The Poisoners mh-13

by Donald Hamilton

  "Yes, sir."

  "Each time you've got the best of him, if I remember correctly. Yet, finding you unconscious and helpless by the roadside-according to the police, he couldn't possibly have missed you-he walked off and left you alive, the man responsible, once more, for wrecking all his elaborate plans. Doesn't that seem a trifle odd to you?"

  I said, without conviction, "Well, I did save his life after a fashion, the first time we met."

  "Soo is a professional. I do not think gratitude figures largely among his motives."

  "I know," I said. As usual, Mac had put his finger on the sour spot in the performance; the thing that had been bothering me, also. "It's puzzled me, too," I admitted. "Willy wanted to kill me for old times' sake-he still carried a grudge about that Mexican operation I loused up for him a year or so back-but the Chinaman fought him off me like a she-bear defending her cub. I wonder-"

  "What, Eric?"

  I hesitated. It was a wild idea, but I had to ask the question, anyway. "Just how effective was the damn generator?" I asked. "Just how much damage did it actually do in Los Angeles?"

  "I don't have the exact figures, but apparently it was quite a serious smog attack, serious enough to warrant a second alert."

  "Second out of how many?"

  "The third is the one that calls for full emergency measures."

  "Then the second wouldn't indicate a major catastrophe?"

  "I would say not."

  I drew a long breath. "Suppose the generator didn't work nearly as well as Sorenson had claimed it would, sir. You know these scientists, they always oversell their discoveries. Suppose the damn thing was actually, a great disappointment to Mr. Soc."

  Mac frowned thoughtfully. "Go on, Eric."

  "Suppose Mr. Soo and his people originally thought they'd got their hands on a hell of a murderous weapon, sure death on heavily populated targets; and then suppose they learned that all it could really produce for them was a few additional cases of asthma and a lousy second alert. Suppose Mr. Soo decided, after analyzing his Los Angeles figures, that the Albuquerque show just wasn't worth putting on; that as a matter of fact it should definitely be aborted, because it might tip us off that the Sorenson generator wasn't nearly as dangerous as had been thought."

  "It is an interesting idea, Eric. Continue."

  "He left me alive. He went to a lot of trouble to keep me alive, when it would have been much simpler to let Willy have me. Why? Could it be that he planned to turn me loose eventually, to beat the drum for this terrible weapon I'd seen the Chinese testing? Testing! Who tips off the enemy by testing a weapon like that-a pilot model, he claimed-in the enemy's own territory? I don't think it was a pilot model. I think it was the real thing, and I think Mr. Soo was trying to stage a real, deadly, double attack, meant to throw us into a real panic. Only it fizzled. And then the Chinaman had to figure out some way of salvaging something from his investment, so he decided to fill me full of misleading and terrifying information. That would explain why everybody kept telling me stuff about that generator, making it sound like a real doomsday device, when there was no need to tell me anything at all."

  "Go on," Mac said, when I paused to catch up with my thoughts.

  I said, "I'm beginning to think, sir, that having misfired, the machine was slated for destruction anyway. I just obliged Mr. Soo by shoving it off the road for him, giving him a plausible excuse for calling off the Albuquerque 'test' and destroying his supplies. I'd also, previously, obliged him by escaping, with… with the help of Bobbie Prince, but he gave me some help, too. He kept Jason from shooting when we were making our getaway. I thought I was being smart, or lucky, but if I hadn't managed to make my own escape arrangements, I bet he'd have made them for me. He. wanted me loose, repeating all the scary information I'd been fed about the dreadful smog machine the Chinese had got hold of, that had run into a little bad luck on this test run, but would be back to threaten us as soon as they could slap together a real working unit. His hope was, I suppose, that to counter the threat, our country would institute a crash cleanup program that would totally disrupt our transportation system and our economy… Naturally, he couldn't allow Willy to kill me. I was his only hope of salvaging something from this expensive fiasco."

  There was a little silence after I'd finished. Mac was looking, for him, oddly indecisive. At last he said, "It is a temptation, is it not, Eric? Perhaps we should not be too clever. Perhaps, if we let it be believed that the threat is real, it would stimulate…" He stopped.

  I said, "It might stimulate a lot of nice anti-pollution activity, yes, sir. That's presumably what Sorenson himself had in mind when he invented the gadget and turned it over to the Chinese. He must have figured it didn't really matter who scared us into taking action before we strangled in our own stinking by-products." I paused, and asked deliberately, "Well, sir, do I spread the word that the Chinese have got hold of a real humdinger of a doomsday weapon, just like Mr. Soo wants me to?"

  I won't say Mac disappointed me. A man who's spent most of his adult life in the bureaucratic maze reacts in certain predictable ways when it comes to making major decisions outside his particular province; and that goes even when his province is as vague and peculiar as Mac's.

  "No," he said slowly, "no, I don't think so, Eric. It is not our decision, is it?"

  "No, sir," I said, and that buck was passed.

  Having passed it, Mac said briskly, "We are not qualified to play God, although sometimes it might be tempting to try. Officially, I am concerned here only with the murder of one of my agents and the successful elimination of the enemy operative responsible for her death. Nicholas was responsible, was he not?"

  I nodded. "He didn't pull the trigger, but he was responsible. And the girl who did pull the trigger took poison and died."

  "Yes, I was told about that," Mac said. "And my official interest extends no further. There will be a team of scientists arriving from Washington very shortly. You will report your facts and theories concerning this aspect of the case to them. All your theories. They will make whatever decision needs making."

  "Yes, sir," I said, but we both knew that a committee of scientists would only take the buck we passed them and send it along in an upward direction, where it would eventually get lost in the dim stratospheric regions of official policy-making without anybody ever having had to make any awkward decisions about it.

  Mac said, after a pause, "Of course, I don't have to emphasize the need for discretion in matters that don't concern these scientific gentlemen."

  After a moment, I started to grin, but thought better of it. Things were normal, after all. It wasn't tender concern for my health that had brought him two thirds of the way across the continent; it was my amnesia. He'd come to assure himself that, concussion or no, I remembered enough to know what to say when I was interviewed, and what not to say.

  In particular, he was making certain that I understood that, while I was free to talk about the Sorenson generator and related subjects to my heart's content, I'd have to make up an innocuous story to explain how I'd got involved in the case in the first place. I mean, it wouldn't do to tell a bunch of tame officials from a science-oriented Washington bureau that I'd got mixed up in their complicated affairs while engaged in the relatively simple task of tracking down a guy called Santa Claus for purposes of homicide. Our duties and methods are not supposed to be discussed out of school.

  "No, sir," I said. "I'll be discreet as hell."

  He hesitated. "Is there anything else you should tell me now, Eric? Of course, I expect a full report eventually, but in the meantime, what about, for instance, a young lady attached to the West Coast branch of a certain special narcotics agency who seems to have taken a violent dislike to you?"

  "Charlie?" I said. "When did you see Charlie Devlin?"

  "This morning, in Los Angeles. I wanted to get the background before I came here. The girl is almost pathological on the subject of one Matthew Helm. She seems to think that you ar
e responsible for blighting her promising career. Apparently certain plans of hers went badly wrong, bringing embarrassment to her department and an official reprimand to her-men like Frank Wand are very quick to scream about false arrest and illegal search when no evidence is produced against them."

  I sighed. "Sir, how the hell did we get mixed up with that bunch of do-gooders, anyway?"

  He said without expression, "Narcotics are a serious threat to the public welfare. I am certain the agents fighting this insidious menace are all fine people and dedicated public servants."

  "They may be," I said, "but they don't hesitate to use their official positions for private revenge. At least Miss Devlin doesn't. When she decided I'd double-crossed her, she used her cop connections to spread the word that I'd stolen her damn station wagon, just to make trouble for me."

  "You're certain of this?"

  "She'd threatened me with dire retribution if I loused up her play. And the officer who stopped us said they'd got a report the car had been stolen in California and was probably heading east; who else would have made a report like that? As it happened, it worked out very well for me, but it was kind of tough on the officer. Charlie probably figures I killed him myself-I also made a few threats, I'm afraid. Undoubtedly that's one reason behind her anti-Helm feeling. She can't bear to let me get away with it, but she doesn't dare try to pin it on me lest her part in the business should come out. Anyway, this is the same little girl who's hell on other people following all the laws and rules, but who swore me to secrecy about a violent attack of asthma that, according to the health regulations of her agency, might have affected her career adversely."

  Mac said, "Well, the personnel problems of other departments are really none of our business, are they, Eric?" "No, sir," I said. "But ten kilos of heroin are everybody's business, wouldn't you say, sir?"

  He looked at me sharply. "Do you know where the shipment is?"

  I said, "My information is that such an amount of Chinese heroin was given to Frank Warfel as payment for his services in connection with the Sorenson generator. He had the stuff on his yacht down at Bahia San Agustin. From what you say, it wasn't on board when he was searched by Miss Devlin north of the border. As far as we know, he only put ashore at one other place: Bernardo. Charlie was assuming that he'd come ashore there empty-handed and leave with a cargo worth a couple of million bucks, produced by his camouflaged trailer-lab. But the lab was a fake, set up merely to hide the Chinese origin of the dope. Warfel already had his twenty-two pounds of high-priced happiness when he reached Bernardo. Suppose he did exactly the opposite from what Charlie was expecting. Suppose he went ashore loaded, cached his white treasure right under the noses of Charlie and her Mexican allies, and sailed away carrying with him nothing but a sly smile, knowing he'd be searched as soon as he hit U.S. territory."

  Mac drew a long breath. "It's another interesting theory. A blow on the head seems to stimulate your imagination, Eric. I'll notify the head of the agency…"

  "No," I said. "Let's heap some coals on the fire, sir. Let's notify Charlie, herself, to stand by for Warfel's next trip; he's not going to leave two million bucks lying by the seashore any longer than he has to." I grinned. "Whether or not she meant to be, she was a big help, sir. We can afford to give her a hand, the vicious little idealist."

  "Very well, Eric." Mac studied me thoughtfully. "You do seem to get considerable assistance from the ladies, one way or another. What about the girl who was shot? The circumstances, as reported by the police, seem to indicate that her position was rather ambiguous, too. If the organization owes her a debt of any kind, you'd better tell me now, so I can take the proper steps to repay-" He stopped. "What's the matter?"

  I was staring at him. I cleared my throat and said, "Bobbie Prince? She isn't dead?"

  "Why, no," Mac said calmly. "Apparently it was close and she is still on the critical list, but barring complications she should be all right." He was watching me rather narrowly. After a moment, he said, "I see. You thought you had sacrificed Miss Prince's life to our duty. That's why you set off on that quixotic charge back up the mountainside, which you have now conveniently forgotten."

  I said politely, "Be so good as to go to hell, sir." It was all coming back, and of course he was perfectly right, damn him.

  He ignored my remark. "You haven't said whether or not we owe the girl anything."

  "Yes, sir, we do," I said, "like my life. And I promised her a clean slate in return."

  "Whatever her record may be, within limits of course, it shall be officially cleansed." He frowned. "Would you consider her a potential prospect, Eric? There is a vacancy, as you may recall."

  It took me a moment to catch his meaning; then I said quickly, "No, damn it! You're not going to recruit this one, at least not through me. Anyway, she wouldn't work for us. She's the non-violent type. That's what got her a.44 bullet in the back." After a little silence, I asked, "Where is she? Not that it matters. I'm probably the last person she wants to see."

  "She is two doors down the hail. You will be informed when she can have visitors. And judging by the few words she spoke on the operating table, before the anesthesia took effect, I would not worry about my welcome." He was looking out the window as he spoke. Then he sighed. "Well, I see a delegation of intellectuals approaching with briefcases and tape recorders. I will leave you to them and trust to your discretion. Oh, and Eric-"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I will not insist on your attending the ranch when you are well again," he said, walking towards the door. "Not if you should happen to find a more relaxing way of spending a month's convalescent leave, in more pleasant company."

  I did.

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