19
They made it very easy for me. Isobel was awaiting me on the cocktail terrace, just as I’d instructed. Pressman was keeping an eye on the situation from the higher side terrace, as before. He seemed to be taking no other precautions. I studied them both from various vantage points in the hotel, to make reasonably sure of this.
Well, there was no need for them to be careful, was there? They knew exactly what I intended to do, didn’t they? I mean, I’d given them my plan of action beforehand, and up to this point I’d followed it in every detail, just as I’d told it to Isobel.
I’d driven to Lahaina, getting rid of my shadow on the way, just as I’d said I would. There had been a little more to the journey than that, but the details didn’t really matter. And I’d chartered a boat in Lahaina, just as I’d promised Isobel, specifying two passengers, male and female. And now I’d be coming back unsuspectingly to pick up my lady and a change of seagoing clothes and to put Pressman himself out of action just long enough for the two of us to make our nautical getaway.
He wouldn’t be looking forward to that, but Isobel would have assured him that I’d specifically mentioned the harmless sleepy-stuff I intended to use on him, so he was probably figuring to go along with the gag. In the meantime, of course, his piratical Lahaina errand boy would be making preparations to pick us up, one way or another, when we arrived at dockside…
It was too bad. Pressman was probably a competent enough guy, just as Hanohano had been a competent enough guy: they just hadn’t studied the dossier carefully enough. They kept expecting me to play by some kind of rules, in a game that had no rules. Monk wouldn’t have made that mistake, but Monk wasn’t here to warn them.
I watched for a little while. There was no great hurry. Besides Pressman’s, there was only one table occupied on the higher terrace. Presently the young couple who’d been sitting there rose and left, which was a break for me. Pressman didn’t even glance around when I stepped out through the open doors. His man in Lahaina had warned him I was on my way, of course, but he knew where I’d be coming, didn’t he?
He was looking for me to appear below, where, alone at a side table, a slender figure in a summery cocktail dress was applying the flame of a lighter to a cigarette with the bored, jerky, angry movements of a neglected woman who is reaching the end of her patience and maybe of her liquor capacity as well.
I said, “Over here, Pressman.”
He turned his head quickly, and started to rise, and sank back into his chair. He sat very still, looking at the snub-nosed revolver I held close to my side.
“Eric,” he said softly. “What do you want?”
“Your Hawaiian boy was good, Pressman,” I murmured. “But he wasn’t quite good enough. Would you care to give it a try?”
He was a pro; he just grinned at the challenge. “Hell, no,” he said. “Just take it that I’m scared, friend. Guns always scare me. So I’m shaking, see me? Now what do we do?”
“We get up very carefully,” I said. “We walk into the hotel. We go to our room—your room. And we keep our hands at our sides in plain sight, because we know that the instant one disappears, we die.”
He studied me for a moment, as if trying to guess whether what I had in store for him was still what I’d told Isobel it would be, now that I’d changed the program in other respects. Then he shrugged his narrow shoulders fatalistically and rose. It was a long walk to the room, or so it seemed to me. Maybe it seemed that way to him, too. At the door, he paused to give me a questioning look. I nodded. He reached into his pocket cautiously, produced a key, and unlocked the door. I held him back while I reached inside to turn on the light. Nothing happened. I herded him inside ahead of me and closed the door.
“On the bed,” I said. “Face down, if you please.”
He hesitated, standing there with his back to me. He wanted, at least, to turn his head once more to look at me before he rendered himself completely helpless. But trying to read minds is for amateurs and mentalists. He was a professional agent.
He moved his shoulders again, and stepped forward, and arranged himself on the bed as instructed. I took three quick steps and pinned him down. I shoved his face into the pillow, slipped the needle into the nape of the neck where the hair would mask the puncture wound, and drove the plunger home.
He knew, then. He knew it was no harmless sleep he was being given, and he made a belated attempt to struggle, but I had him solid and it lasted only a few seconds. Then the stuff reached the brain, or heart, or wherever it goes to do its work.
I drew out the hypo and put it carefully back into my drug kit. I went into the bathroom and got a bit of toilet paper and wiped off the tiny drop of blood that might have called attention to the pinprick on the neck. The stuff itself is almost undetectable, and the symptoms are those of an ordinary coronary, or so I’ve been told by the guys who cook it up for us. They are very proud of it. Well, we’d soon see if their pride was justified. I went back and flushed the paper down the john, using my handkerchief to turn the handle. Mac’s cleanup squad would not be dealing with this one. He had to be found to show I meant business, so it had to look good enough to fool the authorities.
Returning, I looked down at him for a moment. I try to make a point of this. I have no respect for these delicate characters who can commit endless massacres by remote control but can’t bear to face their dead at close range. It was a lousy, cold-blooded thing, of course, but I’d had no choice. The harmless drug we carry is good for only four hours at best, and according to Francis, the batch I had now wasn’t even up to full strength: he’d claimed to have awakened well ahead of schedule.
I needed more than four hours. Either that, or I needed to look as if I’d done everything humanly and inhumanly possible to buy myself the time, even if I’d failed. If I just walked—or sailed—carelessly into a waiting trap, Monk would guess that I was relying on inside help to save me.
It was tough on Mr. Pressman, but I had to leave enough dead men behind to make it look as if I were trying desperately to cover my tracks. Maybe I was. It depended on how things worked out when I got to K, if I got there.
I picked up my gun, which I had laid aside, and shook out the live rounds I’d loaded out of respect for Pressman. I put the powderless shells back into the chambers. Dealing with a strong man who may be armed is a little different from dealing with a weak—well, relatively weak—woman who probably isn’t armed: you shouldn’t need a loaded gun to handle her and you don’t want to provide her with one to use on you, but you may want to tempt her with a firearm to make her betray herself once and for all. I went to find Isobel.
She was just signing for another drink when I emerged on the cocktail terrace. “Well, it’s about time you showed up,” she snapped as I sat down beside her. I remembered that I’d told her to pick a fight with me. She went on in convincingly angry tones: “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? If you think I came all the way from Honolulu with you just to—”
“Pressman’s dead, Duchess,” I said softly.
Even the colored glasses couldn’t hide the sudden widening of her eyes. I also detected the betraying glance she threw toward the other terrace. She licked her lips. When she spoke, the assumed anger was gone from her voice.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Matt. Who’s dead?”
“Cut it out,” I said. “Don’t try to fight it. He’s dead. I’ve just finished killing him. Let’s take a little walk down to the beach and I’ll tell you all about it.” She didn’t move at once until, standing up again, I made a sharp little upward gesture with my hand. I reached out to help her as she rose a bit uncertainly, and I put her white purse into her hands. “Easy now,” I said. “Maybe you’d better cut down on the sauce, Duchess. You don’t look well.”
It made her mad enough to pull herself together, as it was meant to do. She jerked her arm free and threw me a look that was a mixture of fear and fury. She moved off the terrace ahead of me, quite ste
adily now. I followed her to the head of the shadowed path, and down through the darkness, and moved up beside her as she came out on the sand. Again I took her arm to help her, since she was finding it heavy going in her high heels. This time she didn’t pull away. Instead I heard her give an odd, sharp, little laugh.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Those advertisements,” she said. “About the glamour of the tropics. They always show a man and woman in evening dress strolling along a beach at night. I never did see anything glamorous about getting sand in my pumps. Or running around in my stocking feet, either.”
“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t.”
She glanced at me suspiciously. After a moment, she asked, “Are you going to kill me, too, Matt?”
“I’m considering it,” I said. “Let’s stop here and discuss the matter. You can sit down on that boat if you like.”
She drew her fingertips along the deck to make sure it was clean and sat down. I sat down beside her. She made a little ceremony of dumping the sand out of her shoes. There wasn’t much wind down here on the beach, just an occasional gust. The six little sailboats lay in a neat row; dark, masted shapes against the light sand. Up above were the lights of the hotel and of the illuminated terrace from which we had come. It seemed like another world. I heard Isobel give her sharp, nervous laugh again.
“I don’t think you’re really going to kill me, darling,” she said. “I don’t think you really killed Mr. Pressman. It was… it was just a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I always joke about homicide. Funniest subject on earth. You ought to see him, just for laughs. Lying there on his bed with a blank look on his face and a hypo puncture in the back of his neck. He thought I was just putting him to sleep for a little while. Isn’t that a scream? Can you imagine where he got such a ridiculous notion, Duchess?”
She licked her lips again. “Matt, I—”
I went on without letting her finish, “You’d have died laughing when he realized he was actually being killed. Funniest thing I’ve seen since the power mower threw Uncle Hector and came roaring back to chew him to pieces.”
“Matt, please—”
I said, “And then there’s Hanohano, if you like good homicidal fun. In case you don’t recognize the name, that’s the Hawaiian character who followed us from the airport. He’s lying out in the sugarcane with two knife holes in his chest. Blood and gore everywhere. Funny, my God! Really a gasser. I’m sorry you missed it; you’d have laughed your head off.” I sighed. “Actually, I feel kind of bad about Hanohano. Did you know that the state of Hawaii has a population of nearly three quarters of a million, but there are only about ten thousand native Hawaiians left? They’re practically extinct. I feel kind of as if I’d gone out and shot down one of the last trumpeter swans. But if you like jokes, here’s the real hilarious thing. When I got to Lahaina after taking care of the Hawaiian, there was a man hanging around the docks. He seemed very interested in me. It was almost as if he’d known I’d be coming. Now, how do you figure he could have learned that? After all, I hadn’t told anybody where I was bound. Anybody but you.”
She said desperately, “Matt, you don’t understand—”
I said in a harsher tone of voice, “You sold me out, Isobel. Or have you been reporting to Monk all along? Anyway, tonight you made love to me, then you got me talking over drinks, and then you betrayed me to the opposition. Now I don’t know exactly where you fit into this, or who you really are, or how much you know about this kind of business, but you can’t be dumb enough not to know the penalty for being caught the way I’ve just caught you.”
“If you’d let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain,” I said. “I’ve killed two men tonight, two men against whom I had nothing except that they were in the way. I feel a little bad about that. Not much, but a little. But I wouldn’t feel a bit bad about killing you. Native Hawaiians may be in short supply, but the world’s never going to run out of double-crossing bitches. Like sparrows and starlings they’ll be with us forever. One would never be missed.” I paused and went on deliberately, “On the other hand, you may just possibly be of some use to me, Duchess. Not much use, just enough for me to risk leaving you alive for a while if you keep your trap shut, if you make absolutely no trouble whatsoever, and if you do exactly as you’re told. No tricks, no arguments. What do you say?”
She licked her lips. “What use do you have for me, Matt? What are you going to do to me?”
“Never mind that. I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
There was a brief silence. Isobel drew a long breath. “I don’t have much choice, do I? All right, I’ll do whatever you say, Matt.”
I looked at her for a moment, and got to my feet. “Okay. It’s a deal. Now you grab this side and I’ll grab the other. Let’s get it afloat.”
She stared at me blankly. “What?”
“The boat, stupid. You didn’t really think I was going back to Lahaina, where people are undoubtedly waiting for me—people you sicced on me. Come on, let’s put it in the water. Molokai, here we come.”
She was on her feet now. “But… but you’re mad! Why, it’s miles and miles of open water! We’d never make it in this little thing!”
I said, “Hell, the Polynesians came clear up from the South Pacific in a hollow log to colonize this place. If I can’t sail a modern, unsinkable fiberglass boat across a lousy ten-mile channel in clear summer weather, my Viking ancestors will disown me.”
Something funny happened then. I saw her look out to sea for a moment and down at the tiny sailboat at our feet. It was hardly more than a surfboard dressed up with a mast, rudder, centerboard, and a cramped little cockpit into which you could stick your feet as you sat on the open deck a few inches above the water. In the dark, I saw the slow beginnings of a smile form at the corner of her mouth. I’d forgotten the screwball streak she’d displayed once or twice before. Suddenly she threw back her head and laughed.
“You’re crazy, darling! You’re absolutely insane!” There was nothing in this requiring a comment from me, so I made none. She said in a tentative voice, “I don’t suppose I get to change my clothes.”
That still didn’t require any response. Regardless of what I’d planned earlier—or said I was planning—I’d hardly have gone to the trouble now of getting her down to the boat unseen, only to risk letting her go clear back up to her room where someone might be watching, not to mention the tricks she might play on the way. She’d given me no reason to be considerate of her or her wardrobe, and after all, what clothes were actually needed in this climate? It wasn’t as if we were setting out to cross the North Sea in midwinter.
Isobel hesitated and looked down at herself in a speculative way, as if estimating what her appearance might be a couple of hours from now. Abruptly, she threw her purse into the footwell of the boat and bent over, raising her skirt garter-high. Current fashions being what they are, it didn’t have far to go. A moment later she was standing there with her stockings and high-heeled pumps in her hand, having got them off with commendable speed for a lady who’d just been commenting unfavorably on the joys of going shoeless.
The reckless little half-smile on her face said she’d show me. To hell with her pretty clothes, it said: anything crazy I could do, she could do crazier. I had an uneasy feeling that she’d defeated me somehow, but I couldn’t quite see how.
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” she said. “Ready for launching, sir.”
“Well, toss that stuff into the cockpit and let’s go.”
Together we dragged the boat down to the water’s edge and waded out with it to where we could work on it conveniently. I saw Isobel flinch when the first wave that met us soaked her dress to the hips; after that she paid no more attention than if she’d been wearing a bikini. We checked the rudder, slipped the centerboard into its slot, hoisted the sail, and scrambled aboard. Then we were gliding smoothly away from the land, leaving five little boats where
there had been six before—but I didn’t think anyone was likely to count them until the beach boys arrived in the morning.
Even then, the chances of Monk’s men discovering that one of the toy hotel boats was missing wasn’t very great. They wouldn’t be thinking in terms of cockleshells. All they would know and report, I hoped, was that Pressman was dead and that Isobel and I had disappeared mysteriously during the night.
Isobel shifted position on the deck beside me. “Ugh, if there’s anything clammier than a wet bathing suit, it’s a wet girdle,” she said. “Matt?”
“Yes?”
“I still hate you. I loathe and despise you. I just happen to have a weakness for mad men and mad projects. Do you understand?”
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll try not to presume on your weakness, ma’am, but I guarantee nothing. Now you’d better slide that wet girdle out to windward a bit to balance us. It looks breezy up ahead…”
20
Not being an experienced seaman, I can’t give all the technical details of the trip. The basic problem, as posed by the charts and my pocket compass, was simple enough. We wanted to sail north to Molokai, but the trade winds, which blow from the northeast in those parts, didn’t really want to let us. This conflict of opinion made things quite wet and violent on board, particularly after we passed the tip of Maui and no longer had the mass of that island to shelter us.
I’d expected a certain amount of commotion, and I’d made what preparations I could. I’d collected Isobel’s shoes and purse and glasses, and my shoes and gun, and rolled them up in my coat. I’d secured the bundle with my necktie and lashed it to the mast with her stockings, which lowered my popularity quotient even further. I guess no woman likes to see knots tied in her nylons. But at least we were cleared for action, so to speak, and everything was lashed down that could fall off or blow away or wash overboard when we entered the channel proper. It was just as well.
In theory, I knew, a sailboat should be able to head within about forty-five degrees, or four compass points, of the wind. In other words, with a northeast wind blowing, our northerly course was theoretically possible. This much I remembered from what I’d been taught by the old Navy chief who’d run the small-boat training school I’d attended at Annapolis years ago. I could recall him explaining to us exactly why a sailboat goes to windward. He’d drawn the parallelogram of forces on the blackboard for us. Then he’d taken us out for practical instruction, one by one, and I remembered his simple directions for sailing close-hauled, as it’s called: Just hike your ass out to weather, sir, and watch your luff.
The Betrayers Page 14