“John?”
Durell looked at her husband. John Henderson would never tell where he had hidden the file. Death had come into the room in the last few moments.
And Hackett chose that instant to jump for freedom.
chapter TWENTY-ONE
HE SPRANG like a great dark cat for Durell’s shotgun, his face stamped with a final desperation that changed, even as he jumped, into total despair. Durell chopped with the barrel of the shotgun and the man dropped as if pole-axed. Durell hit him again. He stood over the prone figure with the shotgun clubbed, shaking, murder in him. He wanted to kill Hackett. He wanted to slash the life out of the man sprawled at his feet. Hackett’s face was a mask of blood. Only his dark eyes were alive, still lighted by one final, despairing plea. Blood trickled from his thin mouth.
“Please , . .” Mrs. Henderson whispered.
Her voice cut through the rage in Durell’s mind. He stepped back as the woman knelt beside the crumpled body of her husband.
“Please don’t kill that man,” the woman said.
“He killed your husband.”
“One sin does not justify another.”
Durell looked for Quenton. The little man was gone.
Instantly he jumped over Hackett’s figure, slammed through the door. The hall ran from front to back of the house. The front screen door was just closing. He spun on his toes, lunged that way.
“Quenton!”
He hit the porch, feet thudding on the planks. He still held the shotgun as a club. He reversed it now, searching the dark shadows. The little man had vanished.
“Quenton!”
“The moonlight mocked him.
He circled the porch, came around the back, and faced the barn. Deirdre, Art Greenwald, and Tommy Henderson were running across the yard toward him. Art had a gun in his hand. Durell stepped over the guard Mrs. Henderson had tied up and went to meet them. Fear crawled in him. He knew he was going to be too late now.
“Tommy, what did your father do with the file?”
“I don’t-— What’s been going on?” the boy asked.
“You know where he hid it, don’t you?”
“Why don’t you ask him? If he’s willing to tell you—”
“I can’t ask him. He’s dead. Quick, now! Where is it?”
“In the barn—his machine bench . . .” The boy’s voice trailed off as he understood what Durell had said. “Dead?”
Durell turned, ran toward the barn. Art called after him, then thudded heavily in his tracks. There was a light switch just inside the wide doors. A smell of new hay filled the close summer air. Floodlights turned the yard into a dazzling glare, lighted a flight of stairs going up to a loft. A workbench stood under a cobwebbed window under the roof overhang. Durell swung toward it, pulled open tool drawers at random, let the tools clatter and thump to the dusty plank floor.
He found the envelope in the third drawer.
Ten minutes later they were in Greenwald’s car. Headlights hit them, spraying the road and bushes on either hand. The banshee wail of a police siren spiraled up to a crescendo as the patrol car rocketed past them. They were almost at the Potomac bridges to Washington. Deirdre sat on the front seat between Durell and Art Greenwald.
The patrol car slammed past without slackening speed.
“Who called them?” Art muttered.
“Quenton. He needs time. And we need time, too.”
“What have you got in mind, Sam? Why not grab Quenton’! He couldn’t have been far away from that farm.”
“Quenton isn‘t important. He’s only the front man, the tool of the man we want,” Durell said.
“And who is that, for God’s sake?”
“I don‘t know yet."
“Somebody at Number Twenty Annapolis?’
“Right.”
He felt Deirdre shivering, although the night was warm. She hadn’t spoken much. Her hand rested on his arm, and from the tail of his eye he saw her finely chiseled profile, pale and taut against the flickering swords of light that slipped in and out of the car. He looked at his watch. “What time did you say the guard changes at Number Twenty?”
“Midnight,” Greenwald said.
It was eleven-forty-seven.
Deirdre stood on the corner with him. The street was hot, dark, silent. The trees were motionless in their neat little squares cut out of the concrete pavement. A single window was lighted on the third floor of Number Twenty Annapolis Street. McFee’s window. Art had been gone for more than five minutes. He was due back now.
Deirdre said, “Sam, how can you be sure?”
“There is no other answer.”
“But—McFee?”
“I didn’t say it was McFee.”
“But what can you find that will prove it?”
“Names. Items for blackmail. The Q files.”
“In McFee’s office?"
He looked at her. She looked beautiful. He wondered how he could have conceived of life without her. He regretted everything he had been forced to do to hurt her. He wished it were all over, and then he wished none of it had started, and then he looked clown the street for Art and there was nobody at all.
“Where in hell is Art?”
“Sam, I don’t understand. What about Quenton?”
“Not important now.”
“Or Hackett?”
“He’s nobody.”
“And that girl, Corinne?”
“It could he Sidonie.”
“Sidonie?”
“Does that shock you?”
“I can’t believe it.” ‘
He did not reply. Art was coming down the street, walking with what seemed a casual gait, but actually moving very fast. Durell went to meet him. Art’s dark round head bobbed in a quick nod. His mouth was tight, disapproving.
“This is crazy. If Quenton thinks you’re heading this Way, why won’t he tip of Security?”
“He won’t,” Durell said. “He’ll only tip off the man who feeds him all that crazy pap that’s stuffed in his senile head.”
“It might be too late,” Art muttered.
“Damn it, can we get in or can’t we?”
“I don’t like this."
“To hell with What you like or don’t like. Can we get in?”
“Kelly was on guard,” Art said. “I told him he was wanted over at D Department.”
“And he went?”
“Kelly trusts me," Art said bitterly.
Their feet whispered on the tiled corridor floor. Somewhere a teletype clattered, a bell pinged. Some of the rear offices Were lighted, doors shut, as the night crew kept watch over an uneasy peace. Durell drifted like a shadow ahead of Deirdre and Greenwald. The glass panel in McFee’s door shimmered blankly. He tried the knob. Not locked. He looked at An. Greenwald stood like a dark, sullen bear. They spoke in whispers.
“I want to go in here alone,” Durell said.
“What are you going to do?” Art asked.
“Search the files. Turn ’em upside down.”
“Are you crazy? They’ll know."
“Everybody’s got to know, anyway.” Durell looked at Deirdre. “I’m starting with Sidonie’s office. It might be wired. If I tap off an alarm, I don’t want either of you caught with me. No use our all going under if the thing falls wrong.”
Greenwald was sweating. “Sam, it’s a wild gamble. You’ve got your file back. You can clear things with McFee now.”
“Suppose McFee is the man I want?”
“I don’t believe that.”
“But suppose he is?” Durell insisted.
Greenwald stood, shaking his head. Durell opened the door. “Go, both of you. Wait for me outside.”
He went in and closed the door against them, leaned back against it, listened to their footsteps hesitate, then move away. It was hot and still in the office. Faint light seeped through the glass panel behind him, touched Sidonie’s desk, the charts on the wall, the door to McFee’s inner office, the filing cabine
ts. Where to begin? What he wanted must be found here, or never found at all. He had no illusions about the safety that the recovery of the lost envelope might lend t him. Too much had happened, too many people were involved.
He began his search. He knew how to ransack a room quickly and neatly, without waste motion, without loss of time over nonessentials. Yet the job might consume several hours. How much time did he have? He did not know. Time was a dead weight leaning on him, threatening to crush him at any moment. He lit a cigarette, looked beyond Sidonie’s desk into the Spartan simplicity of McFee’s office.
McFee, he thought. Who knew anything about the General, who kept tabs on him? Gibney had received a call from McFee about his son’s death—and Burritt Swayney showed up at the island. The farmer Henderson had phoned McFee—and Quenton and Hackett showed up at the farm. Who Was the spy, and Who was the loyal man? He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, and walked into McFee’s office to search there.
Or maybe it was Sidonie. Her husband’s death had been a cruel blow, months ago, enough to embitter her against a cause that brought such personal devastation. Who had reached her, and why?
Suddenly Durell halted his search. There was a shadow in the back of his mind, using personal secrets as a lever to further Quenton’s ends. He let the shadow grow, straining for a more definite outline. A dim flame of excitement flickered in him. He stood very still. He stared at the three telephones on McFee’s desk, and wished now that Art Greenwald were still with him. But he knew enough about Art’s work to make a quick survey. Moving suddenly, he found a small pocket tool in McFee’s desk and took one of the telephones apart, found nothing in it, went to work on the second. The building was silent except for the distant pinging of a teletype machine. He Wondered where Art and Deirdre were waiting. Not too far away. These long moments would be hard on Deirdre. not knowing, unable to guess what the next minute might bring.
The second telephone was normal, too.
And the third.
He sat down in McFee’s chair, hands flat on the desk, staring at nothing at all. An electric clock on the desk read twelve-twenty. He watched the sweep hand circle, heard the muted whir of the motor. He stiffened. Quickly he picked up the clock, studied its face, considered the back plate. The wire seemed thicker than the tiny motor called for. The tool in his hand gave him quick access to the screws that held the plate in place. It clattered to the desk and he pulled the goose-neck lamp closer to study the interior mechanism.
The outer office door opened and closed quietly.
Burritt Swayney, chief of K Section, stood in the entrance.
“Keep your hands right where they are, Sam.”
Durell looked past the glare of the lamp. “Hello, Burritt.”
“I kept listening to you get warmer for the last ten minutes. I guess it was too much to hope that you might give it up. You’re too damned stubborn for that.”
“You bugged McFee‘s office with this mike in his clock?”
“My job,” Swayney said, nodding.
“The hell.”
“Think what you like. Keep your hands right there, Sam. I wouldn’t mind killing you here and now. I’d get a medal, hey?” Swayney heeled the door shut behind him. “Anyone with you?”
“You heard it all. I’m alone.”
“Anybody in the building with you?”
“Not that I know of."
“Deirdre?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie, Sam.”
“To hell with you,” Durell said.
Burritt Swayney. he thought. The human memory machine. The walking filing cabinet. Defeat loomed black in his mind. How do you pry facts from a man’s brain? How do you present memorized data as evidence to an investigating board? It couldn’t be done. No federal grand jury would touch it.
Swayney smiled, standing short and fat, his neat gray suit and bow tie as prim as ever. His mouth pursed, sucked air. He held a small .32 revolver pointed at Durell. He chuckled.
“End of the road, hey? I never discounted you, Sam, but you moved faster than I thought.”
“You knew about my assignment?”
“Of course. I know all of McFee’s deals.”
“So you were ready for me. You knew I was meeting Colonel Gibney at the Triton Country Club two nights ago. That’s why you sent Hackett and two of the Q men after me."
“Have you got that file?” Swayney asked.
“Yes, I have it.”
“Hand it over, then."
“You’ll have to take it off my dead body,” Durell said.
“That will be a pleasure, Sam. You’d like it here?” Swayney asked in his soft, prissy voice. “You want to die right now?”
Durell just stared at him.
Swayney looked puzzled. “Who knows you’re here, Sam?”
Durell laughed. “You’re finished, Burritt. Blow your brains out. Slit your throat. Go back to that dried-up prune of a wife you’ve got and weep on her shoulder. Don’t count on Quenton. You’ve got the old man tied up like a pretzel. He tipped you, didn’t he? He told you I got the file back. McFee will believe me now. He’ll back me.”
“Shut up,” Swayney whispered. His round face shook, and little muscles jumped and jerked and made the soft flesh quiver. “Give me that file.”
“You can’t use it now, Burritt. The game is over.”
“How did you circle around and come back to me, Sam?”
“It was easy,” Durell said. “We had a traitor in K Section. You look here and there, you take up with this one and that. Somebody had to fit the picture. And you fit it, Burritt. Perfectly. McFee called Colonel Gibney about the death of his son, and you promptly showed up on the island. Your big mistake. You gained nothing by it, lost everything. I suppose you had to do something about Mary Gibney. Did you panic, Burritt? Is that why you killed her?"
“You think I killed her?”
“I’m sure you did. She was going to tell me about you. And you knew that once she knew her son was dead, she had nothing to fear from you. You couldn’t hurt her anymore; you no longer had a hold over her. Did you keep her in line, with Colonel Gibney, by implying that Roger would he killed over there if she didn’t go along? Your mistake, Burritt. You contacted her personally, instead of letting Hackett do that particular job. She couldn‘t stomach Hackett, so you took over in this one instance. So she knew you for what you are. And you hurried to the island to shut her mouth by strangling her.”
“Go ahead, keep talking. I want to know what you know.”
Durell said easily, “There’s no harm in digging the hole deeper for you. You tapped McFee’s office by putting a bug in the clock here. You did it yourself, because you couldn't trust Art Greenwald to do it for you. You used Corinne to get accessory information. You with your calculator of a mind. Nothing slips by you, nothing is forgotten. You’re the spy we wanted, Burritt. You're the traitor that McFee sent me to get. You fit the shadow pattern. You showed up when only McFee or someone with a pipeline into McFee’s office could know enough to show up.”
“Go on, hey?"
“Tell me about Quenton,” Durell said. “What’s his background?”
“He’s an old fool," Swayney said.
“Tell me about him.”
There was a weakness in Swayney, a point of vanity, and Durell had touched it lightly and tentatively. It worked. Swayney’s face changed, took on a faint asperity, the face of superiority, as he called on his phenomenal memory.
“Share-crapper, born 1881 in Jennifer, Texas," Swayney said. “Poor parents, hand-to-mouth existence, no formal education beyond the third grade in grammar school. Worked for an old man named Jason Nyland, was given some apparently worthless speculative land holdings when Nyland died in 1916. Ran a wildcat rig on the land, hit a gusher, landed on top of the heap with millions you can’t count. Went hog-wild—wine, women, song. Some crazy stories about how he carried on. Mixed up in all sorts of lunatic-fringe fronts from the start. For a capitalist, he goes ove
r the edge in hating the common man. Was analyzed after a complete nervous collapse in 1948. I got the analyst’s report. Weird stuff. No education, only a swamp of a mind, concerned with keeping what he’s got to the point of paranoia. Terrified by the nightmare of being a share-cropper again.”
“When did you meet him?” Durell asked easily.
“In the Senate. I was called before his committee,” Swayney replied. “He liked me. We, ah—had interests in common.”
“Women?”
“He likes women.”
“He‘s an old man,” Durell objected.
“So was King David when he had girls warm his bed and bones for him.”
“You arranged a happy night life for him?”
“We got along.”
“And you fed him the idea of securing safety for his wealth only by getting to run things himself.”
Swayney smiled. “That is correct.”
“So you might be called the mastermind behind Quenton’s wild ravings. You tell him what to say and do. But you organize, you really control the whole Q outfit.”
“Right.”
“With the ultimate aim of controlling the government.”
“Right.”
“By means of blackmail, spotting key people in key departments?”
“Right, right.”
“But the new talks about peace upset you, Burritt, is that it?”
“In a war, society is uprooted,” Swayney said. He smiled,
holding his gun easily, looked at Durell with hatred. “A cold war isn’t enough. Since Geneva and the conferences afterward, it looks as if there may not be a war, after all. That would be too bad. It’s the only way I can get where I want to go. To the top, hey? Not impossible. You say I’m only a small bureaucrat, that my ambition is insanely grand? So was Napoleon, and he was a common soldier; so was Hitler, and he was even less. In times of stress, anyone from any level may rise, if he’s prepared for it, if he’s ready to take destiny in both hands and make use of chaos for his own ends.”
“You don't count the millions of lives lost, the homes destroyed, the cities and nations laid waste?”
“Don’t lecture me on your puerile moralities, Sam."
Assignment - Treason Page 17