The Silencers mh-5

by Donald Hamilton

  We needed gas, and Gail wanted a nice rest room. When it comes to selecting a place to go to the John, any woman can keep looking much longer than seems natural or safe, and she was no exception. The one she finally picked was no better than the three we'd passed up, as far as I could see, but it sold a brand of gas for which I had a credit card, so I turned in gratefully before she could change her mind.

  The man who came up to fill the tank, after setting aside a snow-shovel, was wearing high-laced hunting boots and a red plaid cap with earflaps. He was on the young side of middle age, but not much so, and he had that kind of broad, freckled country face with a long, rubbery, lugubrious mouth and sad light-blue eyes that wouldn't change till he died.

  "You folks come far this morning?" he asked. "Have any trouble? No, I reckon you wouldn't in this rig." He patted the fender of the pickup approvingly and glanced up. "Place you want is right around the corner of the building, ma'am, but you'll have to get the key off the cash register inside." He watched Gail walk away, with the veiled expression of a man who has his dreams. Then he glanced quickly at me. "You'll want the regular, I reckon, Mister."

  "That's right."

  He uncapped the tank and brought the hose over. "We get a big snow just about every year," he said, "but damn if people don't act like it was the end of the world every time it happens… You want me to take those chains off for you? You'll beat them to pieces if you leave them on, now the blade's been over the road. Cost you fifty cents."

  "It's a deal," I said.

  He got a big hydraulic jack and rolled it over. I stood by, waiting. I saw Gail come around the corner of the building, picking her way where the snow was packed so she wouldn't damage her fragile blue pumps. She'd made the necessary cosmetic repairs, combed her hair smooth and hung her pearls back around her neck. Her expensive sweater and skirt were telling no tales. There are still problems to be solved in the fields of science and medicine and international relations, but the ladies' garment industry has got it licked. Nowadays, a girl can spend the night out under quite strenuous circumstances and still greet the morning without a pleat out of place.

  She looked pretty and feminine, tiptoeing through the snow like that, but I wasn't watching her just for aesthetic pleasure. I saw her discover the telephone booth nearby-or pretend to discover it. She glanced my way, and I nodded. She made her way over there and picked up the directory without closing the door. Watching her leaf through the pages, I saw her frown quickly and go back a page. She looked up, with a startled expression on her face. I walked over there.

  "What's the matter?" I asked. "It isn't there!"

  "No Wigwam?"

  "No Wigwam," she said. Then I guess the tone of my voice gave her a belated hint, because she looked up, her gray eyes wide and accusing. "You knew!"

  "I knew we wouldn't find it in the phone book" I said.

  "How-"

  "It was checked two nights ago along with your personal history and various other things."

  She frowned as if completely bewildered. "You knew, and still you had us come all this way? You let me-" She stopped, and said naively, "You might at least have told me!"

  I said, "It was your wild-goose chase, glamor girl. I just came along to watch the show." She gasped, and I said, "Sure, I let you put on your act. It was very good. Congratulations. The double-take, the surprised expression… Anybody'd have thought you really expected to find a place called the Wigwam!" I grimaced. "Now, why don't you just break down, Gail, and tell me what your sister really said, and why you went to the trouble of making up this crazy story about an Indian lodge…"

  "Excuse me, sir."

  The voice came from behind me. Well, I should have known better than to pick a public driveway for the scene, but I was just about through, anyway. I'd done my part to establish the unbearable Mr. Helm for another day. He'd slipped a little last night; he'd been almost human early this morning, but now he was right back in form. I turned.

  "That'll be three-eighty for the gas and fifty cents for taking off the chains, plus tax," the filling station man said. His stolid, freckled face said that quarrels between his customers were none of his business, much as he'd like to know what the hell it was all about. "Oil and water okay. I put your chains in back."

  I gave him my credit card. The sound of running footsteps told me Gail was gone; I heard the truck door open and close, hard. I followed the man into the station to sign the ticket.

  "There wouldn't be a place called The Wigwam in town?" I asked casually. "A motel or a restaurant or something?"

  "There's nothing called the Wigwam, Mister, but the Turquoise Motel's a nice place to stay, and if you want something to eat or drink, there's the Chloe Bar and Grill…

  When I got behind the wheel, she was sitting at the other end of the seat, looking straight ahead. I started up the truck and drove away. At the end of town I stopped at the junction where our north-south highway intersected the big paved road going east over the mountains to Roswell in the Pecos Valley, and west over the mountains to Socorro, on the Rio Grande. I turned left and drove out of town. A little way down the road a sign- similar to ones we'd seen while crossing the missile range farther south-warned that the road was occasionally closed for one-and-one-half hour periods during tests. Ahead, the road dipped down into a wide, desolate, snow-covered basin.

  "The mountains straight across," I said, "are called the Oscuras, I think. The Army's got a lot of stuff back in there, or did the last time I was through. It's all restricted as hell back in there. Those mountains, just visible, to the south are the Manzanitas."

  That got a small reaction from her; she deigned to turn her head and look, but she didn't speak.

  "Yes," I said, "that's where the underground test will take place shortly, if it goes off on schedule. It's already been postponed once, and this weather is going to make things rough out there." I paused. "We don't think much of your Wigwam story, Gail, but we're inclined to buy Carrizozo. You can see how it might be the logical place for a drop-that's the jargon for an underground station or post office. It's right where the main highways cross. Anybody going into or coming out of the test area wouldn't need much of an excuse to stop off in Carrizozo to pick up instructions or deliver the goods."

  She didn't answer, of course. Her profile was very handsome, but as cold and lifeless as the face on a coin. I drove back and zigzagged through the town, saying nothing. It took three quarters of an hour, but she finally broke down and spoke.

  "May I ask what we are doing?"

  I said, "Giving you the benefit of the doubt, glamor girl. I don't think much of that Wigwam story, but I'm willing to be convinced. Now that you've finally come out of your trance, suppose you watch that side of the street while I watch this one. Any sign you can't read, just holler and I'll stop."

  She turned at last to look at me directly. "But-"

  "So maybe it isn't in the phone book," I said. "And maybe it isn't a motel or restaurant, maybe it's a little curio shop or candy store without a phone. Maybe it's a private residence with a cute sign out front, only listed under tbe owner's name."

  "But you said-" She paused. "You implied… dreadful things!"

  "Gail," I said, "in this business, there's a maxim that goes: suspect everybody once except a woman you've slept with; suspect her twice. You will admit it's odd that there's no such place in the directory, won't you?"

  "But you don't really believe-"

  "At this stage of the proceedings, I don't believe anything," I said. "I don't disbelieve anything, either. What do you want me to do, take you on faith?"

  She flushed slightly, "No, but-"

  "Hold it," I said. "We can argue about it later. Look over there."

  "What is it?" Her voice was suddenly eager. "Is it-"

  "Not what we're looking for, but there are an awful lot of government cars congregating at that motel up ahead. They weren't there the last time we came by… I'll be damned!" I said. "There's Rennenkamp, Old Man Ato
m himself, the director of the test. I've seen his picture in the paper. Looks like something has got him in a real calm and objective mood as befits a scientist of his age and reputation…"

  I shouldn't have slowed down, of course. Making a U-turn to avoid passing the place again would have looked too obvious, but I should have driven past rapidly, looking straight ahead, instead of gawking like a tourist at the tall, white-haired old man who was violently haranguing a shorter, darker man in front of a gray car with u.s. GovERNMENT-INTEBAOENCY MOTOR POOL stenciled on the side.

  I guess I was curious as to whether the old gent wanted to get started, snow or no snow, and they wouldn't let him, or whether he was telling them he was damned if he was going to risk getting stuck out in the valley today, and to hell with scientific progress and national prestige.

  It certainly wouldn't hurt to get some idea as to whether or not the test might be delayed again-but as I came abreast of the place with my bare face showing at the open cab window, a man came out of the motel office and stopped to stare.

  "Matt!" he shouted, starting across the sidewalk. "Matt Helm! What the hell are you doing here, you old bastard?"

  It was the last question in the world I wanted to be asked in that particular place at that particular time.

  XIV

  The funny thing was, I didn't even know him. I mean, I'd have passed him on the street without recognizing him, it had been that long, and even after I remembered who he was, it took me a while to dredge up his name, although I'm supposed to be good at faces and names.

  But he belonged to that youthful, pre-war period of my life when I'd carried a big 4x5 Speed Graphic camera like a shining sword and worn a press pass in my hat like reporters do in the movies-at least I did until I was laughed out of it by the reporters on the paper, one of whom was this man.

  There wasn't anything to do but pull into the driveway and get out and go around to meet him and let him pump my hand enthusiastically. He was one of those ageless, pink, chubby, baby-faced characters who remember everybody they've ever met and are always glad to see them. I don't know why. Personally, I've met a lot of people I'd just as soon forget.

  "Well, if it isn't old Flashbulb Helm," he said. "How's the newspix racket after all these years?"

  "I wouldn't know," I said, improvising. "I'm freelancing nowadays." Well, that checked with my original cover as Mr. Helm, photojournalist from California. "What the hell are you doing out here in a snowdrift?" I asked. "I heard you'd gone to Washington to become a political expert or something."

  I'd remembered his name then: Frank McKenna, but nobody had ever called him Frank. He'd been universally known as Buddy, and I had no doubt he still was. I remembered Gail, at the window of the truck, and I said, "Honey, this is Buddy McKenna. Don't believe anything he says, even if you read it in the papers."

  Buddy gave Gail an appreciative look. "Is that nice?" he asked me reproachfully. He turned to Gail. "Accuracy is the watchword with McKenna, ma'am. I may not get the story, but I'll damn well spell your name right… What did this oaf say your name was?"

  1 said quickly, "Her name is Gail, and you keep your cotton-picking hands off, old pal, old pal." I looked around. "Just what's going on here, anyway? Isn't that Rennenkamp over there having a hemorrhage about something? Who's the dark-haired guy arguing with him-the intense one with bifocals?"

  "That's Naldi, the seismograph man. He can record the rumbling of a hungry stomach through a thousand yards of solid rock. He's been planting his instruments all over these damn mountains; hell, they postponed the party once so he could finish the job. He just drove up to meet us and go in with us-that is, if we do go in. There seems to be some question, weather-wise."

  "Who's us, and where's in?"

  Buddy hesitated and gave me a sharp glance, but he said readily enough: "Us are noted figures of press, radio and television, selected for integrity and patriotism. It helps if you happen to be a reasonably good reporter, too, but it isn't absolutely necessary as long as you can prove that your grandma never spoke nicely to Karl Marx. Of course, you also have to swear that you won't print a damn thing but what they want you to." He jerked his head towards the tourist court. "In there are also some eminent scientists thawing out their frozen tootsies, some senators and congressmen and some representatives of friendly foreign governments. And if you try to tell me you don't know why we're here, I'll call you a liar."

  I grinned. "Of course it's just a guess. I could be wrong."

  "Yeah," he said. "Wrong enough to hire a truck and plow through three feet of snow to get here." He paused, but I saw no necessity to put him straight about the ownership of the truck. He went on: "Well, I'm afraid you've had your trouble for nothing, pal, unless you want to grab a candid shot of the old man waving his arms, and that'll probably cost you your camera and a year in jail. The security on this picnic makes the old Manhattan Project look like a national convention with full network coverage."

  "Pretty rough, eh?"

  "Hell, you can't even throw away a Kleenex you've blown your nose on without having some snoop pick it up to make sure it contains nothing but snot-no uncensored messages to accomplices on the outside, nothing. They've got a bad case of nerves about something, and this weather isn't making them any happier. We were supposed to land in Alamogordo yesterday and drive up, but the whole damn valley was socked in, so they couldn't put us down any closer than Roswell, and hours late at that. You can imagine-the way the snow was coming down-the fun we had driving in convoy over the mountains in the dark. If the old man wasn't a slave driver at heart, we'd never have made it, but he's bound he's going to set off his big firecracker without any more delay. Naldi's trying to tell him that even after the snow melts those desert roads are going to be too muddy to use, but five gets you ten Rennenkamp won't listen to reason. He's already sore at Naldi for causing one postponement." Buddy frowned, looking past me. "Oh, oh. The little snoop just went to get the big snoop. You'd better get out of here."

  "Why?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

  "I told you. We've got security with a capital S. Wait a minute." Buddy lowered his voice. "I'm stuck with this junket, and, much as I hate giving a tip away. Look, if you want a story, don't waste your time here. It's all sewed up tight, big Washington deal, no free lancers need apply. Get over to Carlsbad, you know, the Caverns-the National Park-not the town. Check and see if maybe they're not planning to be closed one day very soon. Nobody's publicizing it, but I've got information that says they will be."

  "Meaning," I said, "just what?"

  "Use your head. They're closing the caves, kind of casually-for repairs to the stalactites and stalagmites, I guess-so there won't happen to be anybody underground on a certain second of a certain minute of a certain hour of a certain day. They may even clear the personnel from the buildings located directly over the caves, on some excuse or other. Does that ring a bell or doesn't it? Remember, Carlsbad's almost two hundred miles southeast of ground zero, in another range of mountains entirely-if I remember the geography of my home state correctly."

  "Wow!" I said. "If you're right-"

  "I had it on pretty good authority. Naldi himself advised it, I heard, and he's been studying ground shocks since the last days of Pompeii or thereabouts, so he ought to know what he's talking about. Looks as if somebody isn't quite sure this gun isn't loaded, eh? And little old Buddy's going to be sitting in a lousy little blockhouse out in this lousy valley, looking a mountain full of hot stuff right in the eye… Just get down there, Flash. If anything does go wrong, they'll try to cover up, they always do. I'd like to know there's somebody out here with newspaper training getting the real story of the boo-boo.

  No, Matt," he said in an entirely different voice, "I'm sorry as hell, but I can't tell you a thing. If you want information, you'll have to apply to the proper… Oh, hello, Peyton."

  There were footsteps behind me, and somebody grabbed my arm and swung me around. There are some beautiful responses to that opening whic
h leave the other fellow much less healthy than he was, but this didn't seem like the proper time to use them. I let myself be turned, and found myself facing a lean Madison Avenue figure in dark-gray flannels, a gabardine topcoat and a hat with a brim so narrow it hardly seemed worth putting on. He didn't look funny, however, not even out here in the land of the broad-brimmed Stetson. No man with those pale fanatic's eyes ever looks funny to me. I saw too many of them goose-stepping in fancy uniforms while I was operating on the continent during the war.

  "Is this the man?" he asked.

  I thought he was addressing Buddy, and it didn't make sense, but then I saw another man standing by-a bigger, older man who looked uncomfortable in civilian clothes. He might have been ex-Army, but I doubted it. He looked ex-cop to me. He glanced from me to the truck and nodded.

  "That's the guy, Mr. Peyton," he said. "That's the pickup he was driving. He was coming along the street real slow with his head out the window like he was looking for something."

  "When was this?"

  "Oh, say fifteen-twenty minutes ago. When I saw him come by again from a different direction, and stop, I figured I'd better let you know."

  The younger man never took his colorless eyes from me. They weren't gray, they weren't blue, and they certainly weren't green or brown. They must have had some kind of pigmentation, since they weren't white, either, but I couldn't put a name to it. They were the eyes of a man who'd always think he was right, no matter how wrong he might be.

  "Well," he said, "who are you and what have you got to say for yourself?"

  Buddy McKenna stepped forward. "Lay off, Peyton," he said. "The boy's just a free-lance photographer looking for a few pix. Can you blame him? We aren't all on Uncle Sam's payroll, you know. Some of us have to work for a living."

  It made me feel a little guilty to have him come to my defense like that, since-although he didn't know it-I was on Uncle Sam's payroll, too.