The Betrayers (6 page)

I took my knife from my pocket and made certain it would open smoothly if needed. It looks like an ordinary jackknife, just a little larger than average, but it has some special features. For instance, the long blade locks into place when opened so it won’t fold over and cut off your fingers if you happen to hit bone as you go in. I made sure I had my new belt on—it has some special features, too—and I got the little drug kit we often carry and slipped that into a concealed pocket.

I guess this seems like a lot of preparation, but I tend to be a trifle suspicious of breathless midnight telephone invitations from mysterious ladies in distress.

Turning to leave, I stopped, looking at the orchid lei Jill had been wearing, still lying on the chair where she’d dropped it. I picked it up, wondering how to get it back to her, but decided that the conscientious gesture would be out of character for the surly, brooding bastard I was supposed to be—besides, the damn island was lousy with orchids. She wouldn’t have any trouble finding more if she wanted them. I made a face at the pretty necklace of flowers, dropped it into the wastebasket, turned out the lights, and left the room.

Just down the hall was an outside staircase leading to the ground. I took this, with my hand in my coat pocket and my gun in my hand. Once I was covered by the garden shadows below, I took the hand and the gun out of my pocket.

It was a fine place for dirty work at night. There was an occasional light but it didn’t reach very far through the lush foliage. The path was a tunnel through giant ferns and overhanging palms, not to mention such exotics as bird-of-paradise trees, the flowers of which actually do look like brilliant birds. Not that I could identify them in the dark, or would have taken the time if I could, but I’d kind of checked them out that morning, returning from the beach. I’d also located the paddle-tennis layout, where a kind of bastard court game could be played with what looked like overgrown Ping-pong paddles. You never know when a little local geography is going to come in handy.

There was nobody on the court when I reached it. The deserted spectator tables sprouted beach umbrellas that
looked like giant mushrooms in the dark. There were no lights in the adjacent building, but a lamp on a post let me read the number on the nearest door: 16-2. As I moved that way, my foot nudged something on the walk that skidded away with a rattling, fragile little sound. I found the object and picked it up: a pair of glamorized sunglasses that looked familiar. They were unbroken. Remembering the shaky voice on the phone, I wondered if the owner could say the same.

The door was the usual flimsy fresh-air affair with ventilating slats instead of solid panels. It opened silently when I turned the knob, and let me into a shadowy porch or lanai, similar to the one in my own suite. The walls were striped with the light filtering through the louvered doors and window shutters. Beyond, presumably, was the bedroom. It was quite dark in there.

I’d already stuck my neck out coming this far; I might as well stick it out all the way. If I’d really wanted to avoid a trap, I’d have stayed in my room. You can learn a lot about people from the kind of traps they set, if you live through the experience. I stepped into the darkness and stumbled over something soft on the floor. A light came on.

“Welcome, Mr. Helm,” said Isobel McLain’s voice. “Thank you for responding so promptly to my call.”

I wheeled to face her. She was sitting in one of the large beds jutting out from the left-hand wall, and she was unarmed and more or less undressed; that is, she was wearing nothing but an insubstantial nightgown of the
pale café-au-lait color that makes a woman’s skin look very white by contrast. She had nice shoulders, I noticed. This was the glamorous part of the display.

The unglamorous part was that she was holding a small hotel towel to the side of her head. There was fresh blood on the towel and on her hand. Her hair was matted on that side. Her face was shiny and drawn with pain.

“No, Mr. Helm,” she said tartly, as if I had spoken. “I did not fall down drunk and bump my head. Look at my room!”

I looked at her room. It had been pretty well torn apart. Dresser drawers and closed doors gaped open, and feminine stuff was all over the place. At my feet, in a crumpled heap, was the black dress she’d worn at the cocktail party. This was what I’d stumbled on in the dark. It seemed to have picked up some dust and blood since I’d last seen it. Her purse lay beside it. Farther on in the direction of the bathroom lay her discarded underwear, shoes, and stockings.

I couldn’t help thinking that women were having a lot of trouble staying in their clothes in Honolulu tonight, judging by one man’s experience. Well, this was a good climate for it—not staying in your clothes, I mean. The risk of pneumonia was negligible.

I turned back to the bed and Isobel McLain, and held up the sunglasses I’d found. “You dropped these outside. They seem to be okay.” I laid them on a table nearby. “What happened here, Mrs. McLain?”

“There were two men,” she said. “One must have been
waiting out there in the bushes, watching for me. He must have hit me as I approached the door, while I was busy rummaging in my purse for my key. I say ‘must have’ because I don’t really know what happened. Suddenly I was down on hands and knees and my head was full of pain and there was something wet running down my neck. Foolishly enough, all I could think of was that I was wrecking my nylons on the concrete walk—I could feel them going—and that I must look very ridiculous and undignified. Is that a normal reaction, Mr. Helm?”

I shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I wore a pair of nylons, ma’am. Or worried about my dignity.”

She laughed softly, and winced. “Don’t be funny. It hurts my head. Well, after a moment or two I sort of felt the man standing over me, and I was terrified that he’d hit me again, so I pretended to collapse into total unconsciousness. He dragged me in here, and I heard him telling the other man to finish up in a hurry and never mind putting anything back. After a little, the other man said it was no use, the bitch was too smart, there was nothing here to connect her with Helm, even though she’d been seen to make contact with him at the party, earlier. That’s what he said, that we’d made contact. Did we make contact, Mr. Helm?”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” I said. “Not in an official sense of the word. But I guess it could have looked like a contact to somebody watching.”

She said, “One day you’ll have to explain to me all about contacts, when I don’t have such a headache.
Anyway, the two men left. When I was sure they weren’t coming back, I struggled out of my clothes and into a pretty nightie and called you.” She managed a smile. “After all, one can’t entertain a gentleman in a dirty dress and laddered stockings, can one?”

I grinned. “Maybe not, but one seems to be able to think pretty fast, even with a bad crack on the head. Why me? Why not the police?”

“What could the police do except make trouble for everybody, including me? I came to Honolulu to rest, Mr. Helm, and to enjoy myself a little if possible, not to answer a policeman’s silly, suspicious questions. It’s not as if I’d been robbed. I’ve lost nothing that the police can get back for me, have I? But there is a certain amount of damage. I called you because your name was mentioned. I thought it might be worth something to you not to have me tell this to the authorities.”

I regarded her for a moment. It was the first time I’d seen her without the sunglasses. Her eyes were gray. They had a glint of humor in them. She didn’t look like the type to say what she’d just said, even with a bloody towel against her head.

I said in a tentative way, “Blackmail, Mrs. McLain?”

Her smile was a little stronger this time. “Of course, Mr. Helm. What did you expect?”

“What do you want?”

She laughed her soft laugh. “Why, my dear man. I want you to clean up this mess, since you seem to be, indirectly at least, responsible for it. I want you to take
a look at this bump on my head and tell me if I need a doctor. And if I do, I want you to get me one who’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t come clear to Hawaii to have my name plastered all over the newspapers. My loving husband would laugh himself sick. He’d say that’s what I got for going off alone.”

It wasn’t the strongest argument in the world, but I didn’t challenge it. Instead I said, “What makes you think I can find you a silent-type doctor?”

She glanced at the gun I still held. “Don’t be silly. A man who carries one of those things usually knows his way around, doesn’t he?”

“And that’s all you want?” I put the revolver away.

She smiled again. “I’m afraid you’ve been associating with the wrong kind of people. Did you think I was going to hold you up for money?”

“It’s been tried. For money, and for other valuable considerations.”

“And I’m sure you gave the extortioner a very rough time in every instance. You look like a man who would. But I feel that my demands are quite reasonable, don’t you? I mean, it does seem to be because of you that I was honored by this visit, or should I say visitation?” She frowned. “I’m going to try not to pry into your business, at least not yet. I have a certain amount of discretion, and it warns me not to question a man carrying a large pistol, presumably loaded. But maybe you’ll condescend to tell
me: does every lady you encounter for a moment at a cocktail party receive this kind of attention? If so, I should think it would soon put a blight on your social life.”

“I’m afraid we just happened to meet at the wrong moment,” I said. “Apparently it caused the wrong people to jump to the wrong conclusions.”

“I see.” She hesitated. “Do you know an individual named Rath, Mr. Helm? Lawrence Rath?”

“Not under that name,” I said. “Why?”

“I said there were two men involved. Now I think of it, I believe there were three. There was also a man who’d just struck up an acquaintance with me in the cocktail lounge or whatever you call it—that pavilion place—and insisted on buying me drinks. At the time, of course, I thought he was just plying me with liquor for the usual reasons; that’s why I walked out on him. I decided he was too obvious to be entertaining. Now I wonder if he wasn’t just trying to keep me from my room long enough for the other two to finish searching it.” She glanced at me sharply. “You don’t know him? A rather intriguing-looking man, with the shoulders of an ape and the face of a fallen angel.”

Well, it was about time the Monk showed his face locally, as well as his voice. I grinned at Isobel McLain. “That’s great poetry, ma’am,” I said, “but it doesn’t constitute much of a description. I’m afraid my acquaintance doesn’t boast many angels, fallen or otherwise. Apes, now that’s a different matter.”

She was watching me shrewdly. “You use a lot of
words, Mr. Helm, but none of them say no. I think you do know the man I mean.” After a moment she shrugged. “Well, all right. Just fix up this place so I can sleep in it and the maid won’t have hysterics in the morning.”

I moved toward the bed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see about that bump on your head first. Did you get a look at either of the two men in here?”

“You overestimate my courage. I kept my eyes tightly closed and acted just as dead as I could… Ouch!”

“Sorry,” I said, leaning over to part the hair above her ear. Whether or not she was genuine—a question I hadn’t answered to my own satisfaction—her blood certainly was. “Well, you have a small scalp nick, about a quarter of an inch long,” I reported after a brief examination.

“Is that all? From the way it’s been bleeding, I thought I’d been slashed to the bone.”

“Head wounds often bleed a lot,” I said. “I don’t think you need a doctor for that. It’s too small to require stitching. However, there’s no telling what’s under it. I mean, you could have a concussion, or even a fracture.”

“Wouldn’t I have been knocked out completely, if it were that serious?”

“Not necessarily.”

“If it were yours, would you see a doctor about it?”

I said, “That’s beside the point. Let’s say that I know from experience that my skull is fairly durable.”

She said, “Well, suppose I just take it easy for a day or so. Then if my eyes begin to cross or I have dizzy spells or start stuttering or something, we can consult the medical
profession. In the meantime, why don’t you bring in a wet washcloth and help me get rid of this gore? I washed off some of it, but I felt too awful, standing up, to get it all. And make me a drink. There’s Scotch over there on the dresser.”

“No drinks,” I said. “Not with a possible concussion.”

She looked up irritably. “Mr. Helm, if I’d wanted real medical advice, I’d have called a real doctor. Now make me a drink like a good boy, and if it scrambles my brains I’ll remember that you advised against it. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said humbly.

“And bring my sleeping pills here so I’ll have them handy. They’re in the medicine thing in the bathroom.”

“Sure,” I said. “Your life’s your own, Mrs. McLain. If you insist on ending it tonight, who am I to stand in your way?”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“People have died from mixing alcohol and barbiturates. Add to the mixture a nasty bump on the noggin, and the results should be very interesting. Where did you say you kept those pills?”

She sighed. “My God, you’re just a little mine of information, aren’t you? All right, I’ll settle for the Scotch. No ice. A dash of water. Tell me, Mr. Helm, with that gun you must be one of three things: a criminal, a policeman, or a secret agent. Which is it?”

“Can’t I be just a man with a gun?” I asked. “No? All right, then, I’m an agent.”

“You said that a little too easily. An agent of what,
or should I say, of whom?”

“Of the U.S. Government, naturally. Would I say Russia or China even if it were true?”

“If you’re telling the truth—I don’t say I believe you, but if you are—does that make those other men Russian or Chinese?”

“Those are certainly two possibilities,” I said, and hesitated, but it didn’t seem like the time or the place for long-winded explanations, true or false. I had a hunch she was a lady who’d be intrigued by mystification, so I took refuge in security. “I’m afraid that’s as much as I can tell you, Mrs. McLain.”