I said truthfully, "If I have any information dangerous to them, I don't know what the hell it could be."
"Hit him, Jake."
We played variations on this theme for a while. It got a little rough, but there was nothing to do hut take it. I mean, if I'd thought they were planning to kill me, or work me over hard enough to cripple me, I might have tried something violent to break it up, but that would have involved noise and, probably, dead men on the floor, and Mexican policemen all over the place. As long as it was no more serious than a bunch of hoods demonstrating their touching faith in the power of knuckles, I could ride along with it, amusing myself in the usual way-under such circumstances-by thinking about the excruciating deaths they were all going to die when I caught up with them, later..
"Stop it!"
It was Roberta Prince, coming abruptly out of the chair from which she'd been watching the show. She darted across the room to grab Jake's arm, cocked to slug me once more.
"Oh, stop it, stop it, stop it!" she cried. "What are you trying to do, kill him? He's a government agent, you can't just… Mr. Tillery, you told me if I got him here there'd be no rough stuff. You promised-" Jake flung her off. When she started forward again, Tillery grabbed her. She fought him with sudden, hysterical desperation, kicking at him frantically and raking him with her long, silvery nails. He swore and let her go, clapping a hand to his face.
Then the big man with the sunglasses, the silent observer, stepped forward quickly and seized her by the arm, swung her around, and sent her reeling back against the wall with a full-armed slap. He moved in and kept slapping her, right hand and left, until her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, sobbing weakly. The big man regarded her for a moment, rubbing his hands together in an absent way.
"Tillery."
"Yes," said Tillery quickly, "yes, Mr. Sapio."
"This isn't getting us anywhere. Let's blow."
"Yes, Mr. Sapio. Come on Jake. Mr. Sapio thinks we'd better leave now."
As they started for the door. Roberta Prince looked up quickly, pushing the tangled pale hair out of her eyes. She had stopped crying.
"What about me?" she gasped. "Mr. Tillery, what about the protection you promised me? What about my money?"
Tillery turned. He looked down at the blood-stained handkerchief he'd been holding to his scratched face; and he looked at the kneeling girl. He laughed sharply.
"You bitch!" he said in his high-pitched voice. "You nasty, vicious little tramp! I hope Frankie has lots of fun with you before he wrings your skinny neck! I just wish I could be there to watch."
As the door closed behind them, Roberta began to cry once more, softly and hopelessly.
xv
Entering my room, I found another one on the bed. I mean, it had been a morning for beat-up females: first Beverly Blaine, then Roberta Prince-whom I'd left repairing her tear-damaged makeup-and now there was Charlotte Devlin sprawled face down on top of the bedspread with her shoes on. They were still, I noted, rimmed with dried mud. Her sheer dark stockings were kind of loose and wrinkled about her legs, and her tailored gray suit was kind of bunched about her body. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. She didn't stir as I closed and locked the door behind me.
I moved forward cautiously, expecting the worst, since a woman will almost invariably kick off her shoes before lying down on a bed unless she's in very bad shape indeed, drunk or dying. Exactly why anybody would want to kill the girl and dump her on me I didn't know, but then, there seemed to be a lot about the case I still didn't know, probably enough to motivate another murder or two. Frank Warfel could simply have decided she was making a nuisance of herself, and he was a man who seemed to take homicide quite lightly, particularly if he could get it committed by someone else.
Approaching the bed, I saw that one dangling hand retained a precarious grip on some white paper, perhaps a clue. I worked it free and found myself holding a genuine wad of damp Kleenex. I dropped it into the nearby wastebasket and studied the motionless figure before me more closely, realizing that it was breathing quite normally.
There was no blood or other sign of violence that I could see. I decided with relief that, not only wasn't she dead, she wasn't even wounded, bruised, poisoned, or drugged. Shoes or no shoes, she was merely sound asleep, looking only as disheveled as any woman is apt to, caught taking a daytime nap in her clothes. The brief skirt of her suit had worked up far enough behind, I noticed, to reveal an interesting sartorial detail: the currently somewhat untidy stockings weren't separate stockings at all, but integral parts of an all-in-one nylon garment, sheer below and only slightly more opaque above, apparently designed to render obsolete such old-fashioned undercover engineering items as garters and girdles.
"Mr. Helm!"
It was an embarrassed and rather indignant gasp as, waking, Charlie sat up to look at me reproachfully. After a moment, she made the standard sleeping-beauty gesture of tugging down her skirt-undoubtedly the first conscious act of the legendary princess kissed awake by the legendary prince-then she sniffed and looked around helplessly. Guessing at what was required, I went into the bathroom, got a fresh bunch of tissues from the dispenser there, and returned to put it into her hand.
"Thanks," she said, applying it vigorously to her nose. Finished, she put on her glasses to see me more clearly, saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Helm. I didn't mean to fall asleep-"
"Ladies occupying my bed generally call me Matt," I said. "How's the allergy?"
It was a casual, conversation-making question designed simply to put her at ease, but she took it seriously, hesitating over the answer as if it really mattered.
"Well," she said reluctantly, "well, if you must know, it's terrible. Or was. It seems to be considerably better now, but I had some kind of an asthma attack on the way down. I really thought for a while I wasn't going to make it here; I could hardly breathe. It was all I could do to keep the car on the road. That's why, when I got in here and found the room empty, I just couldn't help flopping down on the bed for a moment, but I had no intention of… My God, I look like something thrown out with the trash! If you want to be a gentleman, you can discreetly avert your eyes, just for a moment."
I said, "Cut it out, Charlie. A gentleman? A trigger-happy super-spook like me?"
She flushed slightly and, rather defiantly, rose and turned her back on me and went through the contortions necessary to take the slack out of her sagging hosepants. Then, without deigning to look my way, she moved stiffly to the dresser. After making a wry face at her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed down her outer garments neatly, buttoned the collar of her blouse, and patted her short, crisp hair into place.
"Matt."
"Yes, Charlie."
"You don't like me very much, do you?"
"Now, what brought that on?" I asked.
"The way you keep throwing my words in my face. Heavens, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive, in your line of work. If you want me to apologize, well, all right, I will. I am very sorry I called you a trigger-happy superspook, Mr. Helm."
It reminded me of Lionel McConnell, dying, apologizing for calling me a honkie bastard. The memory was not a happy one, particularly now that I knew he'd been shot down just to make me believe that Beverly Blaine was also in danger.
I said, "That's not the point. It's not what you call me, it's what you are while you're calling me that-and while you're talking about my 'line of work' as if it gave you a pain in your tummy."
She turned slowly to look at me, frowning. "That's a little complicated, Matt. You're going to have to explain it."
I said, "Hell, I'm just mildly allergic to cops, that's all. Particularly dedicated cops with high-moral, law-enforcement missions. And most particularly dedicated cops with high-moral, law-enforcement missions who look down their long blue noses at me and my job."
"I don't-"
"The hell you don't. I'm not supposed to kid you about what you do, but you're supposed to be quite free to sneer at what I do."
I grinned. "I'm not complaining, understand. We're used to that attitude from you badge-toters. I'm merely pointing out that if you want my respect and affection you're picking a damn funny way to get it."
She didn't smile. She said sharply, "You're being rather stupid, aren't you? After all, you're kind of a cop yourself."
"Don't ever think it, Charlie," I said. "My job is defending the people and to hell with the laws. Your job is defending the laws and to hell with the people."
"That's not fair! I… we…" She checked herself and drew a long, ragged breath. "I don't know how we got into this, Mart, but I don't think we'd better pursue the argument any further, do you? Particularly since what I really wanted was… was to ask a favor of you."
"A favor?" I said. "Sure. In our detestable undercover line of work we hold no grudges. Anything your little heart desires. My house is yours, as they say down here."
She looked at me for a moment without speaking, then she asked gravely, "Why does it amuse you to needle me, Matt? Is it because -.. because I have no sense of humor? Would you tease me for being half-blind if I were missing an eye? Or for being crippled if I'd lost a leg?"
It was a hell of a thing for her to say. It made her, suddenly, a human being instead of a kind of stiff-necked female-type robot programmed to give interestingly pompous reactions to my excruciatingly clever stimuli. I regarded her for a moment, totally disarmed and disconcerted.
"All right, Charlie," I said at last. "All right. I'm sorry. Smack me if I get flip again. What's the favor?"
"You… you won't tell them at the Bureau, will you? Please?"
"Tell them what?"
"You know." She made a gesture towards the bed. "The way… the way you found me in here. I haven't had an attack like that since I was in high school. I thought I was all over them long ago, permanently cured. I don't know what brought it on, maybe strain; I've been working pretty hard on this Warfel thing. They say it's partly emotional, you know." She stopped. I waited, and she went on: "Don't you see, Matt? If… if the Bureau learns about it, and about the way I blanked out in here afterwards while I was supposed to be on duty.. We're all supposed to be perfect physical specimens, you know."
I hesitated, not because it mattered to me, but because it seemed a little out of character for her-at least out of the character I'd built for her. I was surprised that she'd conspire with me to evade her own organization's health rules, dedicated as she was to upholding all laws and regulations.
I said, "Your secret is safe with me, Charlie. Sneeze and strangle all you want to. Your people won't hear a word about it from me."
"Thanks," she said. "Thank you very much. I mean it."
"Sure," I said. "Anytime."
"Matt."
"Yes?"
"It wasn't fair. What you said. We do care about people as well as laws. We do!"
I grinned. "Well, in that case you'll be interested to know that some people are going to break some narcotics laws-your specialty, I believe-in a village up the coast called Bernardo, apparently little more than an overgrown trailer court. The time is tonight. Your friend Warfel is expected to join the party briefly, at least long enough to pick up the first shipment of the laboratory's product, which will then be concealed in a toilet on his boat, the Fleetwind, ready to be pumped out the plumbing at the first sign of trouble. He will return innocently to his home port north of the border and await developments. If none develop within a few days. and the coast seems perfectly clear, he will bring his cargo ashore and, presumably, put it on the market."
She was looking at me, wide-eyed. "Matt! How did you learn all this?"
I grimaced. "That's the big catch. doll. The information was fed to me deliberately by some Cosa Nostra characters-well, they called it the corporation, talking among themselves-who thought they were being very ingenious. Maybe they were."
Her face registered disappointment. "Oh. You mean it's just a phony lead? Were they Warfel's men?"
"I didn't say it was necessarily a phony lead; and they weren't Warfel's men." I told her what had happened since I'd seen her last. She was a little shocked by the Beverly Blame part of the recital, particularly the end of it. She also made it clear that she didn't think much of the way I'd let a blonde trick me into a trap. I had a hunch she didn't really believe I'd done it intentionally, in spite of the information it had gained us. "So you see," I said, "the syndicate, whatever you want to call it. is trying to clean house. The questions are: Just what do they expect us to do with what they told me, and what are they planning to do that they didn't tell me about?"
"You mean," she said, "you think they're trying to trick us into helping-"
"Sure," I said. "Hell, in a way they want the same thing you do. They want this dope project stopped. The difference is, they want to keep Warfel's part in it quiet, and you want to make it as public as you can. So let's figure out why they'd go to a lot of trouble to hand me all this poop while pretending to have gotten me in there to question me about something altogether different-not that I don't think they'd have liked to get answers to their questions, but they were willing to settle without them. Anyway, I have a hunch that what they let me hear was the straight stuff, at least up to a point."
"But why would they want you to know it?"
"Because they know I'm working with you, and they know who you are," I said. "Because they figure I'll tell you, as I'm now doing, and you'll get the Mexican authorities to close down that Bernardo heroin-manufacturing installation, thereby saving the brotherhood, or whatever they call themselves-the corporation-a lot of trouble in a foreign country where their connections may not be quite as strong as back in the U.S. They don't care who hits the laboratory as long as it's hit. They just want it out of business, like you do. They know Warfel wouldn't be fool enough to have anything there that'll connect it with him."
"But what about Warfel himself. We know he took the boat out yesterday, but-"
"That," I said, "is the big problem. They certainly don't intend to let you get your hands on Frankie in U.S. waters with a big shipment of heroin on board; that's exactly what they're trying to prevent. They may have told me the truth about what Warfel is planning to do, or what they think he's planning to do, but you can be damn sure they intend to alter his plans in some fairly drastic way. But they have to get you thinking you know exactly where and how to arrest him, because obviously you won't raid the lab they want raided until you're sure of catching Mr. Warfel red-handed-maybe I should say white-handed-with a substantial sample of the goods."
"I see," she said slowly. "So you figure they hope I'll take care of the laboratory for them with Mexican help, and then-believing their information-hurry north and sit waiting for Frankie to appear with a boatload of heroin, only it won't happen."
"That's right," I said. "And it won't happen because Frankie will be taking a long, long dive with an anchor or a chunk of ballast tied around his neck-if they catch him before you do, and they must have some reason to think they can. And the Fleetwind will either sink, burn, blow up, or be found adrift and deserted, another mystery of the sea."
She hesitated, and looked at me uncertainly. "Matt, please don't think I'm ungrateful for your help, but actually you're just guessing, aren't you?"
I said, "An educated guess, sweetheart, by a guy with a criminal turn of mind. Don't quote me, but I've had the job of removing a too-greedy character or two, myself, in the interest of company public relations. I know what I'd do if I were in the shoes of Tillery, Jake, and Sapio."
"I see." Her eyes were steady on my face. "You're not really a very nice man, are you?"
I said dryly, "You can find yourself a very nice man later, to date and to marry, if you look hard enough, I'm quite sure. Right now, you need a nasty, experienced bastard like me to work with. I'm a pro, Charlie. I'm giving you the benefit of my professional judgment."
"I know. I'm sorry." She sighed. "So that's what you'd do if you were in the shoes of those Mafia characters. What would y
ou do if you were in my shoes?"
"Hell, I'd clean the mud off them," I said. I grinned at her quick, downward glance; then I stopped grinning and said, "Obviously, you've got to take out those three and give friend Warfel a clear run home with the dope, much as it hurts to help that creep in any way."
"Take them out? You mean-"
"I mean take them out," I said. "Whether you use three separate bullets, a single hand grenade, or a Mexican jail, doesn't really matter. As a matter of fact-"
"What?"
I rubbed my sore diaphragm thoughtfully. "Well, it's strictly none of my business, and as I said, we hold no grudges in this racket, but I do have a kind of personal interest in those three gents. If you'll handle the Bernardo end, I'll see what I can do about the Tillery-Jake-Sapio axis. Just remember, if I give you a guy named Warfel, you owe me a guy named Nicholas."
Charlie frowned quickly. "Why, I thought you said that girl was Nicholas, the one who… who died."
"I said she said she was Nicholas. It's not quite the same thing."
"You mean you think she'd lie when she was about to kill herself?"
"How else could she strike back at me?" I shrugged. "Hell, one way or another she was through, finished, and she knew it, and it was my fault. The least she could do by way of retaliation was leave me with a misleading lie and hope it would louse me up badly, with her compliments. I'm not saying that's what happened; but I've damn well got to make sure it isn't."
The tall girl with the glasses was studying me warily. "I see. So you're not really helping me entirely out of the kindness of your heart, Matt. You've still got an ax of your own to grind."
I shrugged once more. "Does it matter?"
She hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice was cool: "Not unless.. – unless you mess up this job for me, doing your thing, whatever it is. I wouldn't advise your sacrificing my mission to yours, Matt. I think you'd regret it."
The Poisoners mh-13 Page 12
