The Ravagers mh-8

by Donald Hamilton

  Of course, neither Genevieve nor her Hans knew that the police didn't have the missing glove: I had it. Perhaps Elaine would not have died if they'd known that. And perhaps she would not have died if she had not been expecting me and therefore, perhaps, despite my warning, had not been quite as careful about opening the door as she should have been. I grimaced and shoved the glove back into my pocket. You can take the guilt of the whole world on your shoulders any time you want to try, and many people do, but I didn't have time for the sackcloth-and-ashes routine just then.

  As I started for the door, the telephone rang. I hesitated, but it seemed useful to know who was calling, so I took out my handkerchief and used it to pick up the instrument on the third ring. A young male voice I'd heard before in some wet woods in the dark, said:

  "Elaine? We just got word from Denver on this Clevenger character you're seeing tonight. He seems to be okay, a real, honest-to-God private eye… Elaine? Who's there?"

  The decision wasn't hard to make. I could hang up and leave Larry Fenton and Marcus Johnston guessing, but Elaine had obviously told them she was expecting me-which answered one of Mac's questions. All three of them had apparently been working together. Under the circumstances, the remaining two would be bound to come around to question me when they learned what had happened to Elaine. It was better to give an impression of boyish frankness.

  I said, "This is the Clevenger character. If you're the Larry character, you'd better get over here. Bring a shovel, you've got something to bury. If you want me afterwards, I'll be out at the campground. If you don't know where, it's time you found out."

  "Listen, you stay right where you-"

  I put the phone down. I looked at the bed, but there wasn't anybody there to talk to. I mean, sentimentally telling a dead girl goodbye, or dramatically promising to avenge her, is just a way of talking to yourself, and they lock people up for that. Besides, I reflected grimly, I wasn't being paid to wield the sword of retribution. On the contrary, I was under strict orders to help the murderers escape free and clear.

  IX

  THE LAST pink glow of sunset was just fading from the sky when I came out of there. I reached my car without incident, drove away, and stopped at a filling station after a dozen blocks. While the attendant was putting gas into the Volks, I went into the restroom, locked the door, took out the stained white glove and my knife, and cut my private murder clue into small pieces, which I then flushed down the john a few at a time, not wanting to risk clogging the plumbing.

  On the assumption that the incriminating glove did belong to Genevieve Drilling-and who else would Hans Ruyter be covering for?-I couldn't take the risk of keeping it around any longer. I could think of no useful purpose it could serve me, either as Dave Clevenger or as Matt Helm, and I couldn't afford to let it serve anybody else, certainly not anybody with a legalistic mind. The last place for Genevieve to be, if I was to carry out my instructions, was in jail. She was my baby, all murderous, acid-throwing five feet seven of her; and Hans Ruyter, the competent girl-killer, was my baby, too. It was my duty, I reminded myself grimly, to see that nobody hurt a hair of their scheming, vicious, good-looking heads.

  At the very least, I told myself as I made the water run for the last time, the glove could have involved me in unnecessary complications, should there be somebody waiting when I got back to camp. I stalled long enough on the way to make reasonably sure there would be.

  They weren't in sight, of course. I'd got a fairly secluded site toward the rear of the camp, shielded by trees and bushes, and they were playing it cute. I didn't spot Johnston in the dark, but that Larry character would never go hunting with me. He was one of the jerks who can't sit still, in a duck blind or anywhere else. I had him located in the brush before I was even out of the car.

  I left the lights on to illuminate the tent until I could get the gasoline lantern going. They waited until I had it burning brightly. They waited until I'd set it safely on the nearby picnic table and switched off the car lights. Then Johnston came out from behind a tree and pointed a gun at me. I raised my hands politely. Larry came out of his hiding place, if you want to call it that, and walked up to me, and hit me.

  It wasn't much of a punch, but I let it knock me down, figuring that was the easiest way to end the fight before it started. A smart private op named Clevenger wouldn't mix it with a couple of armed men he knew to be government agents; and I've never seen much point in hitting a man with a fist, anyway. All it gets you is some bruised knuckles and a resentful enemy who is probably not damaged enough to prevent him from getting back at you later. There's hardly ever any sense in hitting a man with anything that doesn't make him dead-that is, if you've got to hit him at all. But nobody'd told Larry Fenton that. Having knocked me down, he stepped forward and kicked me.

  "You killed her!" he panted. "Damn you, you killed her!" The kick was probably more than tough Mr. Clevenger should stand for. I looked at Johnston, staying well back with his gun. A good, experienced man, Mac had said, but at first glance he looked unimpressive: a plump little figure with goldrimmed glasses. He had thinning brown hair combed straight back from a soft white face. You'd never give him a second look in a crowd. He looked as if he sold shoes or insurance f or a living, and went home nights to watch TV with a plump little wife and a couple of plump little children.

  At second glance, I noted the cold, alert blue eyes behind the glasses, and the steady hand holding the gun. I was relieved. This man wouldn't do anything hasty, nor would he let his erratic and amateurish partner go too far astray. It was safe to put on a show for him. He wouldn't get nervous and shoot a hole in me by mistake. I spoke to him without looking at Larry, standing over me threateningly.

  "Pull it off me," I said. "If it kicks me again, I'll cut its little foot off, so help me."

  "Take it easy, Clevenger," Johnston said. "Take it very easy."

  I said, "To hell with you," and reached defiantly into my pants pocket. He didn't shoot. I took out my knife and opened it deliberately. Larry started to reach for me, but Johnston waved him back. I said, "I'll cut it off at the ankle, so help me. Just one more kick and he'll be known as Footless Larry. And you, Chubby, stop waving that fool gun around, hear? You fire it off in the middle of a public campground like this and you'll be making explanations to every cop in Canada."

  Johnston regarded me unwaveringly. "You talk pretty big for a lousy private cop."

  I said, "You act pretty big for a lousy spy, or counterspy, operating in a foreign country, probably without permission."

  "How do you know what we are? And how did you learn that my partner's name is Larry?"

  I said, "Hell, you told me the name yourself. Last night in the bushes outside the Drilling trailer, in the rain. He got lost in the dark and you called to him by name, remember?"

  The plump little man looked disconcerted. "You were there?"

  "I was there," I said. "Unlike some people, I'm real good in the woods, if I do say so myself."

  "And how did you learn so much about our business?"

  "When I came on the job, I was told the government had an interest in the case. And last night, when the girl was trying to pump me for information in Regina, she told me she worked for Uncle Sam. And when I picked up the phone in her motel room tonight, right here in Brandon, your friend here started making a report to her, on me. I figure that puts you all in the same line of work with the same employer. In the detective business we call it deduction." I looked at him hard. "And now I'm getting up, Chubby. Go ahead and fire that thing, if you think Washington will come back you up. I'm sure they'd love an international protest about U.S. undercover creeps shooting up people north of the border."

  "Who's going to protest? You, with murder on your hands?"

  I didn't answer immediately. I got to my feet. Larry started to close in again, but again a signal from the older man stopped him. I closed the knife and dropped it into my pocket, looking at Marcus Johnston.

  "What's this abo
ut a murder?"

  "My partner has made it pretty plain. We think you killed Elaine."

  I said, "Ah, cut it out. Don't give me that old routine. You come at me frothing at the mouth, throwing it at me hard and sudden, hoping you'll catch me off balance and make me spill something. Well, this hombre doesn't spill that easy. So now let's talk sense. The kid killed herself, and we all know it, and we all know why. Was it her gun?" Their silence said yes. I said, "Okay, then, the only question is, are you going to leave it that way or do you have some notion of framing me for it?"

  "Why would we do that?" Johnston asked.

  I said, "Income tax men, Treasury agents, 0-men, guys like you, who knows why you do anything? You might want to whitewash her for the good of the service, as they say. Maybe it's bad publicity to have your people committing murder and suicide for personal reasons. Or you might just want to get me out of your hair."

  "It's not a bad idea," he said. "I'll give it some thought."

  I said, "It's a lousy idea. You leave the thing lay and you're finished with it. It started in Regina and it ends here in Brandon."

  Larry was staring at his partner in an indignant, incredulous way. "Why are you listening to him, Marcus? He killed her. Elaine would never have killed herself, and she wouldn't have killed anybody else the way that was done. She'd never have used acid like that."

  I looked at Johnston, and shook my head. "Where'd you find this one, pal? You mean he really believes this crap he's been spouting? I thought he was just putting on an act."

  Larry said violently, "You killed her. You were there, we know you were."

  "Sure. I killed her. And then I picked up the phone and told you all about it. Smart me."

  "Maybe that's the way you were playing it, smart." The younger man turned back to his partner. "Who else had the opportunity? We know Mrs. Drilling never went near the motel. I was watching her every minute she was in town."

  I said quickly, "But she did go into town?"

  "Well, yes, she did drive in to gas up the truck while the girl fixed dinner, but-"

  I said, "That's a lot of work, uncoupling the pickup from the trailer, for some gas she could have got along the road in the morning. But you had your eyes on her every minute?" I studied his face. A hint of uneasiness gave me the cue, and I said, "Gas stations have restrooms as a rule. She didn't go in?" The betraying flicker of his eyelids told me I'd scored a hit, and I went on harshly, "She didn't stay in there kind of a long time, maybe? She had no chance to slip away? No, that's right, you said you were watching her every minute. Through the restroom keyhole, maybe?"

  I'd been wondering how Genevieve, under constant surveillance, had managed to talk to Ruyter unseen when she needed help, but I had my answer. They'd presumably arranged to meet at a certain time at a certain filling station where the restrooms were side by side around the corner of the building. He could have been waiting in either section with the door locked, until she signaled by knocking a certain way. Or they could have talked through the wall. But I wasn't about to let these men know what I'd been trying to find out. Ruyter was my secret, my fair-haired boy, to be protected and cherished.

  I regarded Larry grimly. He was silent, flushing. He was really pretty young for this business, I saw. The bald head fooled you. It was a kind of patchy baldness, and he'd shaved off the remaining hair with some idea of looking like Yul Brynner, maybe, or just making a virtue of necessity. He was pale and thin, and the hairlessness made his head look skull-like and old, but he really wasn't very far into his twenties.

  I decided that he must have been sick or badly wounded recently. This was probably his first job since leaving the hospital. I suppose I should have made allowances. Maybe he was a good man who'd been sent into the field again too soon after a terrible experience of some kind, but I couldn't really believe he'd ever been a ball of fire. I judged him as a green trainee who'd got himself clobbered the first or second time out, and who was going to get clobbered again if he wasn't very lucky. I might even have to do the job myself.

  "Well," I said dryly, "she's stacked, I'll say that for Madame Drilling. It must have been interesting to watch."

  Larry hesitated. "Well, I didn't really watch-" He stopped and turned to Johnston quickly. "She couldn't have slipped out, I swear it, Marcus! And the filling station was on the other side of town from Elaine's motel. She couldn't possibly have got there and back He stopped.

  I said, "If she couldn't have got away from you, what difference does it make how far she had to go? The fact is, she could have backdoored you, and you obviously know it, or you wouldn't be talking so fast to cover up."

  Johnston said, "Are you trying to fit Mrs. Drilling for the job, Clevenger? I thought you were the man who said it was suicide.,"

  "I still say it. It's Sonny, here, who keeps trying to make it murder. I'm just pointing out to him that if it is murder, I'm not the only candidate, thanks."

  There was some more talk along these lines, getting us nowhere. I didn't convince Larry of my innocence, and Johnston, I soon realized, didn't need convincing. He was just letting Larry test me with the murder gag. Apparently I checked out okay, because at last he had Larry search me perfunctorily, and then he put his gun away. Pretty soon he was telling me how he wanted me to cooperate and what would happen to me if I didn't.

  "There's really no place for a private dick in this operation," he said, "but since you're here…"

  "Sure," I said. "But you stay away from me, both of you. I've got troubles enough without being seen associating with a couple of government men. If I learn anything, I'll get in touch."

  "See that you do. Come on, Larry."

  I watched them go off into the darkness. Then I rubbed the bruised side of my jaw and grimaced. Well, I'd managed to keep them off Ruyter's track for the time being. I lit the Coleman stove and put on a frying pan and cooked a little steak I'd picked up in town. It was stringy and tough. After washing up, I walked over to the rich trailer-folks' part of the camp. There were lights in the silver trailer with the state of Washington plates. I knocked on the door.

  Presently the girl, Penny, stuck her head out. She was still wired for interstellar communication, but tonight, instead of her plastic nightcap, she was wearing a pink net hood to keep the precious curlers undisturbed.

  "I'd like to speak with your mother," I said.

  Her small face looked pinched and frightened. She hesitated, and turned jerkily. "It's that man," she said. "That private detective man. He wants to see you, Mummy."

  I said, "Tell her it's about a murder."

  That brought a space of silence. I heard Genevieve rise and come to the door. The kid disappeared. Genevieve looked down at me from the trailer door. "What about a murder, Mr. Clevenger?"

  "Aren't you going to ask me in?"

  She started to glance over her shoulder, as if looking for advice, but checked herself. "No, I'm not going to ask you in!" she snapped. "What do you want?"

  I regretted having come. Obviously there was someone in the trailer who didn't belong there, and if it was the man I thought; I didn't want to betray his presence to Larry or Johnston, one of whom was probably watching.

  I gave a phony sigh of resignation, and said, "All right, ma'am. I'll go away. I just thought you'd like to hear the latest on Mike Green. He was murdered, all right, like I said, and the young lady who did it committed suicide in Brandon this evening. I thought you'd like to know."

  The woman above me said stiffly, "I can't think why you'd think so. If there's anything that interests me less than Mr. Green and his sordid death..

  I said, "I know. It's Mr. Clevenger and his sordid life. Good night, ma'am."

  As I walked away, I heard the trailer door slam behind me. Well, I'd given them the good news; they could relax now. With a slight assist from me, they'd got away with two murders. I wondered why Ruyter had been fool enough to come here, if it was Ruyter-and if it was, I hoped he managed to get himself away unseen before morning.
<
br />   If not, I'd probably have to figure out some cute way of helping him get clear. The next bodyguard assignment I was given, I hoped I'd get to protect somebody I liked, for a change, but it wasn't a great hope. There are plenty of nice, high-principled guys to do the nice assignments. We just get the ones no one else will have.

  X

  IN THE morning it was drizzling again. The Drilling outfit broke camp much earlier today, shortly after seven. This might have caught me asleep, or at least breakfastless, if my evening visit to the trailer hadn't prepared me for a possible change in the behavior pattern.

  The early start seemed to foreshadow a long day of hard driving, but here again there was a change. Genevieve wasn't her dashing, truck-driving self this morning. Even after we reached the open highway, she poked along cautiously, passing nobody who wasn't next to standing still, making life very easy for me-but I doubted it was my welfare she was thinking of. I noted that she seemed to be alone in the truck cab. Apparently Penny was in the trailer, and I didn't really think the kid was sitting back there by herself.

  House trailers are not designed to be occupied in transit; in fact I believe it's illegal in many places to ride in one. Genevieve was driving as if she was afraid somebody might get seasick back there; she was also driving as if she didn't want to take the slightest chance of attracting the attention of a speed cop or becoming involved in an accident.

  We were well into the province of Manitoba by now, and the prairie scenery of Saskatchewan was giving way to more rolling country with patches of woods. As we cruised through a stretch of piney forest, Genevieve suddenly pulled out onto the shoulder of the highway and brought her truck and trailer to a halt. I drove past, intending to park beyond the next curve and sneak back for a look, but right around the corner I ran into a police roadblock.