7
We’d driven about five miles when I heard the odd sound beside me. I’d tried to be helpful after we had her motel room to ourselves, but Madeleine had said very quietly that she was perfectly capable of wiping her own bloody nose, thank you, and could even manage to pack all by herself; she’d be ready as soon as I was. And just let’s get out of here, please—all this in her low, dead voice without ever looking at me directly.
We’d hit the freeway again, and the little rotary power plant was spinning at 2,500 rpm in its smooth and almost soundless way, propelling us across the sunny winter Midwest at the modest speed she preferred, when I heard her make the choked, disturbing little sound. I turned to look at her with concern.
“All you all right?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I know it was a lousy experience—”
“You!” she breathed. The sound came again, an unmistakable chortle of amusement. I realized that her eyes were bright, not with tears, but with suppressed laughter. “You! Standing there spouting all that nonsense! The big bad bear from the top of the hill! The fierce catamount from the head of the river! With a perfectly straight face!” She reached out and touched my hand on the steering wheel, lightly. “I’m not making fun of you, Matt, not really. It was a lovely speech. The first time somebody’s stood up for me since…” She swallowed, hard. “I loved it, every word of it. But wasn’t it just a little gaudy?”
They’d had her down, but she’d bounced back fast, and her growing resiliency pleased me. However, I was a little disappointed in her on other grounds. I’d thought her prison experience would have given her a stronger armor of suspicion than she seemed to be wearing, taking the scene just past at face value.
I said, unsmiling, “I don’t think you understand. Consider it carefully. Suppose you weren’t personally involved. Suppose you just heard me declaiming like that, what would be your opinion of me?” When she hesitated, I said, “Go on. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
Her laughter died. She frowned thoughtfully. “Why, I suppose I’d think you were a very arrogant and overbearing person.”
I nodded. “And not really very bright, to beat my chest and make with the war cry of the great apes like that. Me Tarzan, AhhhyeeeAhhhyeeee! Just a big, meat-headed blowhard, right?”
She said quickly, “That’s not what I thought at all! I told you—”
“I wasn’t talking about what you thought, sweetheart. I wasn’t putting on my act for you.”
She frowned at me. “Matt, what are you trying to say?”
“What did Bennett want of you? What was he asking you, when he had you in that chair?”
She started to ask a question, and checked herself. She licked her lips. When she spoke, her voice came out flat and harsh, mimicking: “‘Listen, you cheap disbarred female shyster, we know you’re heading for a sentimental reunion with your traitor husband, but where? Slap! I’m talking to you, jailbird! Where is he? Slap-slap!’” She drew a ragged breath. “Matt, I used to have a little pride once. Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life as an unperson who can be shouted at and slapped around by… by shits like that?” Then she shook her head quickly. “Don’t answer that question. They don’t really let you out of prison when they let you out of prison do they? Just tell me what you’re driving at.”
I said carefully, “If Bennett were serious about wanting to catch your husband, and really believed you were heading for a meeting, wouldn’t he simply have you shadowed hoping you’d lead him there?”
She licked her lips. “I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“I think you’re being very naive. Did you ever hear of the ley de fuga?”
“Of course. The law of flight, but it’s not really a law, just an excuse to… Matt!” Her eyes held a sudden look of shock. “Matt, you can’t be serious!”
“Sure I can,” I said. “It’s a fine old Latin custom. You’ve got a prisoner you want to dispose of permanently. You harass him… well, in this case, her. You insult her, torment her verbally, abuse her physically, until she can’t take it any more and makes a break… Gosh, judge, we’re just as sorry as we can be, but the woman was escaping custody and the officer fired a warning shot that was meant to go over her head but he stumbled and the bullet went low and we wouldn’t have had it happen for the world! But, after all, she was just a lousy ex-con just out of stir so who really cares?”
The car was silent for a while, except for the purring of the rotary power plant and the whistle of the wind and the whine of the tires. At last Madeleine licked her lips again.
“But… but the Office of Federal Security is a respectable government agency! Are you saying that even the U.S. government wants me dead? That’s insane!”
“The OFS is a Johnny-come-lately outfit. It’s got very big very fast, and nobody seems to know how or why; but a lot of people wouldn’t call it so very damned respectable. And the U.S. government is a lot of people wanting a lot of different things. What my chief wants, and those who gave him the instructions he passed down to me, isn’t necessarily what some other people want, the people from whom Bennett takes his orders. I may be getting paranoid, myself, but I think we’d better operate on the assumption that we’ve just witnessed, and forestalled, another attempt on your life; let’s just hope that my chest-beating reaction fools them into thinking we’re dumb enough not to realize it. We’d also better assume that this thing is bigger than I was told—not that I was told very much—and that we have more to worry about than just an occasional hired shotgunner or rifleman or pistoleer hiding in the roadside brush. I made a call before we left, back there, and arranged a meeting with the commanding officer of the support troops, a guy named Jackson—well, you saw him at that picnic area yesterday. We’ll see what he has to say. In the meantime, I need all the information from you I can get. Like, for instance, what’s Dellenbach got against you?”
She looked startled. “Was that the blond man—”
“Jim Dellenbach. He says you used to be a classy broad but you gave yourself too many airs.”
She winced. “God, it’s been eight years! I thought he looked familiar, but the mustache, and all that blood, and he’s put on some weight… Not that I’m in a position to criticize!” She hesitated. “He was the gofer, Matt. You know. Every time Mr. Bennett wanted to ask me more questions, Jim Dellenbach was the man who’d go for me—come for me—take me downtown, and bring me back home afterwards, as long as I had a home. After I found a buyer for the house, and I practically had to give it away”—her voice was bitter—“after I lost my own home I moved in with my folks. It didn’t seem worthwhile trying to find an apartment when… when I didn’t know how long I’d be… around to use it. Or how I’d pay for it. God, after all the years of driving so hard for… for success, day and night, I felt totally lost and meaningless with nothing to do and no plans to make that meant anything until… Just waiting for my damn case to come to trial! Anyway, they kept finding new evidence, new reasons to interrogate me, or making them up. I told you I thought it was a systematic break-the-dame-down campaign, but Mr. Baron said that, legally, we were obliged to cooperate. I told you I’d had to get rid of the cars, too. I couldn’t afford the payments. I was trying desperately to save enough out of the awful financial shambles to stay out of jail and pay for my defense, and I didn’t like to borrow the folks’ beloved old Cadillac too often and leave them stranded. So Dellenbach was the man who ferried me back and forth. And sympathized with me. Oh, he was so friendly and sympathetic; he thought it was a terrible shame the way I was being harassed, a nice lady like me. And of course he gave me advice. He said he believed I was telling the truth, but I should be practical. The evidence was really too strong against me. But if I pleaded guilty and said I’d been under the spell of my evil husband and really couldn’t conceive of how I’d come to do such dreadful things against my country and was terribly ashamed of them, if I confessed and threw myself upon the mercy of the court, they’d probably—hu
sh, he wasn’t supposed to tell me this, but he’d heard them talking—they’d probably let me off with a slap on the wrist and a suspended sentence.”
She was silent for a little as we drove, remembering. Her face showed that none of the memories were pleasant. She drew a shaky breath.
“Sometimes it seemed to me that the whole world was waiting irritably for the stupid, stubborn, half-dazed bitch to confess and get the whole thing over with, even Mr. Baron, who was supposed to be defending me. He told me frankly that he didn’t think his chances of getting me off were very good, and a little plea bargaining might be in my best interest. The prosecution had indicated its willingness to be reasonable. But I was damned if I was going to confess! That would have killed my last hope of ever vindicating myself: a humble confession and an abject plea for mercy! How would I ever be able to convince anyone of my innocence after that?” She swallowed hard. “But as a lawyer I have to admit that making a deal would probably have been the smart thing to do. And maybe I would have agreed if I’d really believed in my heart that I—innocent me—could be convicted; and if I’d known what a destroying thing prison would be for someone of my background, particularly that secret federal maximum-security institution I’d never even heard of, with its old-fashioned dehumanized penal system of ugly uniforms and brutal regimentation. Even in my worst nightmares I’d never seen myself doing more than a few dreadfully demeaning but otherwise fairly easy years in Alderson… Yes, I think I might have weakened and gone along with them if I’d known I was risking Fort Ames, and eight whole years without hope of parole; and how I’d come out of there with nothing left, not even… not even myself. The other way I’d have given up any hope of ever proving my innocence, but I might have managed to salvage a few tattered little scraps of… of me.”
She waited while I jockeyed the little car through a clot of slow traffic; then she went on, more steadily now: “Anyway, Jim Dellenbach was right in there pitching for that confession. And for me, I realized. That was what he was there for, of course, to gain my confidence. And after a while he began to think he’d really made a conquest. He started by treating me to sympathetic pats and shoulder squeezes when things had been particularly rough, and went on to protective little hugs and soothing caresses; soon he just couldn’t keep his big meaty hands off me. I stood it as long as I could, but that was back in the days when I still allowed myself… when I was still a human being with the right to lose my temper. Finally I blew up and told him that the only thing I needed less than his slimy solicitude was his greasy, groping fingers all over me. Only I didn’t say it so briefly, if you know what I mean. I suppose it was a tactical error. Of course the place was wired for sound so everybody got an earful of me telling him off—I think they played the tape for each other just for kicks. He was pulled off that duty and he hated me ever after. He even made a point of being right there out in the hall, gloating at my downfall, when I was led away from the courtroom in handcuffs after being sentenced.”
I frowned. “Let me get this straight. It was Bennett and his men who marched into your house that night and arrested you, and who questioned you and conducted the whole investigation afterwards?”
She said, “Well, not the whole investigation. Everybody seemed to get into the act, including the local police. After all, Roy was missing, and the word ‘murder’ had been spoken. But Bennett was certainly the one with whom I had most dealings, and Jim Dellenbach was one of his younger assistants at the time.”
I said, “I didn’t know Bennett had had any previous connection with your case. The condensed material I was given to study didn’t mention the name of the investigating officer, which could be significant in itself. A cover-up of some kind involving the government’s own files?” I shrugged. “Well, we don’t know enough yet to do any useful theorizing, so let’s leave it for the moment. Right now you have, an important decision to make… But first I want you to take it for a little. Get used to it.”
“Take it? Oh.” She hesitated as I pulled the Mazda off onto the shoulder and stopped the motor. “I don’t really know after all these years… Can’t I try it first on a little empty road somewhere?”
“Easier here,” I said. “You’ll discover that little empty roads are kind of hard to come by these days, Miss van Winkle. Here they’re only coming at you from one direction.” After we’d switched seats, I said, “There’s a manual choke over there to the left, but you only need it the first thing in the morning. Gearshift, neutral. Okay, start her up with the key, good. Hand brake, off. It’s a five-speed shift, but don’t worry about fifth right now, it’s a kind of overdrive. All clear astern, go for it.”
It was a pleasure to see how fast confidence returned to her as she swung the car back onto the highway and worked her way through the gears, taking it up to speed. After some experimental jockeying and lane-changing, she found fifth gear—with a defiant little glance in the direction of the bossy guy who’d told her not to worry about it—and settled back in her seat, relaxing behind the wheel.
Her face was alive with the excitement of remembering the long-disused techniques of driving. More clearly than before, under the prison-worn flesh of the woman she was, I could see the ghost of the strikingly lovely girl she’d been. I found myself speculating about how she might look even now if she lost a few pounds—well, quite a few pounds—and tightened up the slack, neglected muscles with systematic exercise, and got a little sun on the tired, dead-white skin… The Helm Ex-Convict Rehabilitation Service, I thought sourly, reminding myself that this woman was supposed to be neither a friend nor a patient, but merely a useful decoy and source, of information.
She spoke at last: “Now what was that tremendous decision I had to make, Matt?”
“Your hair,” I said.
“My hair?”
I said, “Because of this council of war coming up, we’ll be stopping early in a place called Stockville up ahead. They have two establishments to choose from, Madelon’s La Mode and Blanche’s Beauty Boutique. If we were superstitious we’d send you to Madelon because of the similarity in the names; but my spies inform me that Blanche is supposed to be the superior operator. But you’d better be ready to tell her how you want it done—”
Madeleine said stiffly, “What is this, a project to bolster the poor convict-lady’s morale? My hair is perfectly fine the way it is, thank you!”
I said, “Actually, it’s lousy the way it is, and you don’t really like it that way yourself, do you? And afterwards you’ll visit Milady’s Fashions and Offenberg’s Department Store, and use those credit cards in your purse. That suit is okay for driving, but I think a simple little dress for dinners along the way, don’t you? And a pair of good-looking slacks, maybe, and some jeans for really rugged going, and shoes and shirts and socks and what they used to call unmentionables—underwear to you—to go with everything. If you want to give your lecherous traveling companion a treat, you might even pick up a few pairs of nice sheer nylons and throw away those cast-iron hose you’re wearing; you’ve got very nice legs for an unperson. Sorry we can’t make it New York or Paris, but do the best you can with Stockville. A new suitcase will probably be needed to handle the overflow. Have fun. Don’t look over your shoulder. Act like a dame on a mad shopping spree after eight years in pokey, a dame who doesn’t really believe her life is in much danger. Questions?”
She was silent for a moment. “I see. You’ll be watching?”
“Somebody’ll be watching. We want to know if Bennett has pulled his people off, at least temporarily, and we want to see if anybody else is interested.”
She shivered a little. “And if you won’t be watching—I suppose having you trailing along behind me trying to look invisible, all six feet plus of you, would give the show away—what will you be doing?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry you asked that question. Because, to be perfectly honest, I’ll be visiting a porno shop and looking at all the pictures of nekkid ladies lying on their backs with their knees a
part.”
* * *
I was wrong. They weren’t just lying on their backs. Some of the positions were really rather remarkable and, I would think, uncomfortable. And mostly total nudity was not displayed; filmy stockings and sexy little garter belts seemed to be the uniform of the day. Or night. Waiting, I worked my way along the wall racks full of fascinating literature—at least it must have been fascinating to somebody, considering the substantial prices asked. Personally, I’m a sucker for a pretty face, a pretty breast, a slim waist, a neat buttock, a slender leg, or a trim ankle; but I can’t help feeling that when you’ve seen one vulva you’ve seen them all. Which undoubtedly reflects my inhibited youth; probably I’m just too embarrassed by such an intimate display to appreciate what I’m viewing.
There were a couple of other men in the place who paid no attention to each other or to me. Jackson came in at last and proceeded into the section devoted to cubicles in which, for a quarter a throw, you could watch feelthy movies. After a little I followed him to the specified booth. When I entered, he was engrossed in the fuzzy images being thrown onto a moderately large screen by some kind of a projection device. They depicted one naked man and two naked women doing odd things to each other in ring-around-the-rosy fashion.
I studied Jackson’s face for a moment in the flickering illumination bounced off the screen. I knew that he’d got himself badly chopped up on a mission some time ago, but not badly enough to warrant his retirement; he was now relegated to backup duty helping out front-line heroes like me. I’d found him conscientious and efficient in the past.
The Infiltrators Page 8