Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  The car was where he’d left it. Undisturbed. On the floor was the other report. He heeled it under the seat with the sludge and crumbs and chewing-gum papers. No one would look for it there. There wasn’t any sign of a lookout, just cars from the south driving towards the north, cars from the north driving to the south. The sun was clear, it was going to turn into a blue day. A day to take your girl to the beach, later on build a fire of driftwood, later still watch the stars come out, one times a million stars. Tomorrow. He and Janni would follow the coast of Baja tomorrow. It would be warmer and bluer and there’d be a million times a million stars to cover them.

  Get lost. Pull into a motel, get some of that lost sleep before nightfall. Pass time easy. Keep away from Haig Armour. Run like hell from Schmidt’s boys.

  He couldn’t take it easy. Not until he’d seen Haig. He drove back into Beverly Hills, up the bowered driveway of the swank hotel, parked the old crate. It looked worse than ever among the Cadillacs and palm trees.

  He asked at the discreet desk for Haig Armour. The clerk couldn’t have been more courteous had Steve belonged knee-deep in carpet. He checked and then recalled cheerfully that Mr. Armour was at the pool.

  It was warm around the pool. There were some pretty, bronze starlets sunning in beach chairs, some dark and virile athletes showing off on the high board. The rhythmic thud of a tennis ball on the adjoining courts was counterpoint to the splash of the shining water. Haig was resplendent in bathing trunks. He left the cluster of sun bathers when he saw Steve. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Surprised?”

  Haig drew a bright canvas chair up to one of the white-painted tables. He gestured Steve to another. “I am rather,” he admitted.

  The sun was too hot in this protected area. “Why? Feather turn me in?” Steve shed his topcoat. “But you know more about me than she could tell you.”

  “She says you attacked her.”

  “Does she? You know more about her than I ever will.” Steve put his fist on the table. “Maybe she’ll move over to your side now. That’s all these kids are looking for, something to believe in, something to work for, and a little excitement thrown in. Why can’t you get them on your side?”

  “Feather’s not the ordinary kid.”

  “No, not exactly. Maybe she isn’t worth worrying about. But most of them are.”

  Haig said tiredly, “We try. Maybe not hard enough.” A white-coated boy shadowed the table. Haig asked, “Too early for a drink?”

  “Not a beer.”

  “Two.” He waited until the shadow faded. He was casual. “I heard you’d blown town.”

  “Without the report?” Steve smiled. “Reuben left. I told the hotel I’d be back. Your spies must be suspicious bastards.”

  “They lost you after you left the airport. Have you found Davidian?”

  Strange how you could be having the chills one hour, sweating it out the next. The beer was just right. “I’m still looking.” He asked it. “What was Albie after at F.B.I. headquarters?”

  Haig said, “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t.”

  Haig studied him. “He might have been trying to make a deal. He might have been using that as a false face to find out if you’d made a deal. Who killed him?”

  “I did. Radar.” It was hard to say what he’d come to say. “One thing I want you to know. Janni’s an innocent bystander.”

  Haig didn’t say anything.

  “That’s all she’s been in this whole business. She’s not mixed up in it in any way.”

  Haig went on listening.

  “Just because we knew each other a long time ago, don’t get the idea she’s on my side. She’s here clean. She wants to be a good American. That may sound corny to you, but that’s all she wants. She’s working for that.”

  “It may sound corny to you,” Haig said. “Not to me.”

  “Give her a chance. Leave her alone.”

  “Maybe I can help her.”

  Steve stilled the brutal pound of his heart. Sure, Haig could help her. She’d be valuable to Haig’s outfit, she knew the ropes. Haig could help her in too many ways. You couldn’t call a man a bastard when you were asking a favor. If tonight brought the ultimate danger, Janni would have someone to look out for her. Nothing was going to happen, not on an easy job like this.

  “I just wanted you to know,” Steve said.

  He walked away. He could get lost now.

  4

  He spent the afternoon on the public beach at Santa Monica. Beach kids all around him for safety. The report wrapped in his coat made a nice pillow. He might have caught a little nap, the rocking surf was soothing as a cradle.

  He ate a good dinner in the canyon just off the beach. The next couple of hours he eliminated in a double-feature movie on Wilshire. When it was time to start for Hollywood, he took it easy.

  There’d be a getaway car, he didn’t have to park too near Mr. Oriole’s. The old house looked quiet enough when he rolled by. But there were lights on behind the lace curtains and the shades were drawn. They were waiting for him.

  He found a spot on a side street headed towards Sunset, left the car there. He walked back to Selma. The report was under his arm, the gun in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like to pack a gun but sometimes it was needed. When you were too rushed for a knife. He kept his fingers crossed that nothing had altered the schedule. He climbed the porch steps, hit the bell.

  Mr. Oriole was a little cross. “So you are here.”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  The door widened. “After last night, we did not know what to expect.”

  Steve walked in. “What are you grousing about?” His voice was louder than it should be, to make sure it was heard in the next room. No sense going through the routine twice. “I was out working. You were sitting around on your fat behind.”

  Mr. Oriole’s lip pouted but he only said, “In here,” and parted the portieres.

  The Eldon Mortizes weren’t there or their lovely niece, they were too elegant for dirty business. But Schmidt was there, and Llewellyn, the bookshop fellow, already promoted to Albion’s position? A burly six-footer who could drive piles with his bare fist was by the side window. His companion was the popcorn man. Steve wasn’t surprised at the aggregation; this was it. The hatchet squad and the executives. First they’d have the report, then they’d hold court. Maybe Albion had passed on his suspicions. Maybe it was only Schmidt’s jealousy. Easy enough to send black-bordered regrets to New York, accident in line of duty; better yet the outright lie that Stefan Winterich was a traitor. Even a suspected traitor didn’t rate an investigation, much less a tear.

  Steve took an arrogant stand, in line with the back-parlor exit. “Quite a gathering,” he commented.

  Schmidt was cold. But he couldn’t quite disguise the crackle of excitement as his eyeglasses glinted towards the manuscript under Steve’s arm. “You have the Davidian report?”

  “Certainly I have it. You don’t think I’d be here wasting time if I didn’t.”

  Schmidt’s fingers trembled.

  “The question is,” Steve said insolently, “can you take care of it reaching New York safely?”

  “You may depend on that.” Schmidt’s voice was almost eager.

  Steve didn’t pass it over yet. “I wasn’t asked to bring it back. My part of the job ends right here.”

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Just so it’s clear,” Steve said. He walked over to Schmidt’s chair. “It’s your baby now.” He let it drop to Schmidt’s lap.

  The neat fingers clutched it. The eyeglasses lifted after a moment. “You took care of Davidian?”

  “What do you mean?”

  From behind him he could feel the creak of the brute and the catarrhal breathing of the popcorn man. Mr. Oriole twined his plump hands together. Only Llewellyn, made in the Schmidt image, was unperturbed.

  Schmidt almost screamed it. “You allowed him to esc
ape?”

  “He’s around. All I did was get him drunk enough to talk. And take his God-damned report away from him.”

  Schmidt said thickly, “The F.B.I. will find him.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “He can write another report.” Schmidt was the type to worry. “He’s a traitor. He can’t be let go.”

  “I follow orders,” Steve said. “That way I stay out of trouble. My orders didn’t say anything about Davidian. Only to get the report.” He moved as if he were about to leave. “I got the report. Okay?”

  The scream was rising. “We don’t know where he is.”

  Steve smiled. He swiveled his head to give all of them a good look at the smile. But he was getting nervy. It was time something should be happening. “You want me to bring him in?” The contempt for Schmidt’s organization was as open as if he’d spit on them.

  Schmidt was saved an answer. It began to happen. Steps on the porch, the doorbell. Mr. Oriole didn’t believe it. He moved uncertainly in the direction of the disturbance. There was silence awaiting his return. It happened fast then. Schmidt clenching the report as Oriole returned with a big man; it was Hale. Ferber had come in the back way. There’d be others on the doors; a friend out back.

  Hale said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr. Schmidt?”

  Schmidt knew his rights. “I do not understand.”

  “We’ve got a few questions to ask you. And you, Mr. Oriole. And your Berlin friend, Steve Wintress, or Stefan Winterich.”

  Schmidt sputtered, “This is an outrage! You invade a private home—”

  “We’ve got a warrant,” Hale said patiently.

  Ferber said, “I’ll take those papers.”

  Schmidt hadn’t known Ferber was behind him. He wasn’t going to give up the report easy. They were both hanging onto the phony report. Steve dived as he announced, “I’m not taking this rap.” Ferber was too busy to grab a gun. Oriole was in Hale’s way. Steve dived for the back parlor, cracked out the window. He heard Hale’s shout, Ferber’s reassurance, “He can’t get away.” And a rumble, that would be Hale, “Where do you boys think you’re going?” The goons wouldn’t get to duck out.

  And he was in the blackout of the back yard, cutting swiftly for the fence. A heavy hand on his shoulder halted him. “Come on.”

  He mouthed, “W-5,” but the hold wasn’t released. It couldn’t be there’d be a mess-up now. There was no time for a confab, he had to get clear and fast.

  He tried to wrest away but the clamp held on his shoulder. He didn’t want to use the gun but it looked as if he’d have to. He was struggling for his pocket when the guy undertoned in his ear, “Come on, you fool! Why do you think the engine’s running?”

  He heard the purr of it then; recognized the shape of a car in the driveway headed towards the street. He let the fellow drag him along.

  “Get in. Lie on the floor, pull the robe over you until we’re out.”

  As Steve ducked into the rear, he caught a quick glimpse of the man. Wilton. He burrowed under the robe. Wilton was at the wheel and had the car rolling.

  Steve told him, “I’ve got a car around the corner in the next block. Drop me there.”

  Wilton said, “You’re driving this one.”

  A shapeless hat, an old raincoat. A man who was as much like him as his own brother. He should have caught on before. There were always earmarks of a man on a special assignment. He felt the swerve of the car out of the drive. They were picking up speed.

  And then the implication of the words slashed through. He yanked the cover off his face. “I’ve got a bag and a hotel bill.”

  “They’ll be handled.”

  He tried again, raising his voice enough for the weight of it to carry through. “I’ve got to make a stop.”

  “No stops.”

  “Look here, Wilton. It’s safe. No one’s looking for me tonight. The little Cocos won’t move until Schmidt gives the word. And Schmidt’s going to be too busy tonight to worry about me.” It wouldn’t take a minute. “The F.B.I. will know you’ve got me under wraps.” Wilton could keep the car gunned while he picked her up.

  “Orders, Steve.”

  Desperation tore the words from him. “I’ve got to, Wilton!”

  She was there waiting for him, the pulse in her throat beating. He’d told her he’d come, that this time he wouldn’t let anything keep him from coming.

  “Sorry, Steve.” Wilton meant it; he’d know; he was in the cage himself. “I’ve got to put you aboard a fishing smack at San Pedro before midnight. We’re cutting it fine.”

  It wouldn’t take a minute. Just while he told her it couldn’t be tonight. The road from Hollywood to San Pedro wasn’t by way of Main Street. Some other time, baby. It wouldn’t take that long to look on her face once more.

  “I signed you on two days ago. You’ll find the duds I wore back on the seat. Once we get loose on Sepulveda you can change.”

  She’d wait for him until he didn’t come. And then she’d walk home alone,” hurting; hurting like hell tonight; tomorrow, hating.

  “Your name is Dick Wilton. You’ll get your new orders in La Paz.”

  The punk in the sharp suit and the curly sideburns would want to take her home. She wouldn’t let him tonight. At least tonight she’d walk alone.

  “I drive the car over the border and ditch it. Your coat and hat will be in it and enough identification. You’re getting away to Mexico.” He made it clear. “We won’t use you in this country again until it’s safe.” Until never. “Can’t take any chances. You’re worth too much to us, Steve.”

  The car was on a straightaway now, moving fast. Faster, further away from her waiting there. Her breasts rising and falling like proud music under the stars; her eyes watching every passer-by, eyes brighter than the brightest stars. Tomorrow they would be stones. If he could stop thinking about her … “How did the F.B.I. get into this?”

  “We asked them in.” There was relief in Wilton’s voice. Steve was taking it. “We needed them. The C.I.C. hasn’t any power in civvie matters. They get some men they’ve been watching; we get the report. Pop ought to be setting the real one down in Washington by now. No one will ever know the one you gave Schmidt was a phony. It’ll be returned to us unread. Too bad, we coded a beaut. You can start changing, Steve. But keep down.”

  Don’t take any chances. We need you. We need the bloody heart out of your body.

  “How much does Haig know?”

  “About you? Nothing. He knows our outfit loaned me to the F.B.I. to take Stefan Winterich. Unless he starts figuring. He’s smart.”

  Smart enough to know that Steve was telling him that Janni might need help? Beyond the line of duty? Yeah, smart enough. Smart enough not to mention Steve, to let her forget, to take over.

  “Conceited bastard.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s a straight shooter. He played it that way because of your reputation for arrogance, to beat you at your own game.”

  “He hates my guts.”

  “He hates the guts of anyone who’s venal enough—or ignorant enough—to sell out to the Kremlin.”

  So he was a decent guy. So she’d be better off with him than she could ever have been with Stefan Winterich. Don’t think about her. “What about Davidian?”

  “He’s safe.”

  “There isn’t a safe place left,” Steve said. “Nowhere in our world.”

  “That’s why we’re in this business,” Wilton said.

  Yes, that was why. The agents and the special agents of the Counter Intelligence Corps. Trained in—he could quote it word and letter—“… the art of catching spies, also the science of denying the enemy the information he must have …” The expendables. Eating danger and hanging onto the hope that men of good will would someday realize the old, old dream of peace. Until then there was the job, a dirty job, because war was dirty. You didn’t need a proclamation calling it war; without peace, war was. Steve was a good agent, he could stoop to any di
shonor without conscience, steal from a blind begger, bribe a saint, lie to the beloved’s face, murder without trace or tear. A monotone along the dusty alley of death.

  Wilton said, “We think we can keep him safe. He’s going to work for us.”

  “You can’t trust him.”

  “We know. We’ve had others like him. But it’s surprising how a man can change when he, has plenty to eat and a decent place to live and a doctor to take care of the sore spots. When he’s treated like a man. You can cure hate.”

  Steve had squirmed into the rough pants, the work shirt, the leather jacket. The suit he’d worn, this cloth her hands had touched, would disappear with Steve Wintress. And Davidian. She’d believe that he had hounded Davidian into another rotten exile.

  “They’ll catch up with him, Wilton.” That hurt too. “They can’t afford to let him go.”

  “Don’t be so sure. We know a few tricks ourselves. He’ll have you to dinner when you get back.”

  When you get back. If you get back. There’s an end to everything, there’s an end to this game. If only he could have told her. Who do you think held the gun at that guard’s spine while Davidian scurried across the barrier? Who fixed it so that you could get away to the refuge of this last, very best hope of all men, this land still of the free and the brave? If only he could have touched her.

  “You say something, Steve?”

  “Nothing.”

  Some other time baby. Another year. Another eternity. My darling … my darling …

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