The Poisoners

by Donald Hamilton

  “Unless what, darling?”

  “Unless that Bernardo trailer-lab is just a decoy to make our drug people think they’re dealing with Mexican heroin—to keep them from guessing where it’s really coming from.” I grimaced. “My badge-bearing girlfriend is going to be very unhappy with me if I’ve steered her onto a phony setup. But what about that crazy thing they’re towing ashore? I don’t know a great deal about dope, although I’m learning fast, but if that’s a load of horse in the large economy carton, I’ll eat it raft and all. Again, like the truck, it’s just too damn big. There aren’t that many poppies in all of China.”

  Bobbie didn’t speak; instead she reached out her hand for the binoculars, and I gave them to her. We lay there and watched them beach the raft. Then they lowered a ramp from the rear of the van and ran out a cable from a winch somewhere inside. When they had the cylinder hooked up properly, they started winching it up the ramp with several men steadying it on either side.

  “I wish to hell somebody’d tell me what that thing is!” I said irritably at last.

  “Are you trying to kid me, darling? Don’t you really know?”

  I glanced sharply at my blond companion. She’d lowered the glasses and turned her head to smile at me in an odd, speculative way. Something moved behind me, but I pretended not to hear it.

  I said, “I haven’t any idea, Bobbie. Have you?”

  She said calmly, “Of course. That is, I don’t know how it works, exactly, but I know it’s a Sorenson Catalytic Generator, the only one in existence at present. We’ve been running some tests on it… Please don’t move darling!” Her voice sharpened slightly. “The man behind you will shoot if you move at all. Don’t even think of using that machine-gun. Please!”

  I was aware of the Buck Rogers beam that was suddenly focused right between my shoulder blades. Well, as I’d already learned, it was a tempting weapon if you needed to get the drop on a man at night: he’d certainly know when he was covered.

  I said sadly, “Roberta, I am shocked and surprised. You seemed like such a nice girl!”

  She ignored that, and went on: “We thought you must know about the generator. After all, we know you’ve had your girlfriend, as you call her, checking on Dr. Sorenson for you. What led you to him?”

  “A piece in the newspaper and an itch at the back of my neck,” I said. “We secret-agent types are intuitive as hell.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that answer, but I won’t worry about it now. Mr. Soo, as you call him, will question you later. Now, if you’d just roll up your sleeve…” I saw the gleam of my own hypodermic in her hand.

  I didn’t move at once. There were still things I wanted to find out while she was in a talkative mood.

  “Is that Willy behind me?” I asked.

  “No, but he’s coming. You can hear his jeep climbing the hill. I’d rather have you asleep when he arrives, Matt. He’s a rather violent man, Willy is, and I don’t want to give him any excuse for killing you.”

  “A rather violent man called Nicholas,” I said.

  “So you know.”

  “I guessed. He’s been playing the humble, stupid chauffeur and errand boy for years, and he’s got the face for it, but he’s the real Nicholas, isn’t he? He just carefully sets up somebody else, male or female, as the current big shot—somebody like Beverly Blaine. If anything goes wrong, the figurehead takes the rap and swallows the cyanide, and Willy’s just the dumb assistant who was lucky enough to get away.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you, Helm?”

  That was not Bobbie talking. It was a man’s voice from the darkness beyond the intense light source: the harsh voice of Willi Keim, alias Willy Hansen, alias Nicholas—Santa Claus to us. I didn’t answer him because he didn’t wait for an answer. He went on, now speaking to the girl beside me:

  “Did he do a good job for us, Liebchen?”

  “I’m not your Liebchen,” Bobbie said, “and he did a very good job. There are two of them back where the road crosses that dry riverbed, and two more under those bushes to your left. The last one, Jake, the trigger-man, is down the ridge a little ways. All sound asleep, you don’t have to worry about—”

  Without turning my head to look, I was kind of aware that Willy had turned away. There was a sudden spurt of flame at the edge of my vision, and a painfully loud crash of sound: obviously Willy-Nicholas was still hooked on his heavy Magnum hardware. Only a .44 could make that much noise. A moment later the fireworks were repeated. Bobbie kind of flinched beside me. She started to speak angrily, but checked herself, as Willy turned back to us.

  “Now, I don’t have to worry about those two,” he said. “I’ve already settled the two in the wash. I’ll take care of the last one in a minute. I never did like Jake; he was always throwing his weight around when we were working together. I had to take it then; I don’t have to take it now. I’m just sorry he’s doped so he can’t see it coming… But first I want a word with Mr. Helm, here.”

  “Not with that oversized revolver!” There was a snap to Bobbie’s voice. “The Chinaman wants him alive and talking.”

  “I won’t hurt his singing voice a bit.” A heavy boot caught me in the hip. “I’ve just been wanting to meet Mr. Helm very badly, ever since the last time he stuck his long nose into my business.”

  He kicked me in the ribs. There was nothing to do but lie there; I knew he was hoping for a sudden move on my part that would give him an excuse to blow my brains out. Then Bobbie snatched the Thompson and aimed it upwards.

  “Get out of here!” she snapped. “Go shoot somebody, or something!”

  “All right, but he’s mine when the Chinaman gets through with him!”

  I heard Willy turn and stamp away down the ridge. Bobbie drew a long breath and lowered the submachine-gun.

  “How do you work this thing, anyway?” she asked of nobody in particular. “Are you all right, Matt?”

  “Sure, I’m great,” I said. “What’s eating him?”

  “Don’t you know? You spoiled a big assignment for him—something right here in Mexico, I understand—and he didn’t dare go home and neither did the girl you knew as Beverly. They weren’t exactly going to be made heroes of the Soviet Union on their return to Moscow, if you know what I mean. So they took employment elsewhere, but our friend has a low opinion of Orientals and feels humiliated, working for one. He can’t forget that he was a big shot called Nicholas until you came along.”

  I said, “You don’t seem to share his opinion of Orientals.”

  She laughed. “Darling, I was born over there. I understand the Chinese a lot better than I understand you. Now, please roll up your sleeve…”

  I rolled it up, and felt the sting of the needle. It was the first time I’d had the stuff used on me. It wasn’t bad. As I started drifting off, I heard the big revolver crash once more, farther down the rim. It seemed as if Willy had gone and spoiled my funny joke about five tough syndicate soldiers peacefully sleeping on the job. Well, maybe it hadn’t been so funny, after all.

  24

  I awoke in a noisy, unsteady place that, after a little, I identified as the rear of a big van going down a paved highway at a good clip. There was a kind of erratic booming sound, the source of which I couldn’t determine until I opened my eyes.

  Then I saw that the tanklike mystery object I’d seen brought ashore was now looming above me, almost filling the cavernous space that was dimly lighted by a weak yellow bulb up forward. The jolting of the truck was causing the great metal cylinder to reverberate hollowly. I hoped they had it properly lashed and wedged into place so it wouldn’t shift my way. It didn’t leave too much room as it was.

  I tried to sit up and discovered that my hands and feet were tied. My gun and knife were missing, of course; in fact, my pockets seemed to be quite empty. My hip was sore; and breathing now hurt me, not only in front where I’d been socked earlier in the day, but also at the side where I’d been kicked more recently, but I didn’t
feel too badly about that. I mean, I had my orders. Mac had indicated that we’d lost too many good men and women to Nicholas, and that something permanent ought to be done about him, by me. That being the case, it would have been awkward if he’d turned out to be a sweet, gentle, lovable sort of guy I couldn’t bear to harm.

  “How are you feeling, darling?”

  I turned my head and there she was, my blonde betrayer, looking even more like a lady hippie with her long hair mussed and her white jeans smudged by the night’s adventures. Not that it mattered. If I’d wanted an immaculate vision of radiant loveliness I could have turned on the TV, if I’d had a TV. At the moment, I much preferred a tousle-headed human being in grubby pants. As a matter of fact, a great deal—including my life—might depend at least in part on just how human this girl would turn out to be.

  “Are you all right?” Bobbie helped me to a sitting position. “That’s a potent injection you carry. You’ve been asleep for six hours.”

  “It works better, I guess, when the victim hasn’t been to bed for a couple of days.”

  She made a face at me. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say! Whose bed haven’t you been in for a couple of days? I seem to remember your indulging in a nice little nap in mine, quite recently, after… after some preliminary exercise. Well, if you’re going to be so rude and forgetful, I’ll just put you right back to sleep.” She took my little case from her shirt pocket and opened it. “I’m supposed to keep you under. The Chinaman seems to have a lot of respect for you. He doesn’t trust you awake, even tied and guarded.”

  I said, “The Chinaman. They don’t call him that back in China, surely.”

  “No, and they don’t call him Mr. Soo, either, and it’s none of your business, anyway.”

  “Where is he? Where is everybody? He had a small army working for him at Bahia San Agustin.”

  “If what you’re trying to find out is whether or not we’re alone in here,” Bobbie said dryly, “the answer is that we aren’t. There are three men over on the other side of the generator; and three more up in the cab, so even if you overpower me, you’ve got your work cut out for you. The rest are riding in the jeep and your station wagon. They left Tillery’s Chrysler behind because the tires were too soft—anyway, it was too closely associated with a lot of dead bodies that might be found, prematurely, by the Mexican authorities.”

  “And where are we?”

  Bobbie hesitated, and shrugged. “I don’t suppose it matters if I tell you. I think we crossed the border back into the U.S. a little while ago, using some kind of a cross-country smuggling route known to Warfel’s men. At least the going was slow and rough for a couple of hours. You were lucky to be asleep. Now that’s enough questions. Just lie down again like a good boy and let me squirt you with some more of this nice sleepy-stuff.”

  “Just one more question,” I said. “What the hell is this overgrown stovepipe that’s threatening to squash us?”

  Bobbie frowned at me. “Don’t you really know?”

  “I said I didn’t. You said it was the Sorenson Catalytic Generator. What does it generate?”

  She said, “Don’t be silly. It generates catalysts, naturally.”

  “Oh, naturally!” I said. “Excuse me for asking! What kind of catalysts… Wait a minute!” I stared up at the metallic flank of the cylindrical object that bulged out over us as we sat with our backs against the side of the truck. I noted that, while the convex cap at the rear was clean, the cylinder itself had a smoked, scorched look at that end, kind of like a jet engine exhaust. Apparently it had been subjected to fairly high temperatures. I said thoughtfully, “Sorenson was interested in air pollution, wasn’t he? That’s how he came to be an anti-auto nut. Do you mean to tell me he discovered something…?” I stopped. Bobbie didn’t speak. I said irritably, “No. That’s too damn science-fiction screwy.”

  “What is?”

  “If you’re trying to tell me that’s a smog machine…”

  “Not exactly, darling,” Bobbie said. “It doesn’t produce smog, not directly. It just generates a finely-dispersed catalyst that will cause smog to form if the necessary pollutants are present in the atmosphere. Dr. Sorenson’s theory was that both elements—catalyst and pollutants—have to be present for active, visible, dangerous smog to form. He isolated and identified the catalyst, some kind of trace element that’s present in just about anything anybody’s likely to burn. Then, of course, for his experiments, he had to learn how to produce it in reasonable quantities. He discovered that we really don’t know how lucky we are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His experiments,” she said, “indicate that the reason a lot of cities haven’t been affected by smog problems yet, and those that have are still inhabitable, is that there just isn’t enough of the catalyst to go around. Without it, the air can absorb quite a bit of pollution without significant effect. But if you were to supply all the catalyst needed, so that all the garbage we pump into the atmosphere would react or precipitate or whatever it does…” She stopped. There was a little silence, except for the rattling of the truck, and the drumlike reverberation of the cylinder.

  I said, “And that’s what Mr. Soo is doing with this gadget?”

  “Yes. Of course, Sorenson checked out his theory on a laboratory scale, but that’s considerably different from testing it under practical conditions.”

  “Practical conditions,” I mimicked sourly. “You mean you’re going to start that thing up somewhere, windward of a suitable metropolis, and let the stuff drift in and see if the sky turns brown and people start coughing and strangling…”

  My voice kind of trailed off. I looked at her quickly, and she nodded.

  “Yes, Matt. We have run it. On a ship off the California coast. And, darling, in Los Angeles the sky did turn brown in places—you were there; you saw it and smelled it! And in places people did start coughing and strangling. You told me that your dope-fighting girlfriend had a recurrence of an asthma condition that hadn’t bothered her for years, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “But—”

  “I don’t know the exact figures,” Bobbie said. “Maybe the Chinaman does, by this time. But I do know, from early radio reports that, although curiously spotty and erratic, it was, on the whole, one of the worst smog attacks recorded in Los Angeles. The ambulance services were swamped with patients suffering from serious respiratory ailments and the hospitals were overloaded. Of course, we didn’t run it long enough to cause a real catastrophe. It’s just a pilot model. We just wanted to see if it would work, and it did.”

  I frowned. “I see. And having used it successfully on Los Angeles, where conditions are generally pretty favorable for a test like that, I suppose the Chinaman is now going to try his gadget on a tougher subject somewhere inland. But where?”

  “I can’t tell you that. As a matter of fact, I don’t know. I didn’t have anything to do with the preparations for the second test.”

  I said, “No, I guess that was Beverly Blame’s job, and Willy’s. The two of them were supposed to have made several trips east together recently, according to our late friend Jake. The question is, how far east?” Bobbie made no comment, and I changed the subject: “This ship, now. It must have met Warfel’s boat well out at sea and turned over the generator—also, I suppose, a nice big batch of Chinese heroin.”

  “Yes. Ten kilos,” Bobby said. “That was his payment for helping with his boat and truck and men. Of course, he also had to promise to arrange things so that nobody’d suspect where the drug actually came from. Besides—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Besides what?”

  She didn’t look my way. “Besides, that phony Bernardo installation he set up as camouflage also made a good cover for getting rid of Dr. Sorenson, poor man. I suppose it was necessary, but I wish they hadn’t had to do it.”

  I glanced at her, and shrugged. “Oh, you’ll get used to it, sweetheart,” I said callously. “First Tillery and his friends,
then Sorenson, then me. After a while, you’ll find being accessory to murder coming quite naturally to you, no sweat at all.”

  Bobbie spoke without looking at me. “The Chinaman promised me you wouldn’t be hurt. He said… he said he owed you a small favor.”

  “Sure, like his life. But Willy owes me something, too, or thinks he does. And Mr. Soo needs Willy and doesn’t need me, so I’m not counting too strongly on his sense of gratitude.” I waited, but Bobbie didn’t speak. I went on: “So they ditched the good doctor after pumping him dry. Well, that figures.”

  “Yes. He was saving the world, of course.”

  “They all are. What was his angle?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He wanted his generator used—by anybody he could persuade to use it, regardless of political affiliations—in order to make people realize just how much junk was in the air already. He wanted to make the situation look so bad right now that immediate, drastic steps would be taken…”

  I grinned. “And of course the Chinaman pretended to be burning with enthusiasm for the same great cause, and in a sense he was. I mean, what could be nicer for the communists than having us obligingly wreck one of our own biggest industries, and throw our own transportation system into complete chaos.”

  She gave me a reproving glance. “You sound as if you actually approve of the automobile!”

  I said, “Approve, disapprove, nuts! Actually, I get a kick out of driving a good car, but that’s beside the point. But I don’t see anybody building a lot of new railroads and streetcar lines, with smogless power. Until they do, we’re damn well stuck with the automobile, and probably with some form of the internal combustion engine, enthusiasts like Sorenson to the contrary notwithstanding. All we can do is detoxify it a bit and pray.” I grimaced. “So they got his machine going, and then they didn’t need him any more, and they certainly didn’t want him talking, so they killed him. How?”