The Betrayers mh-10

by Donald Hamilton

  I said, "Tell you, hell. The way you've fixed it, Mrs. Marner, you stand a good – chance of learning all about it firsthand. I think we can safely say that you are now involved in it up to your pretty neck."

  She was silent for a moment. Then she reached out and covered my hand with hers. "Maybe that's what I really wanted, Matt. Maybe I like being involved. It's certainly a lot more amusing than sitting in Honolulu watching fat Mainland tourists dress up like fat Hawaiian natives."

  I moved my shoulders slightly. "As I've said before, how you get your kicks is your business. I just hope your sense of humor bears up under the strain."

  Isobel laughed and patted my hand lightly and took her hand away. I leaned back, regarding her across the table. Our mild argument had no real significance, because for the moment we had that kind of special understanding that comes between two people who have just learned certain things about each other in the only way those things can be learned. I don't mean that we now liked each other better or trusted each other more than we had before; this had nothing to do with the emotions or the intellect. It was strictly a physical thing and probably quite temporary, but it was kind of comfortable while it lasted.

  She looked, however, remarkably unlike a lady who'd just been making passionate physical discoveries in bed. Her dark hair was quite smooth again, and her subdued lipstick was beautifully applied. There was no unbecoming shine to her nose or betraying flush to her cheeks. The inevitable California sunglasses gave her a remote and mysterious look.

  She was wearing a slim, short, sleeveless cocktail dress in a silk print of large stylized flowers, predominantly red, on a white background. Somehow, despite the bold design, it managed to look neither gaudy nor native, just summery and elegant. The dress made no great point of baring a lot of back and shoulder; in fact, it was quite discreet in those areas, but it was draped quite low in front. In this modern age of athletic, sunbaked babes, I discovered, an old-fashioned snow-white bosom has a kind of tender appeal.

  Isobel smiled faintly when she saw where I was looking, but she made no phony-modest gesture of rearranging her bodice; the view was there to be admired. She was quite a girl. Her green glasses reflected the architectural patterns of the hotel behind me, in a distorted way. I reached out, on a hunch, and drew them off gently and looked through them, and laughed.

  "What's so funny?" she asked, rather defensively.

  "You wouldn't understand," I said. "It's a kind of reverse twist. I once met a girl who was pretending to be somebody else, somebody who wore glasses. Only this girl's eyesight was perfectly good, so she just had windowpanes in her goggles. Now you come along with what look like ordinary sunglasses, and they turn out to have prescription lenses."

  "Of course," Isobel said. She laughed. "Isn't a woman allowed a little vanity? I can't wear contact lenses, my eyes get all bloodshot and bulgy-looking. And ordinary, clear spectacles make any girl look like a frumpy schoolmarm. But dark glasses make her look like a movie star in disguise. I hope."

  "Well, stick with them," I said. "They may come in handy; you never know. There are times when a bit of broken glass can be very useful."

  She made a face. "Don't go getting any melodramatic ideas about my fifty-dollar specs," she said. "Besides, I'm half-blind without them. What happened to the girl?"

  "What girl?"

  "The one who was pretending to be somebody else."

  "She died," I said.

  "Oh." After a moment, Isobel said quietly. "I won't ask how it happened. I don't think I want to know. Besides, you wouldn't tell me."

  "You don't and I wouldn't," I agreed. "If you're finished with that drink, we might try eating for a change.

  Wait a minute. Let's get things settled first." I studied her thoughtfully. "How seasick do you get in small boats at night?"

  Her gray eyes widened a bit at the abrupt question. "I've never been seasick in my life, Matt."

  "Well, there's always a first time," I said. "There's a supposedly deserted coastline I want to take a look at without anybody knowing. Way over there on Molokai.

  No, don't turn your head."

  "I'm sorry. That was silly of me. Are we being watched?"

  I didn't answer her question. I said, "It'll be a long, wet boat ride against the wind, even if I manage to promote some kind of reasonably reliable craft back in Lahaina. That's where I was going this evening to make the arrangements, while you were nursing your headache in bed. I was more or less planning to take off immediately if things looked right. However, now that you've revealed yourself as my willing accomplice, I don't dare leave you behind. Once I disappear, they'll want to know exactly what I'm up to, and if you're still around, they'll most likely come to you for the answer. That could get pretty rough. So you're probably safer out there with the wind and the spray in your hair."

  She said calmly, "When it comes to boats, I'm not exactly Lady Columbus, but I have done a bit of sailing from time to time. When do we leave?"

  "Easy, easy," I said, grinning. "You're such an impulsive dame. We're going in to dinner now, but halfway through I'll have to pay a visit to the men's room. I won't come back. You'll tap your foot impatiently, finish your dessert, smoke an indignant cigarette, and come back out here. You'll sit here, drowning your sorrows in a ladylike way. That'll keep our hatchet-faced friend busy here, watching you. He's up on that side terrace now with his little binoculars. Don't look. Let him think he's invisible."

  "I wasn't looking."

  "That'll give me only one guy to cope with, I hope. Kamehameha Junior, who's probably hanging around the car. I'll get him out of the way somehow, between here and Lahaina, and make arrangements for the boat. By the time I get back to you here, you'll have worked up a real good mad at me. We'll go off into the dark to quarrel privately-and see if we can't suck in our snooping friend up there and put him out of action, too. Temporarily, of course. Fortunately, I've got lots of sleepy-juice for my little hypo. Then we'll grab some seaworthy clothing from our rooms and take off. Okay?"

  "It's… very clever," she said, watching me steadily. "Do you know what it sounds like, Matt?"

  "What?"

  She spoke without expression. "It sounds just like the kind of story a man would tell a girl he was planning to ditch, to keep her quiet until he was safely on his way. How do I know you'll be back?"

  I laughed, and picked up the dark glasses, and reached across the table to set them carefully on her nose. "You don't." I said. "But while you're waiting to find out, don't drink too much. There's nothing worse than a hangover at sea."

  Three quarters of an hour later, with most of a good steak inside me, I made my excuses and left the table. The dark-faced man had come in while we ate; he was having his dinner alone at a table for two near the door. I walked past him without looking at him. Outside the dining room, I turned toward the john, but I didn't go in. Instead I made a circle around the fancy fountain in the center of the lobby. There was a lot of tropical greenery spotted around in pots and planters. I stopped behind something exotic with big shiny leaves. From there I could see straight through the wide dining room doors to where Isobel was sitting.

  She didn't keep me waiting very long. She didn't do any of the staffing I'd suggested; she didn't even have dessert and coffee. She just finished what was on her plate, got the waiter, signed the check, and came toward me, opening her purse. She took out a cigarette, hesitated, and stopped at the hatchet-faced man's table.

  He looked up and rose politely to supply a match. I saw her lips move, whispering, as she bent toward the flame. Then she thanked him with a reserved little smile, came out, and crossed the lobby and went out of sight, a slender, lovely, smartly dressed woman with, you'd have thought, nothing on her mind except possibly the impression she was making on the other fashionable tourists in this classy place.

  I sighed. It was too bad. She'd put on a great act. Her sister-in-law story had been a stroke of genius, and I still didn't know just how much of it, if any, ha
d been the truth. But she'd overplayed her part in the end. They very often do, the women in our line of work. They have this oddball theory that sex has got something to do with business, and that the way to make sure of a man and allay his suspicions is to seduce him at the earliest possible moment.

  Unfortunately, I've never quite managed to convince myself that I'm so fascinating that every girl in the world just naturally wants to drag me into bed. When it does happen, as today, I automatically ask myself what the lady could be after besides love. Well, it looked as if I was on the way to finding out…

  Chapter Sixteen

  I CONFIRMED, OF COURSE. A lighted cigarette and a few whispered words could hint of treachery, but they weren't proof. You might be able to think up an innocent explanation if you thought hard enough, and jumping to unfavorable conclusions about people is an occupational hazard in a trade like ours, full of disillusioned characters with a low opinion of human nature. I'd had some embarrassing experiences along those lines myself. So I confirmed.

  I tailed the man cautiously when he came out of the dining room some ten minutes later, having checked his watch several times in the interim, as if he were anxious not to be late for an important engagement. He led me around the hotel a bit as a matter of routine and pulled one or two of the standard see-behind-you tricks, but he didn't really expect to catch anybody following him, so he didn't. She must have convinced him I was safely on my way to Lahaina. Quite soon he gave up being careful and headed down a path toward the beach. She was waiting for him in the shadows.

  They talked for quite a while down there. I didn't risk trying to sneak in close enough to overhear the conversation. The fact that it was taking place was enough. It was beginning to look very much as if my first hunch in Honolulu had been correct, despite Monk's denials, and the woman had been planted on me very cleverly with a most convincing cover story. In any case, whoever she was she could hardly have a motive for conferring secretly with one of Monk's men that meant anything but trouble for me.

  They parted company at last, and he walked down toward the shore, while she came up the path to the hotel. She passed quite close to where I crouched in the bushes. I watched her out of sight, noting that, unlike the average woman in a narrow dress and high heels, she managed to walk without excessive posterior undulations. She looked respectable and restrained and expensive, obviously a very high type of lady, the kind who'd never dream of giving herself to a man casually, merely to win his confidence.

  I made a face at my thoughts and told myself that everything was fine. Just great. This new development had actually improved my situation. Trustworthy women are a menace to have around, I told myself, particularly when they're beautiful as well. You get to feeling responsible for them and their damn beauty. Tricky, double-crossing females, on the other hand, regardless of looks, make no demands on the conscience, and they can be very useful. For instance, they often know things the trustworthy ladies don't.

  I slipped out of my hiding place and headed for the car, telling myself that l was really a very smart fellow and they should have known better than to try to put one over on Matthew Helm. So I got into the car and somebody rose from the floor behind-where I should have looked but hadn't-and stuck a gun in my ear. That's approximately what happens in this racket whenever you start thinking about how very smart you are.

  "Take it easy, Eric," said a youthful male voice I recognized. "This is Francis. Bill Menander, remember? It's your turn to keep looking straight ahead or comes it a big hole in the head. You'd better check your dose, Mr. Helm. I only slept for an hour and fifteen minutes on what you gave me back there at the porpoise farm."

  I said, "I'll tell the lab. What happens now?"

  "You pass your gun back here, very slowly."

  "Here it comes." I held it up and felt it taken away. "And now?"

  Before he could answer, somebody came running up to the car. "Okay, Bill," said a breathless man's voice that I didn't recognize. "I got the kanaka. He's out cold."

  "For how long?"

  "For long enough. Let's get out of here before Pressman comes looking for his tough beach boy… Move over, you!"

  I moved over. There were, of course, all kinds of spectacular responses I could have made, but most of them are designed to leave people dead on the ground. Taking a gun away from a man is risky business at best. Taking it away from him without hurting him isn't something you want to try unless you've got a life or two to spare. And there were some interesting angles here. It seemed better to explore them cautiously than to act like a hero agent with a short fuse.

  I sat docilely in the right front seat, therefore, with the gun at my neck, while the unknown youth beside me drove us down the hotel hill and south along the coast highway.

  "What's a kanaka?" I asked at last.

  The driver glanced at me irritably, as if to tell me to shut up, but Francis answered behind me, "It used to mean just a man. Well, a native man. I think Jack London once wrote a story called 'The Kanaka Surf.' That was the big he-man surf that only natives could handle, as opposed to the malahini surf, the little surf suitable for tourists to play in. It used to be a proud word, I guess, but people took to using it in a derogatory way, so now… Well, you've got to be kind of careful whom you call a kanaka. It's kind of like calling a Mexican a greaser. I mean, Rog here wouldn't call Mister Glory a kanaka to his face, would you, Rog."

  The driver said, "Go to hell. I'm not scared of that beach bum. You should have seen the way I took care of him. He never knew what hit him."

  "Mister Glory?" I said. "Who's that, the bronze character in the jeep?"

  "His real name is Jimmy Hanohano," Francis said. "He's supposed to be descended from kings or something."

  The youth called Rog said, "So what? So's every Mick I ever met."

  Francis said, "Anyway, Hanohano means honor or glory in Hawaiian, so he called himself Mister Glory in a band he had for a while. Mister Glory and his Surf Kings. He still sings and plays in the bars-that Beyond-the-Reef kind of mush-and makes love to the female malahinis. They really go for him. He can do the old-time slack-string guitar bit, too, real ethnic, but you've got to catch him in the mood. But you don't want to meet him drunk with a broken bottle in his hand."

  "Ah, shut up," said Rog. "You sound like his press agent or something. He's not so damn tough."

  "Well, I just hope you laid him out good. He's one guy I don't want any trouble with. And Pressman's another. That hatchet-faced creep would order us killed like ordering eggs for breakfast."

  "Maybe he already has. Or the Monk has. There's the only guy who scares me. Those damn blue eyes of his… Hang on, we might as well turn here and get off the road a bit."

  As we swerved, the headlights flashed across one of the colorful tourist-bureau markers put up to identify local points of interest. Then we were bouncing along a dirt track through the big Hawaiian mesquites-excuse me, kiawes. The road emerged from the trees and dove into a sugarcane field that seemed endless in the dark: just interminable rows of tall green cane sliding into the lights on either side of the car. Finally this gave way to a canyon of sorts, heading up into the invisible hills. Rog stopped the car under a wall of rock and cut the lights and the ignition. There was a little silence after the engine had died. Francis tapped me on the shoulder.

  "Here's your gun, Mr. Helm," he said, holding it out to me butt first.

  I looked at it, a little startled. As I say, we're disillusioned and suspicious; we don't believe in Santa Claus at all. And there are a number of nasty routines that start with giving the prisoner back his gun. Before I could make up my mind to grasp the weapon, Rog had reached out and snatched it from Francis' hand.

  "Have you lost your everlasting marbles?"

  Francis said, "We need the man's help, don't we? He's the only guy we can turn to. So who's going to help looking down a gun barrel, yet? Give it back to him." He spoke to me: "Sorry about the holdup, sir, but we had to talk to you and you were being wat
ched. There wasn't any quick way to explain without letting the whole world know… Give it back to him, Rog!"

  "Take it easy. Let's hear what he can do for us before we get so damn generous with the firearms. Ask him about Jill."

  "What about Jill?" I demanded.

  "That's what we want to know, Mr. Helm," Francis said. "She told us she had a kind of date with you this morning. We know she was trying to make up her mind about telling you… "He stopped.

  "Telling me what?"

  Rog asked suspiciously, "Did you see her this morning?"

  "Yes, I saw her. She checked me out on a surfboard. Well, more or less."

  Rog said sourly, "That must have been something to see!"

  I regarded him for a moment. There was enough light to make him out after a fashion: one of those handsome, tanned,, sneering, dime-a-dozen boys with streaky, too-long hair. Not that I have any objection to long haircuts. Wild Bill Hickock wore his to the shoulders and nobody was heard to complain. But then, Hickock had a little more than hair going for him. All you could say for Rog was that he was making his associate, Francis, look better all the time, despite the plump face and the silly little moustache.

  Francis said, "Lay off, Rog. Don't mind him, Mr.

  Helm. He's just scared. We're both scared. We don't know what the hell we've got ourselves into, sir, and now the Kilauea Street house is closed and nobody answers the phone and Lanny's dead and Jill's disappeared. You don't know where she is? She claimed you'd been sent to investigate the information she'd passed to Washington. She was going to identify herself to you as soon as she dared. Didn't she tell you anything while you were out there together this morning?"

  I didn't answer at once. The fact that Jill had apparently confided freely in these boys was a blow; it made a joke of our attempts at security-particularly now that Francis had blabbed the essential facts to the warm night air. It wasn't hard to decide how far I trusted him and his associate; I didn't trust them at all. Even if they were sincere, which hadn't been proved, they were obviously inexperienced and not too bright in professional matters.