The Intimidators (8 page)

“Yes, sir, precipitate,” I said. “But I’m working on the information angle now.”

“How? Minsk was buried yesterday.”

I said, “We probably know everything the Mink ever knew about this deal: the identity and location of his target in Nassau. That was all he needed to know to carry out his assignment, so that was all the information he’d care to burden himself with. Question, sir.”

“Yes, Eric?”

“How did we learn of his impending visit to this island paradise?”

“The intelligence people picked it up through one of their informants overseas, I believe. Why?”

“I don’t like it,” I said. “There’s a funny smell here, somewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

I said, “Goddamn it, sir, it was too damned easy!”

“The medical report I have says you came within a fraction of an inch of getting killed.”

“I had orders not to muddy the international waters, remember? Also, I felt obliged to save a lady’s life. Without those handicaps, I could have picked him off like a pigeon on a telephone wire. Pavel Minsk, for God’s sake! Walking into ambush like that, like a kid on his first assignment! Take my word for it, sir, it stinks!”

There was a little pause; then Mac said: “Old professionals do get careless and overconfident after years of success, Eric. Sometimes they even get the feeling they’re bulletproof, and charge stupidly into the muzzles of loaded firearms, barehanded.”

I grimaced at the instrument on the wall of the booth, and said, “Yes, sir.”

“However, you may have a point,” he went on, without a change of tone. “I will make inquiries, but I can promise nothing. Our fellow agencies are seldom receptive to suggestions that they may have been inefficient, not to say gullible. Particularly when they were promised information from us that has not, so far, been forthcoming; information, the most likely source of which has just received a simple but Christian funeral.”

I said, “We don’t need the Mink any more. We stopped needing him the instant I saw where his gun was pointing.”

“You may be right. But in his absence we do need Miss Lacey Matilda Rockwell.”

I was glad to hear him say it, confirming my own belated realization that it had actually been very clever of me to keep the girl alive, although I hadn’t been aware of it at the time. Investigating a living subject that can talk is generally easier than investigating a dead one that can’t. There were a good many things we needed to know, now—or somebody did—about the unlikely little female specimen the Mink had come such a long way to kill.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“According to the reports I have, you seem to be doing everything in your power to rebuff and antagonize the young lady. I presume you have a reason.”

I wondered if Fred was sending in critical comments about my handling of the situation because I’d hurt his feelings at the hospital. Well, there’s always a certain amount of friction between the people on the spot and the visiting experts they’re obliged to serve—there’s often the feeling, locally, that they should have been allowed to handle the job without the intervention of imported talent. Nevertheless, I kind of wished the guy had taken it up with me, if he had a criticism, instead of passing it on to Washington.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s a matter of psychology, sir.”

“Indeed?”

I said, “I had to figure out a way to keep her on ice, so to speak. If I’d just taken that police business in my stride, she could have gone off with a clear conscience, and I might have had considerable trouble finding her again, not to mention establishing a useful relationship with her. Now it should be fairly easy. She’s got to come to me. As long as I persist in misunderstanding her so cruelly and treating her so rudely, she’s got to hang around and try to straighten me out. She’s got to convince me, somehow, that she’s really a swell and sensitive person who really appreciates my saving her life; and that she only set me up for the Nassau cops and their electronics for my own good.” I was watching a slim black girl in red boots, brown hose, and red hotpants. She was gone before I could complete my appraisal upward. Nevertheless, I decided that Nassau was really quite a picturesque place in spite of the hotel’s plastic-wrapped marmalade. I went on: “Hell, I had to give myself a little time, -sir. I had to stall until my head stopped pounding and I was out of bed and could figure out what to do next—assuming that you did want me to proceed with the assignment.”

“Your assumption was correct. We took this job under certain conditions; we’re more or less obliged to fulfill those conditions. How are you feeling now, Eric?”

It was nice of him to ask, after all. I said, “I’m fine, sir. The medical profession assures me no brains were spilled or scrambled. All that remains visible is a slightly oversized bandaid.” At least I was a lot healthier than Pavel Minsk, I reflected, and continued: “Did you know that Miss Rockwell is in the Islands looking for a brother missing at sea out in the so-called Bermuda Triangle? No wreckage, no lifebelts, no bodies washed ashore—well, body, singular. Harlan Enos Rockwell was doing it all alone. In a twenty-four-foot sailboat. Not a hell of a lot of boat for ocean cruising, but smaller ones have made it. Apparently he didn’t. At least he headed out of here several weeks ago and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. It’s getting to be a fairly familiar story, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes, I thought so when I heard about it,” Mac said. “It certainly seems to indicate that the Minsk affair is related, somehow, to Mr. Haseltine’s problem. But just what could the girl have learned, searching for her missing brother, that’s dangerous enough to Moscow that one of their best men had to be sent to silence her?” He paused, and went on: “Our big trouble is, I’m afraid, that even the young lady herself probably doesn’t know the answer to that question.”

I said, “There are, however, two questions she should be able to answer. The first is why, having lost a brother out east in the Atlantic, she came to Nassau and hired an airplane to take her on a search in just about the opposite direction, having the pilot fly her off to the west as far as Florida in some areas.”

Mac said, “Yes, I noticed that.”

“The other question is: who put her up a tree for the Mink to shoot at? There’s no doubt in my mind that she’d arranged to meet somebody in that garden; although she presumably didn’t know the guy would have a gun. The police didn’t see her waiting there, but I did. If they had, they’d undoubtedly have leaned on her harder. If we can learn how the arrangement was made, maybe we’ll have a lead that’ll take us somewhere.”

Mac said, “I suppose that’s as good a place for you to start as any. Let me know what you turn up....”

“Question, sir.”

“Yes?”

“What have we got on Phipps?”

“Haseltine should have given you all the significant information.”

“Sure. A wealthy contractor type with a movie-star wife, a beautiful daughter, and a yen for boats.”

“You’re not satisfied, Eric?”

“Haha,” I said. “Don’t crack such funny jokes, sir. This is serious business.”

“What do you find unsatisfactory?”

I said, “You told me recently that you were instructed to shift manpower to the Bahamas. The British also have at least one agent of some kind floating around; and he’s cheerfully accepted by the local authorities in spite of the fact that the Islands are busy casting off the brutal bonds of British tyranny. All this because of a missing kid in a Fiberglas tub, and a missing West Coast yachtsman with curly gray hair?” I paused. Mac said nothing. I said, “Either this Phipps gent is somebody very important in disguise, or Harlan Rockwell is, or there’s somebody or something else involved nobody’s bothered to mention.... You spoke, sir?”

He hadn’t, but he’d made some kind of a sound, a thousand miles away. Now he said, “This is confidential, Eric. Ten days ago, a sizable diesel yacht proceeding towards the Bahamas from Puerto Rico failed to make radio contact according to her prearranged schedule. She has not been heard from since: the
Wayfarer,
owned by Sir James Marcus, who was on board. Sir James is the proprietor of several English newspapers. He is considered the sixth or seventh wealthiest man in the British Isles. As I say, this is highly classified information, that I am not supposed to divulge. If the news should get out, there would be serious financial repercussions. Officially, Sir James is merely cruising for his health, incommunicado by his own wishes.”

I said, “Yes, sir. It would be nice if we peons toiling in the fields were kept informed of these minor details, sir. I don’t suppose an SOS or other distress signal was heard or seen.”

“No,” Mac said, “and no debris has been found. The search is continuing, of course.”

“After ten days, the chances of anybody finding anything aren’t very great, are they?” I made a face at the phone. “If it wasn’t for the Rockwell kid, who doesn’t seem to be particularly well heeled, I’d say somebody was starting a collection of seagoing millionaires. Well, if I stumble over any misplaced British newspaper tycoons, I’ll let you know.”

Entering the hotel, I had the usual sensation of being outnumbered by the mob of predominantly dark-skinned tourists that seemed to be forever checking out to catch a boat or plane. I fought my way through the bright and crowded lobby into the dark and almost empty bar, feeling the need for something to wash the hospital taste out of my mouth. As I sipped my martini, not bad as foreign martinis go, a man sat down beside me and ordered Scotch. Receiving it, he tasted it thoughtfully and spoke without looking my way.

“Thompson-Center Contender,” he said. “Single shot, break action. Caliber .256 Winchester, something of a rarity. Muzzle velocity two eight ought ought, muzzle energy, one ought four ought. For a pistol cartridge, a rather potent specimen, with better than average long-range characteristics. I thought you might be interested.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I thought the damned thing had an unusually nasty crack to it.”

“Ah,” said Ramsay Pendleton, “but you are the innocent bystander chap who doesn’t know what’s usual and what isn’t where firearms are concerned, aren’t you, Mr. Helm?” There was a brief pause; then he said: “I wish to apologize.”

I looked at him, but there was so little light in the bar that I couldn’t make out his expression clearly.

“For planting a mike on me?” I asked.

“No, for misjudging you.”

“I didn’t know a judgment had been passed,” I said, “let alone a misjudgment. There’s been hardly any time.”

“There’s been all kinds of time, old chap. I knew all about you before I came here. Do you remember a man you left to die in a cave in Scotland a few years ago? Leslie Crowe-Barham was my very good friend, Mr. Helm.” There were some things I could have said to that. When I left him, the British agent in question had been dying and had known it. There had been a job for me to do while he kept the opposing forces engaged as long as he could; and I’d done it. But I saw no reason, after the time that had passed, to present the case for the defense.

“So you’re one of Colonel Stark’s boys,” I said. “At least he was the man in charge at the time. He didn’t like me very much.”

“He still is, and he still doesn’t.”

I said deliberately, “I’ve left a number of men, and a few women, behind to die in caves and other places, Mr. Pendleton. Some day, somebody’ll undoubtedly leave me behind to die somewhere. That’s the way it goes. I’m not paid to hold people’s hands while they take the big jump, and they’re not paid to hold mine.”

“You’re too prickly, old chap,” said Pendleton mildly. “I said I was apologizing, didn’t I? Anybody who’ll tackle a man like the Mink unarmed, merely because he’s been instructed to make it look like an accident, can hardly be accused of cowardice.”

I reflected that I ought to get him and Fred together and send them to discuss the subject with Mac. I said, “Obviously, it was a waste of time. Trying to make it look accidental, I mean. I didn’t fool you for a second.”

“No, but you made it easy for Detective Inspector Crawford to bury the case with a minimum of fuss and bother, something that could hardly have been accomplished if it had got out that agents of two foreign nationalities had battled to the death in the old Victoria gardens. What do you know about a man named William Haseltine, Helm?”

Big Bill wasn’t on the classified list, as far as I knew. I always make a practice of being generous with information that doesn’t cost anything.

“He’s a rich, tough, petroleum-type Texan who’s lost his girl friend out at sea somewhere,” I said. “Mama, papa, three crewmen, and a sixty-foot yacht, are also missing, but Haseltine’s concern is for a lady named Loretta, and he’s willing to spend the proceeds of several of his oil wells to find her.”

“Yes, I heard about the Phipps case. I understand he was turning the Islands upside down for a while, trying to locate that boat. So now he’s turned to you. I wasn’t aware that missing young ladies were part of your official responsibility, Helm.”

“I have a softhearted boss,” I said. “He was touched by the pleadings of the tearful bridegroom-that-was-to-have-been, and said for me to give him a hand.”

“Yes,” said Pendleton. “I’ve heard of that sentimental chief of yours, old chap, although not exactly in those terms.” He hesitated. “What do you know about Sir James Marcus?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s highly classified information, much too secret to be entrusted to us pick-and-shovel types.”

“Yes, of course.” Pendleton sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Let me ask you another question. Do you think it likely that if we should manage to find Mr. Wellington Phipps, the first recent disappearance, and Mr. Harlan Rockwell, the second, Sir James Marcus, the third, probably won’t be far away?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“You have reservations?”

I said, “You’re assuming they’re all alive. If they were killed, there would be no reason for the people responsible to go to the trouble of burying them all in the same grave, unless you want to call the whole Atlantic and its adjoining waters a single grave.”

Pendleton said calmly, “We must assume they are alive, old chap. If they’re dead, we’re all wasting our time, and that’s unthinkable, isn’t it?”