The Removers mh-3

by Donald Hamilton

  The dog was following effortlessly at her side, and in motion it was a different animal from the canine clown we'd seen at the ranch. It didn't move like any dog I'd ever seen, but more like a thoroughbred horse. Overbred and shy and temperamental it might be, and probably stupid as well, but it was a hell of a beautiful thing, in motion.

  Neither of them looked around as I drove up. The dog did start to lunge aside, frightened, but she spoke to it sharply and it settled back into place beside her. They both kept walking stubbornly down the endless mountain road, heads up, faces forward.

  I leaned out of the cab window. "The dog can probably make it," I said, "but I have my doubts about you, in those shoes."

  She walked a little farther. Abruptly she stopped and wheeled to face me. There were little shiny tear-tracks down her cheeks, I was startled to see. I hadn't judged her to be a crying girl. She didn't speak at once. She seemed to be sizing me up. I got a leisurely look at her for the first time. She had a wide mouth, a kind of pug nose that wasn't unattractive, and disturbing sea-green eyes that didn't belong in that half-pretty, half-cute kid's face. In a Moslem country, robed and veiled, she'd have had grown men doing flips, with those eyes.

  After a moment, she lifted her hands and tucked her hair up quickly all around, and glanced at the dog sitting nicely beside her, watching her.

  "I'd better put him in back," she said.

  "If he makes a mess on my bedding," I said, "you clean it up."

  "He's very good," she said stiffly. Abruptly, she bent down and put her arms around the dog's neck, hiding her face. I heard a sound that might have been a sob. I set the brake and got out and opened up the rear of the truck's canopy, and dropped the tailgate. Presently she led the dog up to me, straight-faced now, and looked inside. "What's in that box?" she asked.

  "A few groceries."

  "You'd better take the bread and bacon up front," she said. "That's asking a little too much of him."

  "Sure," I said.

  It took the two of us to load him aboard. He panicked again, and we had to pick him up bodily and stuff him inside, about seventy pounds of him, mostly legs. I made sure the side windows of the canopy were open to give him air. and closed up the rear.

  "That," I said, as we got into the cab, "is quite a dog you've got there." I started the truck.

  She gave me a sideways glance. "If you'd been brought up in kennels for the best part of your life, you'd be a little shy with humans, too. He'd never been inside a house when I got him, or outside a fence. He's really coming along very well." She made a little sniffing sound. "You don't happen to have a tissue around, do you? I seem to be allergic to the dust or something."

  "Yeah," I said, watching the road. "It gets people. Try the glove compartment."

  She blew her nose, and went on talking briskly. "He's really a wonderful dog. Very gentle. Very clean. I hardly had to do a thing to housebreak him. And he hardly ever barks and disturbs people." After a little, she said, "You know, it's sort of a challenge, taking a dog like that, almost a wild thing, and teaching it to… to trust you. I mean, I had a little Shepherd bitch that I was very fond of-I almost died when she was hit by a car-but it wasn't the same thing. She was just born to serve humanity, if you know what I mean. She was positively frantic to learn things so she could do them for you. Sheik, well, he just doesn't give a damn for humanity, or thinks he doesn't. At first, he'd only come to me for food. It was like having a half-tame deer around the place..

  Well, when you get a dog like that to wag his tail for you just once, because he's finally decided it's safe to like you a little, you've accomplished something. Oh, he's still got a long way to go, but we're gaining."

  I didn't say anything. I just drove the truck and let her talk herself out. She took another tissue from the glove compartment and blew her nose again.

  "He was just what I needed," she said. "Kind of therapy, if you know what I mean. You see, I was living in New York and doing a little work at Columbia after getting myself kicked out of-well, never mind that. Anyway, I got mixed up with a man, a married guy, and it wound up in kind of a mess all around, if you know what I mean. And then my other dog got run over, and I was about ready to jump off one of the bridges, it was just a matter of deciding which one, they've got plenty to choose from in that damn town, and then I was just driving around on Long Island and I happened to see this kennel along the road. I went in and told them to trot out the wildest, meanest, most difficult dog they had, one that nobody else wanted. I didn't even know what kind of dogs they raised, or care. They brought out Sheik. He wasn't mean-he's never even thought of touching me with his teeth-but he certainly was spooky and difficult. You should have seen him take off when we first snapped a leash on him. Honest, I thought we'd have to go after him with a helicopter and butterfly net… Your name is Helm, isn't it?" she said abruptly.

  "Yes."

  "You used to be married to Pete's stepmother. He told me."

  "That's right."

  "You lucky man," she said. "You lucky, lucky man." She blew her nose again.

  I said, "If you run out of tissues, there's another box up behind the seat."

  She said, "I'm not really the weepy type, normally. Only… well, Sheik's all right, but his vocabulary's kind of limited, if you know what I mean. It was nice to talk to human beings for a change. I've been away so much I don't have any friends here, except the kind you pick up in bars and play the slot machines with."

  I glanced at her, sitting there. "That's not the only thing they want to play, I'll bet."

  She said, "Are you kidding? None of those creeps dares even look at me hard. They're all so scared of Dad they wouldn't be seen within a block of my place for fear he might misinterpret…" Her voice, which had hardened perceptibly, stopped. She turned to look at me. "My dad is Big Sal Fredericks. The racketeer, I guess you'd call him. But you know all about that, don't you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I saw your face, when you heard my name. It meant something to you, didn't it? What did it mean?"

  I moved my shoulders. "Very little, Miss Fredericks. I'd heard the name before, that's all."

  She laughed shortly. "Don't be so damn cautious, you're not the type… Dad thinks I still believe he's in the hotel business. At least he'd like me to pretend I believe that." She laughed again. "The hotel business! Choice, isn't it? I've known better since I was nine..

  All those damn schools, always at the other end of the country, somewhere, and always they'd find out and start whispering… Pete Logan had it the same, of course, except that it was a little easier for him. His dad wasn't so well known, just Big Sal's bodyguard and right-hand man. And then, suddenly, Duke Logan wasn't there any more, just a tough character with a broken nose; and I wasn't supposed to go out to the Logan ranch, or visit the place in Mexico winters like I used to; and then they made up and I could go there again, but the Duke never came back to work for Dad, and he'd never tell me the reason. And now his wife kicks me off the place, calling down curses on the name of Fredericks. Corny! But if your name happened to be Fredericks, you'd want to know why, wouldn't you?" She drew a long, ragged breath. "I don't mean just words I've heard all my life, like racketeer and gangster. I mean exactly why."

  Chapter Seven

  WE REACHED town well after dark. It's a gaudy place at night, Reno, self-proclaimed the biggest little city in the world, and we drove through it in silence. Following her directions, I turned into a neat residential area where we stopped in front of a little blue California-type house, probably two bedrooms, bath, living-dining room, and a small, shiny efficient kitchen. Hardwood floors and plenty of closet space would be included in the price, but no character or individuality whatever.

  "Just pull up in the drive," she said, and I stopped behind a white sports car parked on the gravel. She seemed to feel that the house required explanation, and said, "It's kind of a big place for just one person, but it wouldn't have been fair to Sheik to try keeping him in an a
partment. The neighbors are going crazy trying to figure me out, living here alone." Her voice was dry. "When they do, they'll probably get up a petition to have my lease canceled. Well, thanks for the lift."

  I said, "I'll give you a hand with that junior-grade horse."

  It took the two of us, again, to get him unloaded. He wouldn't be pulled; I finally had to get in with him and scare him out into her arms. I had my doubts about this maneuver-the beast had jaws and teeth, remember- but apparently I frightened him a lot more than he frightened me. He just cowered against the side of the truck bed until I got behind him; then he made a flying leap outwards. She was ready for him, but seventy pounds of dog was too much for her and she went down in the gravel. She rolled over acrobatically and managed to grab the end of the leash she'd dropped in the fall.

  "Now, Sheik," she said mildly, picking herself up. "Well, thanks again," she said to me. "I hope the true confessions didn't bore you stiff. Catharsis, those head-shrinker characters call it, don't they?"

  "Something like that."

  "Do you want to come in? I've got liquor and ice, and I think there's some hamburger left."

  She was brushing herself off in the rear as she spoke. Her voice was as casual as it could possibly be, but her disturbing eyes were very steady on my face. I was being tested. This was where I showed whether I was really a nice guy, or just another middle-aged jerk with an eye for youth and beauty.

  "It sounds intriguing," I said, and her eyes narrowed slightly, and I went on, "but I'll have to take a rain-check. I got about twelve hours behind on my sleep, driving across the desert last night."

  "Where are you staying?"

  "The Riverside Motel," I said.

  She hesitated, and asked abruptly, "Do you like hunting?"

  "Sure," I said, "but there's no season open that I know of. Besides, I'd have to get an out-of-state license, and they run pretty steep."

  She reached down and stroked the dog's lean head. "He doesn't need a license, and there's no closed season on jack rabbits," she said. "At least, no game warden has arrested me yet. It's… kind of interesting to watch. I thought I might go out tomorrow. Would you like to come along?"

  "Sure," I said. "Just don't make it too early."

  "We could take your truck and save me beating up my little imported jewel, here, on those roads. I'll call you."

  She turned quickly and marched into the house with the big dog. The door closed and the lights went on. I frowned thoughtfully. One thing you learn, in this business, is not to take for granted you're just naturally the kind of guy pretty young girls want to do things with, even if it's only watching a dog chase a rabbit.

  I gave her parked car another glance as I turned away. It was the small, ladylike Mercedes sports, not the big hot one. Even so, it was quite a car, a good six thousand dollars' worth with extras. I got into my old pickup- worth about two hundred bucks on a trade-in, if the salesman was hungry-and drove back to the motel, and parked in front of the end unit, which was mine.

  I got out, and gave the door a careful look as I approached it. Certain indications showed that nobody'd been through it since I had. I laughed at myself for taking such precautions. After all, I was on vacation. I put the key in the lock, and something moved in the ornate shrubbery to my right. A voice spoke in a kind of choked whisper.

  "Eric.."

  I had my hand on the little knife in my pocket. It was made in Solingen, Germany, and I liberated it during the war, the previous owner having no further use for it. It's not much larger than an ordinary pocket knife, but it's big enough. The blade locks in the open position, so you don't have to worry about its folding over and cutting off your lingers if you happen to strike bone as you go in. But the voice had used my code name. I worried the key left-handed, as if the lock were giving me trouble.

  "Name yourself," I said without turning my head.

  "Paul."

  I waited. He was supposed to say a certain identifying phrase now, and I was supposed to answer with another phrase. Instead, he made a little moaning sound.

  "For God's sake, man! Give me a hand, quick. I.

  I've been waiting… I'm hurt…" There was what you might call an expiring sigh.

  I didn't say anything. I've been kidded before, by real good actors. I took the knife out and opened it, muffling the click against my body. Anybody could have got our code names, any time. Unlike the recognition signals, they were never changed. My humanitarian instincts had atrophied long ago. I wasn't diving blindly into any bushes to give first aid to a disembodied, suffering, unidentified voice.

  Nobody spoke and nothing happened. I'd stood there fiddling with the lock long enough. I turned the key and went inside fast. As the untouched door had indicated, nobody was waiting for me there. Having made sure of that, I turned on the light, folded the knife and put it away, and got the.38 revolver out of my boot and checked it over. It's a sawed-off, stripped-down, aluminum-framed little monster with too little weight to soak up the recoil of the big cartridges, particularly in rapid fire, but at the moment I was happy to have it.

  I noted the time on my watch: seven minutes past eight. Fifteen minutes ought to do it, I figured: long enough to let them know I wasn't going to fall for the gag, if it was a gag, long enough for them to pull out and think it over, but not long enough for them to set up any fancy alternatives. And if my fellow-operative, the young guy Mac didn't think was going to work out for us, Paul, was really out there, hurt… well, since he hadn't been able to come up with the proper signals, he'd just have to sweat it out as long as it took me to do this right.

  We're not a little band of brothers, if you know what I mean. It's a point of pride with us that nobody's ever blown a mission because he hung around sentimentally to care for a wounded pal. The standing orders are very strict on this point. Not that I had a mission yet, but it seemed likely I'd have one soon, one way or another, and I intended to stay alive to execute it.

  I'd been given a bunch of good-will stuff when I checked into the place. Now I took it over to the bed and lay down to read it with the gun handy. There was a list of other motels in this particular chain, which seemed to cover most of the states west of the Mississippi. There was a list of eating places in town, and a sketchy map of the town, and a small instruction book designed to make the various forms of gambling more comprehensible and attractive to the untutored tourist.

  There was also a courtesy copy of a daily paper. I made myself read it without checking my watch too often. The international situation was going to hell in a basket, as usual. The local politics were as mysterious as they always are in a place where you know nothing and nobody. A house had been broken into. A guy had been robbed on the street. A technician at a nearby government laboratory-I remembered all those installations I'd passed in the dark-had died after suffering massive radioactive contamination when something went bang that wasn't supposed to.

  A woman and a child had been killed in a head-on collision with a big truck. The truck-driver had survived with minor injuries. They usually do, which is one reason why I'm still driving my high and tough and massive old vehicle instead of getting something low and glamorous..

  I got up and looked at the door. There had been no sound for fifteen minutes. Well, if they wanted me, and were willing to make enough noise, they'd get me, now or an hour from now. I walked out with the gun in my hand. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned motel room. Nothing happened. I got into the truck and drove away. Nobody followed.

  When I'd confirmed this, I stopped at a pay telephone booth and called Washington collect, calling the emergency number. The girl who came on at once wanted to give me Mac, but I said she could keep him.

  "Has Paul reported recently? Is he overdue?" I asked. "He has no fixed schedule. His last report was the day before yesterday."

  "I may need a doctor who'll keep his mouth shut," I said. "Have we got one locally?"

  "Just a minute." I heard papers rustle, two thousand an
d some miles away. "Dr. Ditsinger. We've never used him, but other agencies have, and found him satisfactory. Do you want him alerted?"

  "Please."

  She told me the address. "Give us a few minutes to get in touch with him."

  "It's not definite," I said. "Check back with him in the morning. If he's had no business, tell him to forget it. If he's got a customer, tell the man upstairs that age will take the reins from the faltering hands of youth. As if he didn't know it."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't get that, sir. Please repeat."

  "Skip it, doll. Just report that if young Paul should be out of commission, which seems to be a possibility, I'll take over. But in that case I want somebody else t~ get out here fast and stand by. No contact unless I call, however.. I've got enough people crawling through the shrubbery already; the management might squawk. Oh, one question."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Has Paul made definite identification of his subject?" The papers rustled again. "Yes, sir. In his last report.

  Quote: 'Subject Martell definitely established to be man calling himself Fenn currently employed by Salvatore Frederici, alias Sally Fredericks or Big Sal Fredericks, reputed to be head of narcotics trade locally, as well as-'"

  "Narcotics, eh?" I interrupted. "The stuff seems to keep cropping up. Rizzi was also in that racket. I wonder what Martell… Never mind. If Paul had made identification, why didn't he take action? What are we saving this guy for, somebody's birthday or the anniversary of the Russian Revolution?"

  "I have the agent's instructions here." More papers rustled. "No action to be taken until subject's mission is fully understood."