He was alone in the room with Deirdre.
He felt the awkward lack of words to say what was needed. Words were inadequate. Then he saw the way her face changed, tightening and closing against him.
“You still don’t believe in me, do you?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know what to believe. I love you. But now I’m mixed up about everything. I always thought of you as something to be depended on. For eternity. So strong, so straight. Now I don’t know what to think.”
“Why help me, then?”
“I don’t know." She shrugged. “Perhaps because Sidonie is willing to believe in you and risk everything. Perhaps she makes me feel guilty and ashamed of not helping, too. I still think you have no right to fight this the way you're doing. I still think you should give yourself up and trust to justice to give you a fair deal.”
“To the loyalty board?”
“I don’t know anything about it. To McFee.”
“McFee has to knuckle under to them. To the Q people. You’ve heard of Quenton?”
She nodded. “Is Quenton that bad?”
“Worse than bad. It may be the worst treason that can be committed. Treason in the name of loyalty and patriotism. I can’t stomach it. I have to fight it. I think it may be more important than my own small, personal problem.”
She turned away. “I bought the car secondhand. It’s a green Chevrolet coupe, registered in my name. The title registration is in the glove compartment.” At the kitchen door she faced him. “Will you take me with you. Sam?”
“Why should you want to go?”
“I just want to be with you. We were together once before, when my brother stood where you’re standing now. You helped me then. Let me help you now.”
“You don‘t owe me anything,” he said. “Don’t do it out of any sense of obligation.”
He saw the hurt in her and he wanted to cry out that nothing he said now was to be accepted as the whole truth; he wanted to explain how he had to push her aside, to save her from whatever catastrophe came his way. He saw no other choice. If he told her the truth, she would insist on joining him. And he could not risk that.
Her mouth trembled. “All right, Sam. You’re alone. That’s the way you want to be, isn‘t it? Good luck.”
The misunderstanding lay like a vast, dark ache between them as be went out.
chapter NINE
HE TOOK TIME to call Art Greenwald’s home from a drugstore in a small wayside town deep in the tidewater country. The Greenwalds lived in a crowded apartment just outside Washington. Rosalie was a dark-haired, buxom girl with born vivacity, and her mother lived with them, a quiet woman of Orthodox piety. On the occasions when Durell had spent an evening there, they had casually drawn him into the warm, close circle of their intense family relationships.
Rosalie answered the phone.
“Rose, are you alone?” he asked.
“Who is this?” There was sudden strain in her soft, pleasant voice. “Who is talking?”
“Sam. Do you have company?”
“Oh, you son-of-a-bitch,” she said quietly.
“I just want to know how Art is doing.”
“After you shot him?”
“Rosalie, I couldn’t help it. I had to.”
Shocking hatred shook her voice, which he remembered as warm and laughing and companionable. “You have your nerve, to call here after what you did! And what you’re doing. It’s not just shooting Art. It’s everything else, you bastard. Art loved you. He thought you were great. You know what he did this afternoon when they brought him home? He cried. I never saw him cry before, not even when Sissie was sick and almost died. He cried for you, you rotten—”
She broke off and he heard the silence and felt the hating.
Voices argued dimly in the receiver.
He felt uneasy.
Then Art was on the line. “Sam? Thanks for placing the slug in my shoulder. No bone hit.”
“I'm sorry about it, Art.”
“Don’t mind Rosalie. She’s upset, you understand. I wouldn’t stay in the hospital. But, you Cajun maniac, I know you could have put that slug between my eyes. I know how you can score.”
“Art, is your wife calling on another phone to trace me?”
“Sam, tell me something."
“Is she?”
“Listen, Sam, I don’t care what they say about you—”
“Thanks.”
He hung up and left the booth and the town fast. But no matter how fast he drove, he could not run away from the echoes of hatred and contempt in Rosalie’s voice, riding with him.
It was twenty minutes to ten when he reached Locust Grove. Bailey’s Drugstore Was not difficult to find. Aside from the marquee of the movie house, its sign was the only light still shining on the dusty main street. He drove past it. Cars were parked in diagonal slots up and down in front of the movie house. They looked empty. One of them could shelter men waiting in ambush, crouching on the floor. He found a parking slot at the end of the line and got out carefully and walked with even more care up the empty sidewalk. His heels made hollow sounds on the brick pavement. There were no police. The cashier’s booth under the marquee was empty. Moths fluttered in bright silence against the street lamps and the druggist’s window. Durell walked by. At a glance, the place looked empty. There was nothing unusual about it. A soda fountain, prescription counter, cosmetics, magazines, garden tools. Crickets shrilled in the field behind the shop. He turned and went in.
No Corinne.
He ordered a Coke from the sleepy-eyed boy behind the fountain, and while he drank it he saw his face jump at him from the rack of newspapers nearby. He did not bother to buy any of the papers. He looked at the soda clerk. The boy chewed gum, slowly and methodically, popping it with quiet regularity.
Ten o’clock.
Nothing and nobody.
Then the telephone in the rear booth began to ring.
Pop! The boy chewed his gum, watching him. Pop! Pop!
The phone rang with shrill persistence, muffled inside the booth. The clerk leaned both hands on the soda. counter.
“Ain’t you gonna answer it, mister?”
“What makes you think it’s for me?”
“The dame said you‘d be here for a call at ten o'clock. She’s right on the button.” Pop. “Wish Sarah-Ellen was on time like that.”
Durell looked at the boy and read nothing to alarm him in the freckled, sleepy face. He slid off the stool and went to the booth, looked back at the drugstore door, saw nobody there, and picked the receiver off" the hook.
“Yes?” he said.
She was breathless. “Sam? Is that you?”
“Yes, Corinne.”
“Thank God Sidonie decided to give you the message. Are you all right?”
“That depends. No, I’m not all right."
“I mean—are you alone? Free?"
“Alone. Not free.”
“Oh, please. Darling, I want to help you."
“You’ve done plenty to me, Corinne. I thought you’d be the last to want to help.”
“Don’t be suspicious. Please. I couldn’t stand that, after taking this chance. It’s in all the newspapers about you, Sam. It’s awful. I don’t understand why you did it, but I don’t care. I just don’t care.” Her voice went on and he looked through the booth doors at the clerk who chewed gum and at the dark street beyond the door. The booth smelled of stale tobacco and dead perfume. He sweated. Corinne’s voice trailed off". “Are you listening?”
“Where can I see you?”
“That’s just it. They’re not quite sure of you. They made me set this up, Sam, and they don’t know I’m calling. Keep watch for them. If they come in, hang up quick.”
“Who?”
“Amos Hackett is coming to the drugstore for you,” Corinne Said.
He felt cold. “Hackett?”
“He‘s with the same people I work for. He’ll take you to where it’s safe. I know it sounds crazy to you,
and Hackett didn’t want to, but when he heard that you really shot Art Greenwald, one of your best friends, he became convinced. He said you were tough and tricky, Sam, and he still doesn’t trust you.”
“It sounds as if I’ve joined a club,” he said flatly.
“Yes. Yes, Sam.”
“The same you belong to?”
She paused. Her voice faded. “Yes.”
He watched the door. Moths flickered and danced around the lights. A car went by, dim and silent on the village street.
“Corinne?”
“Go with Hackett when he comes for you,” she said quickly. “Don’t argue with him. You will be safe.”
“Safe—with Hackett?”
“I promise you. Yes. But don’t talk to him, don’t say anything to him or anyone else, until I see you first. That’s why I’m taking this chance--calling you, I mean. Meet me on the beach.”
“What beach?”
“There’s a beach here. There’s to be a swimming party tonight. To the right of the house—south of it, I think—there’s a big sea wall. I’ll be waiting for you there. Don’t discuss anything with them until we’ve talked. It’s important, darling. To both of us. Get on the beach somehow, as soon as you can.” She gave a nervous, shocking giggle. “It’s some party. Like nothing you ever saw before. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Corinne, where are you?”
“Hackett will bring you here. Remember. The sea wall.”
“Corinne, do you have that file?”
“No, I don’t,” she said calmly.
She hung up.
He stared at the dead phone, replaced the receiver with meticulous care, opened the booth door, and looked at the entrance to the drugstore.
Hackett had come for him.
The thin man stood in part shadow, and there was a difference in him, perhaps in the assurance he carried in him, or in the quietly expensive clothes he wore. Durell was not certain. There was the same dark lock of hair over the flat forehead, the long nose, the conspiratorial flash of clever eyes in that thin face. There was arrogance in him and intelligence, mingled with arrant brutality that Durell already knew.
The wide, narrow mouth smiled.
“Take it easy,” Hackett said quietly.
They looked at each other across the width of the store like two jungle animals.
“Come with me,” Hackett said. “Easy does it.”
Pop.
They both glanced at the soda clerk. The boy shrugged and picked up a comic book and sat down, paying no more attention to them. Durell walked from the booth to the doorway. Hackett’s hands were in plain sight.
“Did the girl call you?” Hackett asked.
“Yes.” '
“Then you understand.”
“Not entirely.”
“It will be explained. Let’s go to my car.”
Durell went out on the sidewalk with him. The main street of Locust Grove was still empty, but the lights on the movie marquee had been put out, and the cashier’s booth was curtained and dark. From far away came the rumble of a Diesel truck on the main highway.
“After you,” Durell said.
The car was a small red Austin-Healey with monogrammed initials on the door and an insigne that looked like a silver cattle brand, but Durell could not be sure. Hackett got behind the wheel; Durell slid to the black leather seat beside him. His nerves tightened, plucked at his bones. Hackett smelled of rum and shaving lotion.
“You understand,” the man said, “I had to rough you up when Jonesy was there. It was front. I don’t apologize for it.”
“You enjoyed it,” Durell said.
Hackett nodded. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. But I follow orders. They told me to bring you in, so we’ll go.”
“They?”
“You’ll see.”
“Suppose the cops stop us on the way?”
“It’s a good chance. Then you’re under arrest, in my custody. The thing blows up. I may have to shoot you, but I’d have to slit my throat doing it, too. They won’t stop us, though.”
“You’re sure of yourself.”
“We have influence.”
“Where are we going?”
“Cramden Beach.”
“And what’s there for me?”
“Safety. No cops. If you play ball. Personally, I hope you get hot and stubborn. I’d like to handle you."
“Why should you want anything with me? You’ve got the file. You took it from me long before you came back with Jones.”
“No.”
“Don’t play games, Hackett.”
“No. There‘s no point in our talking. You willing to go?”
“Sure,” Durell said.
There was satisfaction in him, a knowledge that he had set his feet on the right path. Where it would eventually lead was of no concern just now. Some of his depression and defeat lifted from him. He had made contact. For good or evil, thanks to the bullet he had slammed into Art Greenwald‘s shoulder, he had succeeded in convincing those needing to be convinced that he was a man without a country, a fugitive from the police arm of the government. What loomed ahead seemed infinitely bigger than anything he or McFee had anticipated at the start. It would not be easy. Death lay ahead if he took a wrong step, if his tongue slipped. But he had been down this road before. And others had gone before him, in other times. Not all had returned. Maybe he, too, would not return. He told himself not to be surprised by Hackett’s new role as part of a subversive group. He was trained not to prejudge or anticipate too much toward a conclusion. Something big Was going to happen. He could feel it.
Let it come, he thought.
He shifted slightly on the leather seat, so the gun in his pocket was more readily available.
chapter TEN
THEY DROVE in silence for most of an hour before the car rumbled over a wooden bridge that spanned a saltwater creek. In a few moments they came to another bridge. Lighted windows glimmered to the south, along the narrow sand road that led the length of the island. It was cooler here, and the air was brisk with the smell of the sea. Hackett turned right and he caught the white glimmer of long, plumed combers rolling up out of the black Atlantic. The crash and boom of the surf entered the car with the pungency of the salt sea wind. Hackett slowed. They passed several wooden beach cottages, all dark, shuttered. It was ten minutes The shapes of two men loomed suddenly in the Austin-Healey’s headlight. and Hackett stopped. The two men approached the car. They wore dark, sober clothes and their faces were polite, curious, and guarded.
“That you, Amos?”
“It’s all right, Torn,” Hackett said through the window.
“No trouble, hey?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Hackett said. “Lift the gate. The mainland cops haven’t been around?”
The man, obviously a guard, laughed softly. He never looked at Durell. “I see you got the package. All we got are the guests. It’s another wing-ding down the beach. All that skin. I wish I had the binoculars.”
“Try it and you’ll get reamed.”
“Well, I Wish I was horned rich instead of handsome."
“Lift the gate,” Hackett said.
His voice had softened, but there was a cold quality of authority and command. The guard looked surprised and then uncomfortable.
“Sure thing, Amos. I was only kidding.”
“Mr. Hackett,” Hackett said.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hackett.”
“How many men are posted?”
“Seven. Beach to beach.”
“All right. Don’t bother scratching sand fleas. Keep your eyes open. No unauthorized people tonight, hear?”
“Yes, sir. Don’t get sore, Mr. Hackett."
The gate was opened and the Austin-Healey drove on through. The road immediately grew wider and less bumpy. Durell lit a cigarette. “You’re well organized. Private cops?”
“Official police of the town of Cramden Beach. I happen to be the chief.”
/> “What’s the population?”
“About ten,” Hackett said, grinning.
“Lots of cops.”
“Money will buy anything,” Hackett said. “The souls of men; anything. It will buy you, too.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Durell said, “if there were enough of it.”
“There’s enough, provided you’ve got what we want.”
“The file?”
“Nothing else.”
“But you’ve got that,” Durell said.
“You stupid Cajun. Do you think you‘d be here if we had it?”
“Maybe you’re keeping it for yourself, for a private deal.”
Hackett’s lean head turned sharply. His face was angular and bony in the shadows. His white eyes gleamed, his teeth shone. “More of that talk, and you’ll look down and find yourself dead.”
“Hit home?”
“Swung and missed.”
“You say.”
The car slowed perceptibly. “Can we make a deal?” Hackett asked quietly.
“Cold cash?”
Hesitation. “Yes.”
“For the file?"
“Yes.”
“I don’t have it,” Durell said, and laughed.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Hackett whispered softly.
The car lurched ahead again.
A picnic fire gleamed far ahead on the barren dunes. The change from Washington’s humidity made Durell feel better. His thoughts ranged ahead clearly and quickly. They passed a large house with a single lighted window, shielded from the primitive road by twisted shrubbery and a palisade fence. Then the roof of a yet larger house lifted black against the silvered ocean, and their headlights flickered on another barrier and more guards. They were passed through a tall gateway and Hackett parked at the end of a long line of cars in the shell drive.
Hackett got out of the Austin-Healey. “Keep your nose clean. Don‘t twist your neck too much. You‘re only on probation. Use your mouth loosely, and we blow the whistle on you. McFee would like to take you apart piece by piece.”
Durell stared at the house. It was enormous, a pattern of stone and glass and light that looked as if it had been fashioned out of the sea and land together. Long and low, it held a resemblance to a Western ranch house of the more sumptuous order, and at first he was struck by the incongruity of its presence on a Wild Virginia beach. Then he saw how the architect had radically fashioned the huge structure out of native elements so that the house seemed to be a part of the beach and a part of the sea, with long wings reaching toward the surf, a higher central body with clerestory windows lifting from the dunes toward the rear. As he walked with Hackett to a side entrance, through clipped lawns and trim shrubbery, he glimpsed a patio and a tall woven fence that cut off his view of the beach itself. To his right was a sea wall that made a long black line of shadow against the brighter shine of the surf. He glanced at the sea wall again and did not see Corinne and glanced away.
Assignment - Treason Page 8
