Assignment — Angelina (18 page)

If this was the target area, and if he could trace them in the locality tomorrow, then he would know that he and Angelina had not alarmed them too much. They had been sure of their anonymity in New York; the police had no clue to their identity. If he had sold Jessie Corbin with his argument that he wanted a cut of their operation, then they would go ahead — watching for him, of course, wary of his being on their trail, but not worried enough to conceal or postpone their plans.

He closed his eyes upon a swimming darkness and saw Angelina. He saw her as she had been long ago, in the bayous, as wild and passionate as the land itself, giving herself without restraint or demands. She was a confident, beautiful, intelligent woman. She loved him. She had almost wrecked everything, but he felt no anger or bitterness toward her. He understood her and felt an affinity toward her because she had shared all the things that had made him what he was now. Whatever happened, he had to do what he could for her.

When he fell asleep, it was with the suddenness of a dark curtain falling over the turmoil in his mind.

At seven o'clock Durell was up and showered. He found two new shirts on the doorsteps of his motel room and he used one, grateful for its freshness. He found a diner not far down the road where he ate with a surprising appetite and listened to the sleepy conversation of the short-order man whose chief complaint was that the tourists here usually camped out and bought their own food supplies.

The town itself showed signs of a severe economic depression not too many years in the past; a great many business places were vacant, the colliery was a lifeless area, and the coal company town on the southern fringes was a gray tumble of ruins under the bright blue sky. On the other hand, as he had noted last night, a thriving tourist industry had sprung up; and he could appreciate why. The air was crisp and cool, the sun was warm, and the mountains to the north looked virginal and inviting.

The real estate office of George Johnston was still closed, and he remembered it would not open until nine. He decided to look up Carl Amberley first, and chose a tarred road that went north out of town into the foothills ahead. For two miles he could still see the heaps of slag and waste in the valleys, and then these gradually fell away and the road turned to gravel and climbed sharply into cool pine woods. Here and there were smaller private roads, with names painted on rustic signs; and occasionally he glimpsed a summer cottage tucked away near a limpid blue lake. Following tie motel proprietor's instructions, he turned right after crossing a rough wooden bridge over a mountain stream and saw the sign that read
C. Amberley.
In a moment more the house came into view.

It was modern, combining native granite with rough-hewn vertical planking, and a vast window wall caught the brightness of the sun as it lifted over the wooded mountains to the east. The road became crushed stone that circled around a small terraced lawn overlooking a private lake. When Durell parked in front of the yellow-gold doorway, he heard the increasing chorus of birds and small animal life in the woodlands.

No one was in sight, and there was no sign that anyone was awake yet, but a black Jaguar sedan was parked in the shelter of a carport.

Then, as Durell got out of his rented car, he saw someone pulling aside the heavy draperies behind the window wall. He walked up to the door along a pathway lined with oddly distorted pieces of sculpture; he couldn't find a bell, so he knocked, and waited.

While he waited he saw about thirty Canadian geese feeding in the reeds along the lake shore; a tanager flashed red in the pine woods nearby, and a squirrel came along the path behind him and sat up, waiting expectantly. There was not another house in view.

When the door opened, a plump little woman with gray hair and apple-red cheeks stood there in a brocaded housecoat. Her smile was warm and friendly. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Amberley?" When she nodded, Durell said: "I'm sorry to intrude at this hour, but it's imperative that I talk to your husband without delay."

"Oh, but I couldn't possibly..."

"It's very urgent, Mrs. Amberley."

"It always is, isn't it? You government people are always doing something urgent. I'm sorry Carl ever undertook to work for you."

"What makes you think I'm from the government, Mrs. Amberley?"

She looked puzzled. "Well, aren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But I didn't realize your husband had been disturbed so much lately."

"It hasn't been so bad, actually. Not since that darned old project was finished. You're the first in several months.' She smiled suddenly and held the door open. "Come in. I expect you could use a cup of coffee."

Durell followed her into a stone-floored foyer with vines growing up the granite walls, then into the living room, which had a view of the lake. There was a huge fireplace with a copper hood suspended over it, bucket chairs of wrought iron and canvas, more growing vines, and a superb view of Kittitimi Mountain. Mrs. Amberley looked worried again.

"Carl needs his rest so much. It's his heart, you know. He had a really severe attack just six weeks ago, and he's supposed to stay in bed until noon."

"I won't trouble him for long," Durell said. "I want just to talk to him for a few minutes — he doesn't have to get out of bed."

"I'll see if he's awake."

When she had gone, Durell started to light a cigarette, then saw there were no ashtrays in the big, sunlit room, and he put the cigarette away. He waited, watching the Canadian geese by the shore of the lake. The rising sun made a dazzling glare over the dark shoulder of the mountain, and the surface of the lake was momentarily ruffled by a small wind that broke up the colors in it into rippling fragments. He turned as he heard the woman's footsteps hurrying back. She came into the room alone. Her face was pale; her eyes were alarmed.

"He's not there! He's gone! We sleep in separate rooms, you see — he rests better that way. And his bed is empty. And the window is open." She put a hand to her mouth. "I don't know what it means.

"Could he have gone out for a walk?"

"Oh, no, he never does that. Not since his last attack." Her voice broke suddenly. "Why are you here? What kind of trouble..."

He made his voice quiet and soothing. "There is no trouble, Mrs. Amberley. Please don't get upset May I see your husband's bedroom?"

She nodded quickly and led him down a short hall to the bedroom wing of the house. The door was open, and he followed her into a vast, quiet room with a beamed ceiling and more cut granite in the walls and a terra cotta floor. There was a large bed with an elaborate headboard opposite the window wall. There were two glass doors in the wall to match the window units, and one of them stood open onto a small terrace backed by a dry stone wall where wild morning glories grew. The sheets and blanket on the bed had been rumpled, but there was no real sign of any disturbance. Mrs. Amberley murmured something and Durell went past her to step outside. The wrought-iron table and chairs were wet with dew, and a path led up fieldstone steps into the woods that encroached against the back of the house. He thought he heard a waterfall tinkling quietly somewhere in the woods.

Mrs. Amberley joined him outside. "Something is wrong. I can feel it. Carl would never do this. He has always remained in bed until noon, just as the doctor said he should."

"What was the government project he worked on, Mrs. Amberley?"

Her eyes widened. "Well, gracious, don't you know? I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea."

"Wasn't it in this vicinity?"

"I suppose so, but Carl couldn't tell me anything about it." She regarded him with sudden suspicion. "Why should you ask me that? You said you were from the government. Aren't you familiar with the Kittitimi Project?"

"Not in any detail."

She backed a step away from him. "I'm going to call the police. No, the FBI. Carl..."

He couldn't tell her not to do it. He saw in this a repetitive pattern that had followed him since his trip to Louisiana. He was too late again. Corbin had moved swiftly and accurately, beating him to the objective. He had no doubt that the Corbins had Amberley now. But this settled one thing. He had come to the right place. He hadn't made a mistake about that.

Mrs. Amberley hurried ahead into the house again; her breathing was quick and frightened. Durell followed her, but when she started to lift the telephone, he put his hand on it. "Let me call Washington first, please."

She looked at him in growing terror. "Will you notify the police?"

"I'll get instructions on it, Mrs. Amberley. Perhaps your husband is simply outside. Why don't you call to him or walk around a bit to see if he isn't sitting down somewhere?"

She bit her lip. "He isn't out there, I'm sure. But I understand, I think. I'll go look."

Durell called Wittington's number as she hurried away. This time Wittington himself came on promptly, his dry voice sharp with recrimination. "What do you think you're up to?"

"Did Kincaid check the names I gave him last night?"

"Where are you, Durell?"

"Groversville. Our party is here."

"Are you sure of that?"

"They've got Carl Amberley. Have you checked him yet?"

"They've got..."

"He's missing. I'm at his house now."

There was a brief silence. Durell stared at an abstract painting on the wall as Wittington said: "You don't know who he is?"

"Look, stop horsing around. You may be the boss, but I'm here on the spot. What kind of project did he design around here?"

"We don't know yet. We're up against a blank wall."

"Well, break it down," Durell said. 'This is urgent."

"It must be. There's an installation of some kind there, but nobody at the Pentagon knows about it or is willing to talk about it. Haven't you run into anything specific yet?"

"No. There's no sign of anything around."

"I'll have to go to the White House, then," Wittington said. "You understand? Somebody pays for this. All this damned useless secrecy and classification and red tape can go too far. I'll ask the top. I'll put a crash priority on getting the information for you."

"MacCreedy may work into this. Mrs. Amberley is going to call the FBI," Durell said. "And I can't stop her."

"It may take some time before it reaches MacCreedy."

"Too much time."

"Do you need help?"

T don't know," Durell said. I don't know what to look for."

"What's the number there? I'll call you back."

"I won't be here. I'll call you," Durell said, and hung up.

Mrs. Amberley came back into the house. One glance at her stricken face told Durell that her brief search had been unsuccessful. He handed the phone to her silently and told her he would drive down the road a bit and that he would call her to find out if her husband had turned up. He didn't expect anything from that, but talking to her as if her husband were not in serious danger helped her nerves somewhat.

IT was after nine when he returned to Groversville. The realty office of George Johnston was open. Durell parked on Main Street and watched some girls in Bermuda shorts cycling through the traffic. Then he pushed the door open to Johnston's office and went in.

George Johnston was easy to talk to. He was a plump, voluble man who offered information with easy gratuity. When Durell described the Corbins, he nodded eagerly and went to his files.

"Oh, yes, I rented them Happy Acres Lodge on Kittitimi."

"Happy Acres," Durell said.

"Lovely place. Very comfortable."

"And they have privacy, I'm sure," Durell said.

"Oh, yes. Really remote."

"Are they here now?"

"I couldn't say. I haven't seen them."

Durell asked for information on the roads to the lodge and Johnston described the back roads he had to take. "Perhaps I could interest you in a rental for the rest of the summer? Near your friends? Rates are down now — it's so close to Labor Day — but it's really the best part of the season up here."

"I'll drop back after I've seen the Corbins," Durell said.

"Do that. Well be happy to be of service."

Durell went to the street door, and then walked back again. Johnston would know what was happening to real estate properties in the area, he decided. "One more thing. Where is the big government project around here?"

Mr. Johnston looked totally blank and smiled uncertainly. "Government project? There isn't any."

"Well, hasn't there been a big construction deal around?"

"Oh, you must mean Number Four. The Blue Spot Colliery. That old anthracite mine they thought they could reopen last year."

"Yes, that must be the one," Durell said.

"You're late, if you're selling anything. You cant even go there now — it's all private property. They bought up half the mountain." Johnston looked resentful of this. "Big disappointment to everybody in town. The mines have been worked out since '52, and everybody had high hopes they'd be revived when Blue Spot began hauling in all those trainloads of equipment. But nothing came of it. A lot of fuss and money spent, and the vein didn't last at all. I understand Blue Spot went completely under in the gamble."

"I'd like to visit the place, anyway. Is it possible?"

"Well, they put up fences and all, and posted the place against hunters and trespassers. Might've thought they were mining gold, folks said. But the property goes for miles, I guess. Half the mountain, like I said. I wouldn't want to suggest that you do anything illegal, like trespassing..."

"Doesn't Blue Spot have an office in town where I could got permission to see the site?"

"Not around here, that's for sure. Maybe in New York."

"I see. Well, thanks."