The Removers

by Donald Hamilton

  She’d swung back to face Beth, who licked her lips. “I don’t know what you—”

  Moira had her by the arm. Before I understood what she was about, the two of them were at the bedroom door—the closed one. Moira turned the knob with her free hand, kicked the door open, and gave Beth a hard push.

  “Can you take it, Mrs. Logan? Take a good look and go make your damn report!”

  16

  When Beth came back from the bathroom, the kid had arranged a little tableau for her. I was sitting on the living-room sofa, and she was sitting cross-legged on the floor between my feet, and I was working on her hair with the towel. We must have looked quite cozy and domestic.

  Beth came in looking pretty good, considering. She’d pulled herself together nicely; she just had the pale, shaken, slightly disheveled look of anyone who’s just lost a meal down the drain. She stopped in the doorway to look at us, and I thought she winced slightly—I guess it’s always hard to face the fact that anyone you’ve lived with for years can be happy with somebody else, doing all the things you used to do together, and maybe a few more besides.

  Moira said, “I poured some coffee for you, Mrs. Logan. I think it’s still hot. Ouch, take it easy, baby!”

  Beth stood there looking at us for a moment longer. Something else was on her mind now; she looked kind of lost and bewildered.

  “Coffee?” she said. “How can you...?” She glanced towards the closed door, and away. “Shouldn’t we. do something?”

  “What?” I asked. “Only God can do what they really need done.”

  “But—”

  I said, “They’ll keep. For a while at least.” She winced again at my crudity, as she was supposed to do. It was time she woke up to the fact that she was in the big league now. She’d been in it before, of course, but she hadn’t known about it until the very last. This time she’d married into it from choice, unless the Duke had deceived her about his background, and he looked like the kind who’d be honorable as hell about things like that. I said, “Something has to be done, sure, but when I do it, I want to know it’s right. Sit down and drink your coffee, Beth.”

  I indicated a chair. She hesitated, and went quickly over and sat down. After a moment, she picked up the cup and saucer from the small table nearby and began to sip the coffee gingerly.

  I said, “They were friends of the Duke’s, weren’t they?”

  She didn’t look up. “Please call him Larry,” she said. “He’s. trying to live down that other name and everything that went with it. Yes, they were his friends, or at least men he’d known when.” She stopped.

  “When he was in the rackets,” I said.

  “Yes.” Nobody said anything for a while. Beth lifted her head abruptly. “You have to understand. It was the children. He threatened to—”

  “Who threatened?”

  “Her father. Fredericks.”

  “Threatened to what?”

  She looked at her coffee cup. “Terrible things. He was using the children—my children—as a club against Larry, to make him—”

  “To make him what?” I asked when she stalled again. She shook her head quickly. “I can’t tell you that.”

  I passed it up, and said, “Logan’s had a boy of his own for years. He’s been vulnerable to that kind of threat for years. And if he’s anything like the man I think he is, he’d know the way to deal with it.”

  She shook her head quickly. “He hasn’t had me for years. Fredericks thought I. I’d weaken and put pressure on.” She was silent for a little while. Then she said breathlessly, “He was right! Oh, he was absolutely right! I couldn’t stand it. Not knowing what might be happening when they were out of my sight for even a moment. You saw the way it was out there. I was going crazy!”

  “So the Duke decided to relieve the pressure?”

  Beth hesitated, and glanced at Moira, and burst out, “Why should she be immune? If he can threaten my children—”

  I said, “Well, it didn’t work. It’s kind of too bad. I don’t figure the two goons were any great loss, but that was a damn nice dog.”

  Beth’s head came up sharply. She looked at me, a glance of sheer horror. I wasn’t showing the proper respect for human life. Well, it was time she got used to that.

  I said, “There’s just one thing everybody seems to have overlooked.” Neither of them was obliging enough to feed me the proper question. Suddenly I felt old and sad and tired. I said, “Those are my children, too. If Duke Logan can’t protect them properly, I guess I’ll have to.” Nobody said anything to that, either. I gave the kid’s head a last vigorous rub, and dropped the towel over her face. “You’re dry. Go comb yourself out, you look like Medusa with a head full of snakes.”

  “What are you going to do, baby?”

  “I have to make a phone call. It’s kind of confidential, so I’d appreciate it if you—both of you—would go into the other room and close the door.”

  Moira got up and turned to look at me searchingly. “I said you were a government man. I’ll bet you’re calling Washington.”

  She was perfectly right, of course. She usually was. I said, “Go comb your golden tresses like a good girl.”

  She studied me for a moment longer. Then she moved her shoulders minutely, dismissing whatever it was that had bothered her. I wished I could dismiss what was bothering me so easily.

  “The gadget you want is over there,” she said. “There are no extensions. Come on, Mrs. Logan, he wants privacy.”

  I watched them go out of the room together, Beth slender and ladylike and half a head taller. The kid looked small and bouncy beside her. I went to the phone and called the regular Washington number and went through the routine formalities. Then I had Mac on the line. One thing about the guy, he may be a tricky bastard to work for, but he’s never off playing golf when you need him.

  “Eric here,” I said. “I thought you’d like to hear about my vacation, sir.”

  Mac’s voice was dry. “Are you having a wonderful time, Eric? Do you wish I were there—so you could punch my nose?”

  “You might have told me my family was involved.”

  “It seemed better to let you discover it for yourself,” he said. “You might have had some inconvenient scruples about visiting them as an agent on official business; you might have felt I was asking you to spy on them.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  He laughed and ignored the question. His voice became more businesslike: “I’m acquainted with developments up to Paul’s last report. I also have a medical statement indicating that Paul’s injuries were more purposeful than malicious, if you know what I mean. Not that there weren’t indications of gratuitous violence, but on the whole it appears that Paul’s assailant had a definite aim in mind.” Mac cleared his throat. “Did he talk?”

  “Paul?” I said. “It would seem so.”

  “Your evidence?”

  “Martell knows all about me, even to my code name. Of course, he might have learned it elsewhere, but considering the short time I’ve been back in the service, it seems unlikely.” After a moment, guessing what was in Mac’s mind, I said, “Anybody can be made to talk, sir.”

  “True, with reservations. But I wasn’t criticizing Paul, only myself for putting him in that position. I. shouldn’t have sent him ahead to operate alone, Eric. I knew he wasn’t up to it, not against a man like Martell. I.” There was a little silence. I was a little embarrassed. I mean, you don’t want a guy like Mac to turn human on you. It shakes your faith in immutable things like life and death and the movements of the heavenly bodies. I heard him clear his throat again; then he said crisply: “Martell must have taken some action on his information, or you wouldn’t know he had it.”

  “Yes, sir. He tried to get his boss, Fredericks, to dispose of me, at least temporarily. I’m assuming the inspiration came from Martell. He’s handicapped to some extent by the fact that he has to maintain his cover as an obedient goon. Fredericks would start asking pointed questi
ons if he caught his hired hand operating independently.” After a moment, I said, “Question, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “We seem to be assuming that Martell’s on some mysterious mission in this country, and has been on it for seven years or more. Has anybody considered the possibility that he might be on the up-and-up, in a crooked sort of way?”

  “What do you mean, Eric?”

  “Well, he could have chased after just one woman too many. Suppose he just got himself kicked off the team. He had to earn a living somehow, poor fellow, so he came over here and got a job carrying a gun for an American racketeer, since that was the kind of work he knew best. When Rizzi went to jail, he simply scouted the employment market and hooked up with the man paying top wages, who happened to be Fredericks.”

  “On this basis, how do you explain what happened to Paul?”

  “Easily, sir. Naturally Martell doesn’t want guys like Paul and me snooping around—not because he’s conducting some secret operation for the other side, but simply because we threaten his new identity as Jack Fenn. Just like a crook who’s gone straight for years wouldn’t want a detective with a long memory threatening his newfound respectability.”

  “Do you believe this, Eric?”

  “I don’t believe or disbelieve. I just think it’s a possibility that ought to be considered.”

  “It has been,” Mac said, “and dismissed from consideration.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, the people he worked for, as you must know, have a very permanent way of discharging employees who prove unsatisfactory. Very few of them turn up in the labor market afterwards. But you are right to a certain extent. We’ve learned that Martell did get himself into disgrace, again, presumably some time between fifty-one, when we know he was working for them in Berlin, and fifty-three, when he first came into contact with our police under the name of Fenn.”

  “How did you learn this, sir?”

  “With Martell, how would we learn it except from one of his castoff women. Fortunately, she had a grudge, and we worked on it and got what she knows. Although he’s not ordinarily a heavy drinker, he apparently did talk in his cups on a couple of occasions. He felt somebody had given him a raw deal, she said. ‘Just one little slip and they send you to Siberia!’ was the way he put it—America being Siberia, in his estimation. He tried to impress her with what a big man he’d been somewhere else, and what a come-down it was for him to be running errands for a punk like Rizzi.”

  I said, when he paused, “That still doesn’t prove—”

  “There’s more,” Mac said. “The girl was scared at hearing him talk that way about a big-shot like Rizzi, and showed it. Martell laughed at her and said something about how Rizzi might think he, Martell, Fenn as she knew him, was running Rizzi’s errands, but actually it was the other way around. When he sobered up, he beat her up and almost killed her. He said he would kill her if she repeated anything he’d said.”

  “Martell being what he is, I have no doubt he meant it.”

  “Neither had she,” Mac said. “But the two thousand odd miles between New York and Reno apparently made her feel safe enough, after he’d gone west to join Fredericks recently, to start brooding over her wrongs in various bars, more or less aloud, and somebody picked it up and passed it to us.”

  I said, “Well, that does put a different light on it. So Martell felt he was using Rizzi in some way. That’s interesting.”

  “Very.” After a moment, Mac went on: “I’ve studied the interrogation tapes carefully, Eric. Reading between the lines, so to speak—there’s more that I won’t bother to quote—I’ve come to the conclusion that Mr. Martell’s ‘one little slip,’ actually his third on record, of course, came very close to getting him liquidated. He was saved—I’m guessing now—because somebody needed a man who could do a good job of impersonating a tough American gangster. Just an ordinary intelligence agent wouldn’t do. The man had to be tough enough, and skilled enough with weapons, to maneuver himself into the position of being the trusted lieutenant of a big-shot like Rizzi. So Martell was reprieved, but he was reprimanded, demoted, and sent over here to ponder his sins and spend seven years building a reputation and a police record—for what?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a good question. And from Rizzi, he moves to Fredericks. What’s the common denominator, sir, if there is one?”

  “There is one,” Mac said.

  “Yes,” I said “Dope.”

  “Precisely.”

  I hesitated, and said, “A friend of mine had an experience on the Mexican border that may fit in with all this. Returning to her native land, she had her car searched very thoroughly, which had never happened before. She has the theory that it was because she happens to be Sally Fredericks’ daughter.”

  Mac’s voice was dry. “You have a valuable knack of making interesting and useful friends, Eric.”

  I ignored the interruption. “She also has the theory that her male parent might be trying to get something across the border, and that she was suspected of carrying it for him. Confirm or deny, sir.”

  “Your friend is a fast girl with a theory. Confirm.” Mac was silent briefly, then he asked, “What do you know about heroin, Eric?”

  “That it’s habit-forming, sir. What’s going on? Are they sending guys like Martell to turn us into a nation of hop-heads so they can take us over easier? Like the British are supposed to have encouraged the opium trade in the last century to make the Chinese more tractable?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Mac said. “But it does seem a little far-fetched.”

  “To go back to my friend’s experience,” I said. “Could Fredericks perhaps be having difficulties getting the stuff across the border these days?”

  “He could.”

  “Serious difficulties, like having his lines of communications disrupted by crude individuals wearing badges? Serious enough that somebody’d think he was desperate enough to try using his own daughter as a courier?”

  “Something like that.”

  “A large shipment, perhaps?”

  “Quite large. It was traced from Italy to Mexico and the border was warned that it was moving north. Twice it was almost seized when The Man, as he is known, tried to bring it in through his normal channels. Various small fish were caught, but the bait was not taken with them. Rumors are that The Man made a serious error at this point.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as enlisting local help, which proved unreliable and greedy. You can’t call it an actual hijacking, since the gentlemen below the border are quite amenable to reason, as long as it’s a large enough reason in American dollars. The Man, to date, has refused to pay, although there’s evidence that his supplies are getting low and his distributors are beginning to complain. Instead he sent a trusted expert south to deal with the problem, but the individual apparently wasn’t quite expert enough, and disappeared. I have most of this information from another agency, which is giving us full cooperation.”

  “How full?” I asked. “If I fall over a guy in the dark, can I kick him hard, or is he apt to be one of Mr. Anslinger’s nice young men?”

  “We have a clear field,” Mac said. “Up to a point. Understand-ably, they don’t want the shipment to get loose in the country. Understandably, too, they would like very much to get something concrete and legal on Mr. Salvatore Frederici, alias Fredericks. But I have persuaded them, by lying shamefully, that we know exactly what we’re doing, and that our mission must have priority, in the national interest. I’d hate to have to eat my words, Eric.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Just what the hell are we doing?”

  “We are finding out what Martell is up to,” Mac said. “Disgraced or not, they wouldn’t waste a man of his caliber on something completely unimportant. Actually, you’ll also be acting in behalf of your family, Eric. I think you can see that anything that clarifies our problem is in their best interest, particularly if you can manage to give our coopera
tive associates the evidence they need against Fredericks. Judging by the reports I have here, the situation of Mr. Logan and his dependents should be a great deal more peaceful with Fredericks out of the way.” “You don’t have to sell me the job, sir,” I said, rather stiffly. “Anyway, I’m hardly staying up nights worrying about Logan’s situation, and I doubt that you are. Beth and the kids are another matter, of course, as far as I’m concerned. Am I authorized to take steps to protect them, if necessary?”

  “If necessary,” Mac said. “But remember, your mission is not to protect your family, or even to get the goods on Mr. Fredericks, desirable though that might be. Your immediate responsibility is to discover Martell’s mission—”

  “What do our cooperative friends think about it?”

  “They have no theories. It came as a surprise to them that he was anything but what he seemed. Their feeling is that he was hired as a replacement for the trusted gentleman who went to Mexico and wasn’t expert enough to return.”

  “Contradiction, sir.”

  “You have evidence to the contrary?”

  “Not evidence, just a hunch. Martell is a replacement, all right, but I doubt that he’s in line to go to Mexico. He’s too new and I don’t have the feeling that Fredericks trusts him very far—not a thousand miles and a good many thousand dollars, I wouldn’t think. There’s a man Sally trusts a good deal more.”

  “Logan?”

  “Yes, sir. In my opinion, Martell—or Fenn—is just an insurance policy Fredericks took out so he wouldn’t get his head blown off when he started putting pressure on Logan. After all, he’d just lost his previous number one, from what you say, south of the border. And that’s kind of interesting, when you come to think about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I said, “Martell needs a job. Fredericks’ most trusted man disappears, creating a vacancy. Do you think there might be a connection?”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Mac said. “The possibility is being investigated.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “Fredericks hired Martell, or Fenn, to guard the body; but I have a strong feeling the man he wants for the Mexico jaunt is the Duke.”