The Poisoners mh-13

by Donald Hamilton

  I stopped. Bobbie didn't speak. I said irritably, "No. That's too damn science-fiction screwy."

  "What is?"

  "If you're trying to tell me that's a smog machine…

  "Not exactly, darling," Bobbie said. "It doesn't produce smog, not directly. It just generates a finely-dispersed catalyst that will cause smog to form if the necessary pollutants are present in the atmosphere. Dr. Sorenson's theory was that both elements-catalyst and pollutants-have to be present for active, visible, dangerous smog to form. He isolated and identified the catalyst, some kind of trace element that's present in just about anything anybody's likely to burn. Then, of course, for his experiments, he had to learn how to produce it in reasonable quantities. He discovered that we really don't know how lucky we are."

  "What do you mean?"

  "His experiments," she said, "indicate that the reason a lot of cities haven't been affected by smog problems yet, and those that have are still inhabitable, is that there just isn't enough of the catalyst to go around. Without it, the air can absorb quite a bit of pollution without significant effect. But if you were to supply all the catalyst needed, so that all the garbage we pump into the atmosphere would react or precipitate or whatever it does…

  She stopped. There was a little silence, except for the rattling of the truck, and the drumlike reverberation of the cylinder.

  I said, "And that's what Mr. Soo is doing with this gadget?"

  "Yes. Of course, Sorenson checked out his theory on a laboratory scale, but that's considerably different from testing it under practical conditions."

  "Practical conditions," I mimicked sourly. "You mean you're going to start that thing up somewhere, windward of a suitable metropolis, and let the stuff drift in and see if the sky turns brown and people start coughing and strangling…"

  My voice kind of trailed off. I looked at her quickly, and she nodded.

  "Yes, Matt. We have run it. On a ship off the California coast. And, darling, in Los Angeles the sky did turn brown in places-you were there; you saw it and smelled it! And in places people did start coughing and strangling. You told me that your dope-fighting girlfriend had a recurrence of an asthma condition that hadn't bothered her for years, remember?"

  "I remember," I said. "But-"

  "I don't know the exact figures," Bobbie said. "Maybe the Chinaman does, by this time. But I do know, from early radio reports that, although curiously spotty and erratic, it was, on the whole, one of the worst smog attacks recorded in Los Angeles. The ambulance services were swamped with patients suffering from serious respiratory ailments and the hospitals were overloaded. Of course, we didn't run it long enough to cause a real catastrophe. It's just a pilot model. We just wanted to see if it would work, and it did."

  I frowned. "I see. And having used it successfully on Los Angeles, where conditions are generally pretty favorable for a test like that, I suppose the Chinaman is now going to try his gadget on a tougher subject somewhere inland. But where?"

  "I can't tell you that. As a matter of fact, I don't know. 1 didn't have anything to do with the preparations for the second test."

  I said, "No, I guess that was Beverly Blame's job, and Willy's. The two of them were supposed to have made several trips east together recently, according to our late friend Jake. The question is, how far east?" Bobbie made no comment, and I changed the subject: "This ship, now. It must have met Warfel's boat well out at sea and turned over the generator-also, I suppose, a nice big batch of Chinese heroin."

  "Yes. Ten kilos," Bobby said. "That was his payment for helping with his boat and truck and men. Of course, he also had to promise to arrange things so that nobody'd suspect where the drug actually came from. Besides-" She stopped abruptly.

  "Besides what?"

  She didn't look my way. "Besides, that phony Bernardo installation he set up as camouflage also made a good cover for getting rid of Dr. Sorenson, poor man. I suppose it was necessary, but I wish they hadn't had to do it."

  I glanced at her, and shrugged. "Oh, you'll get used to it, sweetheart," I said callously. "First Tillery and his friends, then Sorenson, then me. After a while, you'll find being accessory to murder coming quite naturally to you, no sweat at all."

  Bobbie spoke without looking at me. "The Chinaman promised me you wouldn't be hurt. He said… he said he owed you a small favor."

  "Sure, like his life. But Willy owes me something, too, or thinks he does. And Mr. Soo needs Willy and doesn't need me, so I'm not counting too strongly on his sense of gratitude." I waited, but Bobbie didn't speak. I went on: "So they ditched the good doctor after pumping him dry. Well, that figures."

  "Yes. He was saving the world, of course."

  "They all are. What was his angle?"

  "Isn't it obvious? He wanted his generator used-by anybody he could persuade to use it, regardless of political affiliations-in order to make people realize just how much junk was in the air already. He wanted to make the situation look so bad right now that immediate, drastic steps would be taken…

  I grinned. "And of course the Chinaman pretended to be burning with enthusiasm for the same great cause, and in a sense he was. I mean, what could be nicer for the communists than having us obligingly wreck one of our own biggest industries, and throw our own transportation system into complete chaos."

  She gave me a reproving glance. "You sound as if you actually approve of the automobile!"

  I said, "Approve, disapprove, nuts! Actually, I get a kick out of driving a good car, but that's beside the point. But I don't see anybody building a lot of new railroads and streetcar lines, with smogless power. Until they do, we're damn well stuck with the automobile, and probably with some form of the internal combustion engine, enthusiasts like Sorenson to the contrary notwithstanding. All we can do is detoxify it a bit and pray." I grimaced. "So they got his machine going, and then they didn't need him any more, and they certainly didn't want him talking, so they killed him. How?"

  "I don't know." Bobbie's voice was dull. "He was really kind of a sweet little man. I don't want to know. All I know is that he was found dead last night in the flaming wreckage of the trailer laboratory-and of course, nobody's going to be very concerned about the death of a scientist, already considered something of a radical crackpot, who blows himself up refining heroin for the Mafia. Anyway, that was the plan, and I gather it worked very well. Your lady agent and her Mexican allies were just moving in to seize the laboratory when it went up. Fortunately nobody was hurt, nobody outside the trailer, that is,"

  "I see," I said. "And Warfel and his ten kilos of horse? Ten kilos! My God, that's about twenty-two pounds, worth a couple of million dollars!"

  "More than that, on the current market," Bobbie said. "If you're asking whether Frankie-boy was caught with the drugs when he brought the Fleetwind into its Long Beach marina, the answer is that he hasn't landed yet. That boat isn't very fast and he had quite a ways to go. But he knows the fuzz will be waiting for him, and I think it's very unlikely they'll find a single crystal of junk anywhere on board."

  I sighed. "That's going to make my girlfriend very mad; she took this pinch very seriously." I hesitated, and went on: "So it was strictly a one-time operation? Frankie wasn't really setting up to make a career of smuggling drugs like the syndicate boys feared; he just wanted to get this one big batch into the country without tipping anybody off that he'd had unpatriotic dealings with the Chinese communists?"

  "That's right. With so much heroin involved, he could afford to make elaborate preparations for a one-shot deal. And from the Chinaman's point of view, well, American dollars are hard to come by on the other side of the Pacific, but poppies grow very well over there. His government probably confiscated the stuff in the first place, so it didn't cost them anything. He could afford to offer a fancy price in drugs for Warfel's assistance, much higher than he could have bid in real money."

  I asked, "Where's the heroin now, if Warfel hasn't got it on his boat? Could it be somewhere in this truck,
perhaps?"

  Bobbie laughed scornfully. "You've met Frank Warfel, darling. Can you imagine him trusting us with two million dollars belonging to him? Can you imagine him trusting anybody? No, he's taking care of it all by himself. But he knows that if his men don't get us safely across the border, the U.S. authorities will get an anonymous phone call that'll make it impossible for him ever to cash in on that shipment he hopes will make him rich; he'll be watched too closely."

  "Sure," I said. "Well, according to you, we're safely across the border now, so Frankie's fortune is made." I glanced at her slyly, and went on: "Figuring our elapsed time, and guessing at our probable speed and direction, I estimate we should be somewhere near your dear old home town of Yuma, Arizona. Maybe you should stop and visit some of your friends and relations."

  Bobbie grinned. "I told you I was born in China, darling. I don't know anybody in Yuma. I've seen pictures of the town and memorized a lot of maps and information, but I've never been there in my life."

  I said, deliberately, "Well, that figures. A real Yuma girl, brought up that close to the border, would know that it was mescal, not pulque like you said, that's got the maguey worm in the bottom of the bottle." Bobbie looked at me sharply. I went on: "And a real Yuma girl, brought up in that dry, dry country, would know a little about desert driving. I mean, doll, when you try to blast your way through deep sand like you thought you could lick it with sheer horsepower, even a dumb guy like me starts to wonder where the hell you spent your formative years, since it certainly wasn't Arizona. And you were so insistent on getting that Chrysler unstuck; you didn't want it there, blocking the road for Willy and Mr. Soo. And, finally, no reasonably bright girl, dressing for dangerous adventures in the dark, would pick white pants and a light-yellow shirt-not unless she was making sure her hidden friends didn't open up on her by mistake."

  Again there was silence except for the rattling of the truck and the rumbling of the metal cylinder above us. Bobbie was staring at me with something close to horror.

  "You knew?" she whispered. "You knew? And still you let me… You let yourself be…" She stopped.

  I said, "I took out a little insurance. There wasn't any cartridge in the chamber of that trick rifle of Jake's your man was holding on me, and I had the chopper right under my hand. If things had looked bad, I could have sprayed both you and the guy behind me before he realized he was trying to shoot back with an empty gun. And then, with Mr. Thompson's hundred-round squirter to help me, I'd have had a pretty good chance of shooting my way clear in the dark."

  "But you didn't." She licked her lips. "Why, Matt?"

  "Because there were things 1 wanted to know-if there seemed to be a reasonable chance of learning them without getting killed. And because you came to my defense like a little heroine when Willy started kicking me around."

  She said, shocked: "Matt, you're crazy if you think I'm going to help you further just because I-"

  "I figured there were some other things working for me," I said when she paused. "I figured Mr. Soo might feel a slight sense of gratitude; and in any case I knew he wouldn't have me killed at once because he's got some reason to think I know something dangerous to him. He'll want to find out if I really do, and if so, if I've told anybody else about it. That'll keep me alive for a little. But mostly," I said, "I'm counting on you."

  "No!" she gasped. "No, you're crazy! You've got no right to expect-" I shrugged. "Okay, I've got no right. So don't help. Just watch Willy kill me, slowly, when the Chinaman is through with me. Willy will make it worth watching, I'm sure. He'll milk it for all the entertainment value possible."

  She licked her lips. "What makes you think I care what happens to you, damn you?"

  "You cared what happened to Sorenson. Aren't I a sweet little man, too?" I put the playful note out of my voice and demanded harshly: "How many people have to die before you've had enough, sweetheart?"

  "Damn you!" she breathed. "Just because I kept him from kicking you to death… I had my orders. The Chinaman wanted you alive. That's absolutely the only reason I interfered!"

  "Sure," I said. "Sure."

  "You… you egotistical jerk! If you think you can blackmail me just because I went to bed with you in the line of business… These people have been good to me! They took me out of… out of conditions you can't even imagine. They educated and trained me-"

  "Sure," I said. "The Chinese are in a bad spot when it comes to agents. There are lots of Russian girls and boys, for instance, who with a little training can be planted over here to blend with the U.S. background until needed, but a Chinese boy or girl is always a bit conspicuous in our society. Sure, they could make good use of a pretty blond kid of European or American parents, who'd got lost or left behind during one of China's numerous upheavals.

  Her expression told me I'd come close enough to guessing her story. She said quickly, "Their reasons don't matter! The fact is, they saved my life and… and my sanity!"

  "By running you through the brainwash machinery, and then training you to serve them as an agent in place? Well, I guess that's one kind of salvation. But I don't hear you holding forth about the great god Marx and our decadent capitalist society. Apparently the indoctrination didn't take-or has it worn off during the pleasant years you've spent over here playing American and waiting for orders?"

  "I wasn't playing American, I am American!" When I didn't say anything, she went on less fiercely: "Well, my parents were. I think. Anyway, what makes you think my years over here have been so damn pleasant?"

  I said, "I've been studying you pretty closely, doll, and I think what you most want to be in this world is a typical U.S. miss with love beads and long stringy hair throwing rocks at the pigs. You tried out a lot of roles on me, but that was the one that really carried conviction. Well, I don't know about the rocks and the pigs, but the rest can probably be arranged, if your services warrant my going to the trouble. At least I can probably clean the slate for you somehow, if I'm alive to do it. Think about it."

  She said bitterly, "Now it's a bribe!"

  "Call it a deal. It sounds better."

  She had the hypodermic in her hand once more. "You'd better lie down, Matt. Otherwise you'll fall over when this takes effect, and I won't raise a finger to stop you!"

  xxv

  The next time I woke up, I was outdoors. Even before opening my eyes, I knew I was lying on the ground in broad daylight, breathing warm fresh air that was untainted with truck exhaust fumes but carried instead, strangely, a smell of fresh paint or lacquer. Somebody was hammering on metal not far away.

  A shadow passed over my face. I opened my eyes and saw Mr. Soo leaning over me, whatever his real name might be. I probably couldn't have spelled it, or pronounced it correctly, even if I'd known it. Behind him stood Bobbie Prince, whatever her real name might be.

  "You wake up now, Mr. Helm," said Mr. Soo, straightening up. As Jake had suggested, the unfamiliar moustache did make him look like Charlie Chan, or more accurately, like the movie actor-a non-Asiatic name as I recall-who used to play Charlie Chan. He said, "Very good. Now we talk."

  My hands and feet were still tied. Nobody'd given me back my knife and gun. I managed to sit up awkwardly, feeling kind of doped and vague, which was no way to feel if I was going to match wits with the Chinaman.

  Looking around, I saw that we were in a narrow canyon with sheer walls, the kind of abruptly eroded cleft that's fairly common in the dry southwest.

  If I'd been a geologist, I could probably have made a fairly good guess at my location, using the exposed, colorful strata as a guide. If I'd been a botanist, I could have figured the approximate area by the cacti and stuff growing around us. As it was, I just had a feeling that I was somewhere in southern Arizona or New Mexico. My watch said that it was still early in the day; we hadn't had time enough to get to Texas. In any case, I was reasonably certain we weren't heading there, or back to California, either.

  Willy's white Jeepster was parked nearby, along with Charl
otte Devlin's big blue station wagon. The vehicle, and its trailer hitch, reminded me of the tall, tailored girl with the clipped chestnut hair who'd said she liked horses and riding. She'd also warned me not to louse up her operation for her, but apparently it had got loused up anyway, if Bobbie's information was correct. Well, we were sorry about that.

  There was no sign of the six-wheeled van that had brought me here-me, and the science-fiction gadget dreamed up by Dr. Osbert Sorenson, deceased. I wondered what had happened to the crazy catalytic generator. Then, glancing in the direction from which the hammering noise was coming, I realized that I was looking straight at it.

  It was another truck, a gleaming white job. A couple of men were working under it. Another man was waiting for them to stop pounding so he could continue lettering a name on the door. He'd already got it on the cylindrical, white-painted, horizontal tank that formed the afterbody of the vehicle: ARDOX BUTANE. Somehow the cylinder looked smaller like that, in daylight, than it had looked being wrestled ashore in the dark.

  "Clever," I said.

  Mr. Soo followed the direction of my glance. "You approve, Mr. Helm?"

  I said, "Very slick. Anywhere it goes, out in the boon-docks, it'll just be another gas truck chasing out to fill some rancher's tank. It'll be practically invisible. Nobody'll look at it twice."

  "That is my hope," the Chinaman said. "I am glad you agree. Mobility is essential, you understand."

  "Sure," I said. "Because of the wind. A ship was ideal, you could move it anywhere there was water, but on land you've got to have wheels, and hope there's a lonely road somewhere upwind of the place you want to cover with your poison."

  "Catalyst, please, Mr. Helm. You supply your own poison, we merely activate it. You'll be happy to know that the Los Angeles experiment was a great success, considering that this is merely a small pilot model of the generator."