The Ravagers

by Donald Hamilton

  “Sure,” I said, and it did. Not that I really needed the direction—I already knew where she had to go, remember, and she’d actually pointed us the right way—but the fact that she could be bluffed into giving it promised well for the future.

  18

  Mac said, “I don’t know, Eric. What are you trying to say, that Ruyter wasn’t as important to the operation as we’ve been assuming?”

  “Something like that, sir. Not essential, anyway.”

  It sounded weak, like a schoolboy saying it wasn’t a very big window he’d broken and it had been cracked anyway. Mac was silent. I could visualize him frowning, some five hundred miles to the south and west of where I stood in a little red roadside phone booth. We’d passed the longitude of Washington a day earlier. We’d come a long way, in more ways than one.

  “It seems unlikely,” Mac said at last. “After all, our information is that he was the man sent from overseas to do the White Falls job. The woman is only a convenient tool he picked up when he got there.”

  I looked out through the glass at the convenient tool sitting in the Volkswagen parked nearby. It was still dark but I could see that mother and daughter were taking advantage of my absence from the car to hold a conference, of which I flattered myself I was probably one subject. I would have liked to know the others.

  I said, “I’m not sure we’ve been given the right dope on this situation, sir. I’ve got a hunch there’s an element our informants overlooked, somewhere. In particular, I don’t think they had this woman figured right.”

  “In what way, Eric?”

  “She was supposed to have been doing all this because she was crazy about Ruyter, wasn’t she? Well, I can testify that she has displayed no visible signs of infatuation, sir. I got a distinct impression that while she’d tolerated him as a bed partner a few times, more or less to spite her husband, she didn’t even think that much of him any longer. At one point she came damn close to asking me to help her escape from his clutches, or words to that effect. When he was shot, far from mourning over his body, she seemed a lot more concerned over Larry Fenton’s death— well, over the fact that a government man had got killed.”

  “If passion isn’t the lady’s motive power, what alternative do you suggest?”

  I hesitated. “Well, I think he had something on her, sir. Something big enough that she had to jump when he cracked the whip. Bigger, say, than a spot of casual adultery.”

  Mac said, “The man is dead. He is cracking no whips. And still you seem to think there’s hope that she intends to carry his plans to completion.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “That’s the impression I get. Maybe the whip has been passed to someone else, someone here in the east. But even if it hasn’t, even if the possibilities of blackmail—if that’s what it was—died with Ruyter, what choice does she have now? She’s committed; she can’t turn back. What’s behind her except an embittered husband, a lot of law, and four dead bodies? She may not be legally responsible for all of them, maybe not for any of them, but once she’s caught up in the investigation she’ll never get free and she knows it. There’s also a little charge of dealing with her country’s enemies, technically known as treason. She can’t stop now.”

  “You’re assuming she has somewhere to go.”

  “Hell, she was going there when I stopped her in the hotel corridor, sir. I’m sure Ruyter had an international escape hatch up here somewhere; and he told the daughter enough before he died that mama thinks she can find it, or at least make contact with someone who’ll lead her to it.” I paused briefly. “Do we have any dope on how Ruyter got here in the first place? I mean, did he come by plane, or ship, or did he swim ashore like a seal? If we knew how he was landed, maybe we’d know more about how he was expecting to get away.”

  Mac said, “It’s a reasonable thought. It occurred to me some time ago.”

  “And?”

  “And the people who have that information are not parting with it, Eric. Security is very tight in this area.”

  I made a face at the telephone box on the wall. “One day we’re going to get so damn secure that the Russians will take us over and nobody’ll know it because nobody’ll dare talk to anybody else, about that or anything else.” I drew a long breath and played my lone ace. “Well, you go ask these secure people if the name Gaston Muir means anything to them, sir. He lives in a place called French Harbor. He has a boat there. According to my map, French Harbor is a small coastal village on Cape Breton Isle, Nova Scotia, not more than thirty miles from our ex-mining town of Inverness. I just got that out of the kid. I’m getting to be a terrible bully, sir.”

  “Gaston Muir,” Mac said. “French Harbor. I’ll see what reaction it brings. This is what Ruyter told the little girl?”

  I said, “If you call a teenager a little girl, you’re apt to get a poke in the eye, sir. But, yes, if she’s telling the truth, and I think she is up to a point, this is the dope Ruyter wanted Penny to pass on to her mother. Mrs. Drilling was to come to French Harbor properly equipped—I presume this means with the papers. She was supposed to make contact with either Ruyter himself or this Muir character at a certain waterfront joint at six o’clock in the evening the day after tomorrow—well, that’s tomorrow, now. In case of emergency, say if she couldn’t make it, she was supposed to get word to Muir by way of the general store; leaving a certain innocuous message. The kid wouldn’t tell me the code. She balked there, and I figured I’d got enough for the time being without getting really rough.”

  “I see. Tomorrow evening, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you think Mrs. Drilling will go through with it in spite of the changed situation?”

  “I think she has no choice, sir. And in order to buy her way to safety, she’s got to bring the papers as instructed. Ruyter’s friends may possibly help her get away without Ruyter, but not without the stuff. She’s got to have something to bargain with.” I paused for breath. “What it amounts to, sir, is that we’ve lost one of our carrier pigeons, but with a little luck the message may still get delivered if we can all stay out of jail until tomorrow night. That’s up to you. I’ve got some seven-eight hundred miles still to go, and I’m not going to be able to do much hiding and dodging if I’m to stick to Ruyter’s timetable. Nor am I in any position to outrun the Canadian cops, with forty horsepower and two lady passengers. Somebody’s damn well got to tell them to look the other way as we go by.” There was a little silence. I didn’t venture to guess which way he’d decide. Even if he thought there was a chance of retrieving the mission, he might feel that the fumble-witted agent on the spot was just too damn incompetent to take advantage of it—and he’d have a point.

  He said at last, “It will take a good deal of delicate diplomatic maneuvering to arrange a safe-conduct for you through three provinces, Eric, when the charge is murder. I don’t really know if it can be done, without causing disastrous comment.”

  I said, “They shot each other, Fenton and Ruyter. At least I set it up that way. The authorities don’t have to believe it, but they can pretend they do for a day or two. That way they’re only looking for some missing witnesses. They don’t have to look too hard.”

  “And how do you propose to handle a certain Mr. Johnston, who is presumably on the vengeance trail, or will soon be?”

  “You handle him, sir. Have somebody call him off. For questioning about his partner’s death, say.”

  “I can only make suggestions and recommendations. I have no authority over his department.”

  “No, sir.”

  “If I should fail in my efforts to have him withdrawn—”

  I waited a little and said, “Yes, sir?”

  “I hope you have no tender, brotherly feelings for the gentleman, such as you seem to have had for his youthful associate.”

  “No, sir.”

  “There is also the little girl—excuse me, the young lady. She may prove to be a nuisance. Since you do not seem to understand
indirect orders, Eric, I will give them to you directly: if she, or anyone else, should again threaten the success of this mission, you will arrange for them to have an immediate accident, preferably fatal. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  He went on: “We were not assigned to this job to be nice to little girls, or to clumsy young operatives from other bureaus; quite the contrary. Being nice to people is not our business. If you simply have to be nice, Eric, I will refer you to a very pleasant gentleman who recruits for the Peace Corps. You’re a little over the age, I believe, but I will be glad to give you the highest recommendations. Maybe they will make an exception for you, since you obviously have the good of all humanity at heart.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all. I’ll see what can be done at this end.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I heard the connection being broken. I let my breath out softly. Well, I’d had it coming. And he was letting me go on, and even backing me, and I’ve been reamed out before. It could have been worse. But I still took off my hat and dried my forehead with my handkerchief as I went back to the car.

  I made kind of a production of it, in fact. My harem, suddenly busy with comb and lipstick—you wouldn’t have known they’d said a word to each other all the time I was gone—looked at me questioningly as I got in, still mopping my brow.

  I said, “Phew. That was my boss in Denver. The F.B.I. has already been at him. He’s washing his hands of me, he says. He wants no part of murder, particularly a murder tied in with something as big as this. That’s the way he put it.” I looked at Jenny in the semi-darkness. “What the hell have you got me into, Irish?” She didn’t speak, and I said, “Well, whatever it is, you’re going to get me out, hear? Clear out of the country. The kid’s already told us where to go. French Harbor. But you’re the girl who’s going to tell us where to pick up our steamboat tickets. Right now.”

  Jenny licked her lips. “What do you mean?”

  I said, “Don’t act dumb, doll. Everybody’s after something, something big, and you’ve got it or know where it is. Well, I want it. Your pal Ruyter had a getaway all arranged, but his friends aren’t going to be happy about smuggling a stranger out of the country. Only, they aren’t going to get what they want unless they do, understand? Because you’re going to give it to me, not to them.”

  “Are you... are you threatening me, Dave?”

  I laughed. “Cut it out, doll. I gave you a chance to play it smooth and nice—chivalry, romance, and the works— and you tried to run out. Now we’re just two crooks on the lam, and I’m lots bigger than you, and lots tougher. And if you don’t think I can learn every last thing you know, just try me.” I grimaced. “Take my word for it. Now or half an hour from now, you’ll talk. I didn’t become a private op because I had a weak stomach, and my life’s at stake. You can talk in one piece or you can talk all busted up. That’s the choice.”

  The kid spoke from the back seat. “He means it, Mummy! You know he means it! Tell him!”

  Jenny said, “Dave, do you know what it is you’re asking for?”

  I said, “No, and I don’t give a damn. Just so it’s valuable enough to somebody that they’ll help me out of this mess you’ve got me into, and maybe throw in a little cash on the side.”

  “It’s... some scientific information about a certain project of my husband’s, a very secret U.S. government project.”

  “So what?” I laughed sharply. “Irish, you’re not going to get on the patriotism kick at this late date? Jeez, look who’s talking!”

  She was silent. I waited. The kid stirred in back but didn’t speak. Jenny drew a long breath and said, “Inverness.”

  It was no time to be hasty. I was David Clevenger. I wouldn’t know where a lousy little mining town in Nova Scotia was located. Matt Helm might, but not Dave Clevenger. I got out a road map, reached up to switch on the dome light by my left ear, and checked the index.

  “Inverness, J-6,” I said. “Here we are, just down the coast from French Harbor. Irish, you might even be telling the truth. Where in Inverness?”

  She hesitated only briefly. “The post office.”

  “I see. You mailed it to yourself. Bright girl. Under what name?” She paused again, and I said irritably, “Don’t make me do my tough act all over again, damn it! Haven’t I convinced you I mean it?”

  Jenny glanced at the girl in the back seat, as if for advice or, maybe, moral support. Penny said quickly, “Go on, Mummy! Please tell him. After all, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? We need his car and his help to get there, don’t we?”

  Jenny sighed. “Oberon,” she said. “Mrs. Ann Oberon.”

  “Sure,” I said softly. “Sure. Sorry I had to talk so nasty. Mrs. Ann Oberon. Inverness. Nova Scotia.” Well, it was part of the public record now. I was free to use it as I pleased. I drew a long breath and looked around at the kid. Now that it was all over, I was embarrassed to see that she looked a bit mussed; I’d had to shake her up some, earlier. I said, “And my apologies to you, too, Miss Drilling.” She looked back at me with naked, serious eyes. I didn’t think I was her hero any longer, even if I had licked two bad men with only a little stick to help me. That was a long time ago. I said, “You’re in a bad way without those glasses, aren’t you, honey? Let me see them. Maybe I can stick them back together temporarily.”

  She gripped her purse tightly and shook her head. She wasn’t taking any favors from me. She knew I was just trying to salve my conscience by being nice to her. I took the purse from her fingers and got the glasses out. They weren’t badly broken. A hinge had been twisted loose in her struggle with Fenton, that was all. I tightened the remaining screws with the point of my knife, and reinforced the corner with adhesive tape from a box of Bandaids I had in the glove compartment. Then I picked up my handkerchief and checked the lenses, to see if I’d got any smears on them.

  The car was very still. Nobody moved. I looked through the lenses, and remembered a pair of glasses I’d examined in their trailer, a pair of little-girl glasses with a very strong prescription. These were not the same lenses. They weren’t even close. In fact, they had no prescription at all. They were just colorless sunglasses.

  19

  Somebody moved at last. In the back seat, the kid brought a hand up from behind her. She was pointing something at my head. This much I knew without really looking around. Sooner or later I was going to have to turn and see just what she was threatening me with—if I got to live that long—but it seemed best to take a moment or two first to try to straighten out my scrambled thoughts.

  I looked at the useless glasses in my hand. Penelope Drilling was nearsighted. This much was firmly established. When you came right down to it, it was just about all that was firmly established about her. Crazy as it might seem, nobody had ever made a real identification of the kid for me, and I doubted anybody had for Greg. As I recalled Mac’s statement on the subject, the camp had been pointed out to Greg when he came on the job—just the camp. And shortly before that mother and daughter had spent a day unobserved in the mountains of British Columbia while the man who was supposed to watch them was having trouble with his low-slung Detroit glamor-buggy.

  Apparently nobody had really checked that the two people who’d come down from that mountain lake had been the same two people who’d gone up. That was the only reasonable explanation I could think of for the evidence in my hand. After all, who looked at kids, anyway, on a job like this? To an adult agent concentrating on the behavior of the senior female Drilling after her temporary disappearance, one junior miss tagging along with spectacles on her nose and braces on her teeth would look pretty much like any other from a distance, particularly if she kept doing the same odd teenage stunts with her hair.

  It was very clever and tricky, like the rest of this operation, and when I had time to work it all out I’d undoubtedly find that it cleared up a lot of problems that had bothered me—about Jenny’s behavior
, for instance— but first I had to survive the next few minutes.

  I said carefully, in a puzzled voice, “That’s funny. I thought—”

  “What did you think, Mr. Clevenger?” It was the kid’s voice, and still it wasn’t. It had a cold, adult quality that no fifteen-year-old girl could ever achieve. “Don’t move,” it said. “Don’t even look around.”

  “I said, “Honey, if that’s a gun you’re pointing at my head, go easy. I’m a mouse. I’m a little woolly lamb. You don’t want to hurt me.”

  “What did you think, Mr. Clevenger?”

  “Well, I was told that Penelope Drilling was nearsighted to the extent of eight or ten diopters, if that’s the right way to put it. Anyway, she’s pretty damn nearsighted,”

  “And?”

  “Well,” I said, “I came on the job kind of hastily, remember? After Mike Green had turned up dead, I was just sent out to make contact with a woman and a young girl associated with a certain truck-trailer combo. Color, make, license plates. Thumbnail sketch of subject. These spectacles are windowpanes, honey. As a detective, I have to conclude that either they’re not yours, or you’re not Penelope Drilling.”

  “You put it very clearly, Mr. Clevenger. I’m not Penelope Drilling.”

  I drew a cautious breath. At least I’d got her to say it out loud and I wasn’t dead yet. I shook my head ruefully.

  “You must have had lots of fun laughing at me behind my back. And your so-called mother, here, who’s she?” I didn’t look at Jenny. “Do the freckles come off, too?”

  “No.” The kid’s voice was scornful. “No, Mummy-dear is quite genuine, aren’t you, Mummy-dear? But the real Penny-darling is being held in a safe place out west as a hostage for Mummy-dear’s good behavior. Ugh. You may turn your head now, Mr. Clevenger.”