The Removers mh-3

by Donald Hamilton

  "To whom?"

  "Bwana Simba? Oh, that's just what us old Africa hands call the great white hunter, a term of respect, don't you know? I think it means Master Lion, or some similar corn."

  "You're being rather childish, aren't you, Matt?"

  "Oh, rawther," I said. "Don't begrudge me a few such moments. I'm going to have to grow up fast now. On your way, Mrs. Logan…"

  When I came into the bedroom, the kid was well along towards having her hair up. Smooth and bright and neat and adult, it made an interesting contrast with her bare legs and gaudy blue shorts.

  She spoke without turning her head. "Who's Eric, baby?"

  I glanced towards the phone in the other room. "Some folks have big ears."

  "I wasn't eavesdropping. But Fenn called you Eric, in Dad's office, and I've been wondering ever since…" After a moment, she said, "It's a code name, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I said, "it's a code name."

  "Your code name."

  "That's right. My code name. And when I'm Eric, let me tell you, I'm a real bastard."

  She grinned at me impishly in the mirror. "You mean, I'll be able to tell the difference?"

  But it wasn't the way it had been, and we both knew it. Two people can go off together for a little while, sometimes, and find a secret time and place of their own, but the world is always waiting for them to come back. We were back.

  I said, "Throw some stuff into a suitcase. You're moving out of here. Somebody else might have the same bright idea as the Duke, and there's always some danger when a big criminal organization breaks up."

  She turned to look at me. "I see. You're moving in on Dad."

  "Let's just say I'm moving." After a moment, I said, "I want you safe, kid."

  She regarded me steadily for a little longer; then she shrugged her shoulders abruptly. "Okay, if you put it like that…

  Five minutes later, we were out of there. It was a risk stopping by the motel, but I wanted the little.38 and some cartridges, as well as a clean shirt. Nothing happened and nobody followed us away.

  I made sure of that; then I had her pull up for gas at a filling station. While the attendant was working on the Mercedes, I went over and used the pay phone on the wall. Mac had been on the job. The voice at the other end gave me directions, and said somebody would be there when we arrived. I gave some instructions in return.

  When I came back to the car, Moira was sitting in the seat I'd been occupying.

  "I thought maybe you'd like to drive it," she said. "It's a little different from that truck of yours. You can give it a real workout if you like. I've got three thousand miles on it; it's all broken in." She waited until I was sitting beside her, and went on, "That's the starter, over there. It's a four-speed shift, all-synchro, and reverse is over-"

  I started it up, dropped it into reverse, backed out to clear a car being serviced ahead, and sent the little machine forward, picking up speed through the gears.

  "Nuts," the kid said, "you've driven one before. I thought I was giving you a treat."

  "Any Mercedes is a treat," I said.

  "I heard you talking to Mrs. Logan," she said. "It sounds as if Dad's been giving them a rough time."

  "He's a good strategist," I said. "He can see the enemy's weak points clearly. I mean, normally you don't go threatening a man like Duke Logan about his kids, no matter how retired he is. Because what happens is, you get a phone call one night and a gentle British voice says, I say, old chap, if anything should happen to Peter, I'd have to hold you personally responsible, don't you know? It's the natural reaction of anybody trained a certain way. It's what I'd do, and it's what Logan did, I'm sure."

  "You sound… you sound as if you and the Duke had a lot in common. Besides a wife."

  "Oh, we do," I said. "And don't forget Fenn. He's one of the smoky boys, too, and a good one.

  But what I was saying is, Fredericks would know the Duke meant every word of it. Your dad's goons could ride around the hills looking menacing all they wanted to; but the minute they made a real move, your dad would know the Duke wouldn't spend one fraction of a second over the boy. He'd leave that to his crew. Himself, he'd just wind up that fancy Jag of his and head for town with a gun under his arm, and he wouldn't be bluffing one little bit. No, your dad never had a chance of pressuring Logan as long as there was just the boy."

  "But I don't see how his getting married changed-"

  I said, "The trouble with Logan's countermove, kid, is that like the hydrogen bomb, it's a great deterrent, but when it comes to actual use, it's more or less a one-shot proposition. You can't go charging into town with blood in your eye every time some mysterious stranger hands a baby a lollipop. You've just got to sit out these harassing tactics. Well, the Duke could do it, and his boy probably just thought it was real exciting, like the movies, and my kids are too young to worry about things like that. But Beth isn't what you'd call a real good sitting-it-out type. She's led a sheltered, civilized life until quite recently; her nerves aren't up to this kind of cold warfare. So Fredericks twists the screws, bit by bit, never really stepping over the line far enough to send the Duke on the warpath-but meanwhile the lady of the ranch is slowly going out of her mind with worry, and probably not keeping it a secret from her embattled husband. He can laugh at Fredericks, but if he loves her he can't very well laugh at her."

  Moira said, "That makes Dad a real creep, doesn't it? Hitting at a man through a woman."

  "Yes," I said, "it sure does."

  She glanced at me quickly. Apparently there had been something odd in my voice, of which I hadn't been aware. I dropped the little Mercedes down a gear with a neat job of double-clutching, and sent it charging up the next hill with the tachometer riding the red danger-line. It wasn't the hottest job in the world, but it smoothed out those Nevada back roads in a startling fashion, and stuck like glue in the curves.

  The place was well back in the hills. We reached it after following a dirt track and a single telephone wire for a good many miles. It was a small ranch, complete with barns and corrals, but there didn't seem to be any people or livestock around. We pulled up in the dusty yard, and Moira laughed and pulled off the kerchief she'd put on to protect her hair, breathing deeply.

  "All right," she said. "I'm convinced. You've driven one before. Let me order seatbelts before the next demonstration, please."

  I waited without speaking, with my hand on the gun in my pocket. The front door opened and a youngish man came out. He gave me a certain signal, and I took my hand out of my pocket. I reached back and lifted Moira's suitcase out of the space behind the seats, and helped her out.

  As we walked towards the house together; she said, "God, what a dead-looking joint. I hope I won't have to stay here long."

  I didn't answer. The man who had greeted us, following my earlier instructions, was at the phone when we came in. I closed the door and put the suitcase down. The man signaled that he had the connection. I turned to look at the kid.

  "I made you a promise once," I said.

  "A promise?"

  "I said that even if the situation should arise, I wouldn't ask you for help." She remembered, and her expression changed, becoming faintly puzzled and wary. I said, "Your dad is coming on the line. He's already a bit worried because of the radio reports saying you're missing. I'm going to talk to him now. I'm not asking you, Moira, I'm telling you: at a certain point in the conversation, you're going to scream. It will be a good, loud, scream. It will convince him I mean business, which I do. You won't be betraying him voluntarily. You'll be screaming simply because you have to. You can remember that, later."

  She took a step backwards, her eyes wide and shocked and incredulous. Then I had a painful grip on her arm, and the young man was beckoning me towards the phone, urgently…

  Chapter Eighteen

  I DROVE away from there fast, taking the little Merc. If it were seen in my possession later, so much the better. It would let Fredericks know I hadn't been bluffing when
I said I was holding its owner hostage for his good behavior in certain specified regards.

  It took me two hours to find my way by back roads to the Double-L Ranch. When I got there, it was approaching the same time of afternoon as when I'd seen it previously, and the place looked about the same, except that there didn't seem to be anybody around. Beth's Buick station wagon was parked in front of the door, however, headed out. I pulled up behind it, making the swing in the yard very smartly with a quick down-shift and some fine sports-car exhaust noises. It's a subdued and polite little car, not one of your raging beasts, but you can make it snarl a bit if you try.

  I switched off and got out, stretching my legs and looking as casual as I could with all my senses tuned for trouble. Then the front door slammed open and Beth ran out of the house looking very breathless. She came to a sudden stop, staring at me in a surprised way.

  "Matt!" she said. "Oh! I thought…" She checked herself abruptly.

  I didn't get it at once. But she was looking so confused and guilty there had to be a reason, and I looked around and glanced at the Merc and recalled the youthful, noisy flourish with which I'd announced my arrival. I looked over towards the carport. The Land Rover was missing. Well, young Peter Logan had taken that to transport the kids and their retinue back into the mountains. But the big green Jaguar roadster was missing, too.

  Nobody who's consciously compared the two would ever mistake the polite burble of the little Mercedes for the roar of an XK-150S, but Beth hardly qualified as a sports-car expert. To her, a car was just something that ran until it stopped running, after which you got a man to fix it for you. I looked at her standing there, still in her lady-of-the-ranch costume, regarding the toes of her handsome saddle-leather pumps with downcast eyes, like a teen-ager in the principal's office.

  "Where is he?" I asked.

  She said, "Matt, I-"

  I wanted to shake her. "Where's he gone?" I demanded. She didn't answer. I said, "Wherever it is, you obviously didn't expect him back so soon. Where'd you send him, Beth?"

  She licked her lips. "I didn't…" She stopped. "It was just a… a stupid quarrel…" She stopped again. "I couldn't stop him!" she breathed.

  "He went to town after Fredericks? The damn fool! What does he think this is, a Wild West movie? I told you to sit tight, both of you!"

  She said breathlessly, "No, you're wrong! That isn't where…" She was silent again.

  I studied her face for a moment. "I see. At least I think I see. Where's a phone?"

  She gave me a brief glance, turned, and fled into the house. I followed her and picked up the instrument in the hail to which she led me, got long distance, and went through the usual silly routine with her standing right there. To hell with security. They could change the damn code words tomorrow. They probably would, anyway. Then I had Mac on the wire again.

  "Eric here," I said.

  "Where have you been? We've bee)1 trying to reach you.,'

  "I'm reached. Shoot."

  Mac said, "I have here a report to the effect that Lawrence alias Duke Logan is aimed approximately south by southeast in a green Jaguar roadster license number YU 2-1774. An Arizona state police cruiser, alerted by a patrol farther north that saw him pass, tried to run him down but barely got close enough to confirm the number. I have the verbatim report of one of the officers here, to Wit: Jeez, if that guy fires the third stage he'll be in orbit. Apparently they were doing well over a hundred and twenty when he pulled away from them. Comment?"

  I looked at Beth, and suddenly I knew exactly how it had been. A stupid quarrel, she'd said. She was a hard girl to quarrel with, in the pots-and-pans-slinging sense, but that didn't mean she didn't have the ability to make a man so furious that he could hardly see. I'd lived with her; I knew her pretty well. I'd only met Logan once, but I knew him pretty well, too. He was the kind of man I understand easily.

  "I think the newlyweds have had a spat, sir," I said into the phone, and I saw Beth cringe at the corny description. I went on: "If I'm correct, he's right on the ragged edge: he's driving sad and he's driving mad. When those cool, calm characters flip, they really flip. He's stomped out of the house, I figure, on an errand he doesn't care much for, and he's probably kind of hoping, subconsciously, that somebody'll arrest him before he has to go through with it, or that the Jag will flame out on him, or that he'll manage to kill himself, or something. But he'll be damned and blasted, old chap, if he'll stop of his own accord; and if he gets where he's going it'll be rawther tough, don't you know, on anybody who happens to get in his way. It should be something to see, if you've got a strong stomach."

  Beth's eyes looked big and wounded. Mac's voice spoke in my ear: "The state police were considering a roadblock, but other agencies got wind of the situation and took a hand. At present he's merely being tracked, like a guided missile, but he'll be at the border presently. Advice has been requested, urgently."

  I hesitated, and said, "They're damn fools if they stop him on the way down."

  "That's the consensus here. And returning? Assuming that he does return? The previous man didn't, you remember."

  I said, "My money's on the Duke. If that bomb he's driving doesn't kill him, in his present mood, no two-bit Mexican desperado will."

  "And your advice?"

  "It depends on whether they want some kilos of the white stuff or a guy named Sally."

  Mac said, "That's all very well for them, Eric, but you're not forgetting that it isn't Fredericks we're after?"

  "I'm not forgetting," I said. "But I don't relish the thought of trying to make a man like Martell talk by direct methods, even assuming I could get him alone, in a suitable place, alive, which is a lot of assuming. If he was using Rizzi; the chances are he's using Fredericks the same way. So let's take Fredericks out from under him and see what happens."

  "If they let him come back through, with cargo, can you guarantee safe delivery eventually? It's a big shipment, and they don't want to take chances on its getting loose in the country."

  I said, "Sir, do you want me to hang up on you?"

  "Eric-"

  "Guarantee! What kind of jackass talk is that, with all due apologies?"

  He sighed, two thousand odd miles away. "I know. I was instructed to ask."

  I said, "So there's a risk, and maybe everything will go wrong, and there'll be many happy dreams sold at a thousand per cent profit. All I can say is that if they stop Duke Logan with cargo, all they'll get is Duke Logan with cargo. If they let him through, there are intriguing possibilities, but the word is possibilities."

  "You have a plan in mind?"

  "How can I have? The Duke took off before I could talk him into doing for us what he's now doing on his own accord. I haven't had a chance to talk with him at all. I'm going to have to intercept him somehow, before he makes delivery at this end, and it's going to be tough, since I don't know anything about his arrangements. But he must have made some or he wouldn't know where to go, down there, or where to come, up here… Wait a minute."

  I was still watching Beth. Her expression had changed slightly. She said quickly, "I know… something that may help. I heard him talking on the phone."

  I nodded, and spoke to Mac: "We apparently have a lead of sorts. We'll see what can be done, if he gets back."

  Mac said, "I'll see what I can do at this end. The rest is kind of up to Mr. Logan, don't you know?"

  "Righto, sir."

  There's something about that clipped, British-or phony-British-way of talking that's terribly contagious don't you know?

  Chapter Nineteen

  I PUT THE phone down. I was looking at Beth, but for some reason I was seeing a long, low, green car-the color is known as British Racing Green- hurtling across the Arizona desert with that fine, wicked sound that you get only from high-class machinery that's really carrying the mail. Barring the true racing cars, the Jaguar is possibly, along with its American counterpart the Corvette, the most ridiculous vehicle made, from the viewpoint of eff
icient and economical transportation. You've got power enough to move a ten-ton truck attached to a loadspace barely adequate for two men and a small toothbrush. But it's an ego-satisfying machine in every respect; and I kind of wished I was down there, flying co-pilot with the Duke. I've done some fast driving myself, from time to time.

  Well, he'd just have to make it on his own. Sooner or later, most men do. I looked at Beth.

  "What did you say to him?" I asked. "Something silly like, 'If anything happens to the children I'll never forgive you'?"

  She said quickly, "I didn't mean-"

  "No, of course not."

  "I never asked him to give in to Fredericks! You can't believe… I never dreamed he'd do it! I didn't want him to! I just-"

  "You just went desperate on him," I said. "He'd done everything he could do-except that one thing. He'd made the kids as safe as he could. He'd even tried to get Moira Fredericks as a hostage. That was going pretty far, but you were pushing him hard, weren't you? And that plan fizzled, and you couldn't take it any more, and you started telling him how you'd feel if anything went wrong

  – as if he didn't already know-and it got to the point where he'd had it. He just looked you in the eye and walked to the phone and said, Logan here. You win. I'm ready to deal."

  She started to speak, but changed her mind. I didn't have the words right, of course; he hadn't said exactly that, nor had she. But it had happened more or less that way, and they'd both glared at each other full of pride and resentment-they hadn't been married long enough to work out a way of handling these things. They'd both been adults for years, to be sure, but the marriage itself was very young.

  He'd made his call, and she'd stood by, not believing he really meant it, and he'd stalked out to the four-wheeled projectile under the carport, not believing she'd really let him go. He'd switched it on, started it up, and sat there for a moment watching the gauges. You don't take off with a sports-car engine stone-cold, not even in the middle of a family explosion. She'd have thought happily that he was reconsidering; even so, she'd have been thinking of going out to him, just thinking it, when the Jag backed out sharply, swung around, and shot ahead.