Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14

by The Intriguers (v1. 1)

  He was close to exploding, but he still managed to control himself. He said sharply, "I suppose it would have been better if we'd got two dozen dead college kids to go with those two dozen bullets!"

  I sighed. "If that's supposed to be sarcasm, Sheriff, you're not reading me at all. I'm trying to give you the professional viewpoint, Janssen's viewpoint, the viewpoint of a man who knows guns. Sure it would have been better."

  "You and your friend have a damn funny way of looking at things!"

  I said patiently, "If you'd had a dead body to show for every bullet fired, it would have proved, at least, that you and your people knew what you were doing, whether or not it was the right thing ~o do. it would have demonstrated that you didn't shoot until you knew where your shots were going; that you weren't all just banging way blindly without knowing or caring whom you might kill. And if you'd been picking your targets the way you should, Emily Janssen wouldn't have died, or the Hollingshead boy, either." I shook my head. "Well, if your boy dies tonight, you'll have one consolation, Rullington. You'll have the satisfaction of knowing he was killed because somebody had a reason for wanting him dead, not just because some trigger-happy cop or deputy couldn't be bothered to aim his pistol properly."

  There was a little silence. The car kept rolling along the dark road at a reasonable speed.

  "You push hard, Mister," the sheriff murmured at last.

  "You started it," I said. "You wanted us to keep our wild animals in cages. My point is, you haven't done so well with yours. Now, shall we stop making faces at each other and see what we can do to get this particular man-eater back into the zoo? How much did he ask for?"

  There was another silence; then the answer came reluctantly. "Fifty grand." I didn't say anything. Rullington felt obliged to explain the size of the figure: "I sold off a big piece of my land last year. Janssen must have learned about it."

  I said, "He doesn't give a damn about your money. One grand or a hundred, it means the same to him: nothing. You know that."

  The chunky man's shoulders moved almost imperceptibly under the khaki shirt. When he spoke, there was resignation in his voice. "What the hell can I do but play along with the gag?"

  "Janssen will kill you," I said. "That's all he wants from you, your life."

  "It's been tried before."

  "If you've got a derringer up your sleeve or a knife under your shirt collar, forget it. Try to remember that you're dealing with a pro, not some kid who went joyriding in a stolen car." He said nothing, and gave nothing away. He was something of a pro himself. I said, "Suppose I could save you your money, your life, and your son's life; and give you an answer to your cop-killings...”

  He threw me a sharp glance. "I thought you wanted Janssen for yourself."

  "I didn't say I'd give you the right answer, Sheriff."

  There was another pause. I hoped I'd given it the right buildup: the arrogant, ruthless, unscrupulous government emissary prepared to stop at nothing to protect the reputation of his agency. Come to think of it, that wasn't so far off base.

  Sheriff Rullington said, in a faintly wondering voice, "So you're going to frame some poor bastard-"

  "This poor bastard I found on the ridge overlooking your house, with a loaded .300 Savage beside him. He's got motive and opportunity, what more do you want? His name's Hollingshead."

  I didn't owe the old man anything. The fact that I'd kind of liked him meant nothing at all. I hadn't promised the colorful old character anything, not a thing.

  "You're a liar," said Rullington.

  I drew a long breath. I wanted to hit him. Well, I wanted to hit somebody, and the trouble was, the only really logical target was me.

  "Oink, oink," I said.

  Strangely, after all the heavy stuff I'd fired at him without effect, this childishness got to him. The car bucked as he hit the brakes hard.

  "Now, listen, you federal sonofabitch-"

  I grinned. "You cops!" I said. "You can call anybody anything you want, but if somebody badmouths you it's a criminal offense. What the hell do you expect when you call a man a liar, kisses and flowers?"

  After a moment, the car picked up speed once more. "Nevertheless, you're lying, Mister," Rullington said at last in more reasonable tones. "Or mistaken. I told you, I checked on all of them. Arnold Hollingshead works at a filling station in Sedgeville, Kentucky. He hasn't missed a day in the last three weeks. He's still there. My office would have been notified if he'd disappeared."

  "Arnold. That must be the papa of the boy who got shot," I said. "Good enough as far as it goes, but you didn't go far enough, Sheriff. You didn't check on Grandpa, an old feuding type from the hills. Harvey Bascomb Hollingshead, 72, of Bascomb, Kentucky."

  That shocked him more than anything I'd said. I saw his jaw tighten as if at a blow. "Jesus!" he breathed. "Christ, has the whole world gone crazy? Does every one of the goddamn brats have homicidal relatives? I suppose that brick-throwing Dubuque punk's got an uncle or a cousin sneaking around with a blowgun or tommyhawk or other crazy weapon!" He shook his head angrily. "If they'd just bring their kids up right, to respect law and order-"

  "You tell them, Sheriff," I said. "You tell them. I don't know about Dubuque, but I do have Hollingshead. He'll make you a fine scapegoat. And once he's in jail, I guarantee, the mad strangler of Fort Adams will never strike again. You'll be a hero."

  "Where are you holding the old coot?" When I grinned and didn't speak, Rullington said,

  "Damn it, I'm the law around here, Mister! I don't care how many federal badges you have, you can't come into my county and. . .

  He was just making noise and he knew it. His voice trailed off. Presently he said, "Come to think of it, I didn't get a real good look at that badge. And you didn't tell me what your name was, just what it wasn't."

  I passed him the fancy ID case. He switched on the dome light and examined it, slowing the car. Then he gave it back and switched off the light.

  "Matthew L. Helm," he said. "What does the 'L' stand for? Never mind. I've seen better-looking credentials passed out free with breakfast cereal."

  He could have been right about that. I said, "You're wasting time, Sheriff. You said thirty miles and we've come nineteen. Do you want the deal or don't you? If you do, you'd better get on your squawker and send somebody where I tell you-only first I want your word that you're going to cooperate."

  He hesitated. "How are you going to pull it? How do you figure on catching Janssen without risking Ricky's life?"

  I said, "Either you let me do it my way or you do it yours, which will certainly get you killed, and maybe your boy as well."

  "Why should I trust you?"

  "Because I want Janssen even worse than you do, and without any more dead bodies cluttering up his back trail."

  He frowned thoughtfully. After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders and reached for the microphone. "Okay, it's a deal. Where do I send them?" When I told him, he made a face as if it was a joke on him that Hollingshead was hidden so close to his house, and maybe it was, but he got the message through to the other car, and hung up the mike. "Okay, now what His voice died. He was watching the rear view mirror.

  "What's the matter?"

  "We're being tailed. If it's Janssen, he's seen us together and we're in trouble. Ricky's in trouble."

  "What kind of a car?"

  "I can't. . . . Wait a minute." We swung through a series of curves, and he said, "I can't make out for sure in the dark, but it looks like a white Chevy sedan with a woman driver."

  I tried not to react, and I think I was successful, but I thought: The stupid, perverse, interfering little bitch. .

  "It's all right," I said easily. "She's one of ours. You didn't think I was handling this all by myself, did you?"

  "Well, you'd better get ride of her before Janssen spots her. He said I was to come alone."

  "Sure," I said. "Pull up and I'll go back and give her some instructions. Where the hell did those Detroit geniuses hide the
door handle on this one?"

  He made an impatient sound, and reached over to work the camouflaged handle that looked like an ashtray. The needle slipped through his khaki sleeve and into his forearm. I pushed the plunger home.

  Chapter XVIII

  As I dragged the stocky, unconscious body from under the wheel and propped it up more or less securely in the front passenger seat, headlights pulled up behind us, a car door opened, and footsteps hurried towards me. I didn't bother to turn my head. I knew who it was even before I heard the indignant feminine gasp.

  "You promised!" Martha Borden's voice said accusingly. "You gave me your word you'd do your best to save his life!"

  I said, "He's alive. Put a stethoscope on him if you like. You'll find his heart beating like a metronome." I got him where I wanted him and closed the door, straightening up outside the car and turning to look at her. "You're a funny girl, Borden," I said. "You weep for the whole human race, but you seem to be just yearning to spend the rest of your days with the death of a ten-year-old boy on your conscience."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Carl has undoubtedly sworn to wipe his hostage off the face of the earth if his instructions aren't followed," I said, "meaning, among other things, if the sheriff doesn't proceed to, and arrive at, the rendezvous alone."

  "Then what are you doing-"

  "I don't count," I said. "He knows me. He knows I don't take orders from hick sheriffs. If he sees me, he'll know it's no plan of Rullington's. He'll know I'm there strictly on my own. He may talk to me or he may just shoot me, but he won't take it out on the kid because what would be the point? What happens to Ricky Rullington means very little to me; he's not my kid; and I don't weep for the whole human race."

  "You don't have to tell me that!" she said sharply.

  "I don't have to tell Carl that, either," I said. "I'm just pointing out the reasons I can move in without endangering the boy's life. But if strange cars are lurking in the shadows with strange people in them-he doesn't know you-he'll think Rullington is pulling a fast one. He'll use his wire noose on sonny, figuring he can't get at daddy safely, and he'll fade out and never set foot in Oklahoma again."

  Martha shivered. Then she looked up sharply. "How do you always know exactly what Carl is going to do and feel?"

  I said, "It's simple. I just figure out what I'd do and feel in his place, that's all."

  She licked her lips. "But that makes you as crazy as he is!"

  "Let's hope so," I said. "If I'm far off, some people are going to die tonight, maybe even us."

  I regarded her bleakly in the glare of the Chevy's headlights. "I can't trust you, can I? Nothing I say gets through. You still think this is amateur night on the prairie, don't you?"

  She said stiffly, "The trouble is, Mr. Helm, that I can't trust you! You've used me to get you here. I'm involved. I rented the car. I did the driving. I've got to see that I haven't been made accessory to a murder, don't I?"

  I said, "Of course, I've got just about one full dose left for my little needle. I could put you to sleep." I grinned as she took a step backwards. "Relax," I said. "I can't leave you here by the side of the road; I don't know who might find you. And I haven't got time to waste hiding you properly, so. . . okay."

  "Okay, what?"

  "We'll play it straight, and I mean straight. Don't try to be clever. Don't even think. Just get back in that heap and come along with me, but this time make no effort to be invisible. In fact, I want you riding my rear bumper all the way. Don't get more than a couple of car-lengths back under any circumstances. Headlights on at all times. When I stop, pull up alongside as if you had an engraved invitation to the party. Everything straightforward and out in the open, nothing sneaky or devious. Do you read me, I hope?"

  "I . . . I don't understand, Matt. How are you going to catch him like that?"

  "You don't catch a guy like Carl, doll. You don't even try, unless you like to see a lot of blood spilled in a hurry, maybe even your own. You either kill him, if you can, or you. ..

  "Or you what?"

  "Or you let him catch you. Let's go."

  Budville was a larger town than the sheriff had indicated by about fifty percent. There were not only the filling station and the two-story general store-both dark at this hour-but there was also a big barn or shed off the road a little ways, a quarter-mile to the east. There was a gate in the barbed wire fence open. Whether or not it was the place specified for the rendezvous, it was the only place I could see that was suitable for the act I had to put on, so I turned in.

  The sheriff had indicated that the approach had to be made in a certain manner, but I didn't worry about that. The whole performance was going to come off a little differently from the way Carl had planned it. I was counting on the fact that he wasn't an amateur who'd go off half-cocked. Of course, there was always the possibility that he'd really flipped his wig brooding about his dead daughter, which could make things awkward. He'd never been a particularly well-balanced character-as if any of us are in this business.

  I drove the cop car, which worked like any other car, along the rutted track to the barn which was decorated with a tremendous faded advertisement for some kind of chewing tobacco.

  The other car followed me closely. I swung around behind the big building and parked among the weeds, headlights aimed at the weathered door. Martha pulled up beside me according to instructions. She got out, and I heard her draw an annoyed breath.

  "Damn!"

  "What's the matter?"

  "I just ruined a perfectly good pair of pantyhose in these damned weeds."

  "Jeez," I said, "that's terrible! A whole two dollars and ninety-nine cents or whatever it is, shot plumb to hell! Maybe we'd better just go home and let the boy die rather than make such dreadful sacrifices."

  "You're not very funny," she said stiffly. "Where do you suppose he is?"

  "Carl? Don't worry about Carl. He's around. Give me a hand here." I was dragging Rullington out of his car. "Grab the feet," I said as Martha came up.

  "Where . . .

  "Over against the barn door there, right in the limelight, so Carl can see what kind of a present we've brought him.. . . That's fine. Let him down easy, and watch out for that cow turd unless you like wiping it off your shoes."

  She sidestepped and glared at me accusingly. "You're going to let Carl have him! But you promised-"

  "Sweetie," I said wearily, "I don't know why I bother to talk to you. You simply never listen. Sure I'm going to let Carl have him. I'm going to let Carl have all of us, just like I said. . . . What's that? No, over there by the cars!"

  She posed prettily, staring in the direction I'd indicated, and I clipped her neatly on the chin.

  It's not a procedure I recommend, except for the movies. It can lead to broken jaws and teeth, not to mention busted knuckles for the one who does the clipping. In this case, however, it worked fine. I didn't hurt my hand too much, and she wasn't seriously damaged, either, I determined after catching her and easing her down against the door beside the unconscious sheriff.

  Then I pulled her dress down modestly, shook my head over the run in her stocking, and straightened up in the glare of the two sets of headlights. Deliberately, I took out my .38 Special, held it up, and placed it carefully on the sheriff's chest. 1 took out the folding knife I carry-Carl would remember that-displayed it the same way to whomever was lurking in the outside darkness, and laid it beside the gun. I sat down against the barn door on the far side of Martha, safely distant from the sheriff and the weapons, facing the painfully brilliant lights with my hands in plain sight on my knees. I waited. After a while he came.

  "Can you hear me, Eric?" The origin of the whisper was the corner of the barn to my right.

  "I hear you, Carl," I said.

  "Why shouldn't I shoot you now? I warned Mac, when I resigned, what would happen if he sent anybody after me."

  "No, you didn't."

  "Listen, I told him plainly-"

  "Yo
u told somebody plainly," I said. "You didn't tell Mac. You talked to a mimic, a fink working for a guy named Leonard, who's taken over the whole damned undercover works for sinister reasons still to be determined. The country's going to hell, the outfit you've spent most of your working life with is being blasted out of existence, the head man is in hiding if he isn't dead, and Super Secret Agent Carl is sneaking around Oklahoma with a silly wire noose playing The Mad Avenger! Nuts! Why don't you grow up and be a big boy for a change instead of moping around crying because somebody broke your pretty dolly."

  There was a long, tight silence. "You take some awful chances, Eric."

  "I have to deal with some awful people."

  "Do you really think I'm going to believe that the guy I talked with wasn't Mac?"

  "Did he say for you to 'contact' him if you changed your mind? Did he tell you things were 'presently' in a very critical state and he wished you'd reconsider? Hell, did you listen to him at all, or did you just listen to the bleeding of your lousy broken heart?"

  "Damn you, Eric-"

  "I've been telling people you're a pro," I sneered. "You're no goddamn pro, Carl. You're just a mushy sentimental slob who'll let your job and your country go to the dogs-well, to a bitch named Love-while you sacrifice a bunch of poor dumb country cops to the memory of your sainted offspring. Tell me just how many dead men do you think Emily would want you to pile on her grave?"