The Steel Mirror

by Donald Hamilton

  “Then you do believe—”

  He said, “They’ve got some game they’re playing on their own, all right.”

  She glanced at him, hesitated, and when she spoke her voice sounded a little distant. “Did you really… throw a drink in her face? And knock her across the table?” She laughed quickly. “You’re rather a surprising person, aren’t you?”

  He said, “Yes, I keep amazing myself all to pieces.” He did not like to think of the incident. There were too many queer little emotions involved, beside the sense of outrage at discovering that the blonde girl had tried to drug him.

  “I wasn’t blaming you,” Ann said. “I think it was wonderful.” She added with tart amusement, “It’s a pity you had to spoil the effect by standing there gawking at her naked figure while he came up and took the gun away from you.”

  Emmett grimaced. “It doesn’t pay to be honest. I should have censored it a little, I guess.”

  He heard her laugh. There was something cheerful in the sound, now, not strained or bitter as her laughter had been; and it seemed to him that his minor discomfort had brought them measurably closer.

  He said, “But you miss the big point, Ann. What really got me going.”

  “What?” she asked. “That they were desperate to find me?”

  “No, that bottle she kept bringing into the conversation,” he said. “Presumably it was just a red herring, something to talk about so I wouldn’t notice the funny taste in my drink. Yet they kept worrying the damn thing to death. First Helene Bethke wanted me to think you’d kept it to ruin her, dug it out of the wastebasket, or something, and had it refilled so it would look as if she had been careless. That did not make me look convinced enough, I guess; so then she changed the story to admitting that she had been careless and let you swipe the bottle.”

  “But I didn’t!”

  The earth seemed to drop out of the beam of the headlights. He braked hastily and watched the light swing down to pick up the road again, where it plunged down the mountainside toward the town of Summit, visible in the canyon below them as a cluster of lights. Emmett threw the gearshift into second, and let the car begin to grind its way down the hill under easy control.

  “I know,” he said. “I know you didn’t. You never had it with you, did you?”

  chapter SEVENTEEN

  Emmett said, “If they hadn’t felt guilty about it, and tried to over-explain it to me, I’d probably never have thought about asking myself where the hell you’d been keeping a one-ounce bottle, where I hadn’t seen it. But once the idea occurred to me… He glanced at her, a little uncomfortable. “I mean, take that suit you were wearing. And the blouse. I’m human. I’ll look. And if you had a bottle one and a half by two and a half inches tacked to you somewhere under that outfit, I’ll never whistle at another blonde as long as I live. I mean, after twenty-four hours with somebody—” He cleared his throat. “—and I’d been through your purse and jacket And I couldn’t quite see you keeping something like that in the car, where anybody might find it. And after all, I didn’t have to trust my lecherous eye; that Nebraska sheriff had searched you. You didn’t have it on you.”

  The convertible was noisy with the whine of gears, the engine spinning against compression.

  Emmett went on, watching the road, “And why should you keep the bottle, anyway? She said, to ruin her, but I didn’t happen to think you were that crazy. Say you did swipe the bottle, to have the stuff in case it kind of got too much for you. Would you want to keep that chunk of glass with you, when you’d know the nurse would be after it like a bloodhound? If I were doing it, I’d keep the pills and drop the bottle down the nearest sewer; maybe I’d even combine the contents of the capsules into one slug and heave out the gelatine.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I wondered why they were so anxious to explain that bottle, when it seemed kind of irrelevant. After all, your father wasn’t in a position to get tough with Helene Bethke, even if she had been careless. Why should they worry about it? Unless that bottle had some significance I hadn’t thought of… And then it occurred to me that, while there was no reason for you to want to keep the bottle around, somebody who’d tried to kill you would want to make sure there were no questions about where you’d got the stuff. It’s pretty hard to get, particularly for a young lady with a record like yours. If the bottle had been unmarked, or if there hadn’t been any bottle, somebody might have thought it worth while to mention the fact to the police. But there you were, with your own prescription bottle beside you. You’d tried to commit suicide before.”

  Ann shivered. He glanced at her. Still kneeling on the seat beside him, she had buried her face in her folded arms. She looked up abruptly.

  “… so cold-blooded,” she breathed. “So clever and coldblooded, and inhuman. And they don’t even really hate me. I would know if they hated me like that. If they wanted revenge…”

  “Revenge?” he asked, startled. The possibility had not occurred to him.

  “Yes, for what happened in France. If… if they thought I’d done that; if they wanted to make me pay for the life of somebody who’d been executed because I…”

  Emmett said, “What kind of maniacs would it take to kill two people, cripple a third, and try for a fourth, all as a sort of preliminary to avenging themselves on one sick girl?”

  She was quite still, beside him. “Kill two?”

  He glanced at her. “Well, we’ve got to assume that Stevens’ murder ties into it somewhere, don’t we? And your nurse, Miss Lewis, makes two. And her boy friend, you told me, was crippled…”

  Ann hesitated. “And… try for a fourth?”

  “Yes. Somebody’s taken a couple of cracks at Dr. Kissel. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why the FBI is so concerned.”

  “It’s like a nightmare,” she said softly.

  He said, “I don’t think you realize how bad it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He said, “If your dad gets you, you wind up in the booby hatch, right? And what do you think your chances are of getting out again, soon?” He took his eyes off the twisting road to glance at her, and saw her answer in her shadowed face. “Right,” he said. “You won’t. At least as long as he’s worrying about his war contracts being investigated, which is apt to be some time. And then there’s a detective from Chicago running around trying to get a warrant for you. The FBI has headed him off for the time being, but he’ll be back if things don’t clear up; and if he gets you, you’ll stand trial for murder. And you haven’t got a chance there, either.”

  “But I didn’t do it,” she said.

  Emmett said, “They won’t worry about that. You’ll be convicted on the basis that the murdered man accused you, with some corroboration, of having helped the Nazis. Unless you can prove you didn’t, you’re sunk; and I don’t think you can, can you?”

  “No,” she breathed. “I can’t I don’t even know whether I did it or not.”

  “Exactly,” he said, shifting gears as they came out on the relatively level ground of the canyon floor. “And once they get that wartime background established, anybody can convict you of anything from spitting on the sidewalk to high treason. A lot of people who aren’t quite sure just how brave they’d be in a similar situation will be howling for your blood just to reassure themselves that they are potential heroes. You’ll be free game, Ann. It’ll be open season on you. Anybody’ll be able to take a shot at you, unless you can prove that your husband was mistaken in telling Stevens you betrayed him and the others, or that Stevens was lying. They’ll convict you of murder as soon as look at you. After that, it’ll be only a question of whether they’ll electrocute you, put you in jail for life, or whether your dad can manage to get you off with insanity and stick you into the asylum where he’s been trying to put you, anyway.”

  She was silent beside him. The steam shovel was still working in the ravaged creek bed as they passed through the town, but the saloons were closed. Ann waited to speak until they had left the darkened b
uildings behind, as if afraid they might overhear. There was a little anger in her voice.

  “You must have some reason for making it sound so hopeless. You must have some hope, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  He said without looking at her, “I’m just trying to show you that everything hangs on what happened in France. If you can prove you didn’t betray them, your motive for killing Stevens becomes kind of uncertain. If you can prove you weren’t a collaborator, willing or unwilling, you stand some sort of a chance in court.” After a moment he went on, “That’s why I want to get you in to talk to Dr. Kissel, regardless of what this FBI joker has up his sleeve. It’s a hell of a gamble, but—”

  “Dr. Kissel?”

  “Yes. He’s got the dope, hasn’t he? He can tell you.”

  Her voice was strained. “But what if he should say the wrong thing? Then I’ll be… The FBI will turn me over to Dad or the police, won’t they? It’s… just like walking into prison, isn’t it?”

  Emmett said, “Sooner or later somebody’s going to catch you. You might as well trade your freedom for an interview with Kissel, while you’ve got it to trade.”

  He was aware of her eyes studying his face for a moment before she answered; then she laughed, a little sharply. “Well, after all, that’s what I came out here to do, isn’t it? To see Dr. Kissel.” There was something defiant, almost strident, in her voice, and he did not like it.

  He said, “I wish I were as sure you didn’t remember as I am of some other things. That amnesia bothers me.”

  She said stiffly, “It bothers me, too.”

  When they had passed the first sharp turn in the winding canyon below the town, Emmett cut the lights and backed the convertible quickly around the bend and got out. He was aware of the girl getting out on the far side and coming around to stand beside him.

  “Now we’ll make sure,” he said. “The road comes down just a little to the right of the lights of the steam shovel. You can see the notch against the sky.”

  He felt her hand come to rest on his arm; the brief hostility that had been between them was wiped away by the suspense of the moment. The fingers on his arm tightened a little as twin headlights made an arc across the sky and then dipped towards the town.

  “He waited at the top to see which way we’d go, I guess,” Emmett said. “Now he knows we’re heading back toward Denver. He’s barreling along to close up with us before we get out of the canyon to some place where we can turn off.” He glanced at her face, dimly white in the darkness. “Exciting, ain’t it?” he said dryly. He could feel the sudden pulse in his throat, belying the calmness of his voice. They got back into the car.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked when they were driving again.

  “Take him,” Emmett said.

  He felt her look at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  He said, feeling the tightness in his chest, “If I tried to shake him off, he’d be warned; and I doubt if I could lose him. I haven’t driven in mountains for years; he’s sure to be an expert at it. And we can’t afford to have him with us. The only thing you’ve got to trade with is your freedom, and I expect he’s just waiting to get help before he grabs us. So we have to put him out of commission before he can get reinforcements.”

  “Kill him?”

  He glanced at her and did not say anything.

  She said, in the same tone, “I don’t want anybody killed, Mr. Emmett. I’d rather give myself up.”

  He let out his breath slowly. “Well,” he said. “I’m glad you said that.”

  He was aware of her smiling at him, not quite happily. “It must be dreadful not to know whether or not you’re riding with a homicidal maniac,” she murmured.

  He could see the headlights now in the mirror whenever the canyon opened up behind them—either the lights themselves, or the beams striking out over the blackness to the left, or the glare behind a wall of rock. It shouldn’t be too hard, he thought, I’ve given the bastard no reason to think I know he’s following me. Presently he stopped the convertible where the road was narrow.

  “Take over,” he said, getting out.

  Ann slid quickly behind the wheel. It occurred to him that she could easily drive off and leave him there; then he remembered that, if that was what she wanted, she could have left Mrs. Pruitt’s without him any time before he arrived; she did not have to go there at all, in the first place. He took the ten-penny nail he had picked up at the Lodge from his pocket, and propped it against the right rear tire.

  “Ahead slow,” he said.

  He did not look around to see how close the headlights were. The wheel turned and the nail snapped out.

  “Hold it,” he said.

  He had trouble finding the nail again on the rough gravel of the road. He put it back and braced it with the edge of his shoe.

  “Ahead,” he said.

  He snatched his foot away as the car moved forward. There was a sudden hiss that settled rapidly to a sighing that gradually died away. The springs creaked as the weight of the car shifted.

  “Far enough,” he said. “Bring the keys, quick!”

  He was aware of her coming at a run around the car and he heard questions that he did not answer, snatching the keys from her hand to open the trunk. He passed tools out to her.

  “Make with the jack,” he said, “while I get this spare clear.”

  “The handle—”

  “Never mind the handle!” he said breathlessly, angry with her.

  Then headlights flooded around the bend above them, pinning them against the rear of the convertible. Emmett was aware of the girl beside him straightening up to sweep back her hair with the back of her hand, in a completely natural gesture. He set down the suitcases he had pulled out of the trunk to free the spare tire. Ann turned her back to the lights and bent down again to fit the jack into place. She was, he thought, doing very well. He remembered that she had a certain amount of practice at this sort of thing during the war. The thought made him feel a little inadequate. He did not know how well he was doing.

  As the other car slowed for them he walked back toward it and glanced over his shoulder at the space between the stalled Mercury and the edge of the road, beyond which the canyon was a black chasm.

  “I think you can make it, Mister,” he shouted, squinting at the vague face behind the lights and windshield. “Take it easy and I’ll coach you.”

  He stepped aside to let the other car go past; but it stopped alongside him. The man behind the wheel leaned out to look at the slender figure in the checkered shirt and the tailored brown slacks, kneeling in the gravel by the rear bumper of the convertible.

  “Got a flat tire, eh?”

  Emmett said, “Uhuh. Picked up a nail.” He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He had never seen the man before in his life. Then he realized that there was no reason why he should have; Mr. Nicholson could afford to hire more than one investigator.

  The man pulled up his emergency brake and got out. “Don’t cotton to the looks of that shoulder,” he said. He walked out on the edge and stamped his foot. In the shine of the lights Emmett could see him clearly: a solid, middle-aged man in a brown suit without a vest and a light cattleman’s hat. His trousers were tucked into carved boots with two-inch heels. “She won’t hold,” he said, after testing the ground again. “Reckon I’d better give you a hand.” He walked to the rear of the convertible. “Here, I’ll take care of that, Ma’am.”

  Ann straightened up, rubbing her soiled hands together. She was smiling at the man as Emmett swung the jack handle, striking at the shoulder, not the head, not wanting to take a chance of killing.

  chapter EIGHTEEN

  The shock of the blow going home left Emmett as surprised as the man he had struck. Part of his mind had been calmly certain that he would never get away with it; that he would find himself standing there flatfooted, holding the bar of iron, while the man pointed a gun at him, and told him to drop it and stop acting like a jackas
s. Instead the man in the Stetson hat gave a little grunt and grabbed for his shoulder; then staggered as the pain got to him, swayed against the car, and sat down in the road.

  Emmett was aware of Ann running to him and catching at his left hand. They stood looking down at the man sitting in the gravel, in the glare of his own headlights, staring up at them with wet, pain-glazed eyes.

  “Who is he?”

  “Damned if I know,” Emmett said, and freed himself from her grip. Holding the jack handle ready, he went forward. The man’s eyes followed him.

  “It’s broken,” the man whispered. “You bastard.”

  “Think if it had been your head,” Emmett said. He stood over the man with the jack handle ready. “Take your gun out and throw it over to her.”

  The man shook his head. “No gun,” he whispered hoarsely. He looked ready to cry.

  “Stand up.”

  The man pushed himself painfully up, holding his shoulder, and stood uncertainly, rocking a little in his high-heeled boots. Emmett made him turn around. There was dust on the rear of his trousers and on the skirt of his coat. Emmett felt his hips and armpits from the rear and found nothing but a wallet identifying the man as Henry Fulton McElroy, salesman for Whitmore and Lovett, equipment for all types of mining operations. He walked the man back to his car. Some precautionary sense made him search the car before the man got in; there was a sawed-off little Colt .38 slung by a bracket under the dash. It didn’t mean any thing, he reflected; lots of people in these parts carried guns. A salesman traveling nights through this type of country would be very apt to keep a gun handy. Emmett thought: how the hell did I ever get into this, anyway?