The Ravagers

by Donald Hamilton

  “Drive on up the coast,” she said. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  I said, “I thought we were all set to make contact tonight in a restaurant in French Harbor.”

  She wasn’t a very good actress. She met my eyes too candidly. “The plans have been changed,” she said. “I got hold of Gaston and told him we already had the stuff. He can’t get away immediately, he’s got something to do with the boat, but he wants to meet us early this afternoon and make arrangements; in the meantime we’re to go to a certain place and stay out of sight. I’ve got the directions.”

  “Sure.”

  The ocean was to our left as we came out of town. Well, actually the map said we were looking at the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and that the real ocean was way off to the north and east past the end of land, but it was enough salt water to impress an innocent New Mexico lad. Jenny drew a long breath, beside me.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, “but kind of scary. I always wonder what’s out there under the surface.”

  “Fishes,” I said. “And dead men’s bones.”

  “Watch where you’re driving,” Naomi said behind me. “Don’t turn here. We stay on the pavement for another couple of miles.”

  We followed the pavement past a bunch of deserted coal mines, and then we followed the gravel for a way, and then we were on dirt, and finally we wound up at another mine way out in the woods. It looked like any little old mine, east or west. I suppose an expert can tell at a glance what came out of them, but to me they all look alike, whether they once produced gold, silver, copper, or coal. There are the same dumps, the same wandering rusty tracks that once made sense to somebody, the same picturesque, crumbling hoists and elevators, and the same weathered shacks.

  At least they look the same to me, and I always have the same thought when I see one: Now, there’s a hell of a fine place to hide a body. Apparently it was a thought that had occurred to other people as well, unless I was doing Naomi and her unseen friend a grave injustice.

  I had no real doubt about what we’d been brought here for, Jenny and I. The trouble was, there wasn’t much I could do about it. The message still had to be delivered, and I was running out of carrier pigeons. Hans was dead. Jenny no longer qualified. That left only Naomi to carry the ball—Naomi, and Gaston Muir, an unknown quantity. My sense of self-preservation is as strong as anybody’s, but we’re not hired, after all, just to stay alive, although it’s considered a reasonable secondary objective.

  My primary objective, however, was to get the stuff onto Gaston Muir’s boat. In order to accomplish this, I had to keep both Naomi and her accomplice unhurt and unsuspicious, and the only safe way was to sit where I was put and wait for somebody to lower the boom on me. It took them a long time to get around to it. I suppose they were waiting, among other things, for me to get bored and sleepy. I considered dozing off, but decided it would be out of character. Jenny, however, curled up in the car and went to sleep.

  Then Naomi started to chatter brightly about one thing and another, and then, sitting on a log, I heard him coming up behind me. I found myself hoping he was a better sailor than he was a woodsman, or that boat would never get out of the harbor. I saw Jenny stir uneasily and come awake and look our way and see him—both car doors were open for ventilation—but she was, thank God, too late to call a warning. A gun-barrel touched the back of my head before she could open her mouth.

  Muir, if it was Muir, had a deep voice. “Do not move, Mr. Clevenger,” he said, behind me. He spoke to Naomi: “You said he had a knife, girl. Get it. Then go watch the woman.”

  I started at the touch of the gun, as if he’d taken me completely by surprise. Naomi darted forward, and got the little folding knife from my pocket and backed off, looking like the kitten that ate the robin, pleased and proud.

  She pocketed the knife, produced her glass pistol, slipped a rubber cap or stopper of some kind off the muzzle, and moved where she could aim the thing at Jenny.

  The situation was self-explanatory, and as a reasonably bright agent I’d have accepted the fact that I’d been double-crossed, and we could have gone on from there, skipping the corny dialogue. But I wasn’t supposed to be a reasonably bright agent, I was supposed to be a reasonably dumb private detective, so I went through the motions of looking shocked and outraged.

  “Hey, what is this?” I demanded. “Give me back my knife. Naomi, tell your pal he’s making a mistake—”

  Naomi laughed. “The mistake is yours, darling.”

  “Why, you treacherous little bitch!”

  I made as if to lunge for her and tear her to pieces with my bare hands. It was very dramatic, and I was told to sit still or get shot, and I sat still and went through the you-can’t-do-this-to-me routine, and the I’ll-get-you-if-it’s-the-last-thing-I-do routine, and a couple of the other verbal gambits people are accustomed to perpetrate on TV when they have guns pointed at them unexpectedly. I mean, there’s a whole literature on the subject, all of which assumes that the hero is an unstable idiot who’s got to blow his top noisily every time his fellow-men, or women, prove unworthy of his childlike trust.

  The man with the gun had moved around to where I could see him. He was a big, dark, middle-aged man with something of a belly on him. He was wearing a black seaman’s cap, an old black suitcoat, a work shirt buttoned to the neck, and clean overalls. His gun was a Luger, old and worn but showing no rust or neglect. It was the first 7.65mm Luger I’d seen in a long time. You hear more about the heavier 9mm cartridge these days, but the 7.65 was once considered very modern and high-speed stuff, shooting a light bullet at well over a thousand feet a second when that was very rapid indeed for a pistol.

  Gaston Muir, in contrast to his weapon, had a deliberate, slow-moving, almost gentle air. He let me rave a reasonable length of time, which was promising. I mean, if I’d been him, I’d have rapped me hard along the head with the gun-barrel to shut me up, but apparently he was a more kindly type. Maybe he even had objections to violence. It was an encouraging thought, but I didn’t put too much stock in it. After all, he did have a gun.

  “That is enough, Mr. Clevenger,” he said at last. “I said, that is enough, man!”

  I said, “Just do me one favor, Muir, if that’s who you are?”

  “I am Muir,” he said. “What is the favor?”

  I glared at Naomi. “Just let me get my hands on that slut for sixty seconds—”

  Muir said, “Please, Mr. Clevenger. We sympathize with your disillusionment, but as a sensible person you must realize that there is no place for you beyond this point. If we were to take you farther, you would learn things you should not know. Now go over and join the lady, if you please.”

  I rose from my log, growling something blasphemous, and went over to stand beside Jenny, who’d got out of the car. She glanced at me, and looked at Muir, and licked her lips.

  “What... what are you going to do with us?”

  I was annoyed at her for asking. I mean, if he admitted frankly that he was going to take us into the mine and shoot and bury us where no one was likely to dig us up accidentally, what had we gained? And if he said he wasn’t, how could we believe him? So why waste breath on a question that had only profitless answers, when the real answer was probably only a few steps and a few minutes away?

  I guess I was really annoyed with her because, after almost two full nights and days in the same dress, she looked kind of wilted and wrinkled, as well as scared, and I was sorry for her. I didn’t want to be sorry for her. I’d been sorry for Larry Fenton, and it had got me nothing but trouble. I reminded myself that Genevieve Drilling had bought chips in this game long before I had; there was no reason why she shouldn’t stick around to see the last hand with the rest of us.

  Naomi said, “What do you think we’re going to do with you, Mummy-dear? You see that black hole in the hillside up there? Start climbing!” She waved her weapon at both of us. “You, too, Dave, darling.”

  Muir asked, “Where are the p
apers, girl?”

  “On the back seat of the car.”

  “Are the keys in the car?”

  “I think so.”

  “Make sure,” Muir said. “And then get the coal oil lantern and the coil of rope that’s in that shack over there. Behind the door. And put that un-Christian weapon away. There’s no need for it here.”

  It was a frustrating situation. Usually, at the end of a job, you’re closing in on somebody you’re trying to catch. If you’ve used yourself as bait, which happens, at least there’s a point at which you’re allowed to stop acting meek and stupid: you can shed your shackles and start swinging. But here there was nobody to catch. In fact, my job was to see that they stayed uncaught, by me or anybody else.

  There was nothing for me to do, therefore, but scramble obediently up the slope behind Jenny. If I should overpower my captor and his small female ally, I’d have to get right to work and figure out a way to let them escape convincingly, unharmed. It was simpler and safer—at least as far as the job was concerned—just to play it docile and hope that the gods, or Gaston Muir, would be merciful. I wasn’t silly enough to count on mercy from Naomi.

  She came scrambling up the dump behind us, with a coil of rope over one shoulder, swinging a kerosene lantern by the bail. I noticed that, regardless of Muir’s orders, she hadn’t put her trick gun away. Jenny came to a stop at the mouth of the mine, breathing hard. It had been a hard climb up the slope of loose rock, particularly in high heels, and her face was shiny and the thin white stuff of her blouse clung damply to her arms. Her eyes were big and dark. She looked at me as I came up, with a question in her eyes, but the others reached us before she could put it into words.

  Gaston Muir had to light the lantern, since Naomi was too young to have learned about the methods of illumination that preceded universal electricity. Muir gave it back to her burning, and relieved her of the rope. No seaman can ever take a coil of rope without doing something with it; and we stood waiting while he recoiled it more neatly.

  Naomi made an impatient sound. “Just what’s that for, anyway?” she demanded.

  Muir looked surprised at the question. “Why, we have to tie them up, girl. We have to give ourselves time. I sent the preliminary signal this morning right after you called, but our friends will not come in all the way until they receive confirmation. They do not like being close to land. We must give ourselves time to make the final transmission and then reach the rendezvous point off shore, without interference.”

  Naomi was frowning. “You mean,” she said, “you mean you’re not going to kill them?”

  There was a little silence. Muir looked at her, and started to speak, and changed his mind. He seemed actually embarrassed. He looped the rope carefully over his arm, and gestured toward the mine opening, and cleared his throat.

  “You go ahead with the lantern,” he said. He cleared his throat again, and went on, “Killing is not my business, girl. I just transmit signals and run a boat. For some years I have run one here. Soon I will be running one somewhere else, wherever they send me. I try to run it without unnecessary bloodshed. Killing is not necessary here, so we will not kill.”

  “But it is necessary!” Naomi said hotly. “You know perfectly well, if they get loose too soon, they can spoil everything. We don’t have to take that risk! Besides... besides, they know too much about me. I’ll never be able to come back to this continent if they’re left alive to talk.”

  Muir was studying her thoughtfully. “Why,” he said, “why, you want to kill, don’t you? Do you know what Hans Ruyter said about you over the telephone? He said you were vicious, ambitious, and unreliable. Just what did happen to Hans, girl? How did he come to die? There will be questions asked about that, you may be sure.” His voice did not change as he continued: “Be careful with that weapon. I am a very good shot, and one can deliver the documents as well as two.”

  Naomi’s pretty baby face showed a moment of ugly, adult fury, quickly controlled. She shrugged her small shoulders and turned away. Muir gestured to me to follow. I guess it was a compliment: it showed he considered me the more dangerous of his two prisoners. He didn’t want me too close.

  “No tricks, Mr. Clevenger,” he said. “As you have heard, no one will be hurt if you both behave.”

  “Not hurt!” cried Jenny. “Tied up way underground? Why, we’ll die there before anybody finds us.”

  Muir said, “I doubt that, Mrs. Drilling. Your tall friend looks like a resourceful man. I’m sure that in time he’ll manage to get you both free. Now follow him, if you please.”

  She hung back. “But you can’t—”

  “Go on!” he snapped, losing patience, and she was silent. I heard her enter the tunnel behind me.

  It wasn’t a nice place. I mean, I have no spelunking ambitions whatever. I don’t like being underground, even in the best-run tourist caverns, and this was just an old, neglected, downward-sloping hole in the side of the hill. It was plenty wide enough, but a bump on the head quickly taught me it had not been cut for men six feet and above. There were rusty rails underfoot, laid on rotting wooden ties. From time to time we passed a corroded pulley or a twisted hunk of cable or a snarl of broken wire.

  I didn’t like it, but in a way it was a relief to know that the job was practically done. All we had to do now was let ourselves be tied up like docile children, and hope that Muir’s slow sanity would continue to control Naomi’s homicidal impulses. After the two of them had departed to take the papers on the final stage of the long journey that had started on the other side of the continent, we could worry about getting free. As Muir had suggested, I had some resources, including a trick belt buckle constructed specifically for taking care of ropes with which I might be tied.

  The tunnel got lower, in one place so low that Naomi, ahead, had to crouch well down to pass under the down-hanging rock. Her black pants were dusty now, I noticed, and her shirt tail was out. Coming to the same place, I had to get down to all fours to make it through. On the other side, the tunnel widened and there was plenty of headroom again.

  Behind me, I heard Jenny complaining bitterly about her impractical, hampering clothes and the damage she couldn’t keep them from sustaining in these rough and dusty surroundings. I had time to think that her griping had a contrived sound, as if she was talking to make reassuring noises, on the theory that any lady whose mind was on her nylons couldn’t possibly be considered dangerous...

  As the thought hit me, I turned, but I was too late. The fool woman had already gone into action. Maybe she really thought she was taking a last long chance for her life. Muir must have got careless, listening to her whining complaints. When he hunched down to make it under the low place, his gun was out ahead of him, and she was ready. There was a quick scuffle and a cry:

  “I’ve got his gun, Dave! Here, you know how to use it!”

  Then the Luger came sliding down the tunnel toward me. I’d as soon have been presented with a live rattlesnake. I didn’t want to shoot anybody. Jenny was on top of Muir, hammering at him with her fists in a vigorous and unladylike manner—I remembered her telling me about all the trucks and tractors she’d driven as a girl. I wondered where the hell all the nice little movie heroines had got to, the ones that cower against the wall, whimpering, while the men fight it out. In this spot, wanting nothing but peace and quiet and some ropes around my wrists and ankles, I had to have a redheaded Irish wildcat on my side.

  But there was no time for heavy thinking. I came out of my temporary daze. The gun was there and I snatched it up and threw myself aside, figuring there was bound to be acid in the air in a moment. I rolled over once and hit the side of the tunnel and came up with the gun ready, and saw that I was more or less right.

  Naomi had set the lantern down. Ignoring me, she was starting to draw a bead with her vitriol gun on the violent, thrashing struggle taking place on the old mine tracks above her. Apparently she didn’t care which combatant she sprayed, just so she got a piece of the actio
n.

  It couldn’t be permitted, of course. I mean, to put it bluntly, Jenny was expendable, but Muir wasn’t. He had to, by God, run a boat, and he was going to need good eyesight to do it. I wasn’t about to have him doused with acid, no matter what happened to anybody else. He’d given me the cue. He’d indicated that one could deliver the papers as well as two—if that one was Gaston Muir.

  I tried to do it the easy way, however. I honestly tried. I aimed the Luger to disarm, not to kill. I just kind of forgot what it was Naomi was holding. She’d swung her weapon high and now she was bringing it down, cowboy-fashion. They all think they have to chop holes in the air to aim a gun, forgetting that this up-and-down business only made sense back in the old cap-and-ball days when you had a fired percussion cap to toss clear, between shots, so it wouldn’t jam the action.

  As once before on this job, I had a snap shot to make with a strange pistol, but Muir’s gun was a nicely balanced piece that shot where it was pointed, and I made it. The little high-velocity 7.65mm bullet intercepted the kid’s swinging hand in midair, and the acid-gun blew up six inches in front of her face. I mean, when a glass container full of liquid is hit by a bullet traveling that fast, things don’t just shatter, they explode.

  There was a moment of complete silence, broken only by a kind of trickling sound as dirt dribbled from the tunnel roof here and there, dislodged by the concussion of the Luger. Jenny stopped trying to tear Muir to pieces and he stopped trying to fight her off. Everybody seemed to be waiting for something. Then Naomi screamed.

  22

  It was a fairly horrible sound in that underground tunnel; it seemed to fill the place with madly chattering and whimpering echoes. Naomi screamed again, and turned toward me blindly. One sleeve and shoulder of her dark cotton shirt was splashed with lighter stains where the acid was already taking out the color. She had both hands to her face. She didn’t seem to know that one was bleeding, drilled through by the same bullet that had destroyed her weapon. She stumbled over the lantern and fell, and the light went out.