"Git, I said."
"We're hungry and thirsty. We'd like help getting back to town. Maybe you'll give us a lift with your kicker."
The gray man looked at Deirdre and then at Durell and nothing changed in his face. It was a knotty slab of weathered cypress.
"I'm not goin' anywhere today. I got my traps to run."
"Then let me hire your kicker. I'll send it back tonight."
"I tol' you, I got to run traps today."
"Look, I'm not asking help for nothing." Durell said patiently. "I'll pay you. Will ten dollars be enough?"
"I'm busy today."
"Twenty?"
"Git," said the gray man.
Durell said angrily, "How much do you want to help us?"
"I got nothin' to sell you."
"All right," said Durell. "We'll go."
"You got a gun on you, mister. I can see it. Leave it here."
Durell took his gun from his pocket and tossed it to the cot and started through the door. The muzzle of the rifle followed him in a brief arc. As he passed the gray man, Durell jumped arid knocked the pump gun aside and hit the bayouman with all his strength. As the man sprawled in the saw grass, Durell picked up the rifle. Deirdre's face was white. She ran into the cabin and retrieved Durell's gun.
"What kind of man is that?" she asked. "You told him we were lost and hungry!"
Durell made no reply. He watched the bayouman hitch himself backward on his rump until he leaned against the shack. Durell took out a twenty-dollar bill from his sweat-soaked wallet and threw it to the ground. "We're borrowing your boat, outboard, and rifle. You can pick them up in Bayou Peche Rouge."
The bayouman simply looked at him with dull hatred.
* * *
It was nearly noon when the high stacks of the Three Belles loomed above the oaks on shore. Durell slowed the kicker and the boat eased into the lagoon with a diminished surge of power. He held the .30-08 rifle across his knees and watched the channel open up to reveal the ancient hulk of the old side-wheeler.
The Three Belles rested in the mud at the upper end of the lagoon, whose waters appeared black and bottomless. She looked the same as always: a forgotten ghost in a forgotten backwater. The network of guy wires between the twin stacks was festooned with moss. Then the upper decks came into view, still white, with huge antique lettering in red curlicues and ornate serifs spelling out her name. Finally the gingerbread rails, the wide afterdeck, the squat paddle-wheel housings amidships. Her machinery had long since been sold for scrap.
Forty years ago, in a poker game that lasted from Memphis to New Orleans, Jonathan Durell had won the Three Belles on a final double-or-nothing turn of the card. In the midst of a champagne celebration later, word came to him that his wife had died in a fire that destroyed his home at Bayou Peche Rouge. Jonathan had ordered everyone ashore except a skeleton crew to work the steamboat, and had run the side-wheeler downriver and into the bayou and full tilt into the mud ashore, where the blackened ruins of his home still smoldered. He had never left the bayou since.
Durell saw nothing to alarm him. Sunlight winked off broken glass in the salon windows and glimmered on brass in the pilot house, where Jonathan had his sleeping quarters. Yet his nerves jumped in him like tight wires that pulled at his bones and his skin.
Deirdre looked at the old steamboat with soft eyes.
"So this is where you were born. I think it's wonderful."
"The old man is wonderful," Durell said.
"Isn't he here now?"
"He must be. He couldn't be far away."
He eased the boat around the low freeboard of the bow and cut off the kicker. The racketing sound of the motor died away across the lagoon, pillowed in the stately oaks and cypress trees. Silence crept in after the echoes. The air was hot and still.
The old man might be asleep. He might have taken a pirogue and gone fishing for his supper. He might be sick. He might be dead.
"Grandpa!" he called.
His words had a strange, muffled quality. The echoes rolled back and forth, back and forth. There was no answer.
"Come on," he said to Deirdre.
He tied up to the stern of the hulk and helped Deirdre to the deck. He did not know what he had expected here, but ever since he had settled on the Three Belles as their destination, he had looked forward to its peace and beauty as an oasis of serenity, where time was endless and unchanging. His nerves felt raw. He held the rifle ready as he led the way across the vine-grown deck toward the lacy stairway that lifted up to the once plush cabin deck. From this height they looked out over the clearing where Jonathan's fire-gutted house of forty years ago made a mound of vines and young cypress trees, with here and there a black beam exposed. The twin chimneys stood stark against the hot, murky sky. Anxiety clutched him, honed sharp by the silence. A hundred boyhood memories came back to him. He remembered climbing the giant rusted rocker arms that turned the paddle wheels, exploring the dusty, mysterious staterooms and the vast echoes of the boilers; he remembered fishing off the stern, swimming in the lagoon, climbing the rickety stacks while his grandfather shouted in alarm…
"Sam," Deirdre said. "Is anything wrong?"
"I don't know." He had stopped in the wide corridor that led forward to the pilothouse. "It smells like a trap."
"But who could know about this place?"
He was irritable. "Washington. Weederman. Anybody."
He started walking ahead of the girl. Better get it over with. He went into the wide pilothouse, where the sun shone through old curved glass windows and glinted on the brass fittings of the wheel. Even as he stepped across the threshold, he knew. So he was not surprised.
Swayney was there, and Art Greenwald. And his grandfather.
"Drop the rifle, Sam," Swayney said. "Stand aside from the girl."
Deirdre turned as if to run. Durell caught her arm. "It's all right." he said. "Stand over there. Don't be afraid."
Swayney laughed. Art Greenwald looked embarrassed. Durell said, "Hello, Grandpa."
The white-haired old man in a maritime uniform said gravely, "Better drop the rifle, boy. They've been waiting here since dawn. They mean business. I'm sorry I couldn't warn you off."
"It's all right. Grandpa."
"It isn't all right. I'm ashamed of myself. But there was nothing I could do."
Durell put the rifle down. He felt tired; his bones ached. In a way, he felt relieved. Burritt Swayney looked smug and satisfied. It seemed strange to see him out of his Washington office, away from his desk. His pursy mouth was tight with disapproval as he looked at the girl, but the triumph was there in his codfish eyes, in the way he picked up the pump gun and handed it to Art Greenwald. Art still looked embarrassed, as if all this was painful to him.
Durell shook hands with his grandfather. The old man looked tall and straight and wonderful. "You're in a mess of trouble, boy. It seems you failed to cover your bets."
"I'll be all right."
"Are these gentlemen really from Washington?"
"That's right."
"They think you are a traitor."
"It's a mistake. It will all be straightened out."
"Is this your woman?"
Durell looked at Deirdre and smiled. "Yes," he said.
Her face was white and frightened.
The pilothouse was comfortably furnished. There were several rocking chairs and a day bed and a woven rug on the floor. The old man's books were tiered against one mahogany-planked wall. A desk stood against the huge brass-trimmed wheel. The bayou beyond the windows looked sunny and peaceful. A ship's clock ticked and then rang eight times. It was noon of the third of July.
Swayney's voice was thick with complacent satisfaction. "Sit down, Sam. You've raised enough hell. You can relax now. It's all over. You know it's over, hey? You had us all fooled. Even McFee. He believed in you, when you went to him over my head."
"You son-of-a-bitch," Durell said. "That's all that gripes you."
Swayney
smiled; his fat figure rocked easily in his chair. "Let me bring you up to date, hey? We've got Cora Neville. She told us the whole story about Weederman. Seems I was wrong there and the man is still alive. She had a love affair with him and he got her to run a few errands for him over in Germany and she didn't know she was acting for a spy until it was too late. Then he threatened to expose her if she didn't continue to co-operate. So she helped him by making the play for Calvin Padgett. We've got it all down pat in her statement."
"And Weederman?" Durell asked.
"He got away, but he won't get far."
"And Calvin Padgett?"
"We found the boy. Then we went after you. You took feet pretty fast, Sam. You should have listened to my orders when I spoke to you on the telephone. But it didn't matter. We had a tap on Hazel's line, thanks to Art, here. We got that fellow Olsen and he spilled about the whole airfield network. Quite a setup. We did pretty good on cleaning that up, alone. Then we figured where you might land next. You jumped the gun on us and beat us to Jamie's field, but we found your pilot there. They killed him."
Durell winced.
"Once we had you spotted in this territory, it was just a matter of waiting you out. We've crippled Weederman's apparatus. Clobbered it good. You look like you had a hard time last night."
"We spent it in the swamp," Durell said harshly. He didn't like Swayney's satisfaction. He knew there was more coming. Art Greenwald didn't meet his gaze; Art held his gun as if he hated it. His grandfather looked troubled, loo, studying Deirdre. "What else is there? I've got Calvin Padgett's papers. Cyclops must not be launched tomorrow."
"Cyclops will be launched," Swayney said quietly. "She goes up at four o'clock in the afternoon."
"Just as it is?"
"There's nothing wrong with the hardware."
"Is that McFee's word?"
"When I told McFee about your girl, he gave me the white slip on handling you, Sam. You've been played right over the barrel." Swayney stood up; his manner changed. His voice was hostile and implacable. "I hate a man who makes a fool of himself like you've done, Sam. Maybe you aren't selling us out, or maybe you just don't know what kind of a ride this babe has given you. Have you still got Padgett's papers?"
"Yes, I have them," Durell said.
Swayney looked at the girl. "I'm surprised you didn't get them off him yet. You must have felt pretty sure of Sam, hey?"
"What are you talking about?" Durell asked.
Swayney hooked a fat hip on a corner of the desk. "Did Deirdre Padgett tell you about her boy friend who was killed in Korea?"
"Yes, she mentioned it."
"Once over lightly, hey? Did she say she was married to him?"
Durell felt the shock. "No. Is that true, Deirdre?"
She would not look at him.
Swayney said, "Did she tell you how this husband of hers, Robert Keitch, happened to get himself dead over there?"
"Deirdre?" Durell said.
She would not look at him.
"He was a prisoner of war," Swayney said, "along with a lot of other guys who were caught short over there when the Chinese put their fat fingers in the Korean pie. But Keitch was different. This little lady had a husband who knew how to take good care of himself. He did good in prison, didn't he, baby? So good he was known as a pro-Red and he elected to stay over there. But at the last minute one of the boys got him. One of the boys who'd been strung up by the thumbs in a barrel of ice water because Keitch played footsie with the guards and told them about a planned prison break. So our own boys took care of Keitch. That's the guy she loved and married."
"I don't believe it," Durell whispered.
"Ask her."
"Deirdre?"
She would not look at him.
"Tell him." Swayney said. He slid off the desk, crossed the room, stood in front of the girl. Her face was white. "Tell him how you and your subversive rat of a brother made a deal with Weederman to sell the plans for Cyclops, and how your brother held out for a bigger bonus and crossed Weederman. That's why they leaned on you so hard, isn't it? And that's why you played for Sam the way you did. They killed your brother, but you still held out for the price, hey? I can't figure people like you. I can't see it. But there you stand. Go ahead and tell Sam. Tell him the truth."
She said nothing.
Chapter Eighteen
Durell said stiffly, "Are we under arrest?"
"Let's say you're in custody," Swayney said.
"Do you go along with that, Art?"
Greenwald looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sam. Swayney is the boss."
"I'm touched," Swayney said. "Art, get some cuffs on the girl. She got away once, she'll try it again, hey?"
"I'm sorry," Greenwald said again.
He stood up, a young man with curly black hair and a troubled face. Deirdre stood stiffly, motionless. Sunlight glinted on the cuffs Greenwald produced. It was hot in the pilothouse. In that moment, Durell's mind probed for an elusive element in the pattern around him, something disturbing, not quite within reach. He heard the calls and songs of the birds in the trees; he heard the splash of a fish in the lagoon. There was nothing else.
"Wait a moment," he said. "Be reasonable. We're tired and we're hungry. Can't we have something to eat?"
Jonathan said gently, "I have some court bouillon and redfish in the galley, boy. If these gentlemen will let me get it…"
Swayney hesitated. "All right. Sit down, Art You, too, Miss Padgett."
Deirdre sat down stiffly. Her face was a blank mask. Durell looked at his grandfather and felt overcome by a deep wave of affection and love for the old man. Jonathan went out.
"There's a car coming for us from New Orleans," Swayney said. He looked at his watch. "We'll be moving out in half an hour."
"The sooner, the better," Durell said. "I want to see Dickinson McFee."
"Sorry. We're holding you both at the FBI offices in New Orleans."
"I want to go to Washington. Burritt, it's important!"
"You will stay where I put you. Both you and your girl friend."
"At least, will you let me talk to McFee on the phone?"
"No. What do you take me for, Sam? I know what you're thinking," Swayney said angrily. "But on the one hand, I've got the word from all the Las Tiengas people that everything has been checked and double-checked. You can't just throw out a schedule and firing time that hundreds of people have planned on for over two years! And what have I got to balance all that weight? Calvin Padgett, a traitor, a psychotic, soft-minded subversive. And his sister, who's made a monkey out of you. She didn't deny a word I said, did she? You ought to smarten up, Sam, and admit that you're wrong."
Durell said nothing. He heard the birds outside, the splash of fish in the lagoon. His mind reached forward into tomorrow. He saw the faltering missile in flight, he saw the flame and smoke of its arching trajectory. He saw it reach for the vast ocean of space and then respond to the mortal flaw in the myriad of bright relays and tubes and transistors that composed its brain. It plummeted back to the earth that had given it birth.
Explosion… desolation… death…
He could not let it happen.
No matter what he had to do. And no matter about Deirdre.
Jonathan was taking a long time getting the soup from the galley. Much too long. The galley was only down on the lower deck, a few steps from the wide staircase… Durell's mind suddenly tensed with alarm, with sudden relief, with gratitude.
His grandfather stood in the doorway of the pilothouse, holding a twelve-gauge over-and-under shotgun casually, easily, intimately. It was pointed at Swayney.
The old man said, "I regret the necessity of this, gentlemen. I am a loyal citizen, I assure you. But so is my grandson. Kindly drop your weapons, sirs."
Swayney turned purple. Art Greenwald looked as if he wanted to smile and then the shotgun twitched just a little in his direction and he dropped his gun. Swayney said something incoherent.
"Why, you stupid,
blundering, senile old man…"
"I take that unkindly, sir," said Jonathan. "Samuel, if you wish to go now, you may go."
Durell stood up. He retrieved the pump gun. He looked at the girl. "Deirdre?"
"Take me with you," she whispered. It was the first time she had spoken in several long minutes. "Please, Sam."
"Of course," he said.
The old man said, "I'll meet you at the twins. Where I cut you that fishpole. You remember, Samuel?"
"I remember." Durell looked at Swayney and Art Greenwald. "Can you hold them, Grandpa?"
"I can do anything," the old man said gravely. "Within reason, of course."
Durell touched Deirdre's arm and they went out through a side door. Swayney shouted something vituperative after him, but he paid no attention. The side door led to the open topmost deck, between the huge rusted rocker arms that had once helped to power the old side-wheeler. The sun was hot, blazing. The black water of the lagoon seemed to suck up all the light when Durell looked down over the side of the old vessel. There was no sound from behind them. He drew a deep breath, then led the girl quickly down the staircase to the afterdeck and then along the rickety gangplank to the shore. He kept the bulk of the old side-wheeler between himself and the pilothouse windows so that Swayney would not be able to determine their direction.
Deirdre stumbled and he held her arm for a moment and helped her upright. She said nothing more. Perspiration glistened on her pale face. Beyond the ruins of the gutted house ashore, a narrow trail led them into the dense shadows of the swamp. Durell paused and listened. There was still no sound from the hulk. He said a prayer for his grandfather and plunged on. The trail twisted and lifted and fell through the brush and swamp. When they had gone on for five minutes, a little glade opened before them, a grassy clearing on the bank of a shallow pool sheltered by a curiously twisted double oak and massive, drooping willows. Durell halted. Deirdre breathed with difficulty beside him.
"We'll wait here for him."
"Suppose he doesn't come?"
"He'll be here."
"What can an old man do against people like Swayney?"
Assignment to Disaster Page 12
