The Damagers
Page 28
I said, “You’re a good man, Fancher. Too good for me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am, aren’t I? Maybe… maybe sometimes I wish I weren’t, but…”
She gave an ugly little shrug, and fled. That afternoon Mac called me up. He also told me I was going to live.
“Do you remember Elmer Weiss?” he asked.
I had to think for a minute, lying there in the hospital bed. “One of the DAMAG specialists. Called Snipey. A long-range boy likes a .25-06, I suppose because he’s kind of small and can’t stand the kick of the seven emm-emms or the big thirties. Of course, a .25-caliber bullet will take a deer or a human being very adequately at quite long ranges. As Snipey Weiss has proved more than once.”
“Yes, it was the gun that led the Washington authorities to him. He was having a special one made up, heavy barrel, laminated stock, four- to twelve-power telescope. We’d alerted them to the possibility that he might be involved—we’d also suggested a check on the lady poisoner, Espenshade, and some others on DAMAG’s roster—but they might not have caught up with Weiss except for the fact that he did not have money enough to pay for the rifle when the time came to pick it up, so he tried to take it by force. When he brandished a pistol, the gunsmith shot him dead.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Stealing a gun from one of those boys is like stealing a fresh-caught salmon from a hungry grizzly. I presume the reason Weiss was short of change is that his paymaster is polluting the ocean off the Carolina coast. Is Weiss’s intended target known?”
“To somebody, but not to us.”
I said, “Some things never change.”
“In any case, it would seem that DAMAG is no longer a threat. Get well, Eric.”
A day later, Mrs. Teresa Bell paid me a visit. She was back in her bureaucratic black costume—well, on closer inspection I saw that this expensive suit was actually a dark navy blue with a fine pinstripe, but the snug skirt and close-fitting jacket were familiar, as were the excellent legs in sheer navy stockings. She was wearing funny little spike-heeled boots, probably to conceal the fact that one foot was bandaged. Even so, it was hard for me to remember the bedraggled dame in soggy jeans and jersey who’d stoically endured a toasting session in Lorelei III’s aft cabin. She didn’t move as if she hurt, but then she never had.
She said, “They tell me you’re going to live.”
“A few more reports like that and I’ll begin to believe it.”
“You’ll be happy to know that Norfolk didn’t blow up.”
I said, “Why should I care? I don’t know anybody in Norfolk.”
She laughed. “The tough guy. Shoots a drowning man—well, with a little help—and then weeps for a sinking boat.”
I said, “Who was weeping? That was just my allergy.”
“Allergy?”
“To mouthy dames.” I grinned at her and stopped grinning. “She was a great old boat, and I’d worked hard to help her make a comeback; why shouldn’t I feel bad at seeing her go down?”
“Well, at least it shows you can feel. In this business, a lot of people can’t.” After a moment, she went on. “We found the bomb. As you suggested, it was strapped to one of the pilings at a certain slip in the Tidewater Marina, well below the lowest low-tide level. It was covered with barnacles and just looked like more pilings; but it had been well sealed and there was no corrosion inside all the lead and waterproofing. We got it defused; only a few hours later somebody hit the remote that would have fired it. We had, of course, arranged to trace the signal when it came, and they were considerate enough to try several times, enough that we could triangulate on the transmission. We were led to a large old farmhouse well outside town. Mrs. Dorothy Fancher opened the door. When she saw the officers, and me, she slammed it again before one of the men could get his foot into the crack. It was a heavy door, and we heard some massive bolts being shoved into place. The officers wanted to attack it, but I knew what would happen, and I managed to pull them back before the place blew up and burned. Mrs. Fancher’s society-type dentist identified the body, what was left of it, after the ashes had cooled a bit. He was deeply shocked to find his wealthy lady patient dead under such circumstances.”
I said, “Great, but what the hell was it all about?”
She said, “It turns out that the Bonhomme Richard, you remember, the carrier docked in Norfolk, had been the major carrier supporting Operation Desert Storm in the Persian Gulf. She is being mothballed. The U.S. Army apparently decided—or its public relations department did—to donate a plaque at the decommissioning ceremony to demonstrate its gratitude to the old ship and the U.S. Navy—with General Norman Schwarzkopf doing the honors.”
After a moment, I said, “Well, I’m not really sold on any character in uniform; but I’m glad Stormin’ Norman didn’t get radiated. Irradiated? What’s your situation in Washington now?”
She said, “Oh, great. They love me like a sister.”
“Never had one, but most sisters I’ve met tell me their brothers give them hell.”
She smiled thinly. “That’s exactly what I mean. But don’t worry about me. I’ll make it.” She looked at the flowers, still fresh and pretty on the dresser. “From the little girl?”
“A duty call. She’s a conscientious kid, but she won’t be back.”
Mrs. Teresa Bell spoke deliberately. “Well, would you like for me to come again? I’m not much on flowers, but I could bring a box of candy.”
I looked at her, and remembered that I’d thought her fairly unattractive when I first met her. Now I saw a handsome, well-built, well-dressed lady whom I knew to be very bright and extremely brave. So she was no chicken; who was?
I said, “Before I answer that, may I ask what’s with Mr. Bell?”
“He died in a car accident several years ago.”
I said, “Then I’d very much like to see you again, Teresa. And you don’t have to bother with the candy.”
She looked at me without expression. “Oh, eating it will give us something to do—until you’re feeling better.”
It did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Donald Hamilton was the creator of secret agent Matt Helm, star of 27 novels that have sold more than 20 million copies worldwide.
Born in Sweden, he emigrated to the United States and studied at the University of Chicago. During the Second World War he served in the United States Naval Reserve, and in 1941 he married Kathleen Stick, with whom he had four children.
The first Matt Helm book, Death of a Citizen, was published in 1960 to great acclaim, and four of the subsequent novels were made into motion pictures. Hamilton was also the author of several outstanding standalone thrillers and westerns, including two novels adapted for the big screen as The Big Country and The Violent Men.
Donald Hamilton died in 2006.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
The Matt Helm Series
BY DONALD HAMILTON
The long-awaited return of the United States’ toughest special agent.
Death of a Citizen
The Wrecking Crew
The Removers
The Silencers
Murderers’ Row
The Ambushers
The Shadowers
The Ravagers
The Devastators
The Betrayers
The Menacers
The Interlopers
The Poisoners
The Intriguers
The Intimidators
The Terminators
The Retaliators
The Terrorizers
The Revengers
The Infiltrators
The Detonators
The Vanishers
The Demolishers
The Frighteners
The Threateners
“Donald Hamilton has brought to the spy novel the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett; and his stories are as compelling, and probably as close to the sordid truth of espionage, as any now being told.”
> Anthony Boucher, The New York Times
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