The Intimidators

by Donald Hamilton

  He was angry now, but not at me; and I realized that I’d won. He’d received orders that he didn’t like. He was just taking the opportunity to gripe about them under the guise of bargaining. I didn’t say anything. Manderfield gestured to the bartender, and there was silence at the table, and in the room, while the new drinks were being prepared. The only sound was the steady rumble of traffic on the Overseas Highway outside. The bartender named Joe removed our empty glasses and set full ones in their places.

  “Mr. Helm,” said Manderfield.

  “Yes?”

  “You should be at Little Grass Key, six miles due north of the Two-Mile-Channel Bridge, at exactly six o’clock. Six and six, that should be easy to remember. Make your approach from the west side of the key; there’s water there. Use the open boat you used this morning. Captain Robinson says it will not be necessary to hotwire it again, whatever that may mean. Spare keys are taped under the dashboard.”

  “I know,” I said. “I found them when I was changing the wiring back where it belonged.”

  “Your escort vessel, if any, must stay at least a mile away. We’ll maintain the same distance. Captain Robinson, and a lady named Phipps, will be awaiting you on the island, which despite its name is little more than a sand-spit. You will take them aboard, and leave Mr. Morgan in their place.” He hesitated. “I do not approve of this bargain, Mr. Helm, and see no point in it, but as you say, we are not permitted to think for ourselves. We simply follow orders…”

  22

  As I eased Harriet’s big outboard out of the harbor again, alone in the boat this time, I made note of the fact that the light breeze was blowing from the general direction of Cuba, but at the moment I wasn’t concerned with the largest island in the Greater Antilles. My immediate concern was a minor sandspit called Little Grass Key; but first, preferably without putting any dents in it, I had to get my borrowed craft a mile or so down the shore to a private dock, where my cargo awaited me.

  It was all very complicated; and it had involved lengthy phone consultations to work out the intricate details. God knows how the undercover professions ever managed before the invention of the telephone—maybe that’s why we don’t hear much of master spies antedating Alex G. Bell. The evening’s plan was a masterpiece of tricky timing, and we all had our watches and brains synchronized to the millisecond; and all it would take would be a slight change in weather, or a minor human error or mechanical malfunction, to throw the whole schedule haywire. On the other hand, maybe it would actually work out as planned, this time. I’d never seen it happen, but it might.

  I switched on the depthfinder. This was a square box mounted in a bracket to starboard of the motor controls, with a big dial. Behind the dial was some kind of a spinning light that somehow, don’t ask me how, made a red flash at the depth determined by the electronic gremlins inside the box. At the moment, it read five feet, not a hell of a lot of water as oceans go; but then, there generally isn’t much on the Gulf of Mexico side of the Keys, where you can be fishing out of sight of land in water so shallow that you’ve got to push yourself along with the pole because there isn’t depth enough to run the motors. Well, there’s also the consideration that a silent pole doesn’t spook fish the way a noisy motor does…

  It was a secluded, dredged harbor protected by a stone breakwater. Coming through the narrow entrance, I recognized the white Ford station wagon from its description, and headed for the dock at which it was parked, below a luxurious residence surrounded by palm trees, with a big swimming pool nearby. I wondered why anybody with that much money would get mixed up with a bunch of disreputable characters like us. Just to see if I could do it—I’d never had a chance to play with a twin-motor rig before—I got the boat turned around by backing the port screw while running the starboard one forward. It worked, making me feel nautical as hell, a real sea dog.

  By the time I’d laid the boat alongside the dock, heading out, a man had come down from the car to take my lines. Another man brought Morgan. His right arm and shoulder were pretty well immobilized. He seemed to be fairly heavily doped, which was fine with me.

  “Better put this on him so he won’t be so conspicuous,” Morgan’s baby-sitter said.

  I took the jacket he handed down. Morgan allowed me to drape it over him without protest. He still was a big, formidable-looking specimen, but the switch had been turned off. I reminded myself not to take for granted that it would stay off indefinitely. I parked him in the starboard chair behind the console, and went back to retrieve my lines—well, Harriet’s lines.

  The man who’d brought Morgan said, “I’m Brent.” He was tall and young, with crisp red hair and sideburns. His voice was familiar. He was the Miami contact with whom I’d already talked a number of times on the phone. Now, according to the evening’s master plan, he was taking a more active part in the operation. Apparently he had some unique qualifications that made him a logical choice.

  “Good for you,” I said. “But you’d better get over there fast. Haseltine’s waiting for a navigator, but he’s not the patient type. You can’t miss the boat. If it looks as if it’s breaking the sound barrier tied to the dock, you’ve got the right bucket.”

  Brent hesitated, and said: “I’ll get you within a mile of Little Grass Key. Just stick in our wake. You’ll have to make the final approach yourself, of course, according to instructions. Just remember one thing: if you have to blast out of there fast for any reason, get her up on plane and keep her there. You can ride that thing on a heavy dew as long as you keep her skimming along the top; but if you get cautious and slow down, she’ll settle and hit.” He cleared his throat in an embarrassed way. “Sorry, Eric, I don’t mean to be telling you things you already know, but this shallow-water boating’s kind of a specialized deal.”

  I grinned. “Where boats are concerned, amigo, I’m a hell of a good horseman. Keep telling me. And keep your fingers crossed.”

  The station wagon had already disappeared inland by the time I’d eased the outboard past the breakwater. After getting well clear of shore, I swung westwards, taking it slowly. I didn’t have long to wait. Just as I was coming opposite the conspicuous tower of Faro Blanco once more, a shiny red power cruiser emerged from the marina. She was a rakish job that seemed to be designed for an air speed of several hundred knots, instead of a measly forty. The cabin windshield had a slant like that of a fast sports car, and the flying bridge above continued this racy, sloping, motif. By the time all the streamlining had been taken care of, the whole superstructure had wound up so far aft that there was hardly room for a cockpit in the stern. On the mahogany transom, lettered in gold, was the name Red Baron.

  The cruiser swung away to the west ahead of me and picked up speed. She was close enough, now, that I could hear the impressive rumble of the big twin diesels driving her. The sound was lost as I opened up my two outboards to follow, watching the figures on the flying bridge up ahead. Haseltine had the wheel, and Brent was just standing by, occasionally studying the water ahead through his binoculars, and once in a while indicating a slight change of course.

  It was a beautiful evening coming up, almost flat calm now, but I couldn’t really appreciate it, busy holding my station astern. I was careful to stay precisely in the flat central portion of the cruiser’s wake. For one thing, it was bouncy off the sides, and for another, Brent soon began taking us through some pretty thin water. Every so often our big stern waves would break like surf on shoals no more than ankle deep, just off our course…

  The island far ahead seemed to be just another strip of sand upon which a couple of hunks of driftwood had stranded during some past storm. I’ll admit that I was too preoccupied with my nautical duties to realize what I was seeing until the larger boat ahead suddenly squatted, losing speed. I hauled back on my throttles and let the outboard glide alongside. Brent leaned over the flying-bridge railing.

  “There’s the enemy line of battle,” he said, pointing ahead. Way over there, beyond the islet, lay the f
ifty-footer I’d seen before, its silhouette reflected in the calm water. Brent said, “Okay, it’s all yours, Eric. Run straight west a quarter-mile. There’s a channel leading south; take it. When you’re exactly opposite them, head in slowly. Use the power tilts; raise the props to just below the surface. Don’t go in too far. There’s no need. It’s all solid bottom, good wading. Just don’t step on any stingrays.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t really planning to go wading, but thanks a lot.”

  As I’ve said, the Florida Keys are really a wonderful place once you get away from them in a boat. We were lying in still, clear water over a clean sandy bottom; and all around was a fairyland of islands and islets, apparently uninhabited except by birds. The sky in the west promised a glorious sunset shortly.

  Morgan said, “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the murdering sonofabitch. Renee…”

  His voice trailed off. He wasn’t looking at me. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. Even my motion to grasp the throttles and ease them forward didn’t cause his vacant stare to shift noticeably. We moved ahead almost without sound, the motors ticking over slowly. I stood up so I could read the water the way I’d been taught by a fishing guide. You navigate by the color down there. Dark blue is deep water, light blue-green is shallow, and white means you get out and push.

  I found the darker channel leading north Brent had told me to look for, and changed course to follow it. Behind me, the rakish Red Baron lay motionless on the mirror-like surface. Over to the west was the big, white sportfisherman. I could see a figure up in the tall tuna-tower, and a glint of glass from binoculars watching me. I wondered if Manderfield himself was up there; or if perhaps he didn’t like such high, precarious perches. I’m not very fond of them myself.

  Morgan said, “A man is not a machine discipline shit. The black man was only following orders get the white goddamn bastard fuck-your lousy Russky discipline…”

  Renee Schneider had described him as a thug, but Renee had been lying for effect. Paul Martin Manderfield had called him an expendable muscle-man, but Manderfield had been engaged in horsetrading of sorts. It occurred to me that I didn’t know what kind of a man this vengeful Morgan was. I didn’t even know if Morgan was his first name, his last, or a code name. I remembered something I’d said to Ramsay Pendleton, about leaving people behind to die. Well, Pendleton had got behind and now Morgan was going to be left.

  I said, “Cut it out, friend. I’m not going to turn my back on you, and you can’t take me one-handed anyway, so let’s dispense with the delirious act, shall we?”

  After a moment, Morgan drew a long breath and grinned briefly. “Well, it was worth a try. What happens now?”

  “You get your feet wet,” I said. “Satisfy my curiosity. Why the long hair?”

  “Menace,” he said. “It scares people to think of a professional hitman with long, girlish hair. Try it some time.” After a moment, he said, “I wasn’t expecting that lousy gaff. You took me by surprise. I’m not that easy. You know that.”

  It was a relief, in a way. Now I knew. Whatever his feeling for Renee Schneider had been, he was just another tough one, full of pride, concerned lest I downrate him because he hadn’t put up a very good fight.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure, I know that.”

  The little islet drew abeam. The chunks of stranded driftwood on the sand had become two human beings, standing, one dressed in white, the other in khaki. Even though Manderfield had said she’d be there, I was very glad to see Harriet; I was going to need her badly before this night was over. I threw the levers into neutral and, looking astern, hit the tilt switches and watched the big motors tip up until the propellers were barely submerged. I engaged the gears once more and made the turn toward the key. The steering was harder with the mills angled like that. The water got paler and shallower ahead.

  “That’s far enough. We can make it. Don’t get my motors full of sand.”

  That was Harriet’s voice. I cut the power and watched the two of them wade toward me. Harriet’s companion seemed to be wearing rather elaborate white satin pajamas of some kind, designed more for a boudoir than a beach, let alone a wading party. Preserving the fragile, fancy garment didn’t seem to concern her much, perhaps because—as I could see when she got closer—it had been wet before and was pretty well decorated with mud and sand. She was a nicely shaped lady with a face that was close to beautiful in a pert, girlish way; and short, dark hair.

  As Harriet reached the boat and grasped the gunwale, I put my sneakered foot on her fingers, not hard. “What the hell are you trying to pull, sweetheart?” I asked.

  She looked up at me and laughed. “You asked for a female Phipps, didn’t you? Well, you’ve got one. What are you complaining about? All you wanted was a token to show we knew the right place, wasn’t it?”

  I studied her smiling face for a moment, and grinned. She’d put one over on me, and that was fine. It got me off the hook. Now I wouldn’t have to feel badly about putting one over on her.

  “Sure,” I said, removing my foot. “Welcome aboard, Captain Robinson. Give Mrs. Phipps a hand, will you, while I keep an eye on our male guest, here… Okay, Morgan. Over you go.”

  A moment later we were backing cautiously out of the shallows with Harriet at the controls, leaving Morgan standing in knee-deep water. Presently, he turned and started wading slowly toward the island. There was no place else for him to go.

  23

  I stood in the cockpit of the express cruiser looking through the binoculars I’d borrowed from Brent; standard, big, seagoing 7x50s. Harriet’s open boat was now towing astern, squatting a little as Red Baron picked up speed. Beyond it, Little Grass Key was getting smaller in the distance. Back there, an outboard dinghy with one man on board was just receiving a second passenger. I watched the small boat turn and head toward the big white fishing vessel waiting in deeper water.

  “What are you looking at?”

  It was the voice of Mrs. Wellington Phipps, the darkhaired mother of Haseltine’s beautiful blonde Loretta. I turned. She didn’t look like anybody’s mother. She looked like an attractive kid who’d been playing on the beach, with her grubby satin pajamas and short, tousled hair. I was quite sure, now, that I’d never seen any movie in which she’d played. I’d have remembered her.

  It occurred to me that I’d arranged things very badly. If I’d been truly smart, I’d have worked out a plan that would let me be marooned on a desert island with Mrs. Phipps, instead of giving the experience to Harriet, who probably hadn’t appreciated it. Of course, I hadn’t known this particular lady would be present, but never mind that.

  Aside from the fact that she had a husband, assuming that he was still alive, there was only one thing about her that bothered me slightly: a funny little constraint she’d shown upon greeting Haseltine, that had been returned in kind. Well, prospective sons-in-law often had mixed feelings about prospective mothers-in-law, and vice versa.

  I said, speaking loudly, as she had, to make my voice carry over the thunder of the diesels: “I wanted to see if they’d shoot him there or wait until they got him offshore where they could dispose of him directly without witnesses.”

  Her eyes widened. “Shoot him? Are you joking?”

  I shook my head. “That’s a dead man, Mrs. Phipps. He may have, a couple of hours to live if they decide to wait until dark, but no more.”

  “But if he was valuable enough that they agreed to this exchange to get him back—”

  I said, “They wanted him back so they could shoot him, that’s all. For one thing, in our hands, alive, he might eventually have been persuaded to talk about things he shouldn’t. For another, there’s a disciplinary problem involved. But actually, they didn’t want him back very badly. He’s really just a piece in a very complicated chess game, Mrs. Phipps. We all are.”

  “But you turned him over to them, knowing he’d be killed?”

  I was disappointed in her. It was the same old illogi
cal, automatic-humanitarian reflex. You must never allow anybody to die, even though keeping that one individual alive may cost a dozen other lives.

  I said, “I had a choice. A bunch of innocent people somewhere along the coast of Cuba, or one professional killer with very recent blood on his hands. If you think I chose wrong, let me know. I can have them turn this boat around and maybe intercept that dinghy before it gets back to the mother ship. Say the word, Mrs. Phipps.” There was a little silence. When she didn’t speak, I said, “Excuse me, I’d better get these glasses up to our navigator before he runs us aground without them…”

  When I climbed back down the mahogany ladder to the cockpit, she’d gone inside the cabin. I slid back the door to join her, and stopped inside, and whistled softly.

  “Exactly,” said Amanda, Phipps. “A forty-knot love-nest complete with bed and bar. Help yourself to a drink. I guess it’s on the house, and I do mean house. Did you ever see such a floating bordello?”

  The cabin was done in red leather and gold, with carpet to the ankles. I waded through the deep nylon to the red-leather-covered bar, wet down some ice with whiskey since that was what was handy, and joined the lady on the curving leather settee that half-surrounded a low cocktail table—black marble, no less. On the credit side, I had to admit that the sound insulation was good. In here the big motors made only a distant rumble and vibration. We could talk without raising our voices.

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “What I said out there was stupid. Forgive me.”

  “It takes a little getting used to,” I said. “It’s a different world, with a different set of values. Pretty soon, we hope, we’ll have you back in your own tidy universe where each and every human life is priceless.” I drank from my glass and changed the subject: “Actually, this glamor-barge won’t do forty knots with a full load of fuel. Bill is very disappointed. He’s going to sue the guy from whom he chartered her. Thirty-six was the best he could get, bringing her down from Key Largo.”