“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.”
“T
he nearest vet’s probably in Prince Rupert, on the coast. You seem to know a lot about veterinary medicine yourself.”
“I told you, I have a lot of bright friends. When I knew I was going to have to do this, I called one who’s a practicing DVM nowadays. The stuff you want is called Mikedimide. It should bring him around.”
“Sure.”
She drew herself up, as well as she could inside the camper. “And now… and now you’d better finish your assignment, hadn’t you? Now you’ll have got us all, just like you were ordered, all five of us, as soon as you kill me.”
I regarded her for a moment. People give a lot of importance to things like political opinions and moral attitudes and actions good and bad, and no matter which of these you used for a standard, this girl was a total loss. I mean, she just wasn’t worth preserving by any rational scale of values. She’d even tried to have me killed, at least once and maybe three times. I should have been able to wipe her out without a qualm.
I said, “You know you’re a patsy, don’t you, Skinny?”
A little frowning crease showed between her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“He set you up for this. Soo. He knows me. He knows perfectly well no bunch of inexperienced juvenile operators is going to survive going up against a guy who’s been in the business as long as I have—certainly not if they’re handicapped by instructions not to kill. When did he give you those infractions? That first guy, the one on the hill with the rifle, he wasn’t up there just to scare me.”
“No. Mike Bird was supposed to… to shoot straight. But then the instructions were changed, over the phone. But why would Mr. Soo want us killed? It doesn’t make sense!”
I said, “I don’t know. Think about it. If you figure something out, drop me a line. Now beat it.”
She licked her lips. “What?”
I looked at her bleakly. I had no business doing what I was doing, and most probably it would have serious consequences, all bad. Sentimentality usually does. But there’s a little gauge in the mind that says “go” or “no go,” and it was no go here, if only because there had been enough knives and guns for one night. I drew a long breath.
“I said beat it! Your car’s out there. The keys are in your pocket. Vamos, as we say down along the border; the other border.”
“You… you’re letting me go?”
“Yes, and I’ll catch hell for it. But I’m damned if I’ll do any more of Soo’s dirty work for him. If he wants you dead, as he apparently does, he can shoot you himself. Go on. Get out of my hair, Bellman. You’ve got four people killed so far, five counting Nystrom. And one dog. Now see if you can keep yourself alive, just for a change of pace.”
She hesitated, watching me. When she spoke, her voice had changed. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I… I promise I won’t tell anybody. Anything.”
“Like hell you won’t,” I said sourly. “If these espionage characters we’re dealing with get you and question you, you’ll spill your guts just like anybody else. That’s the chance I’m taking.”
“What about… what about Wally?”
“I’ll have Wally taken care of. Just beat it. Here. Don’t forget your jacket.”
She took it and slipped past me in the narrow space, pausing at the door. “I really did have a Lab named Maudie once,” she said.
“I figured you had,” I said. “That’s another reason I’m letting you go. That and because you swing a mean fish-pole. And I’ll pay hell trying to explain that to my chief.”
She paused, as if she had more to say, but she didn’t say it, which was just as well. She went out, and a moment later I heard the Mustang start up and drive off, heading back inland, to the east. I looked at the pup on the seat, frowned, and moved him carefully to the floor where he couldn’t fall, remembering that I still had sixty miles of road construction between me and the coast.
17
It wasn’t a fancy knife. It had plain wooden grips, brass caps, and a single heavy blade about four inches long, which is a little longer than I like for everyday pocket wear, although not as long as the scimitars the armaments experts in Washington would like us to lug around. It was a folding hunting knife of a well-known U.S. make, and it hadn’t been used much, so that it was stiff and very hard to open. My old knife, the one I’d left a couple of hundred miles back along the road, you could flick open with a snap of the wrist.
“It is a very good knife, an American Buck knife,” the storekeeper said hopefully. “I bought it from a boy just off the ferry who’d spent all his money up north and needed gasoline to get back to the States. I will let you have it for twelve dollars.”
I bought it, and some supplies I needed, and went out into the sunshine and looked around at the town of Prince Rupert, B.C. It wasn’t much to look at. I don’t mean it was a bad little town; that was just the trouble, from the standpoint of a romantic tourist like me. A bad little town, a very bad little town, was what one expected and kind of hoped for up here in the big woods at the end of the pavement: something wicked and picturesque to bring home the fact that between this end of the Alaska Ferry system and the other, some four hundred miles to the north, civilization was represented only by a few scattered coastal communities that could be reached only by boat or plane. But instead of a ripsnorting frontier hellhole, there was just a rather ordinary small town complete with motels and filling stations.
I went over to the truck, parked at the curb. Nobody in Prince Rupert seemed to be paying it any attention. Campers from the States, waiting to take the ferry up the coast, are a dime a dozen in that place.
I looked in on Hank, in back. He raised his head and thumped his tail on the floor when the door opened. He was going to be all right, but it had been a long night, first locating and awakening a local vet to give the appropriate shot, and then keeping the pup awake for several hours. A sixty-pound Labrador that wants to go to sleep on you gets pretty heavy toward morning. He looked kind of naked without his collar and I reached into my pocket, but took my hand out empty. Dopey as he still was, he might get hung up on something and be unable to get free; besides, in his present condition he couldn’t be counted on to defend it properly.
“Okay, Stupid,” I said. “That’ll teach you to go taking handouts from strangers.”
He grinned at me woozily, unimpressed. I closed the door, got into the cab, and drove over to the bus station and general transportation center that also, I’d been informed, sold ferry tickets. When I came out, I was in lawful possession of a one-way fare to Haines, Alaska. The sun was still shining, the weather still seemed too warm for that far north, and the town was still, at first glance, totally uninterested in me and my vehicle, but there was a difference.
On hazardous duty—and this job seemed well qualified for the title—I generally set a few telltales when I leave my transportation, to make sure there has been no tampering in my absence. Now I saw that those on the hood were undisturbed; the cab remained securely locked; but somebody had entered, or at least looked into, the camper. I drew a long breath. It had been quite a night and I wasn’t really in the mood for monkey business.
I was tempted to simply yank open the door and see what, if anything, I had acquired back there. Whatever it was, it had to get along with a black dog, which made it either a man who was very good with dogs or one who’d made friends with this particular dog earlier. The only gents who qualified in the latter respect, who’d be likely to be up here in British Columbia, belonged to Mr. Smith—and why Mr. Smith’s people would be jeopardizing my cover by hiding in my camper this morning, when I had a contact scheduled with them this afternoon, I couldn’t guess. Well, the way to find out was obvious, but the middle of Prince Rupert wasn’t the place to do it.
I got behind the wheel. Nothing showed in the rearview mirror, although the back window of the cab corresponded with a forward window in the camper that gave me a partial view of the interior. Whoever was back there, if anybody was, was keeping low. I started the truck and drov
e out of town the way I’d come, found a dirt road leading back into the woods, and took this to a clearing out of sight of the highway where I could get the long-wheelbase job turned around facing out.
I cut the switch, set the brake, walked back, and opened the camper door. A young man sitting in the dinette pointed a sawed-off revolver at me.
“Come in, Mr. Helm,” he said. “I was sent to get the dog’s collar, but he isn’t wearing it. Where is it?”
I looked at him for a moment. The face and the voice were both familiar. The voice I’d heard most recently over the telephone in Pasco, complaining about grasshoppers. The face I’d seen the previous week down in San Francisco, one among many eager young faces I’d met there, all owning allegiance to Mr. Smith. I looked at the gun.
“Hank,” I said. The pup was lying docilely on the floor, obviously feeling himself among friends. He looked at me questioningly. I snapped my fingers. “Hank, get out of here.”
“Mr. Helm—”
I said, “On the double, pup! Easy now, watch that step, you stumblebum. Okay, go do your stuff, but stick around.” Still watching the gun, I spoke to the man holding it. “We have a date this afternoon,” I said. “Why not wait and get your collar then?”
“We want it now, Mr. Helm,” he said.
I said, “That firearm. Put it away.”
“The collar, Mr. Helm.”
“Put it away,” I said.
He shook his head, and gestured with the revolver. “Come inside. I have my instructions…”
I’d had enough of amateurs. I was sick of amateurs. I said, “To hell with your instructions. You have about five seconds to put that thing away. After that, you eat it.”
“Mr. Helm, I am only carrying out my orders…”
“Not around here, you’re not.” I drew a long breath. “Pee or get off the pot, Sonny, because here I come.”
“But…”
He was still saying something by way of protest as I stepped up into the camper, bending to clear the low doorway. I saw his eyes waver as I approached, and I knew I’d judged him correctly. No matter what kind of fancy training he’d had, he was still an amateur at heart and would always remain one. Training means nothing when applied to a certain kind of mentality. He was one of the new ones, brought up on togetherness and TV. He was one of the innocents who’d never learned, and probably would never learn, that the only thing you can do with a gun is shoot it.
Matt Helm--The Interlopers Page 12