

The Tepee was a tent-shaped drive-in we’d discovered on the edge of town that apparently served ice cream and kindred products in summer.

“It’s closed up tight,” I said.

“Well, it’s just the sort of mistake a... a dying person might make. Tepee-Wigwam. Wigwam-Tepee. Janie was trying to tell me, but she just got confused...”

I said, “Gail, the joint was boarded up. The folks who run the place are in El Paso for the winter. We checked; nobody’s been around for months. It’s no damn good.” She didn’t speak, and I said, “You’re still quite sure your sister said Wigwam?”

“You keep asking me that. Of course I’m not absolutely sure. There was a lot of noise and... well, she was dying. I’ve never seen a person die before. But I know what I think I heard. I can’t help it if—”

“Okay,” I said, cutting her off. “Suppose it is Wigwam, are you quite sure she said Carrizozo?”

She set her glass down so quickly that part of her drink slopped out. “Why don’t you say what you really think?” she demanded with sudden violence. “Why don’t you say that you still think I... I’m lying, leading you on a wild-goose chase for some... some sinister purpose...!” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, I wish I’d never come on this fantastic expedition! Just look at me! I haven’t had my clothes off for two days, and I’m so t-tired and d-dirty I could cry! I wish I’d just told that nasty old b-boss of yours what he could do with his lousy blackmailing... Ouch!”

She leaned down and rubbed her shin where I had kicked her, glaring at me across the tabletop.

“Keep your voice down,” I said. “Don’t go hysterical on me, glamor girl. Finish your drink and read your menu.”

She straightened up. “One of these days,” she breathed, “one of these days somebody’s going to take a baseball bat to you, and I hope I’m there to see it!”

“Sure,” I said. “If you want to pull out, they run buses to El Paso. Either stop screaming at me and behave yourself, or beat it.”

There was a little silence, then she pushed a wisp of hair back from her face and picked up her Martini glass. She spoke in a cool voice, devoid of anger or hysteria.

“I thought if I didn’t cooperate I’d go to jail as a dangerous enemy agent.”

I laughed. “We were bluffing, glamor girl. Haven’t you caught on yet? For a poker-playing Texican ranch girl you bluff easier than any human being I ever met. I’d love to play you for money some time. Go ahead and go, wherever you want to. Nothing will happen, nobody will whisper a word against you.”

She sipped her drink, studying me over the glass. “Well, I declare,” she said slowly. It was the first time she’d really put out with the drawl. “I do declare, it don’t seem possible that one man could be so aggravatin’ all by himself.”

“It’s a knack,” I said. “I’ve worked hard at developing it. I’m glad it’s appreciated.” I hoped she couldn’t guess how close this was to the truth.

“I don’t understand,” she said, dropping the Texas act as suddenly as she’d picked it up. “I don’t understand, why are you so anxious to get rid of me all of a sudden? Not that I mind, heaven forbid, but I thought you had some idea you needed me. You certainly went to enough trouble to get me here.”

I said, “That was when I thought you might lead me somewhere interesting and profitable. But we’ve spent a day on it, and nothing’s come of it. I haven’t any more time to waste.” I grinned at her. “Or maybe I’m just turning you loose to see what you do when you think you’re not being watched. Take your choice.” I let my grin widen in what I hoped was an infuriating way. “Goodbye. It’s been real nice, glamor girl. Parts of it, anyway.”

She got to her feet, set her glass down very gently, took her coat from a nearby hook and walked out without looking back. Now, I thought, if she had any resources we didn’t know about, she’d have to trot them out quick before she lost touch with me altogether. I had another drink and wondered why I was suddenly kind of lonely. I should be satisfied with my own company, shouldn’t I, a diabolically clever guy like me?

I phoned Mac from a booth by a filling station—the same filling station, as a matter of fact, that we’d patronized when we first arrived. It was the only public phone I knew of in Carrizozo. The same man was sitting at the desk beyond the big window of the building, having a sandwich and a cup of coffee for dinner.

I had no trouble reaching Mac in Washington. “Eric here,” I said when he came on the line. “Alexander Naldi. Seismologist, if that’s the proper term. Medium height, large head, black hair. Glasses situation confused. He was wearing them today, bifocals yet, but he didn’t have them on in Juarez. Maybe he was in disguise, or thought he was.”

“I see,” Mac said, two thousand miles away. “This is the man from whom Sarah got the films?”

“I wouldn’t swear to it in court, but he was in the place at the time, and he’s the only person she actually touched while on stage.”

“A seismologist, you say?”

“Don’t ask me to spell it, sir. A man who studies earth tremors.”

“I am aware of the definition of the word.”

“Yes, sir. He’s all set up to study earth tremors around here. There should be some good ones in a day or two. He seems to be in charge of the earth-tremor department He’s also doing his best to stall the project in question. He’s responsible for one postponement, and he tried to promote another today, but Rennenkamp wasn’t buying.”

“I see.”

“He has also recommended that the caverns at Carlsbad be evacuated during the test. This conflicts with official reassurances, quoted in the newspapers, to the effect that there isn’t the slightest danger to a single precious underground formation.”

“You seem to have acquired some fascinating data,” Mac said. His voice was cool. “None of it, however, seems to have much bearing on our problem.”

“Perhaps not, sir, but—”

“Your job is Gunther. Espionage and sabotage, on whatever scale, are not our concern, Eric. I am sure that in those fields the national interest is being quite adequately safeguarded by the agency or agencies established for the purpose. Never mind Alexander Naldi or the Carlsbad Caverns. You were sent after one man, a man known as Cowboy—”

“Just a minute, sir,” I said. If he could split hairs, so could I. “Let’s clarify this a bit. Am I looking for Gunther, or am I looking for this Cowboy character?”

“They are one and the same.”

“Says who? Everything I learn about Gunther sounds pretty small-caliber to me. Oh, he’s involved, sure, up to his neck, but if the Cowboy is their top man locally, it doesn’t look to me as if this gigolo is a very likely suspect.”

Mac said coldly, “Our assignment, your assignment, Eric, is Gunther. That is the way the orders came through, and that is the way we will execute them.” After a moment, he added, “After all, we owe him for LeBaron; he’s due for murder anyway. And if they want us to do the detective work, they can so state. In this case they claim positive identification. Do I make myself clear?”

He did. Somebody had reamed him out for interpreting orders loosely or concerning himself with matters outside his jurisdiction, so now we were going to do it by the book. Somebody wanted Gunther. Somebody would get Gunther.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “As far as Naldi and the Carlsbad Caverns are concerned, I just mentioned it because I thought you’d want to pass it along.”

“That,” said Mac sarcastically, “is a strange thought. I will have to pass it along, of course, now that you have presented me with it, but the desire is conspicuously lacking.”

I frowned at the glass wall of the booth. He was certainly in a state about something. I said, “I had the impression that everything was sweetness and light and official cooperation, sir.”

“What would give you that odd impression?”

I said, “You haven’t given our description to any related agencies and asked that we be let alone if encountered?”

“I am not in the habit of circulating the descriptions of our people, Eric, particularly not when they are on secret and potentially dangerous duty.”

“Then,” I said, “something damn funny is going on around here.” I told him what had happened that morning.

“A security officer?” Mac said. “And he’d been told what to look for?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t place me at once, he was too busy acting the Grand Inquisitor the way they do, but when he got around to noticing the lady and the truck and the license plate, he suddenly remembered something and became very gracious indeed.”

“I see,” Mac said. “I’ll investigate. You were careless. That involvement wasn’t necessary.”

“No, sir. I was scouring the town for wigwams. I didn’t expect to run into an official parade like that.”

“Considering the date, which I hope you are doing, it’s hardly an earthshaking coincidence.”

“Earthshaking?” I said. “I think that’s a very appropriate word in this connection, sir. Incidentally, there were no wigwams.”

“I see.” His voice was suddenly soft and sad and far away. “Well, we anticipated that possibility, didn’t we? Do your best, Eric. I didn’t mean to be... The political situation is a little trying at the moment.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It always is.”

“It is hard to explain to people who know nothing about it that political reliability is not the only qualification necessary for undercover work, or even the primary one.”

“They are raising hell about Sarah?”

“Naturally. It always raises hell when an agent defects. I think you had better get me Gunther, Eric. Nobody else has turned up any leads; yours is the only one we have, thin as it is. It should be a smooth, impressive, confidence-inspiring job, preferably one that looks like an accident and embarrasses nobody. Did you receive my little gift?”

“Yes, sir. I am wearing it.”

“It is supposed to be an improved model. I would like your comments, later. Just peel off the foil as usual. Do you feel that you are making progress?”

“The preparations are well in hand, sir. I would say she’s willing to try anything that’ll make life tough for me. All she needs is the chance.”

“Let us hope she gets it,” Mac said. “I hate to ask a man to offer himself as bait, but—”

“Sure,” I said. “Good-bye, sir.”

I hung up and stood there for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. A car drove up and a bell rang somewhere on the premises as it crossed a rubber hose lying across the driveway. The filling-station man, in the lighted office, drained his coffee cup and came out. His name was lettered over the door: A.H. (Hank) Wegmann. I assumed it was his name. No one but the owner or manager of the place would put in such long hours.

I opened the door of the booth, paused to let him go by and headed across the lot in the direction of the tourist court a couple of blocks away. He went out to the car by the pumps. It was an Army jeep from some nearby missile outfit, I noticed, with a young enlisted man at the wheel. The idea must have been taking shape in my mind as I walked, but I was almost out of range of the lights before it suddenly graduated from a kind of subconscious nagging to a conscious brain-wave.

It hit me so hard that I almost stopped and looked back to check what I’d seen, but that would have been strictly amateur procedure, and I’d done enough blundering already that day—as Mac had not been slow to point out. I kept walking until the place was out of sight behind me. Then I stopped under a street light and searched myself for something I vaguely remembered shoving into a pocket.

After a little, I found it—the flimsy receipt for the gasoline I had charged that morning. I smoothed out the paper, and there it was again, what had struck me back there:
WEGMANN’S ONE-STOP SERVICE, CARRIZOZO, NEW MEXICO
. I stood there looking at it, while cataclysmic changes occurred in what I like—though it seems without much justification—to refer to as my brain.