The Ravagers mh-8

by Donald Hamilton

  "Hell, you're much too ladylike, even in your underwear, Drilling," I said. "You're supposed to be getting tight, remember? Shove your legs out straight and let them wander well apart; let that slip ride up… That's better. Now muss your hair a little and drop a strap off your shoulder. Lick your lips. That's the girl. A little pouty now, kind of sleepily provocative I stepped back and surveyed the effect like a photographer posing a fashion model, with my head cocked to the side. "Very good, Irish. We'll make a tart of you yet."

  She tossed the displaced lock of hair out of her eyes and looked up at me reproachfully. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

  "Sure," I said. "Aren't you making fun of me, doll? Aren't you laughing silently at the stupid man who'd fall for a corny gag like this?" I made a face and mimicked: "Please show me how to seduce you, Mister Clevenger, 'cause I'm just a little girl and don't know how."

  She made no response to this. She just watched me sit down beside her. Then she asked quietly, "What have you had pulled on you before, Dave? What did you mean by that?"

  "You know what I meant," I said. "If you want the details, there was a girl in… Well, never mind where." Actually, it had happened in Kiruna, Sweden, but Jenny'd want to know what a Denver private detective had been doing up there above the Arctic Circle and it was too late at night to figure out a plausible lie. I went on: "This girl had some friends. The friends wanted something from my hotel room. Her job was to keep me busy and interested while they got it. Like you're keeping me busy and interested now. What's happening in your hotel room, Irish?"

  It was a long shot, but a faint narrowing of her eyes told me it had hit close. "Did she get it?" Jenny asked quickly. "I mean, did her friends get it?"

  "Sure they got it," I said. "I wanted them to get it. It was a plant, but they didn't know that."

  I used the word deliberately, to see what reaction I would get. The result was satisfactory. I might have been talking about an aspidistra for all the sign she gave. She wasn't concerned about plants. She had no suspicion she was part of one, a very elaborate one-that we all were. All she cared about was steering the conversation away from her room and what might be taking place there.

  "You're very clever, aren't you Dave?" she said smoothly. "And what happened to the girl?"

  I looked at her for a moment longer. I needed very much to know what kind of a woman this really was, and I'd had enough of her acting. I had to shake her up a bit, for my own satisfaction.

  "I'll show you what happened to the girl," I said, and her eyes widened slightly at the tone of my voice. I took the glass from her hand, set it on the floor, and placed mine carefully beside it. "This is what happened to that girl," I said, and I grabbed her and pulled her to me roughly.

  I heard her startled gasp. "Dave, please-"

  Then I was kissing her hard, and forcing her down on the bed. I guess I wanted to see if she'd panic, and for a moment I thought she had. There was a second or two of desperate resistance, or so I thought; then I heard something fall to the rug-two objects-and realized that she'd just been holding me off while she kicked off her shoes. She made a funny little triumphant sound in her throat and came to me as if she'd been waiting all her life for some man to realize she wasn't made of glass and wouldn't break-or as if she'd just been waiting all night for me to make the tactical mistake of laying rough hands on her.

  I felt her fingernails dig through my shirt, and her mouth was warm and responsive despite my violence. I found my clever plans and sentimental reservations quickly becoming unimportant. I even found myself forgetting, more or less, that I was supposed to be a dedicated public servant on an important mission. I soothed my conscience with the thought that I wasn't really supposed to care what might be happening in her room. As a tough private eye, I was reacting the way I was supposed to. You might even say I was tending strictly to business.

  There were those first frantic seconds-maybe minutes- of exploration and discovery; then we lay quite still in each other's arms, breathing hard. It was no time for jokes, perhaps, but suddenly I knew this woman well enough to try one even though I didn't know her at all.

  "Here's your moment, Jenny O'Brien."

  "Moment?"

  "The critical moment," I whispered in her ear. "When you get it off with reasonable dignity. Don't forget the dignity. This I want to see."

  She laughed softly, lying close to me. "Clothes!" she murmured. "Why do we have to wear them? Just pull it off me, darling. Skin me like a rabbit. Peel me like an eel, stockings and all."

  "Do eels wear stockings?"

  "Stop being silly and finish undressing me, damn you. You started it. You said the man liked to do the work. Dave?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you love me?"

  "Hell, no," I said. "I hate your lovely guts. Good God, talk about chastity belts. Where's the key to this thing?"

  There were only the two of us in the world, talking breathlessly to bridge the awkward but necessary pause between promise and fulfillment. Then the roof of our private paradise fell in, the floor buckled, and the walls collapsed, leaving us exposed and unprotected, two rumpled strangers on a rumpled bed. What I mean is, somebody knocked on the door.

  "Mummy," said a hesitant voice outside. "Mummy, are you in there? Mr. Clevenger, do you know where my mother is?"

  XV

  WELL, IT wasn't quite as bad, I guess, as if it had never happened to me before. I'd been married once, myself. I'd had kids-they were growing up out West with the same mother but a different father-and I'd had a good chance to learn what it was like to have the most intimate moments interrupted by a small voice at the bedroom door. Still, it had been some years ago. I was no longer in the parental groove, so to speak.

  "Oh, Christ!" I said, sitting up straight and wondering if I'd locked the door securely or if the kid was going to march right in on us. Then things began to add up-at least the possibility occurred to me that they might add up-and I drew a long breath and glanced at the woman lying on the bed beside me. "Congratulations," I said grimly. "That's real timing. You and that kid work well together, but she cut it pretty close, didn't she? Another couple of minutes and all would have been lost, as they say."

  Jenny stared up at me. She looked pale and shaken, and shocked at my suggestion. She protested: "Dave, you can't think I-"

  There was another rap on the door. I said, "Call her off, will you? Tell her she doesn't have to break it down."

  Jenny sat up and pushed back her rumpled hair. "Just a minute, darling," she called. Then she turned to me quickly. "Dave, I swear… oh, what's the use!" She looked around angrily, and called, "For God's sake, Penny, you don't have to wake the whole hotel! Let me get some clothes on, will you, darling?"

  In spite of everything, I was a little startled. I guess I have old-fashioned notions about what the young are supposed to be told, and what they aren't.

  "Aren't you afraid you'll give her a trauma or something?" I asked.

  "I thought your idea was that this was all planned between Penny and me," Jenny countered sharply. "And even if it wasn't, do you really think there's a modern teenager who doesn't know people go to bed together? What are we supposed to be doing in here, playing two-handed bridge? Get my dress, please." She spoke to my back as I got up. "Dave."

  "Yes."

  "You're wrong. You know you're wrong, don't you? I didn't plan it this way. I didn't… didn't even want it this way. If you don't believe me, come right back here. She can just stand there and hammer on the door and yell her damn little lungs out."

  I glanced at her. "That's a hell of a maternal attitude."

  "Motherhood, smotherhood. Even if I could do it to you, do you think I could do it to myself? My God, I feel as if I'm going to fly into a million pieces!" She drew a ragged breath. "Well, I suppose we've got to find out what she wants. You haven't got a tranquilizer handy, have you?"

  "Sure."

  When I came back with it, Jenny was sitting on the edge of the bed with her f
ace in her hands. She raised her head when I spoke to her, took the pill, and swallowed it with a little water. She gave me back the glass. After a moment she sighed, rose, and hitched various displaced lingerie straps back where they belonged, rather like a farmer snapping his galluses. Then she went through the standard feminine after-necking routine of settling her girdle, and smoothing her stockings up and her slip down.

  She caught the garments I threw her and started putting them back on while I turned to wrap my tie around my neck, knot it, and draw it tight like a hangman's noose. I guess it symbolized the way I felt. I looked at myself in the mirror and scrubbed off some lipstick with a handkerchief.

  "Mummy, please!" said the voice outside the door.

  Jenny said, "Oh, let the little monster in, Dave."

  Parental tenderness wasn't exactly in the ascendant, I reflected. Well, it's only in the ads that everybody loves kids all the time. At the moment, I wasn't very fond of the brat myself. Nevertheless, I found myself somewhat abashed as I unlocked the door and let Penny enter to see the untidy bed and her mother standing by it, shoeless and disheveled, with unzipped dress and unbuttoned blouse.

  It made things worse, somehow, that the girl was wearing flannel pajamas decorated with Disney-type bunnies: she looked about ten years old, although her hair was in curlers again, covered with a blue net nightcap thing that tied under the chin. She took in the scene gravely, glanced at me, and walked over to Jenny and started to fasten her up the back.

  "You've got a run in your stocking, Mummy," she said tonelessly.

  "I've got a run in my psyche, darling," her mother said. "I just snagged it on a stumbling-block named Penny. What's the big deal that couldn't wait until I got back to the room?"

  "Oh!" Penny looked startled. Her reception here had apparently made her forget just what it was she'd come for. "It's… that man, Mummy," she said, glancing at me warily.

  "Go on," Jenny said. "Mr. Clevenger, along with the rest of the U.S. government, knows all about Hans. Well, almost all. Go on."

  It was no time to insist on my innocence of official connections. I just waited for Penny to speak.

  "Well, he came with the instructions like he was supposed

  Is it really all right to tell?"

  Jenny made an impatient gesture. "Mr. Clevenger isn't a dope, darling. He's already guessed that I've been keeping him… distracted for a purpose."

  Penny made a little grimace of distaste. "Some distraction!" she said. "Your hair looks like a hayrick after a hurricane, Mummy, dear." Her young voice was edged with scorn for these disgraceful grownup goings-on.

  "Let's dispense with the comments on my appearance, Penny, darling. So Hans came on schedule."

  "Yes. Mr. Ruyter came. He told me what… what you're supposed to know, what you're supposed to do. He was just about to leave when there was a knock on the door. Mr. Ruyter hid in the closet. I opened the door, pretending I'd been sound asleep. It was one of those two government men who've been following us-"

  I asked, "The older one, Johnston?"

  "No, the hairless one, the human skeleton." Penny didn't look my way as she answered my question. "He didn't believe me when I said I was alone. He must have seen Mr. Ruyter come in. I was… terribly scared, Mummy. He had a gun. He pushed his way in. I couldn't stop him. He started to search the room. When he had looked everywhere else, he pointed his gun at the closet door and told Mr. Ruyter to come out and. ".

  "And what happened?" snapped Jenny as the kid stopped talking.

  "I don't know."

  "What do you mean, you don't know?" I demanded.

  "I simply don't know!" Penny protested. "Don't b-both of you jump on me like that! I d-don't know what happened." She sniffed and gulped, close to tears. "The government man wasn't looking at me. He was… very tense, telling Mr. Ruyter to come out with his hands up and not make any false moves. He wasn't paying me any attention. I just slipped out and ran here to tell you. That's all I know, except that they're still in our room. They haven't come out. I'd have seen them."

  And there it was. Check to the gent with lipstick on his hanky and a silly look on his face. There was a lot of stuff here I didn't understand: there was still a question of just what kind of a person my freckled, passionate, vitriol lady was. I hadn't got much closer to solving that problem.

  There was also a new slant on the mother-daughter relationship to be assimilated. I'd been taking the loving Penny-darling and Mummy-dear faзade more or less for granted, but it had cracked a little tonight. Well, family life isn't always the pink lace valentine it's supposed to be; under the circumstances, some signs of strain could be expected. This hadn't surprised me as much as the various indications that Jenny had taken her young daughter into her confidence much more freely than I'd suspected, even to making the kid her accomplice in her dealings with Hans Ruyter.

  But all this was unimportant beside the news that one of my special charges, one of my two cherished responsibilities, my handsome, girl-murdering baby, Ruyter himself, had gone and got himself trapped by a U.S. government agent.

  Exactly what Larry Fenton thought he was doing wasn't clear. Unless he had much better connections among the local authorities than seemed likely, he was in no position, alone, to stage a legal arrest on foreign soil. On the other hand, he probably wasn't commissioned to deliberately remove Mr. Ruyter from the living and file him among the dead. Such commissions-contracts, they are called in underworld circles-are usually reserved for one government organization only, an organization to which he didn't belong and I did.

  And if Larry had in mind just a quiet kidnapping followed by a quick trip across the border to the south, why had he picked the biggest hotel in the biggest city in Canada to close in on his quarry? A dark alley or country lane would have been more suitable. Probably Hans Ruyter had been counting on something like this when he took the risk of coming here tonight.

  But this didn't really matter either. The grim fact staring me in the face was that Hans was in serious trouble. lie must not be harmed, Mac had said. They must get through You will go as far as necessary.

  He had given me the blank check with his signature on it. It looked very much as if I was going to have to fill it in and cash it.

  XVI

  JENNY WASTED no time wringing her hands or asking what to do-certainly she didn't ask me. The brief look she threw my way wasn't that of a lover, but of a fast-thinking woman trying to estimate the various factors of a troubled situation.

  There was a quick, whispered conference between mother and daughter. Penny located a high-heeled white pump that had bounced under the bed, and set it beside one that hadn't. Jenny stepped into the shoes and headed for the door, patting her hair into some kind of order. The kid stayed at her side like a well-trained puppy. Both of them glanced around as I started to follow. There was a curious, hostile similarity between the two pairs of eyes, one with glasses and one without, that looked back at me coldly and dismissed me as an unfortunate nuisance nothing could be done about-but it occurred to me that some plausible explanation of my behavior would be required eventually.

  Just getting Hans out of hock wasn't enough. I was going to have to make it look good to him and his female associate-not to mention Marcus Johnston, but that was something I'd worry about later. Maybe I could pull some strings by way of Washington and have Johnston called off if he started to present a real problem. -

  For the moment, my big concern was how to sell my rescue act-assuming I could carry it off-to the people most immediately concerned. I had to come up, fast, with a convincing reason why a presumably more or less patriotic citizen like Dave Clevenger would voluntarily involve himself on the wrong side of this international hassle-a reason that would finally impress my sincerity upon Jenny, who hadn't been impressed with my best efforts to date. I also had to convince Hans, himself, of my friendly and unofficial status, and he probably wasn't a man whose judgment would be clouded by gratitude, no matter what you did for him.
>
  Jenny walked right up to the door of her room, started to look in her purse for the key, remembered she'd given it to Penny, and glanced at the kid, who shook her head. Jenny shrugged, and knocked. There was a moment of utter silence; then somebody turned the knob from inside and pulled the door open. Jenny marched right in, trailed by her daughter and, at a discreet distance, me.

  It was a trite little scene inside; it could have been a still from a Grade B movie. Hans Ruyter, distinguished-looking in sports coat and slacks, lounged negligently by the closet door. At his feet lay a small automatic pistol, one of the Spanish jobs in which the barrel is exposed instead of being buried in the machinery as is the case with many American automatics, for instance the larger Colts.

  The slim, naked barrel had been threaded for a silencer, which was in place. Whether Ruyter habitually carried his weapon that way, or whether he'd assembled it hastily in the darkness of the closet when he knew he was trapped, there was no telling.

  It was a professional outfit, although the best pros don't rely upon firearms and prefer not to monkey with incriminating and illegal gadgets like silencers. Besides being embarrassing to have around if you're searched, they aren't as effective as they're cracked up to be, and that big cylinder screwed to the end of the barrel usually masks the sights and prevents you from shooting with any great accuracy.

  The wicked little gun with its sneaky accessory told a lot about Hans Ruyter, professionally speaking-both good and bad. His attitude, however, was irreproachable. He looked self-confident and rather bored with the proceedings, which is the way for a prisoner to look, of course, even if he's scared silly. It makes the other guy wonder what he's got up his sleeve.

  At the other side of the room, by the hall door, Larry Fenton was responding to the treatment by looking nervous and harassed. His gaunt face was shiny with sweat; even his shaved head showed beads of perspiration. He waved us past him left-handed, and used the same hand to close the door, being careful not to move his eyes or the gun-a sawed-off.38 revolver-very far from Ruyter.