The Intimidators (7 page)

I licked my lips once more. “Is that another rhetorical question, Miss Rockwell?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“First you ask if the guy was really trying to kill you; and then you tell me you looked right into the muzzle of the gun, so you know damned well he was trying to kill you.”

“I’m sorry.” She laughed apologetically. “It’s just so
unbelievable,
Mr. Helm. I have a hard time grasping it. I guess I just want you to... well, to tell me what I saw with my own eyes, so I’ll know I wasn’t dreaming.”

I said, “Well, the little man had a gun—a funny-looking pistol with a telescope on it—and I saw him assemble it, load it, point it in your direction, and cock the hammer, if that’s the correct firearms terminology. It seemed inadvisable to let him proceed to the next step: pulling the trigger. Yes, Miss Rockwell, I think it’s safe to say that murder was very much on his mind, and that you were the intended victim.”

“But I’d never seen him before in my life! Why in the world...”

“You didn’t know him at all?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Helm, they let me look at him to make sure. It wasn’t a... a very pleasant experience. But he was a total stranger to me. That’s what’s so mysterious, so terrifying. If you can tell me anything-that will make some sense of the whole thing, I’ll be very grateful.”

I asked, “How can I? I didn’t know him either, any more than I know you.... What’s the matter?”

“But you must have known him! Otherwise, why...” She stopped.

I frowned at her. Thinking was hard work, but it obviously had to be done. “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Why the hell must I have known him? I don’t know anybody in Nassau except a taxi-driver I owe a few bucks for a city tour we never finished, and I can’t even remember his name. Paul, or Mike, or Steve, or something. What happened was, I saw a crummy-looking punk pointing a gun at a nice-looking girl, and I decided, in my idealistic way, that something ought to be done about it.” I touched the side of my bandaged head in a cautious way. “Maybe next time I’ll be smart and mind my own business.”

She said quickly, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or... or suspicious. Naturally, I appreciate what you did for me. I appreciate it very much. I’m just trying to
understand
.... if you didn’t know Mr. Menshek, or whatever the police said his name was, why were you hiding in the bushes spying on him? Or... or were you spying on me?”

I stared at her for a moment. Then, again because it had to be done, I threw back my head and laughed uproariously, and stopped abruptly, and waited for the blinding pain to go away.

“Don’t be so funny, Lacey Rockwell. It hurts,” I whispered when I could talk once more.

“But—”

I said, “Look, doll, I’d been riding around in that cab, sightseeing. I’d had a late breakfast in my hotel room, with a big pot of coffee. The driver still had some places he wanted to show me, and I wanted to get my money’s worth, and the town doesn’t seem to be really loaded with sidewalk facilities like some of those practical European cities where they recognize the limitations of the human plumbing.... So, hell, I told the guy to drop me off down there where the bushes were nice and thick and wait for me outside the gate and I’d join him in a couple of minutes. Okay? And naturally I was a little sensitive about being seen, under the circumstances, so when I heard somebody coming I just kind of stepped a little farther back into that jungly stuff hoping he’d go away, but he didn’t. When I saw what he was doing, well, it just seemed like my duty as a good citizen to abort my primary mission, pull up my zipper again, and try to stop him....” I looked at her closely. “Why, Miss Rockwell, you’re blushing!”

She was, too, and she had the right skin for it; it was a very pretty display. Before she could speak, the door opened and all kinds of officialdom, plainclothes and uniformed, black and white, invaded the room. In the van was a heavy, dignified-looking black man with short, gray hair, and a lean, good-looking white man with long brown hair, considerably younger. They were both in civilian clothes, but there were police uniforms behind them.

The younger one spoke to the girl, who had come to her feet facing them. He said, “That was fine. We have it all on tape. It clears things up very well. Thank you very much for your cooperation, Miss Rockwell. You’re free to go now.”

She moved toward the door without glancing my way. I said, “Miss Rockwell.” She stopped without turning her head. I spoke to her back: “Miss Rockwell, I’m surprised at you. You’re just a lousy little blond fink. Next time I see somebody trying to shoot you, I’ll help them call the shots.”

“Now, now.” This was the dignified black gentleman. “Miss Rockwell was just following our instructions, Mr. Helm. You should be grateful to her. She’s cleared you very nicely, or helped you clear yourself.”

“Cleared me of what?” I asked. “Of saving her lousy little life? I can see how that ought to be illegal, but I didn’t know it was.”

“Mr. Helm, please!” It was the white man, the younger one. He turned to the girl. “Go on, Miss Rockwell. Don’t leave town or change hotels without letting us know, please.” When the little girl had fled, he turned back to me: “What Detective Inspector Crawford means is that there are always questions to be answered when a man is killed, even when he seems to have been something of a professional gunman....”

I let my eyes widen in a startled way. “My God! A professional? What the hell have I got myself into, anyway?”

He hesitated. “Well, we’re getting some very interesting information on the late Mr. Menshek. It’s big and international, Mr. Helm. For some reason, certain people seem almost as anxious to get rid of that little girl who just left as they were to dispose of Leon Trotsky. At least, they employed some very high-priced talent for the job. Mr. Menshek’s records seems to be long, gory, and spectacular. I have to tell you this, in case there should be repercussions.”

I grimaced. “Thanks a whole lot! What you’re trying to say is that I just managed to bash in the head of a high-class Commie hitman, or liquidator, or exterminator, or whatever the movie jargon is, and somebody may be real mad, is that it?”

He said carefully, “Well, it’s not really very likely, sir, but I thought you should be aware of the possibility.”

“It makes me feel warm all over,” I said sourly. “Or cold. And what about you and your friends with your eavesdropping gadgets, are you all mad, too?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “No, indeed, Mr. Helm. We are very happy. As far as we’re concerned, well, you’ve done us a service—we don’t like to have homicidal operations like that conducted under our noses, isn’t that right, Inspector? If a few more brave citizens like you were to rise up and dispose of a few more nasty types like Menshek, the world would be a better place for all of us. We just had to make certain that your actions were those of a genuinely disinterested and public-spirited bystander....”

It always works. I didn’t take all his protestations at face valus—even with my head cracked, I can spot irony when I hear it—but at least he’d indicated that we were all going to play nice, until further notice. You can generally get by with just about anything, even homicide, as long as you’re not too proud to make yourself look bad by confessing to a slightly discreditable action, like peeing in a public park.

After a while, they all went away, and I slept. Suddenly it was morning. My head was clear enough for me to take in the standard nurse-and-doctor routine. They run it just about the same with a predominantly black cast as with a predominantly white one. I got some breakfast that didn’t have much taste, or maybe it was my mouth that didn’t have much taste. Then the door opened, kind of sneakily, and the little blonde girl whose life I’d saved slipped through the crack. She was wearing a short, crisp, white dress, and her long hair had been brushed to within an inch of its blonde life. Obviously, she wanted to make a good impression on somebody this morning, presumably me.

“Mr. Helm....”

“Beat it,” I said.

“But—”

I reached for the dingus that rang the bell and pushed the button. The service was good. Almost instantly a black nurse or aide or something—I didn’t have all the Bahamian hospital ranks sorted out—came in to see what I wanted.

I said, “Get the little stoolpigeon out of here, will you, Miss. Please. She’s interfering with the patient’s recovery.”

Lacey Rockwell departed with a reproachful look on her face. She was just as cute as the Easter Bunny, and I didn’t want to lose her permanently, but I didn’t really think there was much risk of that. I waited, watched the ceiling, and presently Fred came in, kind of diffidently.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but they said it was all right.”

I said, “Oh, you’re the driver who.... Of course, you’ve got some money coming. I think my wallet’s in the table drawer. If you’d get it out....” As he came closer, I said softly, “Careful, the place is bugged.”

He shook his head. “No longer. They took it out last night, Mr. Helm. They’re satisfied.”

“Maybe,” I said. “That white man with Detective Inspector Crawford knows more than he was saying aloud. Have we got anything on him?”

“Not much yet,” Fred said. “He’s not local. Somebody from London, is the word we have. A specialist, but specialist in what? He goes by the name of Pendleton, Ramsay Pendleton. The fact that he seems to be getting full cooperation is significant. With our politics the way they are right now, British officials aren’t generally welcomed with open arms.” Fred hesitated. “That was a brave thing you did, Mr. Helm, tackling the Mink barehanded.”

I looked at him with surprise and, perhaps, a little dismay. Only an amateur worries about courage; and I don t like amateur help. I said, “The guy had only one shot in his gun. He weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. I go over two hundred when I don’t watch myself. I should be ashamed of myself, picking on a little fellow like that and letting him put a crease in my skull to boot.” After a moment, I went on: “Could he possibly have made contact with anybody between the time you spotted him at the airport, and the time you turned him over to me at the hotel?”

“If I’d seen a contact made, Mr. Helm, I’d certainly have let you know.”

Fred’s voice was cool. I’d hurt his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to have feelings, none of us are, but I’d hurt them anyway. I’d forgotten that the British have a thing about being forever brave; and that these island people, although they were in the process of discarding the colonial yoke, had nevertheless been exposed to that stiff-upper-lip tradition since childhood. Furthermore, I’d questioned his professional competence.

I said, “Relax,
amigo.
You know as well as I do that there are signals nobody can spot who doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for. This thing was set up in advance, well in advance, or we’d never have had a chance to learn about it in time to make the intercept. Okay. But the Mink would have wanted to know, upon arriving, that nothing had gone haywire while he was in transit. It seems probable that somebody, at the airport, the hotel, or points in between, gave him the final green light. Maybe just a bystander blowing his nose on a dirty handkerchief, in which case we’re out of luck. But the most likely candidate is somebody he’d normally have dealings with as an innocent tourist, planted somewhere along the route he’d be expected to take. The driver of the taxi he used, for instance....”

“I drove him in my cab,” Fred said stiffly.

I grinned. “One possibility eliminated, then. What about the rest? Who handed him his luggage at the airport, checked him in at the hotel, took his bag up to his room, waited on him in the restaurant... Hell, maybe that slow, slow service was a signal of sorts, although it seems to be fairly standard operating procedure in that place. If you don’t mind checking them all out, I’d appreciate it.” He nodded, relaxing a little, and I said: “Swell, now what have you got on the girl?”

“Lacey Matilda Rockwell, twenty-four, from Winter Harbor, Maine. Unmarried. Degree from the University of Maine. Studied oceanography at Woods Hole, wherever that may be. The little lady is an expert diver, sailor, surfer... anything on the water or under it, she can do it, is the information we have.”

I seemed to have an affinity for salty maidens brought up on sheets and halliards. Well, they came in handy sometimes. Maybe I could find a use for this one.

“What’s she doing around here, oceanographing?” I asked.

“No sir,” Fred said. “She’s looking for somebody, a Harlan Enos Rockwell, twenty-two, her younger brother. Apparently an embryo singlehander, following in the footsteps of the late Sir Francis Chichester. Had a twenty-four-foot cruising sloop, the
Star Trek
—named after a TV program, I believe. He’d bought the Fiberglas hull and finished it himself, beefing it up for ocean work. Went missing at sea late this summer after heading out the Northeast Providence Channel bound for the Virgin Islands.... Did you say something, Mr. Helm?”

“No,” I said. After all, that was another phase of the operation—the Haseltine phase; the Treacherous-Triangle phase—and one that didn’t concern Fred or his cohorts, or did it?

Mac said, “I have been subjected to a certain amount of criticism, Eric. Some people here in Washington are disturbed. They point out that you were instructed to obtain some information before making the touch. They feel that your action was, shall we say, a little precipitate?”

It didn’t bother me, really. I mean, you don’t call Washington expecting solicitoius inquiries about your health—not even right after being released from the hospital—or congratulations on the success of a difficult mission. Not unless you’re a naïve damned fool you don’t.

I grimaced at the dark-faced pedestrians moving past the phone booth as if they were in no great hurry to get where they were going. There were some light-faced ones as well. I made a face at those, too, so as not to seem guilty of prejudice. Nevertheless, despite the standard Washington static, I was feeling pretty good. My headache was almost gone, and Nassau didn’t seem like such a bad place, after all. The people looked cheerful and friendly, and the sun was shining. Maybe I’d just been in a bad mood when I arrived, looking for things to criticize. There’s nothing like surviving a little brush with death to make the world look attractive just about anywhere.