The Removers

by Donald Hamilton

  “Where they’re to meet afterwards. After Larry gets back.”

  “I see. And where’s the old Buckman cabin?”

  “About seventeen miles back down the road you came by, there’s a little road that turns down into a canyon, Buckman Canyon. It goes on for miles, and meets the highway way out on the desert—”

  “Show me on the map.”

  She showed me. I went to the window and looked out. There was still plenty of daylight left, but there wasn’t anything left inside me. It hits you like that sometimes. I shouldn’t have had that drink. I tried to think what should be done next, but my brain was made strictly from absorbent cotton of a very crude and unrefined grade. Well, fortunately there was time to do something about it. Even with the best luck in the world, Logan couldn’t possibly be back until morning unless he took to the air, and I know these fast-car boys. Unless the wheels fall off, they’ll stick to what they’re driving, rather than entrust themselves to some crazy pilot and his dangerous flying machine.

  I turned from the window. You mustn’t ever show that you’re so pooped you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. You must always act as if you had a wonderful plan and it was working out swell. Anyway, that’s the theory.

  I went to the gun rack on the wall. Logan had an adequate, but not spectacular, hunting arsenal. There was a handsome, light, double-barreled shotgun, 16-gauge, obviously of English make. There was an American 12-gauge with a long 30-inch barrel, a long-range weapon for ducks and geese that the little gun wouldn’t reach. There was a bolt-action Winchester .270 with a scope, a nice, flat-shooting mountain rifle. And then, so help me, there was the Africa gun, the big double rifle, the .500 elephant buster, without which no real white hunter could stay in business. So he’d actually been there and done it. I made a silent apology to Mr. Lawrence Logan, wherever he might be and whatever speed he might be traveling at.

  I took down the little 16-gauge double. There were shells in the ammunition drawer. I stuck one into each chamber after checking that the bores were clear. I closed the gun and took it to Beth.

  “This is the safety,” I said. “Shove it up so and you’re ready to go. I’m going to have to ask you to baby-sit me for a while. Fredericks or Fenn may dream up something fancy and there’s no use taking chances. I’m going to get some sleep on the sofa so I’ll be ready to function when it’s time for the Duke to get back. When’s daylight around here?”

  She hesitated. “I think it starts to get light about four. But—”

  “Wake me at three, if I’m still out,” I said. “Now, I want you to listen closely. You’ll stay in this room with me, and you’ll keep the gun in your hands, or in your lap, if you want to sit and read. Aim it some direction where it won’t do too much damage if it goes off. If you hear anything— anything whatever—push off the safety with your thumb and put your finger on the trigger, like this. Either trigger, but it’s customary to start with the rear. If you have the slightest real intimation of trouble, just pull the trigger.”

  “But—”

  “Beth,” I said, “please! I know it’s a little rough on the household furnishings, but we hope you won’t have to do it. But if you should, just follow instructions, do you understand? Don’t scream, don’t wait to turn around and see what’s behind you, and don’t for the love of Pete go out of the room to investigate. Just blow a hole in the wall. If anybody’s trying to rush you, the noise should make him hit the deck. It should give me time to wake up and get into action. And if you should have to leave the room for any reason whatever, wake me up. Got it?”

  “I. I think so. Matt.”

  “Yes?”

  “What about.” She touched her lips with her tongue. “What about Larry?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What will happen to him? The police don’t like him or trust him. Even now, after all the years he’s been here, if anything happens in Reno—in Fredericks’ organization. They would come out here to harass him—”

  “He should have retired a little farther away.”

  She said, “If you know Larry at all, you know he wouldn’t do that. If he was going to live it down, he was going to live it down right here. He wasn’t going to run off and hide somewhere. What’ll happen to him, Matt? They’ve just been waiting for him to get into trouble so they could—”

  I said, “He’s in trouble. He’s smuggling heroin across the border in large quantities, which is illegal.” I looked at her sharply. “You’re really fond of the guy, aren’t you?”

  She said, “He’s a wonderful person. And it was my fault. if it hadn’t been for me.” She drew a long breath. “I. I’ll do anything to help—”

  She stopped. I looked down at her for a moment, and she started blushing. I grinned. “Make me the same offer some time when I’m not so sleepy.” I took her chin in my hand, and tipped her face up, and kissed her on the lips in a brotherly fashion. “Don’t worry too much about it, Beth. We usually take care of people who give us a hand, personal differences to the contrary notwithstanding.”

  I went over to the sofa, arranged the .38 revolver in a suitable location, and found a pillow of reasonable size. I kicked off my shoes, lay down, and went to sleep immediately.

  When I woke up, Martell was there.

  20

  It was the phone that woke me. I heard it ringing miles away, and I wished somebody’d silence it and let me sleep. Then I was suddenly wide awake wondering where she was and why she didn’t do something about it. I started reaching for the little Smith and Wesson very cautiously. The gun wasn’t there.

  “Take it nice and easy, Buster,” a man’s voice said. I recognized the voice, although I’d heard it only once before, in Fredericks’ office.

  I opened my eyes, and there he was, sitting in a big chair facing the sofa with an automatic pistol balanced on his knee. It was a foreign job I didn’t recognize; you can’t keep track of them all these days. It had the usual switches and levers in the usual places. I judged the caliber to be about .38 inches or 9mm.

  Beth was sitting on the arm of the chair, very still. His left arm was around her, holding her there, and his left hand was where you’d expect the hand of a guy like that to be in a situation like that. Even if he’d had no interest in such things as Martell—and the record showed otherwise—he had to live up to his character as Fenn, and they’re all breast-happy, those rackets boys. Maybe their mothers switched them to the bottle too early—if they had mothers.

  The English shotgun, I noticed, had been carefully returned to its place on the rack. The two shells it had contained stood, base-down, on a nearby table, to let me know the piece was unloaded and there was no point in my building any fancy plans around it. He wasn’t missing any bets. He was a pro.

  “The knife,” he said. “Careful now.”

  That’s the trouble with showing your best tricks to punks like Tony and Ricky. When you really need them, they’re common knowledge. Well, he probably wouldn’t have let me get away with it, anyway. I reached cautiously into my pocket and got out the Solingen knife with thumb and forefinger.

  “Let it drop on the rug.”

  I did so.

  “Go get it, Duchess.” He released her. She stood up uncertainly. He gave her an encouraging pat on the rear. “Go on. Get it and bring it here, Duchess.” He grinned. “Duchess. Duke-Duchess. Get it?”

  The other man in the room laughed dutifully, bringing himself to my attention for the first time. He wasn’t much, just a competent workman with a broken nose in a wide, cruel face. One look and I knew he knew nothing whatever. He’d be the reason Martell was still putting on his Fenn act for us—or maybe he’d just played the role so long it came natural to him now.

  The other man said, “The phone, Fenn.”

  “What about the damn phone?”

  “It’s still ringing.”

  “I know,” Martell said. “I realize it’s painful as hell, Joey, but just try to bear up under the agony a few minute
s longer, huh?” He gave Beth a shove. “Go on, Duchess. The knife. Get it.”

  Beth moved forward as awkwardly as if she were trying out her first pair of high heels. She stopped by the sofa and looked down at me.

  “I. I’m sorry, Matt.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  There were no signs of a struggle. They’d just walked in, probably through the open study door near the fireplace—there was an outside door in the other room, I recalled—and taken the loaded gun from her before she could bring herself to shoot. I should have known that was what would happen, if the occasion should arise. I’d asked too much of her, although it hadn’t seemed like much at the time.

  She had that strange aversion to making a mess, or a loud noise—to making a fool of herself—that seems to afflict all respectable people. The idea of discharging a great big destructive firearm, or even a little one, in her own living room, perhaps for nothing, had seemed just too outlandish. She’d waited until she was absolutely sure it was necessary, and then, of course, it had been too late.

  I couldn’t help thinking of women I’d worked with who, given a shotgun and sufficient shells, could have guarded my sleep against an army of Martells and Joeys, but that wasn’t fair. She wasn’t Maria, or Tina, or any of those girls I’d known during the war, savage fighting animals, species human, gender feminine. She was Elizabeth Logan who had been Beth Helm, gentle wife and mother.

  “I. I couldn’t help it,” she breathed.

  “Sure.”

  Her lips formed a word, soundlessly. The word was, “Peter.”

  Behind her, Martell stirred impatiently. “Pick it up and bring it here!” he commanded.

  She wasn’t sure I’d got it. She signaled desperately with her eyes, indicating that there was someone or something outside, and spoke the name silently again as she bent to pick up the knife. She turned away and carried it to Martell. He looked at it and seemed surprised at its smallness, but made no comment. He dropped it into his own pocket.

  “Get up,” he said to me. I got up and put my feet into my shoes. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’ll take care of that damn phone and put Joey out of his misery. You get it, Duchess. If they ask what took you so long, say you were out. You just came in, the two of you, to hear the phone ringing. Find out who it is and what they want. One wrong word and you’ll wish you hadn’t. Got it? Now march.”

  There wasn’t much chance yet, I told myself. He was still sizing me up, ready for trouble. There wasn’t any hurry. If he’d wanted us dead immediately, he’d had plenty of opportunity to achieve his wish. He was saving us for something, so there was no need to risk the long, long gamble of taking action now, while he was alert and wary.

  Besides, if the boy were actually outside, he might create a diversion. I remembered now that Beth had said he was to check in every morning at a certain hour. I wasn’t counting too much on him, however. This wasn’t a game for college kids in high-heeled boots.

  “Fenn!” Joey said.

  “What now?”

  “The phone!”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s stopped!”

  Martell listened. “Well, damned if it hasn’t,” he said mildly. “Feel better now, Joey?”

  They were both looking towards the hall door, as if waiting for the instrument to start ringing again. So were Beth and I. In that moment, there was a crash behind us, as the study door slammed back against the stone fireplace. A boy’s voice commanded:

  “Drop that gun! Put your hands up!”

  If he’d shot one, as he should have, I’d have taken out the other for him. I was ready to hit Joey just as hard and dirty as I could. But I’d been right in not counting too much on young Mr. Logan. He was just a kid and he wanted to talk.

  “Don’t move! Hold it just like that!”

  Beth turned, beside me. “Peter! Oh, thank God—”

  It seemed to me she was offering up thanks a little prematurely. I let my breath go out very softly. There was a very bad taste in my mouth; I don’t like amateur productions. I turned slowly.

  He was there all right, in his cowboy boots and big hat, with his trusty thirty-thirty in his fists. He looked as if he’d just ridden Hiyo Silver off the range. It was disillusioning to realize that he’d undoubtedly arrived in an imported, four-wheel-drive Land Rover.

  He must have spotted something wrong—a strange car in the yard, perhaps—and left his vehicle at a distance and come forward on foot to investigate. You’ve got to give him credit for that much, I suppose, but it would have been nice if his daddy had taught him what to do with that firearm he was brandishing.

  He was still on the dialogue pitch, however. “Now, drop it like I said!” he snapped, aiming the rifle at Martell, who was, I saw, getting an amused, tolerant, and kind of pitying look on his face. He even glanced at me and shook his head almost imperceptibly, as one pro to another, asking me, I guess, to witness that it wasn’t his fault if children attacked him and he had to defend himself.

  Young Logan was still talking. There was no end to his supply of brilliant, dramatic lines. “You with the gun! I’m not fooling! Quick or I’ll shoot!” And the click of the drawn-back hammer to punctuate the command.

  Martell sighed and dropped his pistol, muzzle-first, so that if it discharged—which possibility didn’t seem to have occurred to the boy, I suppose because they’re always dropping guns harmlessly on TV—the bullet would go into the floor. Nothing happened. The weapon just bounced on the rug and lay still.

  I had that terrible nightmare feeling you get when you see a very badly performed play or movie. Even when it’s nothing to you if the performers make jackasses of themselves, it still hurts. I started to speak, to advise the boy but checked myself. All he had to do was pull a trigger, but that’s something a kid’s got to learn for himself, somehow.

  They all think there’s a kind of magic property in firearms, some hypnotic emanation that causes people to do your bidding. There isn’t. The one thing a gun can do is shoot, and it isn’t supposed to do even that without being told. But you can’t explain it to them. They simply don’t understand.

  Joey was already moving now, very cautiously, increasing the distance between himself and Martell. I was going to have to decide very quickly whether or not to risk taking a hand.

  “You there! I told you to stay put...!”

  More words. Martell was moving. They were already far enough apart so that young Logan was having trouble keeping them both covered. The waving gun-barrel decided me. I wanted no part of this suicidal, sentimental foolishness. He wasn’t really a bad kid, however, and I couldn’t help pleading with him silently, for his own good: You’re going to have to shoot, you stupid little bastard. Why the hell don’t you shoot now, while it will still do some good...?

  But he couldn’t do it, of course. It probably didn’t even occur to him, really. He’d learned better, watching the 21-inch screen. You don’t just up and kill a man standing there with his hands empty simply because he’s moving his feet a little, for God’s sake! Why, that’s murder. It was murder, all right. They whipsawed him expertly. I didn’t see it all. When Joey set it off by lunging aside and going for his armpit gun, I threw a fast body-block into Beth and brought her down on the floor.

  Then the boy was firing his silly carbine at Joey, in motion—now that he no longer had a stationary target, he was firing it!—and Martell was bringing my little .38 out of his pocket and shooting twice, and Joey, unscathed, was putting a third bullet into the boy, just out of meanness, as he hit the floor.

  Beth scrambled out from under me and ran forward. Martell knocked her aside, thinking she was going for the fallen rifle, and maybe she was, but I doubt it. She wasn’t weapons-oriented, if you know what I mean. He picked up the gun. She got up again and ran past him and went to her knees beside Peter Logan.

  “He’s still alive!” she gasped after a moment. “He’s still breathing. Please, can’t you do something?”

  “Fenn
,” Joey said pleadingly, “Fenn, can’t you hear? The damn phone’s ringing again!”

  21

  Joey shoved Beth forward, after dragging her out of the living room. She started to protest again, thought better of it, and picked up the phone.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, this is Mrs. Logan.” A surprised look came to her face. “Who? Mr. Fredericks.”

  Martell reached out and took the instrument from her. “This is Fenn, Mr. Fredericks,” he said and listened briefly. His gun, well out of reach from where I stood, never wavered. “We had some things to take care of before we could answer,” he said. “Yes, Mr. Fredericks. Yes, everything is under control. Sure, Mr. Fredericks, I’m listening.”

  He listened. Once, he laughed. Then he listened some more.

  “I’ve got it,” he said at last. “Four or five hours, you figure. Sure, Mr. Fredericks, we’ll be ready for him. No, you don’t have to draw a diagram, he won’t give you any more trouble. What? Yes, we’ll get that information for you, too. Sure, Mr. Fredericks. You can count on us. Yes, Mr. Fredericks, I understand. Yes, Mr. Fredericks. There won’t be an ounce missing, I promise you. Yes, we’ll let you know as soon as. Yes, Mr. Fredericks.”

  He hung up the phone and spat deliberately on the rug. His face was ugly. He swore fervently in a language I didn’t understand. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be a guy named Fenn.

  “Sonofabitch!” he said, with a quick glance at Joey. “I should have told him to take his lousy H and ram it up his. Where the hell do you think you’re going, Duchess?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Somebody’s got to—”

  “Nobody’s got to nothing,” Martell said. The lapse into foreign obscenity seemed to have shaken him; now he was playing Fenn to the hilt. I was interested to see this. It meant that he wasn’t too sure of how Joey would react to his real identity. He gave me a shove. “You get out to the car, quick, both of you, and watch yourselves. You, Shorty, particularly! You aren’t fooling me with that dumb and innocent look!”