“Sure,” I said. “But there are a couple of questions that bother me. Like, how would Mrs. Genevieve Drilling, housewife, learn about the old ammonia technique? And where would she get the drug—whatever it was, and however it was administered—that finished Greg off? I don’t think the acid killed him.”
Mac said, “It didn’t. The cause of death was cyanide or some derivative, but we don’t yet know exactly how it was administered. That angle is still under investigation. It could have been done with a dart fired from an air gun or spring gun, the kind that’s often camouflaged as a man’s cigarette case or a woman’s compact. Or it could have been done quite simply with a hypodermic, if the murderer wanted to risk working in that close.”
“I know,” I said. “But now you’re talking about real tricky spy stuff, sir. I didn’t know we were dealing with a pro.”
“Mrs. Drilling isn’t a professional, but her male friend is.”
“And just where is this guy Ruyter supposed to be hanging out with his ready stock of acids and poisons? Have we any reason to believe he’s here in Regina?”
“We have no evidence that he isn’t,” Mac said. “At the moment we do not know, unfortunately, just where Mr. Ruyter is. Of course, if he should be in Regina, he could have committed the murder himself.”
“It’s a possibility,” I said. “There’s another possibility, sir, that I think we’d better consider.”
“Go on.”
I looked at the black Volkswagen in the rain, and I thought of a girl in black pants and a white shirt, and I thought of a girl in just a white shirt.
I said, “You said it was a variation of the old ammonia technique. But there’s one big difference. The ammonia treatment generally wears off in time. As a rule it’s employed by people who don’t want to inflict permanent damage. But we’ve got a sadistic screwball loose here, somebody who likes to torment his, or her, victims before killing them.” I hesitated, and went on stiffly: “Either that or we’ve got somebody with a real big personal hate, say a girl with a marred face who’s had a goodlooking man turn her down crushingly, with snide remarks about her disfigurement.”
6
Having said it, I felt much better. As Elaine herself had said, what happens in bed never makes any difference; and I’d done my duty, I’d made my report. Nobody, not even I, could accuse me of concealing my suspicions because I happened to like the girl.
After a pause, Mac spoke in the phone: “You’re referring to Miss Harms, I presume. Are you proposing this theory seriously, Eric?”
“No, just calling attention to it as a possibility, sir. I thought I’d better mention it before we got our Drilling thinking all mixed up with a murder that might have been committed by somebody else.”
“What kind of evidence do you have?”
“Strictly circumstantial. Motive and opportunity—she admits she was at the motel. She says Greg was already dead when she got there, but we don’t have to believe her. And the weapon would have posed no problem for a trained agent, nor would finding the guts to use it.”
There was another, longer silence. Then Mac said, “You realize that we are not assigned to investigate a homicide, Eric. That is a problem for the local police, and for the girl’s own department, if she’s guilty.”
It was what I’d hoped he’d say. We don’t make a fetish of avenging our dead; half the time we don’t even stick around to bury them.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Any other problems?”
“Yes, sir. There are two male characters snooping around. One is tall, either bald or very blond—I couldn’t really make him out in the dark—and answers to the name of Larry. He tends to get lost in the woods at night.”
Mac said, “Larry Fenton. The other goes by the name of Marcus Johnston. He is the senior of the pair, in charge. I do not think he gets lost in the woods. A good, experienced man, apparently. This information came from the same source as that about Miss Harms. Whether they are all working together, or she is operating independently, I could not determine. I did not wish to ask too many questions. It is a rather delicate situation.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, so I said, “And then there’s this guy Ruyter, whatever his real name may be. If we don’t know where he is now, do we at least have some notion of where and when Mrs. Drilling is expecting to make contact with him?”
“That contact may already have been made, once.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“There are about twenty-four hours of her time unaccounted for since she left White Falls.”
“Only twenty-four?” I said. “Elaine Harms said three days.”
“What Miss Harms’ department can account for, and what we can account for, are two different things, Eric.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, chastened. “I’m beginning to gather that, sir. Like you said, a delicate situation, sir.”
“Mrs. Drilling was carefully escorted on her way, for reasons that will become clear to you. The surveillance was intended to be complete and, of course, undetected, at least in the initial stages: she was supposed to think she’d got away from White Falls unobserved. Unfortunately for the completeness, modern cars are built very low, for what purpose I have never discovered, except to knock off your hat as you get in. The man who was keeping an eye on the subject in British Columbia—not one of ours—was driving one of these rakish objects of the automotive designer’s art. Mrs. Drilling, as you know, drives a half-ton pickup truck. You can probably guess what happened.”
I said, “At a certain point the lady headed out into the boondocks and separated the men from the boys? Or shall we say, the vehicles from the toys?”
“Precisely. She and the little girl went fishing at a mountain lake. Whether by accident or design, they picked a lake, the road to which was atrocious. The truck, with adequate clearance, had no real trouble, but the streamlined sedan quickly came to a halt with a punctured oil pan and other damage. Mother and daughter had brought sleeping bags. They spent the night at the lake, while the agent who was supposed to watch them was busy walking out to find a wrecker. Next day they came back to the trailer, which they had left below, conspicuously displaying a handsome mess of rainbow trout.”
“So our girl’s a fisherwoman,” I said.
Mac said, “Or somebody is. What she encountered up there besides fish remains unknown. The agent with the stylish taste in automobiles was withdrawn after he’d pointed out the right camp to Greg, who took over the job of surveillance a little earlier than had been planned.”
I said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but I’m gradually getting the impression this is a putup job. If they’d been following her clear from the state of Washington, with just the one slip, they could presumably have stopped her and retrieved the precious documents at any time.”
“Any time after the first six hours, approximately.” I heard papers rustle a couple of thousand miles away. “According to the report I have here, at three-twenty p.m. of the day she left home Mrs. Drilling stopped in a small town and mailed a well-filled manila envelope to a Mrs. Ann Oberon, General Delivery, Inverness, Cape Breton Isle, Nova Scotia. Inverness is a mining town on the Atlantic coast—an ex-mining town, I should say, since the local coal mines have been shut down for years. Mrs. Drilling’s middle name is Ann, and her maiden name was O’Brien. The transition from O’Brien to Oberon has been made before.”
I said, “Like the one from Smith to Smythe. Or O’Leary to Alire, down Mexico way. Elaine Harms said she was proceeding on the theory that the lady might have mailed the stuff to herself somewhere, but she didn’t seem certain and she didn’t seem to know where.”
“I have already indicated that Miss Harms’ agency has been permitted to know only as much as is considered good for them.”
“I see,” I said. “So it’s definitely a plant. And they’re not in on it, but we are.”
“Precisely.”
“What about the Drilling woman? Do
es she know the papers are phony?”
“Of course not. Mrs. Drilling’s undisciplined, romantic impulses are being harnessed, like the power of the atom, for patriotic purposes. It was known when Ruyter appeared in this country last fall that his mission was to obtain information about Dr. Drilling’s work at White Falls. When it became apparent that he was planning to get his information through the wife, the affair was watched with great interest and careful plans were laid to take advantage of it. There was a setback last winter when somebody less susceptible to his charms called the F.B.I. anonymously and suggested that Hans Ruyter’s credentials should be investigated. It could have been a test to see how we—well, the agency then conducting the operation—would react. It could not be ignored. Ruyter was therefore banished in a convincing manner, but it was hoped that he would eventually get in touch with Mrs. Drilling, his last chance of accomplishing his assignment, and he did. When his summons came, she responded eagerly, according to the report. The prepared papers were made available to her, with Dr. Drilling’s assistance, and she took them.”
I said, “So the husband helped set her up. Nice guy.”
“I gather that Dr. Drilling feels that his honor has been besmirched and his reputation tarnished by his young wife’s shameless and treasonable behavior.”
“He sounds like a stuffed shirt,” I said.
“He is one,” Mac said. “But let us not complain, since his character operates in our favor. He has cooperated fully to date, and he has promised to give us any further help we may need.”
“Good,” I said. “I have an idea for a possible approach to the wife and child, but he’s going to have to back me up, if somebody should check.”
“He will,” Mac said. “Tell me what he is to say and he will say it. In addition to his other motives, he fears for his career. To continue with the story, after leaving White Falls, Mrs. Drilling proceeded to drive north. The briefcase she disposed of almost immediately, in a trash burner in a roadside picnic area, making an attempt, not entirely successful, to destroy it by fire. Later the same day she mailed the envelope, as I have said. An agent managed to catch a glimpse of the address without resorting to official means that might have betrayed our interest should anyone inquire later. Naturally, the one thing that must not cross Mrs. Drilling’s mind, or the minds of Ruyter and whatever associates he may have, is that we want those papers to go through.”
I frowned at the rain on the glass of the booth. “Objection, sir. Anybody can stuff an envelope full of paper and put it in the mail. There’s such a thing as a decoy, sir. It would have been more reassuring if the guy had looked inside.”
“The risks involved in tampering with the envelope were too great. The next best thing was done instead. The woman was, of course, expecting to be traced eventually, stopped, questioned, and searched. Presumably that was why she had disposed of the incriminating evidence at the earliest possible moment. It was arranged for her expectations to be fulfilled shortly after she entered Canada, and it was definitely established that she no longer had any valuable documents in her possession.”
“I see. Elaine said the outfit had been searched. This was before they lost track of her for a day.”
“Yes.”
“So she had the stuff when she left White Falls and she didn’t have it when she got to B.C. And she mailed only one item, I suppose, on the way.”
Mac said, “That is how it stands. It is not absolutely watertight, of course, but the agency from which we are taking over feels certain that she is heading for Inverness and that the material will be awaiting her there.”
I said, “And we want those papers to go through, you say?”
“Of course. As far as we are concerned, that is the whole purpose of the operation. We are to see that she is successful in retrieving the material in Inverness and making delivery.”
“Why? Have the scientific boys at White Falls cooked up something nice and misleading that they want served up with authentic trimmings to throw the other side’s research off the tracks?”
Mac said, “The reasons for the instructions have not been confided to us, Eric.”
I grinned at the dry tone of his voice. “I dig you, sir. It’s a big cake and we get to cut only a small slice off it. Ours not to reason why, and all that jazz. Back to that mountain lake our predecessor couldn’t make in his Detroit chariot. If Mrs. Drilling did meet Ruyter there for a council of war, would you say they’ve probably set up another rendezvous farther east?”
“It seems likely. One or more. Perhaps he will travel clear to the Atlantic coast independently and wait for her there. But perhaps not. She is, after all, an amateur; he may not trust her to make it alone. He may hover nearby, ready with secret advice and encouragement.”
I said, “And if I should chance to bump into him, what do I do, sir? Bow and excuse myself politely?”
“Naturally. He must not be harmed.”
I said, “Hell, can’t I even drown the kid if I feel aggressive? I mean, does this whole damn caravan have to get through intact? And are you sure there isn’t a dog or cat or pet parakeet I’m supposed to look out for, too?” He did not respond to my sarcasm. I sighed. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Drilling and entourage are to get where they want to go with any documents they care to bring along. Now tell me, sir, what’s apt to get in their way that’s so tough we’ve been called in for escort duty.”
Mac said, sounding surprised and rather reproachful, “You’re not thinking, Eric.”
“What am I not thinking of?”
“Consider,” he said, “that as far as all but a very few people in the world know, this woman has stolen highly secret information endangering the U.S. national security. This has, of course, been reported through all the usual channels—after as much delay as was considered safe, to give her the best start possible—and all the usual organizations are now taking all the usual actions. Well, you have already encountered three typical representatives. There may be more. Naturally we cannot request the withdrawal of agents assigned to the Drilling case by other departments. If there should be a leak, it would let our opponents know that we’re not quite as eager to repossess Dr. Drilling’s stolen notes as we’re pretending to be. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to catch on. The lost-document drill must be carried out to the last detail, or somebody might begin to question the authenticity of the missing, priceless scientific material.”
“Precisely. And still, Mrs. Drilling and Ruyter must get through. Not only must they get through, they must be free and clear at the critical moment, after the papers have been retrieved from the Inverness Post Office. They must get away clean by whatever route Ruyter chooses to leave the country. It is your job to arrange this after doing something very convincing to persuade them that you have no patriotic motives or connections whatever.”
“Yeah, convincing,” I said sourly. “Like blowing up the Washington Monument, or something. One question.”
“Yes, Eric?”
“Joking aside, if things get rough, just how far do I go to achieve all this?”
“As far as necessary,” he said calmly, two thousand miles away.
I started to speak quickly, and stopped. He would have thought of all the possibilities himself, before handing me the blank check with his signature on it. I didn’t have to point out that with such instructions I could easily wind up knee deep in dead men of two nationalities—and dead women, too.
“Yes, sir,” I said bitterly. “As far as necessary, sir. Very good, sir. Now with regard to the cover story I’ve been using, I’m making a few minor changes I hope will meet with your approval...”
7
Sitting in the Volkswagen parked beside the wet campground road, not far from the silver trailer in space twenty-three, I had plenty of time to review the conversation, memorize the description of Hans Ruyter I’d been given, and work out the final details of the story I was about to spring on the Drilling duo, mother and daughter. Then I saw t
he kid coming through the rain. She was about what I’d expected from the advance publicity. The bare knees were perhaps not quite as knobby as I’d feared they would be, but to make up for it the brown hair was rolled up on those big cylindrical curlers that have practically replaced hats for street wear. I suppose it’s stuffy and old fashioned of me to feel that a girl with her hair pinned up belongs at home, but as far as I’m concerned, she can even stay out of the living room if there’s company in the house.
The headful of parallel cylinders made Penelope Drilling look like a top-heavy little robot ready to tune in on messages from outer space. Covering the electronic receiving apparatus was a kind of nightcap of transparent plastic to keep the rain off, rigged to tie under the chin. There was a tiny kid face with big stary eyes behind hornrimmed glasses. The mouth, clumsily lipsticked, looked a little strained from closing over the metal that would eventually give her nice straight teeth, just as the stuff on her head would eventually give her nice curly hair. Atom bombs or no, she obviously had a lot of faith in the future, this kid. She was willing to forever look like hell today so she could look swell tomorrow.
She was wearing a rather short yellow raincoat and yellow rubber boots. She’d been over to the camp laundry—I’d seen her go before I moved into position— and she had a bundle of clothes in her arms. She came splashing along the road at a coltish run, hurrying to get out of the rain, and pulled up, startled, when I stepped out of the Volks in front of her.
“Miss Drilling?” I said.
She eyed me suspiciously and asked, “What do you want?” She started to sidle around me so she’d have a straight run for the trailer if I tried to bite her.
I said, “If you’re Penelope Drilling, I have a message for you.”
“I can’t talk to you,” she said, with a glance toward the trailer. Then she asked quickly, “A message? Who’s it from?”
“Your father.”
“Daddy? What does he—”
The Ravagers Page 4
