The Devastators

by Donald Hamilton

  The doorman was offering me the empty cab. Even if I hadn’t been expecting more luxurious transportation, I wouldn’t have got into that particular taxi. It had pulled up just a little too coincidentally, and I knew a little too much about the woman who’d just got out of it, and maybe I wasn’t supposed to recognize her with brown hair and a padded girdle. She’d been blonde when I’d last seen her, and her figure had been considerably less generous, although she’d never been exactly what you’d call a skinny girl.

  A silvery Rolls-Royce glided to the curb in front of me as the taxi pulled away. I’d guessed right about the driver. The face under the chauffeur’s cap was lean and sported a small reddish moustache. We drew away from the hotel in dignified silence. With its rich leather upholstery and velvety ride, it was an impressive vehicle, although you might have found it a little cramped if you’d been brought up on Cadillacs: the Rolls isn’t really a big car.

  I said, “That cap looks real good on you, amigo.”

  Sir Leslie Crowe-Barham said without turning his head, “You recognized the lady, of course.”

  “Probably better than you,” I said. “Vadya and I had a lot of fun together down in Arizona and Mexico not so long ago. She’s quite a girl. I’d rather have a cobra loose around the place.” I grimaced. “Particularly when I’m on my honeymoon.”

  “Quite. If you’ve got a four-o’clock appointment, we’d better hurry, old chap. Where can I take you?”

  “Wilmot Square,” I said. “124 Wilmot Square.”

  Of course he knew damn well where I was going, having undoubtedly listened in on my phone call to Walling, but he wasn’t admitting to any such ungentlemanly shenanigans, any more than I was admitting to being anything but the doting husband of a sweet young bride.

  5

  Simpson and Walling’s offices were in an old stone building without an elevator. A dusty sign informed me that I wanted the fourth floor, and I started up the dark stairs. Nobody jumped at me from the shadows with knife, blackjack, or garotte; nobody shot at me with pistol, crossbow, or blowgun; but it was the kind of place where exotic possibilities came to mind. I couldn’t help remembering Mac’s words: You are the stalking-horse. I was here to attract attention. It didn’t have to take the form of seductive ladies in mink or more or less friendly agents in silvery Rolls-Royce cars. It could come as just a plain old bullet in the back.

  I stopped in front of the door with the correct legend—simpson and walling, genealogists—and paused to catch my breath. There was a button made for pushing, and I pushed it. Footsteps approached the door, which opened cautiously to reveal a thin, sandy, tweedy man with a thin, sandy moustache and pale, nervous eyes of an indeterminate slaty color.

  “Mr. Walling?” I said. “I’m Matthew Helm. I called you earlier.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes. Do come in, Mr. Helm.”

  I stepped into a large, untidy room littered with books. There were books on the big table, books on the desk in the corner, and books on the floor, as well as on the shelves along the wall. Mostly they were impressive tomes, hefty enough so that it would take a strong and determined man to think of curling up with one for an evening’s quiet reading.

  “You must excuse the appearance of the place, sir,” Walling said. “Since the accident to my associate, I have been, you know, rather swamped with work. In here, if you please.”

  He opened the door to an inner office, showed me a wooden armchair, and went behind the desk and sat down. This room was small, and seemed crowded by the few pieces of oak furniture and the two glass-fronted shelves holding more books. The window behind Walling gave me a view of roofs and chimney-pots, wet with rain. I wasn’t thinking about the weather, however. I was experiencing the professional annoyance that comes with learning that your briefing has been incomplete in one area and may therefore be in others. Well, that’s what happens when you come late on a job and have to depend on other organizations for your information.

  “Your partner had an accident?” I said. “I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Walling. I hope it wasn’t serious.”

  Walling gave me a suspicious look, as if he thought I was indulging in irony at his expense, or the missing Simpson’s.

  “He was killed, Mr. Helm. He was run over by a lorry and killed. Five days ago. I… I am very much upset by his death, as you can imagine. Very much upset. And now the office girl has been taken ill…” He clasped his hands together to keep them from wandering around nervously, as they seemed to have a tendency to do. “But I am boring you with my troubles, sir. You are from America, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you have reason to believe you have illustrious connections in Scotland? You would like us to trace them for you?” Suddenly his tone was sharp, almost sarcastic.

  I said, “That’s right, Mr. Walling.”

  He said in the same sharp, scornful voice: “I presume you want a handsome family tree to hang on the wall, complete with coat of arms, showing your relationship to the present Duke of Glenmore. You did say Glenmore over the telephone, did you not?”

  He was making it fairly clear that he thought I was a phony, in one way or another. A little salesmanship was in order, and I said smoothly, “Yes, but I don’t give a damn about the present duke, Mr. Walling. I didn’t even know there was one. As I told you on the phone, it’s an earl we seem to be connected with, a long time back. Robert Glenmore, Earl of Dalbright, if that’s the proper way to say it. He had two sons, Robert and Edward, in that order. Robert stayed in Scotland as far as I know. Being the oldest, I guess he had something to inherit if he stayed. Edward went to Sweden by way of Germany some time around 1631. He married over there and had kids, who married and had kids, and so forth, until my mother came along. She married, went to the U.S. and had me. I’ve got all that.” I took a long envelope from my inside jacket pocket and laid it on the desk between us. “That’s all in here: photostats of the family Bible and other stuff. It’s what happened before Robert and Edward and their noble papa that I’d kind of like to find out about.”

  “Yes, of course.” Walling’s voice was a little warmer than it had been, but his look was still cold and suspicious. “May I see?”

  “That’s what I brought it for.”

  He took out the papers and examined them carefully. I had a sudden, funny impulse to snatch them out of his hand and say to hell with the whole business. I mean, I don’t particularly hold with ancestor-worship, but this stuff had meant something to my mother, and I was using it to play dirty games with. I could have had the research department cook me up a set of documents under the name of Ross or Sinclair or McTavish that would have served just as well. Maybe.

  Walling said abruptly, “Excuse me just a moment.”

  He rose and went into the outer room. I heard him opening and closing books out there. I reached for the newspaper I saw on the desk, perhaps just to kill time, perhaps because I saw that it was folded to an inside page on which an item had been encircled—and a name underlined—with red crayon. I wasn’t there to make like a detective, of course, but the habit dies hard. It was a short piece from Scotland. The heading read:

  MAN FOUND DEAD IN ULLAPOOL MYSTERY

  The name that had been underlined was that of my predecessor, Buchanan, described as an American tourist. Apparently the British authorities had let the story out at last. It told me nothing I hadn’t known before reading it, except that the body had been found by a London doctor on a walking tour. The death was attributed to natural causes but the authorities were puzzled to account for a sick man’s getting himself so far out on a lonely moor. The nature of the disease was not mentioned.

  I heard Walling returning, and tossed the paper casually back on the desk, letting him see me do it and think whatever he liked. He glanced from me to the paper and back again as he sat down, but he did not comment.

  Instead he said, “My apologies, Mr. Helm.”

  “For what?”

  He regarded me steadi
ly across the desk. I hadn’t been impressed with him at first glance, but he was growing on me: he wasn’t a fool. The nervous mannerisms that had thrown me off were due, I decided, quite simply to his being scared, and that was understandable. His partner had died. A recent client had died. His secretary had come down sick. Death and disease were striking all around him. In his place I’d have been scared, too.

  He said deliberately, “People sometimes come in here and try to pull our legs, Mr. Helm.” His voice was expressionless, but he left a little pause in case I wanted to squirm or look away guiltily. I didn’t. He went on: “For one reason or another they would like us to supply them with authenticated sets of aristocratic ancestors. Sometimes they try to mislead us with false information. Sometimes they just offer us a handsome fee—perhaps I should say bribe—to ‘discover’ that blue blood flows in their veins. And of course there are so-called genealogists who accept such commissions.” He laughed shortly. “If you had said your mother’s name was Lewis and you wanted to trace the honest Welsh coal miners from whom she was descended, I would have received you more cordially, but in this line of work, Mr. Helm, one develops an instinctive mistrust of anyone—particularly, if you’ll pardon my saying so, anyone from overseas—who claims to be related to a family of importance. Why, just recently we received by post a rather munificent check from an American named McRow, who wished us to prove that he was descended from the chiefs of the ancient clan McRue.” He was watching me as he said it.

  “McRue,” I said. “That’s a new one on me. I’ve heard of the Scottish McRaes and the Irish McGrews, but never McRue.”

  “It’s an older form of the same name. That branch of the family was wiped out in a feud over two hundred years ago—unless this American McRow actually is a direct descendant, as he claims.”

  “You couldn’t confirm it?”

  “My associate was working on it when he died. I haven’t had an opportunity to study his results. As I say, I have been very busy.” Walling shrugged, still watching me carefully. “And then there was another American who called himself Buchanan. I handled that myself. I’m afraid I was not very polite. He was so obviously an impostor.”

  I said, “Is that the man in the piece you’ve got marked in the paper I was just looking at? You mentioned him on the phone.”

  “Yes, the fellow seems to have contracted some kind of fatal illness up north. Naturally, I was interested, since I talked with him in this office not very long ago.”

  “And you think he was a phony?”

  Walling moved his shoulders minutely. “One should speak no ill of the dead, of course, but I rather doubt the chap’s name was even Buchanan. At the time, as I said, I was rather annoyed. His clumsy approach was an insult to the profession. I do not say we cannot be misled, but we like to have it done with a certain amount of finesse.”

  It was time for a show of indignation, and I said, “Look here, if you’re hinting that I’m a fake, too—”

  “No. That is why I apologized, Mr. Helm. All your family information—in sharp contrast to Mr. Buchanan’s—seems to be absolutely correct. Of course, without seeing your birth certificate and other evidence, I cannot be sure that the family you claim is actually yours, can I? But at least you have presented me with genuine data bearing on a genuine problem in my field, and I appreciate the courtesy.”

  I reflected that it was just as well, after all, that I had not tried to deceive this sharpie with forged documents. I said hopefully, “Then you’ll take the job?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Let me explain, sir.” His hands got hold of each other again, as if to make sure they wouldn’t escape. “Your information is correct and fairly complete. It traces your maternal line back to the early seventeenth century. In other words, you already know what people usually employ a genealogist to find out. You are asking me to start where I would usually finish, and I cannot do it. What you want done is either too hard or much too easy.”

  “Just what does that mean?”

  He looked up from his interlocked fingers and spoke as if he were lecturing a class of backward students: “The official registration of births, deaths, and marriages did not begin in Scotland until 1855, two hundred-odd years later than the period in which you are interested. Earlier, we must depend on the parish records and other documents that may have survived. I have just checked the status of the parish records of Dalbright. They are at present in the Register House in Edinburgh, and unlike some they are fairly complete, but they go back only to 1738. Beyond that—” He shrugged. “It is anybody’s guess what diligent research could turn up. My own feeling is that it would be a waste of your time and money, sir. I doubt that you are interested in research for its own sake, and with respect to the more prominent families of Scotland, the basic work has already been done and is readily available to anyone who can read.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Sir J.B. Paul’s Scots Peerage gives the Glenmore history as far back as a certain Norman gentleman, Hugh Fitzwilliam de Clenemar, who was awarded lands in Scotland in 1278. You look surprised, Mr. Helm. You did not know that many of the old Scots names are of Norman origin? It is true. Sinclair, for instance, was originally St. Clair. And Robert the Bruce was descended from a Robert de Brus. Similarly, de Clenemar became Glenmore.” Walling grimaced at his clasped hands. “I could, of course, have taken your money and copied the information out of the book and presented it to you, with a flourish, as the result of weeks of laborious research. Instead, I just give you the reference. The Scots Peerage, Volume III. You can find a set in any large library. I would lend you our copy, but we do not like to let our books leave the premises, and I am about to close up and go home for the day.” He unwound his hands and placed them flat on the desk, preparing to rise. “I hope that is satisfactory, Mr. Helm.”

  “Why, sure,” I said. “I mean, I appreciate your help, Mr. Walling, and I’ll go after that book. You’re sure I can’t… I mean I’d like to pay you for your trouble.”

  He shoved himself to his feet as if he had to lift a lot more weight than he actually possessed. “It was no trouble, no trouble at all. Incidentally, you will be interested to learn that one of your collateral ancestors, a later Hugh Glenmore, acted as a spy for the Stuarts—that romantic Prince Charlie of whom you may have heard. He was caught and beheaded for his pains. Well, the work of a secret agent has always been a dirty and dangerous business, hasn’t it, Mr. Helm?”

  “So they tell me,” I said, rising to face him.

  We stood like that for a moment. I reached out and retrieved my papers and put them away while he watched. His expression wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly, either. He was making some allowances for me. He was giving me the benefit of the doubt, Glenmorewise. The family information I’d shown him had been accurate. He’d liked that. He was willing to assume it really applied to me. However, as far as my business here was concerned, he wasn’t fooled for a minute. He knew that, whoever my ancestors might have been, I was no casual tourist.

  He drew a long breath. “If you’ll wait just a moment, Mr. Helm, I’ll walk down with you.”

  “Sure.”

  I stood in the outer office while he got his hat and coat. He ushered me out to the stair landing and paused briefly to lock the door behind us. As we descended the stairs, a small, slant-eyed, furtive-looking man in a pulleddown cap and buttoned-up trench coat emerged from a third-floor doorway marked oriental exports ltd. He glanced our way, and scuttled downstairs ahead of us.

  It was very neatly done. I mean, they had me sandwiched between them. Suddenly the sinister little man ahead swung around in a threatening manner. While I had my eyes on the big, bright knife that had appeared in his hand, Walling blackjacked me from behind.

  6

  At least that was the way it was supposed to work. As I say, it was very neat—a little too neat. I’ve been in the business a reasonable length of time, and when somebody flaunts
a junior-grade Fu Manchu under my nose, complete with slant eyes, furtive manner, and gleaming knife, I can’t help wondering just what’s supposed to hit me from elsewhere while I’m watching the Oriental menace going through the motions.

  After all, I’m six feet four inches tall, and for a guy a foot shorter, four or five steps below me on a steep stairway, to do me any immediate damage, he’s going to need a pogo stick—or lots of help. There had to be another element involved to make this a reasonable trap, and since there were only three of us present, that element had to be the gent above and behind me, however unlikely a candidate he might appear to be.

  As the man below me turned, I brought my hand out of my pants pocket, flipped open my own little folding knife—which I keep in my hand whenever the situation looks doubtful—and pivoted sharply, ducking low and driving the blade up and back. If I was wrong, I was going to have some awkward explanations to make, but that decision is one I made long ago. The only death I’m not prepared to explain is my own.

  I wasn’t wrong. The whistling sap—I guess they call it a cosh in England—told me as much, as it missed my skull by an inch or so and glanced off my raised shoulder instead. Then my knife connected, but my luck was bad and I hit a belt buckle. I was once told that all British gentlemen wear suspenders—excuse me, braces—but apparently Mr. Walling was no gentleman. Well, I’d already begun to suspect that.

  Because of the belt, I got no penetration, but the force of my lunge was enough to make him sit down hard, temporarily breathless. The sap got away from him and thumped a couple of times, rolling downstairs. At least for the moment he was out of weapons and out of wind.