"Your partner had an accident?" I said. "I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Walling. I hope it wasn't serious."
Walling gave me a suspicious look, as if he thought I was indulging in irony at his expense, or the missing Simpson's.
"He was killed, Mr. Helm. He was run over by a lorry -and killed. Five days ago. I… I am very much upset by his death, as you can imagine. Very much upset. And now the office girl has been taken ill…" He clasped his hands together to keep them from wandering around nervously, as they seemed to have a tendency to do. "But I am boring you with my troubles, sir. You are from America, you said?"
"That's right."
"And you have reason to believe you have illustrious connections in Scotland? You would like us to trace them for you?" Suddenly his tone was sharp, almost sarcastic.
I said, "That's right, Mr. Walling."
He said in the same sharp, scornful voice: "I presume you want a handsome family tree to hang on the wall, complete with coat of arms, showing your relationship to the present Duke of Glenmore. You did say Glenmore over the telephone, did you not?"
He was making it fairly clear that he thought I was a phony, in one way or another. A little salesmanship was in order, and I said smoothly, "Yes, but I don't give a damn about the present duke, Mr. Walling. I didn't even know there was one. As I told you on the phone, it's an earl we seem to be connected with, a long time back. Robert Glenmore, Earl of Dalbright, if that's the proper way to say it. He had two sons, Robert and Edward, in that order. Robert stayed in Scotland as far as I know. Being the oldest, I guess he had something to inherit if he stayed. Edward went to Sweden by way of Germany some time around 1631. He married over there and had kids, who married and had kids, and so forth, until my mother came along. She married, went to the U.S., and had me. I've got all that." I took a long envelope from my inside jacket pocket and laid it on the desk between us. "That's all in here: photostats of the family Bible and other stuff. It's what happened before Robert and Edward and their noble papa that I'd kind of like to find out about."
"Yes, of course." Walling's voice was a little warmer than it had been, but his look was still cold and suspicious. "May I see?"
"That's what I brought it for."
He took out the papers and examined them carefully. I bad a sudden, funny impulse to snatch them out of his hand and say to hell with the whole business. I mean, I don't particularly hold with ancestor-worship, but this stuff had meant something to my mother, and I was using it to play dirty games with. I could have had the research department cook me up a set of documents under the name of Ross or Sinclair or McTavish that would have served just as well. Maybe.
Walling said abruptly, "Excuse me just a moment."
He rose and went into the outer room. I heard him opening and closing books out there. I reached for the newspaper I saw on the desk, perhaps just to kill time, perhaps because I saw that it was folded to an inside page on which an item had been encircled-and a name underlined-with red crayon. I wasn't there to make like a detective, of course, but the habit dies hard. It was a short piece from Scotland. The heading read: MAN FOUND DEAD IN ULLAPOOL MYSTERY
The name that had been underlined was that of my predecessor, Buchanan, described as an American tourist. Apparently the British authorities had let the story out at last. It told me nothing I hadn't known before reading it, except that the body had been found by a London doctor on a walking tour. The death was attributed to natural causes but the authorities were puzzled to account for a sick man's getting himself so far out on a lonely moor. The nature of the disease was not mentioned.
I heard Walling returning, and tossed the paper casually back on the desk, letting him see me do it and think whatever he liked. He glanced from me to the paper and back again as he sat down, but he did not comment.
Instead he said, "My apologies, Mr. Helm."
"For what?"
He regarded me steadily across the desk. I hadn't been impressed with him at first glance, but he was growing on me: he wasn't a fool. The nervous mannerisms that had thrown me off were due, I decided, quite simply to his being scared, and that was understandable. His partner had died. A recent client had died. His secretary had come down sick. Death and disease were striking all around him. In his place I'd have been scared, too.
He said deliberately, "People sometimes come in here and try to pull our legs, Mr. Helm." His voice was expressionless, but he left a little pause in case I wanted to squirm or look away guiltily. I didn't. He went on: "For one reason or another they would like us to supply them with authenticated sets of aristocratic ancestors. Sometimes they try to mislead us with false information. Sometimes they just offer us a handsome fee-perhaps I should say bribe-to 'discover' that blue blood flows in their veins. And of course there are so-called genealogists who accept such commissions." He laughed shortly. "If you had said your mother's name was Lewis and you wanted to trace the honest Welsh coal miners from whom she was descended, I would have received you more cordially, but in this line of work, Mr. Helm, one develops an instinctive mistrust of anyone-particularly, if you'll pardon my saying so, anyone from overseas-who claims to be related to a family of importance. Why, just recently we received by post a rather munificent check from an American named McRow, who wished us to prove that he was descended from the chiefs of the ancient clan McRue." He was watching me as he said it.
"McRue," I said. "That's a new one on me. I've heard of the Scottish McRaes and the Irish McGrews, but never McRue."
"It's an older form of the same name. That branch of the family was wiped out in a feud over two hundred years ago-unless this American McRow actually is a direct descendant, as he claims."
"You couldn't confirm it?"
"My associate was working on it when he died. I haven't had an opportunity to study his results. As I say, I have been very busy." Walling shrugged, still watching me carefully. "And then there was another American who called himself Buchanan. I handled that myself. I'm afraid I was not very polite. He was so obviously an impostor."
I said, "Is that the man in the piece you've got marked in the paper I was just looking at? You mentioned him on the phone."
"Yes, the fellow seems to have contracted some kind of fatal illness up north. Naturally, I was interested, since I talked with him in this office not very long ago."
"And you think he was a phony?"
Walling moved his shoulders minutely. "One should speak no ill of the dead, of course, but I rather doubt the chap's name was even Buchanan. At the time, as I said, I was rather annoyed. His clumsy approach was an insult to the profession. I do not say we cannot be misled, but we like to have it done with a certain amount of finesse."
It was time for a show of indignation, and I said, "Look here, if you're hinting that I'm a fake, too-"
"No. That is why I apologized, Mr. Helm. All your family information-in sharp contrast to Mr.
Buchanan's-seems to be absolutely correct. Of course, without seeing your birth certificate and other evidence, I cannot be sure that the family you claim is actually yours, can I? But at least you have presented me with genuine data bearing on a genuine problem in my field, and I appreciate the courtesy."
I reflected that it was just as well, after all, that I had not tried to deceive this sharpie with forged documents. I said hopefully, "Then you'll take the job?"
"No?'
"But-"
"Let me explain, sir." His hands got hold of each other again, as if to make sure they wouldn't escape. "Your information is correct and fairly complete. It traces your maternal line back to the early seventeenth century. In other words, you already know what people usually employ a genealogist to find out. You are asking me to start where I would usually finish, and I cannot do it. What you want done is either too hard or much too easy."
"Just what does that mean?"
He looked up from his interlocked fingers and spoke as if he were lecturing a class of backward students: "The official registration of births, de
aths, and marriages did not begin in Scotland until 1855, two hundred-odd years later than the period in which you are interested. Earlier, we must depend on the parish records and other documents that may have survived. I have just checked the status of the parish records of Dalbright. They are at present in the Register House in Edinburgh, and unlike some they are fairly complete, but they go back only to 1738. Beyond that-" He shrugged. "It is anybody's guess what diligent research could turn up. My own feeling is that it would be a waste of your time and money, sir. I doubt that you are interested in research for its own sake, and with respect to the more prominent families of Scotland, the basic work has already been done and is readily available to anyone who can read."
"Where?" 1 asked.
"Sir J.B. Paul's Scots Peerage gives the Glenmore history as far back as a certain Norman gentleman, Hugh Fitzwilliam de Clenemar, who was awarded lands in Scotland in 1278. You look surprised, Mr. Helm. You did not know that many of the old Scots names are of Norman origin? It is true. Sinclair, for instance, was originally St. Clair. And Robert the Bruce was descended from a Robert de Brus. Similarly, de Clenemar became Glenmore." Walling grimaced at his clasped hands. "I could, of course, have taken your money and copied the information out of the book and presented it to you, with a flourish, as the result of weeks of laborious research. Instead, I just give you the reference. The Scots Peerage, Volume III. You can find a set in any large library. I would lend you our copy, but we do not like to let our books leave the premises, and I am about to close up and go home for the day." He unwound his hands and placed them flat on the desk, preparing to rise. "I hope that is satisfactory, Mr. Helm."
"Why, sure," I said. "I mean, I appreciate your help, Mr. Walling, and I'll go after that book. You're sure I can't… I mean, I'd like to pay you for your trouble."
He shoved himself to his feet as if he had to lift a lot more weight than he actually possessed. "It was no trouble, no trouble at all. Incidentally, you will be interested to learn that one of your collateral ancestors, a later Hugh Glenmore, acted as a spy for the Stuarts-that romantic Prince Charlie of whom you may have heard. He was caught and beheaded for his pains. Well, the work of a secret agent has always been a dirty and dangerous business, hasn't it, Mr. Helm?"
"So they tell me," I said, rising to face him.
We stood like that for a moment. I reached out and retrieved my papers and put them away while he watched. His expression wasn't exactly hostile, but it wasn't friendly, either. He was making some allowances for me. He was giving me the benefit of the doubt, Glenmore-wise.
The family information I'd shown him had been accurate. He'd liked that. He was willing to assume it really applied to me. However, as far as my business here was concerned, he wasn't fooled for a minute. He knew that, whoever my ancestors might have been, I was no casual tourist.
He drew a long breath. "If you'll wait just a moment, Mr. Helm, I'll walk down with you."
"Sure."
I stood in the outer office while he got his hat and coat.
He ushered me out to the stair landing and paused briefly to lock the door behind us. As we descended the stairs, a small, slant-eyed, furtive-looking man in a pulled-down cap and buttoned-up trench coat emerged from a third-floor doorway marked Oriental Exports Ltd. He glanced our way, and scuttled downstairs ahead of us.
It was very neatly done. I mean, they had me sandwiched between them. Suddenly the sinister little man ahead swung around in a threatening manner. While I had my eyes on the big, bright knife that had appeared in his hand, Wailing blackjacked me from behind.
chapter SIX
At least that was the way it was supposed to work. As I say, it was very neat-a little too neat. I've been in the business a reasonable length of time, and when somebody flaunts a junior-grade Fu Manchu under my nose, complete with slant eyes, furtive manner, and gleaming knife, I can't help wondering just what's supposed to hit me from elsewhere while I'm watching the Oriental menace going through the motions.
After all, I'm six feet four inches tall, and for a guy a foot shorter, four or five steps below me on a steep stairway, to do me any immediate damage, he's going to need a pogo stick-or lots of help. There had to be another element involved to make this a reasonable trap, and since there were only three of us present, that element had to be the gent above and behind me, however unlikely a candidate he might appear to be.
As the man below me turned, I brought my hand out of my pants pocket, flipped open my own little folding knife-which I keep in my hand whenever the situation looks doubtful-and pivoted sharply, ducking low and driving the blade up and back. If I was wrong, I was going to have some awkward explanations to make, but that decision is one I made long ago. The only death I'm not prepared to explain is my own.
I wasn't wrong. The whistling sap-I guess they call it a cosh in England-told me as much, as it missed my skull by an inch or so and glanced off my raised shoulder instead. Then my knife connected, but my luck was bad and I hit a belt buckle. I was once told that all British gentlemen wear suspenders-excuse me, braces-but apparently Mr. Walling was no gentleman. Well, I'd already begun to suspect that.
Because of the belt, I got no penetration, but the force of my lunge was enough to make him sit down hard, temporarily breathless. The sap got away from him and thumped a couple of times, rolling downstairs. At least for the moment he was out of weapons and out of wind.
I had to settle for that, since I could sense the yellow peril at my back, looking for a soft spot in which to plant that foot-long sticker. I didn't think I had time to turn. I just kicked out rearwards like a mule. My luck was improving a little. The kick connected somewhere and sent him stumbling back downstairs, but not far enough. He caught himself by the banister and came up again, catlike, his knife ready. It was three times the length of mine, and above me Walling was returning to life and groping in his clothes for some new weapon, as yet unidentified.
I was fast running out of strategy and tactics. The stairs were too narrow for any fancy work. It's only in the movies that a lone hero can stand off two trained and armed opponents indefinitely, unless he's got long legs and plenty of room to run in. I had the legs, but the space was lacking. It was beginning to look, I reflected grimly, as if Winnie might have to find herself another stalking-horse.
There was a sudden, sharp, echoing noise below. I heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet going into flesh, and the little yellow man sighed and collapsed on top of his long knife. Footsteps rushed up the stairs, and I heard the reassuring voice of Les Crowe-Barham,I guess I knew him well enough to call him Les despite his title. I'd saved his life once and now he'd saved mine.
I glanced toward Walling, above me. Something glittered in his hand as he hesitated; then he threw it aside and fled upwards. I started after him instinctively, but there was no real point in being heroic with a four-inch knife when there was a gun handy, and I threw myself down and sideways to clear the line of fire for Crowe-Barham. Briefly, the stairway was full of sound once more, and I heard the bullets go past. They sounded unpleasantly close. Any bullet you can hear sounds unpleasantly close.
Walling made it to the third-floor landing unhit. Les came charging past me, still wearing his chauffeur's cap, taking the stairs two at a time. I sat up, and saw the weapon Walling had thrown aside: a small hypodermic syringe. It wasn't exactly what I'd expected. I started to reach for it, but Les was calling me from above, and I let the hypo go and scrambled up there. The door marked Oriental Exports was open. I went through it, and through the outer office, and found Les, just beyond the next door, bending over a body face down on the floor. He turned it over and looked up at me. I shook my head.
"Wrong man," I said. "Besides, even if you'd hit the guy on the stairs, which you didn't, this one's been dead for hours."
Les drew a long breath and walked deliberately to the rear of the office and opened a door, revealing a small hallway and another door leading to a kind of fire escape or outside stairway, whi
ch in turn led down into a courtyard. There was no fugitive in sight. Les put his gun away in his hip pocket. Well, every man to his own taste. I've never believed in sitting on my armaments, but techniques do vary.
We returned to the body on the floor. It was that of a middle-aged man of medium height with stiff sandy hair and a narrow little moustache. The back of the head had been smashed in, perhaps by the blackjack I'd already encountered. The fingers of the right hand were pretty badly mangled. A pair of bloody pliers lay nearby, not the most original of torture implements, but reasonably effective. I wondered if the dead man had talked, and if so, what he had had to talk about.
"Anybody you know?" I asked Les.
"Permit me to introduce you, old fellow. Mr. Matthew Helm, Mr. Ernest Walling. We've been keeping an eye on him for, ah, various reasons." He glanced at me sharply as he said it.
I said only, "Some eye."
"Also an ear," Les said. He sighed. "Sometimes I think we were better off before the profession became so cluttered with electronics. Operatives tend to sit on their rear elevations and trust the machines to do the work, instead of using their legs and brains. But my present chief is a great believer in modern equipment." He shrugged. "Walling was heard to go out for lunch. He was heard to reenter his office on the floor above. At least our fellow assumed it was Walling. Obviously he was wrong."
"Sure. They grabbed him as he came up the stairs, got as much information out of him as they needed, and another man took his place to greet me. Who was the impostor?" Les didn't answer. I glanced at him and said, "In case you didn't get a good look at the guy over your sights, he was about five-nine, about one-fifty, I'd say in his middle forties. Sandy hair and moustache like our friend here, but that's subject to change, of course. His most distinctive feature was the eyes: gray and kind of slaty-looking. He was very good, whoever he was. A little on the cautious side-he wasn't much use in the hassle, and he lit right out when the shooting started-but as an actor he was very good indeed. He lectured me on genealogy as if it were the passion of his life. I bought him completely, I'll admit, until he trotted out an accomplice who was a little too sinister to be true."
The Devastators mh-9 Page 4