"Precisely," Mac said. "Well, with that understanding, if she's still willing after tonight's experience at your hands, you have permission to make whatever deals with her you see fit, and keep them or not as you see fit."
I said, "She'll he willing. She's a pro, sir. She's not going to hold a little strangulation against me, any more than I hold a little toasting against her. She's already invited me to breakfast in her room."
"Very well. Of course you will keep in mind that the lady does not have to survive after she ceases to be useful to us. As for Madame Ling, and also Basil, I'll try to have some more information when you call in next."
"Yes, sir," I said. "Of course, that could be quite a while, if somebody does get in touch with me about my vanished bride. Well. I'd better get back to the hotel and start chewing my fingernails in public."
"Don't wait too long for a contact. If you haven't been approached by, say, noon tomorrow, you had better leave the inside angles to Claire, and head for Scotland and see if you can't turn up something around Ullapool. If they don't intend using her to trap you, we can hope they'll transport her up there. Dr. McRow seems to frown on the ordinary methods of homicide. He apparently prefers to have his enemies taken alive, so he can use them for experimental purposes."
I said, "I'm sure that makes Winnie feel real great, wherever she is."
I walked back to Claridge's. It was raining a little, the pavements were wet and shiny, and everybody was still driving on the wrong side of the street. You get used to it eventually, but I hadn't yet. I was pretty certain that nobody followed me, which was a little discouraging. I would have preferred some sign of active interest. Well, maybe they figured they knew where to find me when they wanted me.
Reaching the hotel, I climbed the stairs and let myself into the room. I must have had some kind of foolish hope that Winnie might have returned in my absence, because it was a disappointment to find the place as empty as when I'd left it. I tossed my hat on a chair, tossed the black belt back in the drawer where I'd found it, and was about to head back downstairs to drown my sorrows where people could see me, when the phone began to ring. I grabbed it quickly.
"Mr. Helm?"
"This is Mr. Helm," I said.
"There is a lady here to see you, sir," said the voice of the switchboard girl. "She is waiting in the lounge. A Miss Glenmore, from America."
It took me a while to remember where I'd heard the name, even though it was, in a sense, my own.
chapter TEN
I spotted her by the tartan. I mean, I hadn't stopped at the desk for a guide to lead me to her, wanting to look her over unseen, if possible, before she saw me, but there were quite a few people in the lounge to complicate the identification. But I knew the slim, brown-haired girl sitting alone near the piano was the one I wanted when I saw the plaid.
She was wearing a buttoned-up cardigan sweater and one of those pleated kilt-skirts that close with a big safety-pin, and it was the Glenmore all right: not the dress tartan, which is chiefly red, but the hunting, which is light blue and green. Unfortunately, they're doing all kinds of sissy things to the brave old plaids these days-I guess some people feel they're too garish for good modern taste-and these were no longer the honest, bold Highland colors, but the sneaky muted shades so dear to the hearts of the butterfly boys. Still, it was the right pattern and, I was sure, the right girl. At least it was the girl I was looking for. Whether or not she was legally entitled to the name and plaid was another matter.
A musical character in a tailcoat was beating out a Strauss waltz on the piano, using as much body English as if he was battling Tchaikovsky to a draw in Carnegie Hall. The girl was watching and listening, puffing industriously on a cigarette. Her health was her own problem, but I couldn't help thinking that if she had to smoke, she ought to learn to do a better job.
There was some green stuff in a glass on the table. It's been my experience that ladies who go for sweet minty drinks after dinner are apt to be somewhat more objectionable, in a prissy and hypocritical way, than those who slug down a good honest highball, but I won't propose it as an ironclad rule.. Nevertheless, my first impression wasn't favorable, and the thought of after-dinner drinks reminded me that I hadn't eaten since noon. Sleep, as opposed to merely employing a bed for its fringe benefits, so to speak, was something that had happened so long ago and far away that I'd forgotten the exact circumstances.
I got rid of a yawn while I could still do it without being rude, and moved forward. The girl looked around and saw me-and knew me, which was interesting. Well, sinister-looking gents six-feet-four aren't too common, and she could have been given a thumbnail sketch at the hotel desk. Or she could have been exposed to a more detailed dossier elsewhere.
"Miss Glenmore?" I said, stopping before her.
The piano player had finished sweeping Strauss under the rug, and was taking a break, so I didn't have to shout. The girl looked at me warily.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm Nancy Glenmore. Are you… are you Mr. Helm?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, and waited.
She hesitated, and said in a sudden, breathless way, "You'll probably think I'm crazy coming here like this, Mr. Helm-" She stopped.
"So who's prejudiced against insanity?" I said.
It threw her for a moment. Then she licked her lips and said, "Well, I saw a Mr. Walling early this afternoon. I wanted him to do some work for me, but he wouldn't take the job, he just told me a lot of stuff, and then he said he'd already made arrangements to see another member of the family later in the day, and why the devil didn't we all get together? He acted very funny, almost rude, as if… as if he thought I was trying to play some kind of a trick on him, but he did give me your name and London address-" She'd got all this stuff off very fast. Now she seemed to run down abruptly. Her big, greenish eyes watched me for a second or two. Then she went on in the same rapid-fire way: "Well, I just had a wild idea that you might be able to help me. I mean, that we might be able to help each other. You may have something I could use, while I… I may have something you want." Still staring up at me unblinkingly, she added, "To trace the family, I mean."
"Sure," I said. "To trace the family."
There was a little silence. I met her wide-eyed stare with a hard look of my own, and presently her glance dropped, but I didn't really need that token of guilt. Her double-talk spoke for itself. 1 may have something you want, could hardly be anything but a prelude to negotiations for Winnie's release. I felt reassured. Mac had ordered me not to wait too long for contact to be made, not beyond tomorrow noon, but here was my contact already, fiddling nervously with her cigarette and sipping at her crиme de menthe frappй. She spoke without looking up.
"It's quite a coincidence, isn't it? I mean, both of us calling on Mr. Walling the same day."
"Yeah," I said. "Coincidence."
"Well.., well, it looks as if we're kind of related, Mr. Helm, even if it is a long way back."
I remembered another girl in another country who'd claimed a distant kinship with me once, on another job, and almost got me killed. These ancient family ties, much too remote to bring up any inconvenient questions of incest, can come in very handy for a girl in our line of work-but maybe I was being overly cynical. Maybe she really was Nancy Glenmore, on a sentimental pilgrimage to our ancient Scottish stamping grounds, wearing the tartan as the Crusaders wore the cross. Maybe, but I didn't really believe it.
I said, "That's swell. As a stranger, I'd remain standing politely. As a relative, I'll sit, if you don't mind. I just got in from New York this morning, and it's been a long day."
"Oh, I am sorry!" she said quickly. "Please do sit down." I sat down. We got the drinks question settled and got a waiter to make it official. I lit another cigarette for her, the first having got itself stubbed out half-smoked, and we sat back and looked at each other with a kind of cautious interest. She was really quite a good-looking girl, in a jumpy and high-strung way. Her face displayed a little too much bone, but
it was pretty good bone. Having once used a camera professionally, I couldn't help thinking that she'd photograph well, with her big eyes, strong cheekbones, and clean jawline.
Mentally, however, she was a mess. She had the jitters so badly I wanted to pat her shining dark head in a fatherly-well, cousinly-way and tell her for God's sake to relax.
The waiter put our drinks on the table. When he had gone, I said, "So you talked to Walling? I saw him, too, but he wouldn't help me, either." I kept my voice casual while I slipped her a fast one: "Kind of an antisocial gent, I thought. Kept looking at me through those slaty gray eyes of his like I was a bug on a pin."
She frowned quickly. "That's strange, I had a distinct impression Mr. Walling's eyes were blue."
Well, she'd passed that test. Either she had interviewed the real Walling or she'd been well briefed on his appearance. I shrugged. "The light was behind him. Maybe I made a mistake. Anyway, he wouldn't help me, either. He just referred me to a book in the library."
"I know. The Scots Peerage. It seems like a funny way of doing business."
"Uhuh, funny," I said, thinking of a dead man with his finger joints crushed and the back of his head beat in. "So your idea is that we should kind of pool our information?"
"Why, yes," she said, straight-faced. "That is, unless you have some objection."
"Hell, no," I said. "Let's pool. I've got an envelope full of stuff upstairs." I gave her a long, deliberate, appraising look, starting high and ending low. With my eyes on her slim ankles, I said, "Let's go up and look it over." What it probably amounted to, I reflected, was that Basil had had to scramble to find a suitable young lady to play my distant Scottish-American relative-that is, to lead me into the new trap he was undoubtedly preparing for me. He'd had to settle for an amateur, or an inexperienced neophyte. He'd had to brief her and dress her in a couple of hours, and as a result neither the girl nor her getup were quite up to professional standards.
She was nervous and scared, and her clothes were all so new I kept expecting to see an overlooked price tag somewhere. I'd caught sight of the sole of a shoe when she crossed her legs uneasily, and the factory slickness had barely been scratched. She couldn't have more than walked across a couple of sidewalks on it.
"I'll have a bottle and some ice sent up."
I raised my eyes abruptly to her face. She did not meet my glance. She said, "Well, I… I didn't bring my material with me."
I said, "Honey, you brought enough material for me." She didn't speak, and I said, "Okay, your place then. Where are you staying?"
"B-Brown's Hotel."
"Sure. Brown's it is. Give me a minute to get my things."
She hesitated uncertainly. I watched her. I'd made my lewd intentions perfectly clear. If she was just a nice young lady tourist after all, she'd at least postpone our genealogical consultation until daylight. More likely she'd slap my face indignantly and walk out on me. On the other hand, if she was Basil's emissary, she'd undoubtedly been told to be as obliging as necessary to get me where I was wanted. Chastity is not a highly regarded commodity in our line of business.
After a moment, Nancy Glenmore laughed shakily. "Well… well, all right, if you're sure…"
"If I'm sure of what?" I demanded.
She drew a long breath. "Never mind. All right. Run up and get your envelope, Mr. Helm. I'll wait for you in the lobby."
The doorman had the red Spitfire out front by the time I got back downstairs. We didn't have far to go, and taking a taxi would have been easier, but if I was being decoyed away from Claridge's for a reason, I might be glad to have my own car handy later. And then again, it might wind up sitting on the street unattended until the police had it hauled away, but that was a chance I had to take.
The girl had trouble getting in. You don't walk into a sports car, you first lower your rump to the seat-they supply a special grab handle to help you-and then you swing both legs in at once; but she tried to enter left-foot-first and wound up half in and half out, giving us a generous display of nylon before she got herself all tucked inside. She was still rearranging her coat and kilts from the struggle when I got in beside her and sent the little bomb away, making some fine, sharp exhaust noises in the darkening street.
Over the years, Brown's Hotel has been recommended to me by various Englishmen-Les Crowe-Barham for one-as the real place to stay in London.. Claridge's, according to these British accommodations experts, is more a museum piece than a hostelry. It had been some time since I'd last visited Brown's, but I found it pretty much unchanged: a slightly less ostentatious establishment than the one we'd just left, with slightly less-but only slightly less-American mink drifting around the lobby like thistledown.
The second-floor room into which we sneaked rather guiltily would have made a good closet for the palatial chambers assigned to Winnie and me at Claridge's. Well, almost. There was still plenty of space for a couple of good-sized beds, a writing table, an overstuffed chair, a couple of straight chairs, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a telephone stand, but if you wanted a morning workout in your room, you'd have to settle for simple setting-up exercises or move some of the furniture out into the hail.
A brand-new suitcase of pale-green molded plastic was open on a stand at the foot of the nearest bed. It had the right amount of stickers and tags on it to have flown, sailed, or swum across the Atlantic. Well, nobody in the business is going to miss out on an obvious detail like that. Elsewhere, closed, stood a smaller bag and a hatboxy sort of case to match, similarly labeled. Some nice new lingerie that did not look as if it had ever been worn showed in the open suitcase. Some nice new bedroom slippers or mules, the sexy kind consisting of a sole and a heel and not much else, stood by the beds.
Since it was getting late, and the Europeans go in for service in a big way, one bed had already been turned back by the maid, ready for occupancy. A long, shiny, pale-green nylon robe and nightgown had been laid out across the foot of it. Seduction-wise, I counted it a point in my hostess' favor. This shortie stuff may be cute, but who wants a woman to look cute in bed? I mean, in the absence of a Lolita syndrome, it's hard to get erotic about a female camouflaged to look like somebody's kid sister. It's practically impossible if she looks like Peter Pan.
Nancy seemed surprised and embarrassed by the intimate atmosphere of her quarters. Anyway, she started forward quickly, as if to smooth out the inviting bed and hang the seductive sleepwear out of sight. Then she caught herself and stopped.
"Just drop your things anywhere," she said.
Her voice was casual, maybe a little too casual, and she'd turned away so I couldn't see her face. Before I could offer to help her, she'd slipped out of her raincoat and hung it in the wardrobe, that massive piece of furniture that is a necessary adjunct to most European hotel rooms, since built-in clothes-hanging space is generally not provided. She turned back to face me. If she'd had any problems with her courage or her conscience, she had solved them very quickly. Her hazel-green eyes were clear and guileless.
"Would you care for a drink, Mr. Helm? I bought one of those customs-free packages they sell on the plane. We could ring for some ice."
I laid my hat, coat, and envelope on one of the straight chairs. "The British drink their whiskey neat, I hear," I said. "Let's not bother the management. If they can do it, I can."
"Well, there's an open bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses over there on the dresser. Why don't you do the honors while I… while I slip into something more comfortable."
She stumbled a little on the last sentence. I couldn't help glancing at her sharply to see if she was serious. I mean, it's just about the oldest line in the world. Five will get you twenty Eve told Adam to hold that apple just a minute while she slipped into something more comfortable, even though the record shows she didn't have a stitch on at the time. Nancy's face turned pink under my regard. I grinned at her.
"Sure," I said. "I know, your girdle's killing you." I grinned again, wolfishly, and picked up the green nylon
stuff on the bed and presented it to her with a bow. "Well, we sure wouldn't want you to suffer a minute longer than necessary, ma'am."
She took the garments, hesitated, and started to turn toward the bathroom; then she swung back abruptly. "Damn you!" she snapped. "You don't have to make fun of a girl just because she hasn't done this corny hotel-room routine quite as often as you have!" She stalked to the wardrobe, disposed of the lingerie, closed the door, and turned again to face me. "All right, Mr. Helm, if that's the way you want it! There's the family Bible and the rest of the papers, right there on the table. You can start researching any time!"
It was kind of like being bitten by a blind, newborn puppy. She'd been all set to go through the usual shabby motions-strong liquor and slinky lingerie and the works-but I'd insulted her by not approaching the situation, and her, with the proper respect. I had made a mistake. I had treated her as an experienced female operative who'd been through the sex bit often enough not to mind having it kidded a little, but she was apparently new enough at the game to take it with deadly seriousness and expect me to do the same.
It made me feel uncomfortable, as if I'd been caught contributing to the delinquency of a minor, but I said harshly, "Cut it out. You know damn well I didn't come up here with Bibles in mind-" I stopped. She did not speak or smile. Her eyes were hostile and unrelenting. I said hastily, "Okay, okay. Don't be mad. Bibles it is."
She hadn't been quite sure I wouldn't get rough, and I saw her face soften with relief as I turned away. I walked over and swung a chair around and sat down at the table with my back to the room. Presently I heard her let her breath out and give a kind of apologetic little laugh as if, since I was going to be nice about it, it wasn't such a grave matter after all. She busied herself at the dresser and came over with two glasses and put one beside me.
The Devastators mh-9 Page 8