If I acted decisively now, before his partner rejoined him, and before his suspicions were confirmed by the Meredith woman, I could probably take him. Later, the job would be a lot harder, perhaps impossible.
On the other hand, I had established contact after a fashion, and I hated to break it now. Making a bluff and backing down on it, I told myself, was bad poker; better to play the hand through. Hell, the woman we were driving to see might slip in the shower and kill herself or drink herself senseless before we reached her door. She might even take off for parts unknown in her yellow Cadillac. If she proved unavailable after I’d indicated clearly my willingness to meet her, Stottman couldn’t reasonably pursue his suspicions much farther. All I needed was a little luck…
The Holiday Inn was located on the southern edge of Seattle, which meant we had to circumnavigate a good deal of the town to reach it. We’d already spent a little time checking me out of the motel in Pasco, and now we got lost twice trying to follow the sparse highway markers through the streets of the big coastal city, which seemed to be almost as badly loused up with waterways and bridges as Stockholm or Venice. As a result, it was well past eleven by the time we drove into the parking lot—and the yellow Cadillac convertible was there. So much for luck.
Stottman motioned to me to park beside it. Then he got out and again covered me as I slid over to join him on the pavement. I turned toward the camper.
He said, “Never mind.”
“To hell with you,” I said. “You don’t have to clean up the mess.”
“You’re stalling, Nystrom. You’re afraid of what Meredith is going to tell me about you.”
I shrugged. “Think what you like. The pup’s taking a walk or you’re shooting me right here. Make up your mind… Out you go, Hank. Don’t bite that man, he’ll give you indigestion.”
The black pup didn’t even take time to lick me. It had been a long haul, and he just skittered off across the parking lot and dove into the bushes to keep an urgent appointment with nature.
“Now what are you doing?” Stottman demanded.
“I’m feeding him,” I said, reaching into the camper. “Dogs eat, you know… Okay, Prince Hannibal. Back inside you go.” Returning, the pup leaped into the camper eagerly. He was attacking the bowl of dog food before I had the door closed. I turned to Stottman and said, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Not a bite. Not even a snarl. And you thought you were going to be torn limb from limb! Now that the livestock’s been taken care of, let’s go see Libby and get this settled. Where’s room twenty-seven in this flossy joint?”
“Probably somewhere in this wing, since her car’s here. I’d guess the second floor from the number.”
“Brains!” I said admiringly, and preceded him up the stairs at the end of the building, and along the hall to number twenty-seven, which unfortunately wasn’t hard to find.
“Knock!” said Stottman, holding his gun steady.
I knocked. There was a long silence. I was strongly aware of the .25 automatic in Stottman’s hand. There are stories of the feeble little bullet being turned by a heavy overcoat, but I wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Stottman jerked his head in a peremptory way. I started to knock again, and the door swung open, away from my knuckles.
The woman who stood in the doorway was moderately tall, very nicely put together, and expertly preserved, so that you could safely say only that she was over twenty and under forty. I happened to know, having pried the information out of Mr. Smith’s young men, that she was almost exactly halfway between those ages. Her hair was dark and rather short, cut almost boyishly, if the term means anything in these days of shaggy young males, but there was nothing boyish about her face or figure.
She was still wearing the yellow silk pants and the lacy blouse and the yellow silk jacket, open now as if she’d been about to take it off when interrupted. The elaborate, fragile costume had put in a long day on the road, and showed it, and so did she. She’d probably been heading for a bath and bed when we knocked on the door. But even tired, and slightly soiled and rumpled, she was a very good-looking woman, and normally I’d have been happy to meet her. Tonight, however, I’d have preferred a diamondback rattlesnake.
There was a little frowning crease between her eyes as she looked from me to Stottman and back again. Then she stepped forward impulsively and threw her arms around my neck.
“Grant!” she cried. “Oh, Grant, darling, I’ve been so worried about you…!”
9
There are all kinds of Elizabeths, and you can pretty well determine which variety you’re dealing with by the nickname your specimen wears. At one end of the personality range are the sweet, shy Beths—I was married to one, once. It was at a time when I’d quit all undercover activities and was earning a peaceful living with typewriter and camera, but things happened, as they do to people who retire from this profession. She learned about my dark and bloody past the hard way. It broke her up and our marriage as well. A typical, sensitive Beth. She went to Reno and I went back to work for Mac, but ever since I’ve considered myself something of an authority on Elizabeths.
In the middle of the personality spectrum you’ll find some wholesome, normal girls called Betty. At the far end are the tough and sexy ladies who go by the nicknames Liz and Libby. I don’t say it always works this way, but I’ve found the correlation pretty good.
Libby Meredith did nothing to make me revise my conclusions, Elizabeth-wise. She might be tired from all the driving, but the kiss she gave me showed me no signs of it. By the time she’d finished, I’d been made uncomfortably aware that there was a healthy woman inside the slightly wilted silk-and-lace outfit that something drastic should be done about, and if a bed wasn’t handy, the wall-to-wall carpet would do. Of course, it wasn’t a very practical idea at the moment, but I couldn’t help having it just the same.
She drew back slightly to look at me. There was a hint of malice in her greenish eyes, letting me know that she was well aware of the biological effect she’d produced; but from where he stood, Stottman couldn’t see her eyes. Her voice, which he could hear, was tender.
“Oh, darling!” she murmured. “When I saw that strange man and that crummy black dog trying to impersonate you and your Hank in that funny little pet clinic, I was so afraid… I figured he must have killed you, or at least had you kidnaped, so he could take your place. I wanted to stay and find you, but you know how they are about following instructions. Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said. She’d given me time to get my brain working again, and the role I was expected to play was pretty obvious. I went on, “Some crazy kids tried to run me into a deadfall, but I managed to shoot my way out of it.”
I made my voice carefully casual, the way a man like Grant Nystrom might, after having for the first time proved his manhood with a gun. Libby Meredith looked aghast.
“Shoot your way?” she gasped, and of course she was acting, too.
Her mocking eyes told me she knew quite well that shooting guns at people was nothing new in my life. It was fairly easy, now, to guess where she’d learned this. I was beginning to understand from whom Mr. Smith’s young men had extracted so many intimate details of the late Grant Nystrom’s life; although her motive in spilling all this information to the authorities, and in coming here to help me act the part of her dead boyfriend—if that was why she was here—was not yet apparent.
“Shoot your way!” she repeated, sounding shocked and horrified. “Oh, darling, you’re supposed to be just a courier, not a gunman. If I’d thought for a moment, when I talked you into it, that there was any danger in the work our people needed you for…” She paused. Her expression was, for the moment, odd and unreadable. “Did you… did you have to kill anybody?”
“I got one of them, a punk with a fancy rifle who was drawing a bead on Hank.” I was still Grant Nystrom, trying to work out the proper attitude for discussing his first homicide. “It was pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. I’ve worked lots harde
r stalking deer and elk. I don’t know what’s so tough about killing a man—he can’t smell you coming, and he seems to die fairly easily.”
Libby gave a nice little feminine shudder. “Don’t! If I’d thought you’d really have to use a gun, ever, I’d never have dreamed of asking you to work with us… But anyway, you’re safe! And I suppose Mr. Stottman is taking care of… of the evidence, so you’ll have nothing to worry about from the police.”
I said, “Sure, Mr. Stottman is being a big help. A great big help. Incidentally, what happened to the car you were driving when I last saw you? If I’d recognized that gaudy yellow bucket as yours in Pasco, we wouldn’t have had to chase you clear to Seattle.”
On the assumption that she was on my side, for reasons still to be determined, I was warning her not to ask me any embarrassing questions on this particular subject. The slightest, briefest hint of a frown let me know that I should have recognized the yellow Cadillac. Chalk one error to Mr. Smith’s closemouthed lads and their compulsive security. I guess I was lucky to have got the name of the girl out of them, let alone the brand of her transportation. Well, we could hope Stottman wouldn’t check the auto-registration files for the date of purchase.
Libby said quickly, “Why, I told you I was getting a new convertible. You just don’t listen, darling! And you haven’t said why you had to come here—not that I’m not awfully glad to see you.”
I jerked my head toward the door. “Ask our friend over there. He’s got a problem. You may be able to help him with it.”
She looked at Stottman. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stottman.”
The plump man hesitated, and asked formally: “Do you know this man, Miss Meredith?”
“Know him?” She frowned. “Of course I know him! Why, I was the one who recruited him down in San Francisco, when we were asked to supply a courier with a background that would let him do a lot of traveling without being questioned. You know I know him. That’s why I was picked to run down to Pasco and check on his double for you!” Libby glanced my way. “Darling, what is this, anyway?”
I laughed. “Mr. Stottman has doubles on the mind, Libby. He figures if one guy was trying an impersonation, two might be. He wants to be absolutely sure I’m me. Am I?”
“Of course you are. Don’t be silly!”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “I know who I am. Tell him… Go on, tell him. Put it on the record officially.”
Libby looked coldly at Stottman. “I don’t know what this is all about and it’s perfectly ridiculous… Oh, all right! I hereby certify and depose that this man is Grant Nystrom himself, not a substitute or imitation. Okay, Mr. Stottman? Or would you like for me to make out an affidavit and have it witnessed and notarized and recorded at the county court house?” The stout man didn’t answer. Libby turned back to me. “Has he made delivery yet, Grant?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “That’s why I had to bring him here, two hundred miles in the dark, for God’s sake! It’s like pulling teeth to make Mr. Stottman turn loose of anything, but maybe if we both plead with him, we can get hold of whatever lousy little scraps of information his cell has managed to scrounge up around here, so I can get back on the road in time to pick up the important stuff waiting for me up north.”
It worked. My belittling of his contribution hit Stottman in his professional pride, and he said quickly: “Lousy little scraps of information, indeed! I’ll have you know I have the key to NCS right here”—he slapped his coat pocket—“and without it, whatever data you get farther north will be absolutely meaningless.”
The initials meant nothing to me. I had been briefed about no organization, system, or object known as NCS, but on this murky mission, that was just about par for the course. Obviously it was something, like Libby Meredith’s name, that was supposed to be quite familiar to me—that is, to Grant Nystrom—but on the other hand, it didn’t seem to be anything I was expected to comment on, so I just said, “All right. It’s great stuff if you say so. Now, if you’re satisfied I’m me, hand it over.”
Stottman hesitated. His little brown eyes were unhappy and uncertain. He glanced toward Libby, who said sharply: “What is it now? If you’re still not convinced, we can have somebody else flown up from San Francisco to confirm my identification. Of course, it will cause enough delay to throw Grant’s schedule completely out of kilter, but I’m sure nobody’ll mind that as long as it makes you happy, Mr. Stottman!”
I felt rather sorry for the victim of her sarcasm. He was, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance, a good agent: good enough to respect his own hunches. His hunch was that I was a phony no matter who vouched for me. However, he’d run his protest as far as he could without making a lot of trouble for himself if he was wrong. He might be a good agent, but he was also enough of an organization man to know when to stop pushing. He shrugged his plump shoulders.
“Very well,” he said, and took from his pocket a familiar brown-glass jar which, I could see now, was full of large tablets of some kind. “Here you are, Nystrom… Wait a minute. Just how was the delivery supposed to be made?”
I sighed, like a man nearing the end of his patience. “I was supposed to be sitting there in the clinic with my dog on leash, waiting to see the vet. You were supposed to say: ‘Isn’t that a Labrador retriever? He’s a beauty. What’s his name?’ And I was supposed to say: ‘Yes, he’s a Lab. His name is Hank.’”
I looked sharply at Stottman. “And what was your next line?”
“I was supposed to say: ‘No, I mean his full name. He’s pedigreed, isn’t he?’”
I said, “And then I was supposed to tell you that the pup’s registered name was Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate. My God. The people who dream up these long-winded identification routines ought to try them in the field sometime.”
Stottman didn’t smile. “And then, Mr. Nystrom?”
“Then you were supposed to turn away and raise hell with the nurse about that bottle of dog-vitamins, saying that you’d got them there yesterday but she hadn’t given you the brand you’d asked for. The girl would presumably apologize and start to get you the right stuff, and I’d get up quickly and say, ‘Are those Pet-Tabs, miss? That’s what my dog gets and I’m almost out of them. I’ll take them.’ And that would be that. Okay?”
“And what’s in the bottle besides vitamins, Nystrom?” His little eyes were watching me closely, still suspicious.
I shrugged. “That’s none of my business, friend. I know how it’s packed and how I’m supposed to carry it and where I’m supposed to turn it over to somebody else, but what it is, I don’t know and don’t want to know. Of course, you’ve just told me it’s a magic key of some kind, but I’m going to forget that as fast as I can. The less I know, the fewer people shoot at me, I hope. I’ve been target once too often on this trip already.”
Again I’d disappointed him by making the right response. I held out my hand. After a moment’s pause, he shrugged, gave me the bottle, turned and started for the door.
As the door closed behind him, I looked toward Libby Meredith and started to speak, but she shook her head quickly and put her finger to her lips. With the same finger, she then pointed to the little table by the door. Stottman’s hat lay there: one of the oldest tricks in the world.
I grinned, stuck the vitamin bottle into my pocket, stepped forward, and took the woman into my arms, doing what seemed indicated. She did not resist or protest; in fact she seemed to feel it was an interesting project, worthy of her cooperation. We were both convincingly flushed and disheveled, both breathing hard, when the door burst open. We jumped apart in a suitably startled and embarrassed manner.
“Really, Mr. Stottman!” Libby said indignantly.
“I’m sorry. I forgot my hat.” Stottman looked at us bleakly for a moment. What he’d hoped to catch us doing, instead of what we’d been doing, I couldn’t imagine and probably he couldn’t either. He’d just felt obliged to give it a try. Behind him, in the hallway, I saw the brown-faced man c
alled Pete. “My apologies,” Stottman said, backing out of the room once more.
After he’d gone, I checked the door to make sure that, this time, the lock was set and the latch had caught. I turned to face Libby Meredith.
“Now what?” I asked.
Then I saw that she was calmly unbuttoning her blouse. She looked amused at my expression. “It’s what they expect, isn’t it?” she murmured. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would we?”
We didn’t.
10
I awoke to find myself lying in a big motel bed without any clothes on, with a naked woman for company. Morally speaking, it was no doubt very shocking, but we don’t do much moral speaking in this line of work. I was more concerned with the professional aspects of the situation.
Ungrateful and unappreciative though it might seem, after the pleasant night we’d just spent together, I couldn’t help wondering just what the glamorous Miss Meredith really wanted from me. I mean, it hadn’t been essential for her to go to bed with me as part of the act—in fact it hadn’t been necessary at all—and I’ve long since given up the notion that I’m so irresistible that any woman who meets me just naturally grabs at any excuse to get out of her clothes and into my arms. I’ve found it much safer to assume that ladies who act in this uninhibited manner probably have nasty, ulterior motives for their behavior.
“What’s your name, darling?” Libby Meredith’s voice interrupted my wandering, early-morning thoughts. “And I don’t mean Grant Nystrom.”
I turned my head to look at her. She was being very casual about security. I certainly don’t make a fetish of it myself, but I am aware that there are such things as electronic eavesdropping gadgets that can easily be installed in motel rooms. She read my thoughts and laughed at me.
“Relax, darling. I’m a very important person in the organization. They still trust me implicitly; they don’t suspect a thing. I’m sure they wouldn’t bother to put a microphone in my room.”
Matt Helm--The Interlopers Page 6