The Interlopers mh-12

by Donald Hamilton

  "Soo?" I said. "Kind of a stout Charlie Chan type with a precise way of speaking English?"

  "Yes, do you know him?"

  "We met over in Hawaii a year or so back. If it's the same Soo. Did he by any chance tell you that his name wasn't really Soo, but it would do for purposes of reference?"

  "Why…why, yes, that's exactly what he said! It must be the same man. What was he doing in Hawaii?"

  "Just about the same as he seems to have been doing in San Francisco or wherever you met him: making trouble for decadent capitalist nations like the U. S. of A. for the benefit of a certain People's Republic of the Orient." I grinned. "I saved his life out there, in a manner of speaking, but I don't suppose the debt really weighs on him. Well, well. Good old Peking Soo. With fifty grand to shell out for what?"

  "For information on the Northwest Coastal System, naturally."

  "How did you happen to meet him?"

  "He looked me up. He'd heard of me from some characters I'd met, political types."

  "I don't suppose I have to ask what brand of politics."

  She shrugged. "There's no bore as deadly as a Marxist bore. We didn't have any more to do with them than we could help. But they sicked Mr. Soo on us."

  "We?" I said. "Us?"

  She hesitated. "At the University, I'd got to know some pretty bright people, several of whom later wound up working in some pretty hush installations. In fact, there was a kind of group of us that used to get together and experiment with… well, never mind that. It was just experimental. We weren't hooked or anything, but you like to try anything once. Anyway, even after we all graduated, we'd still meet from time to time, those of us who could make it."

  "Did Mr. Soo use your experiments for blackmail?"

  "Oh, no. Nothing like that. He just laughed his slick laugh and said he enjoyed meeting young people with inquiring minds. And then he started dropping hints…" She moved her shoulders awkwardly once more. "Of course, some of the characters I'm talking about, the bright people, turned out to be totally square about things like security and loyalty and patriotism, real conformist jerks. I was kind of surprised. I mean, you know a guy for years and you still don't know how he's going to react to…"

  "To treason?" I said.

  She made a sharp little gesture. "Why make with the loaded words? Anyway, the rest of us… well, as far as we're concerned, that kind of stuff is strictly for laughs these days. What's to betray, what's to be loyal to, Nystrom? You start getting an attack of ideals about something, peace for instance, and a cop comes and beats you over the head with a club, right? And these were pretty bright people, too bright to go around demonstrating in the streets and getting their brains knocked out. Even if you take your ideals that seriously, why buck city hail when you can dig the foundations right out from under it and get paid for doing it?"

  I said, "Did you work this out in advance, or did it take Mr. Soo to help you see the light?"

  She said sharply, "We didn't need any help to see that things were all wrong and getting worse! It's fairly obvious, isn't it, that the older people who've been running things have made a mess of them and just won't admit it…"

  I said, "Personally, I don't trust anybody under thirty. But then, I don't trust anybody over thirty, either."

  "Funny!" she said bitterly. "That's all people like you can do when challenged: make jokes!"

  I caught that quick sneaky glance at the watch once more as I refilled the coffee cups. It would have been nice to know how much time we had to kill and what was supposed to happen when it was up. Obviously she was stalling desperately, trotting out all the youth-versus-age and world-we-never-made clichйs and rationalizations; as well as all the excuses and justifications they always have, young or old, for selling out.

  I'm not saying that some of her points weren't valid. I'm just saying that it gets kind of monotonous, to a man in my line of work, the way they've always got it worked out so neatly, all the clever folk, when they hand the stuff over to the enemy-whatever it may be and whoever he may be-and walk off with the cash.

  Somehow, they're always saving the world by betraying a piece of it. I bet myself that in a minute this girl would come up with some ingenious twist that would clinch the argument, proving that actually she and her friends had been working in behalf of the human race as a whole, and that the fifty grand was just incidental to the whole shining scheme of world improvement.

  But she fooled me. She said, "We don't make jokes. We don't think it's funny, Nystrom. We think it's a dirty, fouled-up mess that's been left us, and there just isn't a damn thing that can be done about it now. It's too late now, so we might as well make a little money any way we can and have a few kicks while we can, before the whole thing blows up with us…"

  Well, you can take a few more yards of that and cut it to fit. It was too bad in a way. I have some sympathy for the misguided young coffee-shop intellectuals, but they don't really tug at my heartstrings. But I couldn't help remembering this girl at the river with a fishing rod in her hand. Whether or not it had been an act for my benefit that particular morning, at some time she must have been truly fond of the outdoors to have learned the techniques so well. She undoubtedly had other talents and virtues; she might be straightened out if somebody wanted to take the time and trouble-and could talk the California police into overlooking an accessory-to-murder charge. Neither was likely. She might be worth saving, but nobody was going to bother. Certainly I wasn't. Saving young doomsday cynics from themselves wasn't what I'd been sent up here for. Quite the contrary.

  I caught a glimpse of my watch as I reached for the coffeepot once more. I was surprised to see that it read well past eleven. We'd been playing her delaying game for more than an hour. It should be enough, I decided. Anyway, I'd learned what I wanted to know, as much of it as I could expect to get from her, and I was tired of games. I didn't particularly want to see her go into the sexy Mata Hari act I figured had to come next because it practically always does.

  I refilled our cups once more, put the pot back on the stove, and said, "Actually, I may not have to murder anybody else tonight, if I can persuade you to show some sense for a change."

  Her eyes widened slightly. "What do you mean?"

  "Bellman, I'm a pro," I said. "Three of your friends have already died trying to take me. They haven't even come close." This wasn't quite true-it had been close enough in that cabin before Stottman took a hand-but we weren't dealing with truth here. I went on harshly: "Why don't you get smart before it happens to you?"

  She licked her lips. "I… I don't understand…"

  "Sure you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Now listen closely. I've got orders concerning you, but I'm allowed some discretion. Suppose you give me your word that you'll beat it out of here and go straight home without talking to anybody, taking your friend outside with you…', She was pretty good. She didn't really start; she just sat very, very still for a moment, holding in the start that wanted to betray her. After a brief delay, she managed to put a puzzled frown on her face.

  "My friend? I don't know what you mean!"

  I went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Of course, the whole deal depends on what he fed my dog. I suppose that's why you've been stalling, to give it time to take effect. If it was something like strychnine, to hell with both of you. But if it was just a harmless knockout drug to let him get that collar, we can work it out. Signal your boy to come in here unarmed, with his hands up, bringing the collar with him. Promise you won't talk, and tell me what the pup got and what the antidote is. I'm kind of fond of him; besides, I'm going to need him for identification again, farther up the line. You do that, and I'll forget my orders and turn you both loose." I looked at her across the table. "Well, what do you say?"

  She was back in control once more. She gave me the straight, level, clear-eyed look of the accomplished liar. "Honest, I don't know what you're talking about! There were only the four of us, and three are dead. I'm right here. Who's left to be
prowling around outside? You're just imagining things."

  It was what I'd expected, of course, but it was still too bad. If she'd accepted the deal, I'd have been stuck with it. Maybe I'd even wanted to be stuck with it, a little.

  "Sure," I said. I rose and pulled out the short-barreled Colt revolver. "Sure. So let's go out there and look. If I'm wrong, we'll find nothing but an empty campground and a sleeping pup… After you, Miss Bellman."

  I gestured with the gun. With her eyes on the weapon, not speaking, she rose stiffly and moved to the door and looked back. I nodded for her to open it, and she did.

  16

  THE NIGHT WAS CLEAR AND CALM and moonless. The stars were bright enough up there, but they didn't give much light down here. I let the girl stand in the illuminated doorway for a moment, and showed myself close behind her, to make the situation clear to anyone outside. Then I switched out the camper lights.

  Pat Bellman started to look around. I said, a little more loudly than would have been necessary if I'd been speaking to her alone, which I wasn't: "Eyes front, doll, straight ahead now and no tricks. The first twig that snaps, the first shadow that moves, and this.357 blows a hole right through you, back to front."

  In ordinary circumstances, against professional opposition, this would have been a waste of good menace. All pros are expendable, and a gun in the back of one means nothing to another with a job to do. But I was gambling that I still had one more amateur to deal with, confused by unprofessional notions of comradeship and loyalty.

  If I was wrong-if, for instance, Mr. Soo had decided to come up here and intervene personally-I was apt to be shot very dead very soon. That I'd probably take the girl with me would be of no consequence to Mr. Soo; he could spare an occidental female or two. But in my favor was the fact that any operative of Mr. Soo's caliber, having got what he came for, as by this time he should have, wouldn't hang around to perform a sentimental rescue of an irrelevant blonde.

  The girl in front of me stepped to the ground and wriggled uncomfortably against the pressure of the gun barrel as I stayed right with her.

  "Really, you're being unnecessarily melodramatic."

  "Hank," I called, ignoring her. "Wake up, pup. Hank!" There was no response. Pat Bellman said, "Maybe he slipped his collar and ran off."

  "Sure," I said. "Like your imaginary bitch opened her kennel door. He slipped his collar, all right, or it was slipped. But I don't think he ran off. Go straight ahead along the chain now…"

  The galvanized chain was a pale streak along the ground. I couldn't see anything at the end of it, but a black dog is hard to see against a dark background on a dark night. Then the chain ended.

  "Stop right there," I said, bending down cautiously to examine the empty snaphook. I dropped it, and straightened up. I said harshly, "You've got one more chance. Call in your boy, fast!"

  "I told you, there's nobody… Wait a minute, there's your dog! On the ground way over there. At least there's something black… Oh!"

  Moving off, she stumbled over something on the ground: the black pup, not off where she'd pointed, but right near the end of the chain where he'd logically be and where, I had no doubt, she had seen him plainly. But it gave her an excuse to lose her balance and fall, or pretend to fall. Actually, it was a little more than a fall,. it was a kind of tumbling somersault, as she went diving over the shadowy form on the ground headfirst, lit on one shoulder, and kept rolling.

  It was prettily done. It showed some nice gymnastic training. There were only two or three different split seconds in which I could have drilled her. However, she wasn't the one I wanted at the moment. She had no gun; she'd keep. And I didn't want to produce any bright Magnum muzzle-flashes for her associate to zero in on.

  She was calling as she rolled: "All right, Wally! Now!"

  The gun opened up from the bushes to the left, near the creek, but I've had a little training, too, and I was already flat on the ground, with my face well down, so there was nothing but shadows for Wally to shoot at. His bullets- small ones, perhaps.22s-pecked at the dirt off to one side. An occasional slug found a pebble to glance off and went screaming away into the distance. Meanwhile I was aware that Pat Bellman had found her feet and was sprinting in the direction of the highway.

  Without raising my head and displaying my white face for a target, I got Wally located by the fireworks he kept setting off. I could make out his white face through the bushes. He seemed to be wearing a white shirt as well. Anyone who goes out to commit murder at night wearing white, must leave half his marbles at home.

  He tried still another couple of shots, no closer. Then I heard him changing clips over there and jacking home a cartridge. I suppose I could have tried for him while he was momentarily out of action, but shooting through brush is chancy business with any gun, even a.357. I just lay there and waited him out. A little distance away, I heard a car door open.

  "Come on, Wally! That's enough. Bring the keys!" Pat Bellman called.

  Wally waited a little longer. Then he started to crawl away. Done right, belly-crawling is no fun. Pretty soon he was up on hands and knees, which is easier and faster but still hard work and painful. Having covered a total of about ten yards, roughly what I'd figured him good for, he gave up the struggle and got up to run, giving me the broad, white, clear target for which I'd been waiting.

  I shot once and went over and took the dog collar and a bunch of keys out of his pocket. I stood up again, brushed the dust and pine needles off my clothes, and walked toward the parked car gleaming dully near the campground entrance. As I came closer, I saw it was the little fastback Ford I'd seen before. Pat Bellman had the hood up. She was groping for something in the engine compartment, presumably a spare key.

  "Try these," I said, tossing her the bunch I'd taken from Wally.

  She whirled to face me, missing the catch. As a matter of fact, she didn't even make an effort. The keys hit the fender of the Mustang with a clanking sound, and fell to the ground, jingling softly.

  "Pick them up," I said. She didn't move. I said, "Be your age, Bellman. If I shoot you, will it hurt any more bending over than standing up straight?"

  "You killed him!" she breathed. "You killed him, too! You shot him in the back!"

  I said, "Oh, for Christ's sake! I didn't notice him being particular about which way I was turned when he opened up on me."

  "You… you assassin!"

  "That's just about enough of that," I said. "I'm getting a wee bit tired of having you call me names every damn time you set me up for murder and I shoot my way clear."

  "He wasn't trying to kill you! We've got orders not to kill you, don't you understand? He was just covering for me, so I could get away!"

  It wasn't a very plausible story, but for various reasons I was inclined to believe her. Not that it mattered, as far as my conscience was concerned. There are too many people in the world who really deserve my sympathy for me to waste any of it on characters who get cute with firearms.

  I said, "So next time let me in on the gag, and maybe nobody'll get hurt. When I'm shot at, I shoot back. I gave you a chance to stop it-several chances-but you had to play it your way. Now pick up those keys. Fine. Put them in your pocket. Now come over here and carry the pup into the camper for me. Never mind him! He's dead; I checked. You can't do anything for him." She hesitated by the dim black shape of the dog. "Gently now," I said. "Pick him up. You had him poisoned. The least you can do is carry him."

  Inside the trailer, I had her put the pup on one of the dinette seats. She was breathing deeply when she turned back to look at me. Even a young Labrador is a hefty load for a girl. I saw that Hank was breathing, too, not deeply, not well, but enough to show that the systems were still functioning and might be persuaded to continue to do so. On the whole, I reflected, it had been a successful operation. I had used the pup and the collar for bait, and I'd caught my fish and got my bait back.

  I was aware that the girl was watching me steadily. I met her eyes. After a
moment, the defiance seemed to go out of her all at once, leaving her looking pale and tired and defeated.

  "You'd better give me something to cover him with," she said. "He should be kept warm."

  "Sure." I dragged some bedding out of a locker and gave it to her. She put it over the unconscious pup. I heard her laugh oddly and I asked, "What's funny?"

  "Making this fuss over a dog, when there's a man lying dead outside."

  "To hell with that," I said. "This pup's a lot better at his specialty than your man was at what he was trying to do."

  "And you're the real expert, aren't you?" Some of the old resentment was back in her voice.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said. "It happens to be my profession."

  "I'd be ashamed to admit it!"

  "Cut it out, Bellman," I said. "You've been trying hard enough to horn in on my racket. You're just knocking it because you flopped. Now tell me what the pup's got in him, and how much."

  She hesitated, as if she wanted to continue the argument; then she shrugged and said, "It isn't poison. If it were strychnine or arsenic, you'd have heard him, wouldn't you? They're painful. You should know that much, an expert like you."

  "There's always cyanide," I said. "And all kinds of quick and fancy death drugs. Mr. Soo would have a good supply."

  "Mr. Soo wasn't handy," she said. "Mr. Soo was at the other end of a telephone wire. We just used what we had. Sleeping pills. Nembutal, to be specific, about twelve grains, one grain for each five pounds of body weight. It's slow, over an hour, even on a young dog. That's why.. why I had to keep prattling away in here like a damn fool."

  I said, "Twelve grains; eight yellow-jackets. That's quite a dose. Will he live?"

  "If there's nothing organically wrong with him otherwise. But it might be better if you got him to a vet and had him given an analeptic, a respiratory stimulant."

  "The nearest vet's probably in Prince Rupert, on the coast. You seem to know a lot about veterinary medicine yourself."