The Wrecking Crew

by Donald Hamilton

  With the window safely covered, I went back and closed the door and hit the light switch. The Swedes go in for large push buttons, like overgrown doorbell buttons. You hit them once for light, and once again—the same button—for darkness. Then I looked at the dresser top, which was empty. The films were gone. The surprise wasn’t exactly what you’d call paralyzing.

  I went behind the bathroom curtain and looked at myself in the mirror. I had a streak of her lipstick across one cheek and more on my shirt collar; I had her face powder on my lapels. I had some scratches on my wrist where she’d tried to hold me off. Otherwise she’d done me no visible harm. Damage-wise, as the Madison Avenue boys would say, it had been strictly a one-way proposition.

  My image in the mirror had that dead-fish look that your mirror image always gets after you’ve drunk too much. I was beginning to need a shave, I noticed. I needed a bath. I needed a good beating-up or the firm application of an old-fashioned horsewhip. I needed a new face and a new personality. I needed twelve hours’ sleep.

  I settled for washing my face and taking some aspirin. When someone knocked on the door, the sound was barely audible, but it made me jump a foot. I took out the knife again and went to the door and opened it, taking the routine precautions. Outside was the last person in the world I expected to see right then. You’d have thought she’d had enough of me for a while. I folded the knife and put it away. It was getting lots of fresh air tonight, but no exercise.

  “Come in, Lou,” I said. She didn’t move at once. She was watching my face. “Yes,” I said, “your friends have been here. Congratulations.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Matt, I—”

  “Come in,” I said. “It’s safe. I never maul the same woman twice in one night.”

  She stepped inside. I closed the door and turned to look at her. She’d done a quick restoration job; you wouldn’t have known this was a girl I’d just left lying across her bed in rags. She had her old beatnik costume on—the tight black pants, the bulky black sweater—and her hair was brushed and her lipstick was bright and straight. There was a small red area on her chin, that was all.

  We faced each other in silence; then I said, “Everything okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I... I’m all right.”

  I reached out and touched the mark on her chin. “Whisker burns?” She nodded again. I said, “I’ll have to remember to shave for the next young lady I ravish.”

  She said, “You didn’t finish ravishing this one, Matt.” There was a spell of silence. She said, “It wasn’t... wasn’t very nice, what I had to do to you, what we did to each other. I don’t blame you for hating me and wanting to hurt me.”

  I didn’t want her damn understanding. “That’s nice of you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  She shook her head quickly. “Don’t be sarcastic, please. Some day, maybe soon, you’ll understand why...” Her voice ran out. After a little, she said, “If there’s anything... anything I can do to make up for tricking you...”

  I said, “I figured we came out pretty even.”

  She glanced toward the empty dresser top. “Still?”

  “Still,” I said.

  She grimaced. “I don’t seem to have much luck selling myself tonight, do I?”

  “Oh, is that what you were doing?” I asked. I looked her up and down briefly. “Well, I never could get excited over a woman in pants, doll.”

  She said, completely without expression: “That’s easily remedied. They come off, you know.”

  It was no use. I couldn’t out-tough her. I admitted defeat. “Let’s cut it out, Lou. I’ve had just about enough of this smart-and-dirty dialogue.”

  She said, stiffly, “I just don’t want you to feel… well, cheated. At least not in that way. And I don’t want you to feel noble and forgiving, either. I want to have all our accounts settled when I go out of here. We probably won’t meet again. If you think you’ve got something coming, damn you, now’s the time to collect.” Then she started to cry.

  After a little, I got a clean handkerchief from my suitcase and gave it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and looked at the handkerchief in a baffled way.

  “Keep it for a souvenir,” I said. “When you look at the discreet monogram, in the years to come, remember me.”

  She stuck it into her pants pocket. “Well, I seem to have finally succeeded in making a complete sap of myself,” she said. “I guess it’s time to go.”

  She turned away. I let her get as far as the door. Then I said, “Lou.”

  She turned to look at me. “Yes?”

  “A message,” I said. “From one M. Helm to one X. Caselius, if you should happen to encounter the gentleman.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “What’s the message, Matt?”

  I said, “I offered you a deal, remember? You turned it down.”

  “I remember.”

  I said, “Well, if Massa Caselius should be in any way dissatisfied with the films you all went to so much trouble to get tonight, honey, you just whisper in his ear that I might be able to help him out. There’s only one catch. He’ll have to come in person. I still have a downright yearning to see his face.”

  She was staring at me, wide-eyed, with a look of shock and horror. “Oh, no!” she whispered, as if to herself, and then to me: “Oh, you fool! You stupid, meddling fool! How could you—”

  Her voice caught on a sob. She whirled and snatched at the door handle in a blind sort of way, got the door open, and ran out. I heard the scuffing sound of her soft shoes go down the hall fast.

  After a moment, I shrugged and went after her. I was a success. I’d got a great big reaction. I’ll be honest and admit I didn’t know why. I went after her to find out. She was turning down the stairs as I came into the hall. I heard her stop halfway down. I went as far as the comer and took a cautious look.

  From the head of the narrow stairs you looked right down into the lobby. Actually, it was little more than a vestibule, with just room enough for people to transact their business at the desk and hang up their coats on the way to the dining room. This limited space, I saw from my point of vantage, was rapidly becoming occupied by cops and other people, just as fast as they could get in the door. Halfway down the stairs, pressed against the wall, was Lou, staring down at this influx of law-enforcement talent.

  When she came out of her trance and tried to flee, it was too late. One of the policemen had spotted her and pointed her out to Grankvist, our blond friend with the pale eyebrows. He was fast on his feet. He came up those stairs like a man in first-class condition. She missed a step in her haste, coming back up toward me; she went to one knee. Before she could recover, Grankvist had her.

  Surprisingly, she gave him a fight. He was just a poor damn government employee doing his duty, but she gave him the battle that, with much more provocation, she hadn’t given me. He got thoroughly bitten and scratched, and two tall policemen had to give him a hand, before he got her subdued.

  I’d been too busy watching the ruckus and keeping in the shadow and out of sight—they’d been pretty close to me—to pay much attention to what was going on below. Now, as Lou was hauled down the stairs, I saw a familiar figure down there. They grow Swedes tall, but they don’t generally grow them very wide. This man was both tall and wide. He crowded that little vestibule just by being in it.

  “I see you’ve got her,” he said in English to Grankvist.

  “Yes, Herr Wellington,” said the blond man, patting his scratched face with a handkerchief. “We have her. But the next time we work together for the good of our respective countries, may I suggest that you take the woman?”

  Wellington laughed. “I warned you she’d be a wildcat.” He gestured toward the door. “Our part of the operation went like clockwork. We caught him with the photographs in his possession, all legal and proper. Herr Grankvist, may I present Herr Caselius?”

  I looked toward the door. The dapper small figure was practically invisi
ble in that room jammed with tall men; but I had reason to remember a deserted road and a swift blade. Unlike Lou, the little man had apparently allowed himself to be taken without a struggle. He looked neat and serene between his police guards, and the pin in his tie reflected the light brightly.

  “There must be some mistake,” he said calmly. “My name is Carlsson. Raoul Carlsson, of the house of Carlsson and LeClaire...”

  Well, I had my answer, for what it was worth. I went back to my room. They’d be coming for me soon enough, but maybe I could get some sleep first.

  23

  It was four in the morning when they started breaking down the door. At least it sounded like that to a man fighting his way upward out of fathoms of sleep. Everybody else had seemed to have no trouble whatever getting in and out of my hotel rooms, wherever they might be. I couldn’t see why these jokers had to make such a production of it.

  “This is the police.” It was Grankvist’s voice. “Open the door, Herr Helm.”

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  I turned on the light and glanced at the knife on the bedside table. There have been cases of people getting dead from opening the door to cops who weren’t cops. But the voice was familiar and I wanted to look gentle and peaceful in the eyes of the local law. I’d finished one theatrical engagement; now I had a new role to play. I dropped the knife back into the pocket of my pants, where they hung on a chair, yawned, checked the time—that’s when I learned it was four o’clock—and went over barefooted to let them in.

  I turned the key in the lock. The door came back at me, knocking me off balance. I caught a glimpse of Wellington’s massive shape; then his fist caught me alongside the jaw and I went sideways and down. Like I say, I never could do much with fists myself, but there are people who can.

  He gave me no chance to pick myself up. He was on top of me as I got to hands and knees. He was growling like a bear. I gathered he was mad about something. I could even make a fairly accurate guess what it was. He clubbed me across the back of the head and I went down again. I had barely consciousness enough left to roll away, knowing that a kick was next. It caught me in the ribs and slammed me against the wall. That was enough. I curled up and played possum. He kicked me once more and yanked me up and slapped my face a couple of times, but you don’t get much of a charge from beating up a guy who apparently can’t feel it. He let me go again, and I dithered artistically to the floor and stayed there with my eyes closed, thinking about the fun I’d have with him some day. I love big tough men who shove me around. They buried the last one I met with five bullets in his chest.

  “You dirty renegade,” Wellington was saying. “You miserable scum, to call yourself an American—”

  I didn’t pay much attention to him. What he said didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to finish me off, obviously, and that was his mistake. He got into a hassle with Grankvist, who thought he’d overdone it a bit, I guess. Finally Grankvist lost his patience.

  “I am in command here, Herr Wellington!” he snapped. “Your help has been appreciated, but if you do not take control of yourself I will call the men outside and have you escorted from this room. There was no need for such violence!”

  Wellington said in a sour voice, “All right, all right, I’ll be good. I just wanted a couple of swings at him before you boys took over. After all the trouble we’ve gone to, to have it all shot to hell because of one lousy—”

  “Please, Herr Wellington!” Grankvist approached and knelt beside me. “Herr Helm.”

  He rolled me over. I let myself come to, gradually, opening my eyes and looking up into his narrow Nordic face. I sat up and rubbed my jaw without speaking. Grankvist looked embarrassed.

  “Are you all right, sir? Can you stand up?” He helped me to my feet. “It was an error on my part, I’m afraid. I misjudged the strength of Herr Wellington’s feelings.”

  I said, “That’s not the only part of Herr Wellington you misjudged the strength of. Jesus!” I glanced at the big man, and looked back to Grankvist. “What’s that gorilla have against me, anyway?”

  Grankvist frowned. “You ask that?”

  “Damn right I ask it,” I said. “I’m just a poor damn American photographer, I know, a foreigner and all that, but I was under the impression this was a peaceful and law-abiding country. So the police wake me up in the middle of the night, and I open the door, and a crazy man eight feet tall knocks me down and walks all over me!”

  Wellington stepped forward. “Listen, Helm, that innocent stuff isn’t going to get you—”

  “Mr. Wellington, I must insist!” Grankvist held up his hand. “Let us approach this matter reasonably.”

  I rubbed my bruised ribs. “Let’s do,” I said. “It’s about time. First let’s get our identities straight, if you don’t mind. I know who you are, Grankvist; at least you seem to have something to do with the police. Okay. But what’s this guy doing here? The last I heard, he was an American businessman and an admirer of Mrs. Taylor’s. Will somebody tell me what an American businessman is doing beating up people for the Swedish police? What’s the matter, haven’t you got anybody big enough among your own men?”

  “Herr Helm—”

  I turned on the anger a little more. “Look, Grankvist,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do know that the American Embassy’s going to hear about this business. What do you mean by busting into my room...” I wheeled on Wellington, who’d started to dig through my open suitcase. “Damn you, leave my stuff alone!”

  He gave a triumphant laugh, and came up with the little Smith and Wesson. “I thought so! Here, Grankvist. Would an innocent American traveler be packing a .38?”

  He tossed the weapon across the room. Grankvist caught it and looked at me questioningly.

  I said, “What the hell does that signify? If you want to be technical, I’ve got import licenses—”

  “For this?” The Swede shook his head. “I doubt it, Herr Helm. We do not often permit the importation of pistols by private citizens.”

  I said irritably, “Well, hell, I had papers for the rifle and the shotgun; I didn’t figure it would bother anybody if I tossed that pea-shooter into my baggage. I’ve always had a handgun around, out west where I live; I’d feel sort of naked without it.”

  “It’s highly illegal here, I’m afraid.”

  “All right, so arrest me!” I said angrily. “Is that what this is all about? Two big operators in my room and God knows how many more out in the hall, a sock on the jaw and a couple of kicks in the ribs, just because I slipped a little five-shot .38 into my gear when I was packing?”

  Grankvist was watching me narrowly. I sensed that behind his official calm he was just a little worried. He said, “You really claim not to know why we are here, Herr Helm?”

  Wellington made a rude sound in his throat. “You’re not going for that routine, are you, Grankvist?” he demanded. “This guy’s obviously in cahoots with—”

  Grankvist said, “Mr. Wellington! I’ve asked you—”

  “Rats!” Wellington snorted. “He knows why we’re here! ” He reached into his pocket and jerked something out. It was long, wet, and black. It stuck to itself, and I didn’t think it had benefited the lining of his pocket any, either. He hauled another one out of the other pocket. It was a hell of a way to carry film, but then, after what I’d done to it, the stuff wasn’t much good anyway. “There!” he said, throwing the two films on the bed. “That’s what we’re here about, Helm! Those two and a bushel of others just like them! The military just finished developing them for us, rush. All black! Fogged! Completely blanked out, so you couldn’t tell what had been on them! Useless as evidence, absolutely useless, after all the work—”

  He stopped as I burst out laughing. He took a step toward me. I stopped laughing abruptly. “Come on, Large Boy,” I said. “This time I’m ready for you.”

  “Gentlemen!” Grankvist protested.

  I turned to him. “Keep this Ivy-League ape away
from me,” I said. “Nobody kicks me and gets away with it—but nobody. I’ll settle with him one of these days. If you don’t want it to be right here and now, keep him off me.”

  Wellington said tightly, “Don’t look now, Helm, but your act is slipping. You don’t sound like an innocent photographer now, to me or to Mr. Grankvist either.”

  I said, “You let me worry about that, partner. I’ve been taking care of myself a long time in a lot of rough places. I’ve taken pictures where you couldn’t have held a camera, you’d have been kept too busy changing into dry pants. Don’t you worry one little bit about me, son. Nobody’s yet kicked Matthew L. Helm and got away with it, and I don’t propose to let them start now.” Then, as if overcome by a sudden memory, I snickered again.

  Grankvist stared at me. “What do you find so humorous, Herr Helm?”

  I shook my head ruefully. “I don’t know what you boys have been up to, and I’m sure sorry if I’ve spoiled anything for you, but I’d have liked to see the face of the man who pulled that first film out of the hypo—expecting thirty-six fine exposures of military secrets, I suppose!”

  Wellington burst out, “So you admit—”

  Grankvist held up his hand. “I’ll ask the questions. Or perhaps it would be best if Herr Helm just told the story his own way.”

  I said, “It’s not much of a story. Like I say, I’ve been taking care of myself for quite a while. She was a hell of a nice-looking girl, but she sure had gone to a lot of trouble to have everybody eating right out of her hand, and she sure was set on having just the right pictures taken just the right way, clear and sharp. After a while it became pretty damn obvious we weren’t going to be selling the stuff to any magazine. It just wasn’t magazine material, if you get what I mean. Well, I like to stay out of trouble. So I’d spend the day taking pictures with her, and in the evening I’d just kind of pull each film out of the cartridge and hold it under the light for a spell before I rolled it back up—”