Assignment — Angelina

by Edward S. Aarons

"Where are they?"

  Angelina shrugged. "I don't know. I can't think. I feel sick now." Her fingers pulled at her mouth and she looked away from him. "In the house someplace, I guess. In the darkroom, maybe."

  "Take it easy," he said.

  "Why did they do that to him?" she whispered again.

  He had no answer for her.

  Chapter Six

  Slago was drunk. He didn't show it, but Mark knew about it, and he was careful. Slago sprawled on Mark's bed, but Mark made no objection this time. It was the second day since they had picked up Labouisse, since the explosive quarrel over the man's escape. Slago had been drinking steadily, enough to founder an ordinary man. Mark remembered the terror he had felt when they had discovered Labouisse was gone. All that day and night they had been poised for flight, expecting a momentary alarm. But nothing had happened. The man had to be dead. Mark thought that he, too, might have wished for death, after what Slago had done to Labouisse.

  Erich had been in a white rage when he learned about Labouisse's escape. "How did it happen? How could you have been so stupid?"

  Slago was arrogant, filled with a black excitation. "The punk was out cold. We picked him up and worked him over on a back road out in the swamps, but he'd left his gear at a bar in that fishing town where his boat docked, and we thought we'd better pick it up so nobody would ask Questions about it."

  Corbins pale eyes had jumped to Mark. "So you both just left him there?"

  Slago shrugged. "It was a pretty buggy place. And Mark was kind of sickish." Slago grinned, his thick-lipped mouth spreading in memory. "I had to work pretty rough on the punk. He was stubborn. And Mark was no damned help at all. So when we came back, he was gone. Crawled away into the water, somehow. But you don't have to worry about him, Erich. He's drowned. Nobody will find him in them swamps."

  "If they do, and if he is alive, we are finished."

  "It's all right, I tell you. We got what we wanted."

  Corbin nodded. "Yes, you did well in that respect."

  "Then start making with the chemistry, hey?"

  Mark said thinly: "I think we'd better run for it. There's still a chance he'll be found. And there won't be a sheriff anywhere around who could keep the mob back when they find out what Slago had to do to make him talk."

  Jessie had turned curiously, then. "What did he do?"

  "Slago emasculated him," Mark said flatly.

  Jessie's face was expressionless. Mark didn't think she understood. Then she turned and walked out of the room and he watched her through the window as she went into Moon's bar. She didn't come back.

  In spite of Mark's caution, Corbin insisted they stand pat and wait where they were. Flight might bring suspicion, too. The proprietor of the camp would describe them to any local cop who nosed around, and Erich's argument sounded cold and logical. Mark's worry had been met by contempt from Slago. Slago was different; it was as if something had broken down inside him since he had worked on Labouisse. He had been arrogant and loud before; he was infinitely dangerous now, and Mark noted a subtle shift in the relationship between all four of them. His own authority was appreciably weakened. It was true he had moved fast, driving hard back to Peche Rouge, seeing the futility of staying on the coast and trying to track down the escaped man. He had torn through Labouisse's house quickly and efficiently. He had found what they were looking for. Corbin was satisfied with that. Yet Mark felt he had to do something more, to re-establish his authority over them all.

  It was growing dark now, and waves of red pulsed through the motel room from the camp's bar. Laughter came from there, and the rough sound of men's voices. A new fishing party had checked in from Arkansas today, three men and two women, all noisy, all guzzling beer. Mark finished shaving and turned to look at Slago sprawled on his bed. Slago had almost emptied the bottle.

  "Better cut down on the drinking tonight," Mark told him. "Corbin ought to be ready for the test. It might have some kind of effect Corbin doesn't know about, if you're liquored up."

  "Hell, I aint afraid of no test," Slago said.

  "I didn't say you were." There was a germ of an inflection in Slago's thick voice that interested Mark. "It's funny, though, Erich telling us to test the stuff while he waits safely outside."

  "So?"

  "So maybe he doesn't trust his own work," Mark suggested carefully. "Maybe he thinks it might work out differently from the formula."

  "Ah, shut up," Slago said. "You chicken, you don't have to do anything.

  "Oh, I'll go through with it," Mark said. "It ought to be pretty soon now.

  "He'll let us know when," Slago muttered. He kept on drinking.

  * * *

  Mark stepped outside. It was like breathing steam. Mist hung over the river and made a halo of pink around the neon lights of the bar. Erich's cabin next door was closed. An air conditioner Jessie had gone to New Orleans to buy pulsed quietly in the back window frame. Mark dried his hands on his handkerchief. His fingers felt cool and moist, but he was drenched with sweat. He wished his stomach would settle down, and he wished Jessie would step outside so he could talk to her for just a few moments before the test started. It wasn't that he was afraid, Mark told himself. He had proved his nerve many times, but this was different. A man couldn't help imagining things in a queer setup like this.

  Jessie came out of her cabin, as if in answer to his wish. She wore a blue printed silk dress and she had loosened her long yellow hair so it hung smoothly to her shoulders. He watched her walk toward him, remembering how her naked body had looked.

  "It's so hot out here," she said quietly.

  "Is the air conditioner working all right?"

  "It's fine."

  "When will Erich be ready?"

  "Any minute now. When it gets a bit darker. Did you make a sketch of the bank building?"

  Mark nodded. "Do you want to see it?"

  "No, that's your business," Jessie said. "It will all be in your hands tomorrow, if everything works out right now."

  "Isn't Erich sure it will?"

  "He's had to concoct the stuff with makeshift equipment, I guess. He keeps muttering to himself in German. Mark, you be careful with him. He's been after me a lot, since... well, you know."

  "Son of a bitch."

  She laughed. "Are you jealous?"

  "No. Yes. I was thinking he might be sore enough to gimmick the stuff."

  "No, he wouldn't do that. It's too important to him." She took him by surprise, then. She moved close to him and put her hands on his chest and her mouth moved against his, in a sudden, fierce passion.

  "Do you still want me, darling?" she whispered.

  "Sure," he said thickly. "Sure, Jessie."

  "Then be patient. After tomorrow, if everything works out, I think our plans will change a little. This is only the beginning, Mark. We have a long way to go, you and I." She stepped back, smiling. "Now give me a cigarette."

  They had finished smoking when Erich came out. It was full dark now. Mark went forward to help Erich carry the compressed gas tank around to the back of the Corbin cabin, and they placed it under the window where the air conditioner hummed.

  "Is it ready now?" Mark asked.

  "It works fine," Erich said shortly. "Get Slago."

  Mark returned to his cabin and called to Slago. A car came into the fishing camp and parked at the far end of the row of cabins; the headlights flicked over Jessie's figure standing nearby; then the lights went out and darkness returned. Mark could see Slago sprawled on the bed. The air inside stank of spilled whiskey.

  "Slago, come on, get up. We're ready to go."

  Slago muttered indistinctly. "Huh?"

  "Erich is ready. Let's go."

  Slago's breath was like a panting animal in the hot, dark cabin. His face was a broad pale wedge turned toward Mark in the doorway; then he turned his face away toward the wall. "I don't feel so good."

  "Come on. He's waiting."

  "I'll sit this one out," Slago said thickly.
<
br />   Mark felt a cruel elation lift in him. "You sadistic bastard," he said softly. "You're the one who's chicken. You're afraid."

  "Watch your mouth, buddy boy."

  "Then get up. Everything is ready."

  "I guess I drank too much."

  "Get up," Mark said thinly.

  He walked into the cabin to his suitcase near the dresser and took out his gun. Dim neon light washed redly through the open doorway and showed him the man on the bed. He pointed the gun at Slago. "Get up, you son of a bitch."

  Slago lifted himself on his elbows and stared. Mark could smell the acid of his sweat. He wasn't worried about Slago any more. It didn't matter what the man had done to those others. They had been helpless. Slago was good under those conditions. He wasn't so tough right now.

  "You're going through with it, Slago," Mark said. "We're both walking into that cabin and we'll stay there until it's all over, understand?"

  "Hell, what've we got to test it for, if Erich is so good?"

  "It's got to be tested. Let's go."

  "Buddy boy, put away that gun. You won't plug me here."

  "Try me," Mark said.

  The juke box in the bar across the way began to thump out a rock-and-roll tune. Slago rubbed his jaw with his big hand and coughed and stood up, hitching up his pants.

  "You first," Mark said.

  They stood in the dark behind Corbin's cabin, while Erich fiddled with the control valves on the small steel tank Jessie had picked up in New Orleans. If Erich was aware of Slago's fear, he paid no attention. But Jessie knew.

  "Are you all right, Mark?"

  "Fine," he said quickly.

  "You, Slago?"

  "I ain't gonna do it," Slago muttered.

  "Yes, you are," Mark said. "Either you do it, or you can start walking away and don't come back."

  "Who stops me from comin' back?"

  "I do," Mark said.

  Slago licked his lips and shrugged. Mark pushed him ahead into Corbin's cabin and closed the door behind them. The air in here felt icy after the dense humidity outside. Jessie's perfume clung lightly in the air. The air conditioner hummed in the back window. Mark turned the bolt in the door and walked around Slago, who stood frozen in the dim light of the bed lamp. Corbin rapped on the window.

  "All right," Mark said to Slago. 'This is it. Sit down and relax."

  Slago made a thin sound in his throat and suddenly whirled, clawing at the door to escape. Mark jumped after him and brought the butt of his gun hard on the cropped salt-and-pepper skull. Slago half turned, his mouth opened, his eyes glazing. He fell to his knees, making queer sounds. Blood ran down from the cut in his scalp.

  Mark looked down at him and laughed.

  He deliberately drew several deep, long breaths. He didn't smell anything, didn't feel anything.

  He heard a faint hissing over the hum of the air conditioner and then he felt just a faint giddiness before his legs buckled as if every muscle had been cut and he went sliding into sudden darkness. He fell over Slago and felt the man swing at him feebly and he kept on laughing until the darkness washed over him in a great, drowning wave. Only then did he feel a sudden, despairing panic.

  Chapter Seven

  "We're golden," Slago said triumphantly, grinning broadly. "Erich, you're a genius."

  "It was not too difficult"

  "I'm not even sore at you, Mark."

  "Thanks for nothing," Mark said.

  Erich smiled. "You both feel all right? No ill effects?"

  "It was as smooth as whipped cream," Mark said.

  It would have been better if Slago had not fallen and hurt his head. It leaves a question about the potency of the amount of gas I allowed to be pulled into the room."

  Slago said quickly: "So I stumbled and fell. I was on my way to dreamland, anyway." He looked at Mark. "Right?"

  "You didn't stumble. I slugged you, because you were ready to chicken out," Mark said. "Now shut up."

  It was twenty minutes later. They were gathered in Corbin's cabin. The air conditioner again hummed innocuously, and the air was cool and refreshing. Mark felt infinitely better about everything. His stomach was quiet now. He took the sketches he had made of the Peche Rouge National Bank and spread them on the bed. His hand brushed Jessie's hip, but she did not move, and Erich said nothing.

  "We take the bank tomorrow," Mark said. "Every window is sealed tight, and the doors are kept closed, too. They open at nine, as usual. Slago and I go in at nine-thirty. Erich, you looked at the air vents today. Can you reach them easily?"

  Corbin nodded and poked his rimless glasses up on his sharp nose. "In the alley. I can reach the ducts."

  "The cylinder isn't too heavy?"

  "I can do my part."

  "What about the nose guards?"

  "They are ready. How do you think I came in here to wake you up?" He held out two small rolls of saturated cotton wadding that he had withdrawn from his nostrils earlier. "The gas will not affect either of you, so long as you remember to breathe through these, in your nose. When the people in the bank go down, you just help yourselves. Take all the money you want. You will have more than ten minutes, and nobody will remember you."

  Slago slapped his thick leg. "We're golden, I tell you. Think of it, buddy boy. Every goddam bank in the country has air conditioning these days, all summer long, especially down around here. There ain't a building we can't walk into, once Erich starts spraying his holy perfume into the ducts."

  Jessie spoke quietly. "But it will be for peanuts. A few thousands here and there. But the whole country will soon enough be alarmed."

  Slago was still excited by his thoughts. "So we work fast, baby. We knock over one or two a day."

  "For how long?" she asked.

  Slago blinked his small eyes. "This is a new tune you're singin' all of a sudden, sweetheart. What's eating you? We talked all this out before. By the time the word gets around the country that no air conditioned bank is safe, we'll have it made, baby."

  "Don't call me baby," Jessie said.

  "What's eating you?" Slago asked again.

  "Well try it tomorrow. Just once, to really test it." She spoke with a quiet authority that Mark did not miss. He glanced at Erich, but the chemist was silent, bent over the equipment he had packed into one of the closets. Jessie went on: "I have other ideas on how we can use Erich's gas. If we waste it on small-town banks, we might take perhaps a hundred thousand, maybe even more. But that's still peanuts. Once the alarm gets out, every bank in the country will remodel their setup so we can't get at the ducts. They'll work fast, believe me. And they'll know about us. The thing we must do is to strike once, at something very big. One big strike, do you understand?"

  "Where?" Mark asked quietly.

  Slago sneered. "Tort Knox, maybe?"

  "Something better than Fort Knox," Jessie said. Her manner was still quietly assured as she stood up. "Well discuss it tomorrow, when we're on our way out of here."

  Slago was angry. "Who's givin' orders now?"

  "I am," Jessie said.

  * * *

  The Peche Rouge National Bank faced the courthouse on the square. It was open from nine to three daily, and most its customers were the townspeople, but it also served the fishing and canning industry, as well as some of the offshore oil riggers who made Bayou Peche Rouge a financial base of operations.

  Wednesday was usually slow, the day before the cannery payroll, and sometimes an hour would go by while Miss Bunting, the teller, and Amos Roy Freeling, the manager, sat idly in the cool comfort of the air-conditioned interior, with no one coming into the building at all. On this Wednesday morning, at 9:05, a tourist had come in to cash two hundred dollars' worth of travelers checks, and then nothing happened for the next twenty minutes.

  Miss Bunting was happy with her job. She felt cool and fresh in her now cotton dress, unlike the red-faced perspiring people who occasionally crossed her vision beyond the big plate window that faced the courthouse square. It was
hot out there, and it would get hotter as the day went on. But in here, thanks to the system Mr. Amos had had installed last year, it was cool and dry and comfortable. At first, some of the tradespeople would step in to gossip, just to hang around and cool off. But Mr. Roy was uneasy about that and he had quickly put a stop to the practice. Now people came in on business, or not at all.

  Miss Bunting noticed the tall man with the curly blonde hair the moment he paused outside. The square was somnolent in the morning sunshine. She noticed Mark Fleming only because he was a stranger. She would have been surprised at how much Mark knew about her.

  He came in and went immediately to the counters where blank checks and deposit slips were available to the bank's customers. Now and then he put a handkerchief to his nose. The cotton wads that Corbin had provided for his nostrils were uncomfortable, and the chemical solution that acted as a neutralizing agent made his eyes smart. He looked like a man with hay fever, Miss Bunting thought. He busied himself with a deposit slip, but his thoughts were intent on what was happening in the street behind the bank.

  He had done his part of the job. He knew the doors could be locked with a simple hand latch on the inside. Only three steps, and he could seal the bank against interruption. The gray-haired woman in the teller's cage was watching him, but he wasn't worried about her.

  The manager, in his glass-partitioned cubicle, was running an adding machine. The vault stood open in the rear. There was a guard, an old man in a shabby gray uniform, in a chair in the room beside the vault. There was a back door to the bank, but it was sealed and barred and never used.

  The street behind the building was residential, with gray two-family frame houses, a few trees, picket fences, and lawns. At the same moment Mark had entered the bank, Slago and Erich walked down the street carrying the tank and a box of tools. They wore jumpers that made them look like repairmen. A teen-aged kid fixing a bicycle in one of the front yards scarcely glanced at them. Nobody else was interested enough to step out into the hot sun and watch.

  At 9:35 Slago unfolded a small canvas hood and stepped up on a small box to enclose the vanes of the air-conditioner inlet duct set into the rear wall of the bank building. The burglar alarm was fixed higher to the wall, and he grinned at it. No need to worry about cops piling in on their heels. Nobody would give the alarm until it was long over, which was the beautiful part of this deal. Corbin handed up the pressure tank. The boy fixing his bike put down his wrench and sat down on the lawn to watch Slago now. Slago opened the valve on the tank cylinder and directed the jet nozzle under the canvas hood, into the air-conditioning vent. The hissing noise sounded loud in the hot, sunny stillness.