The Revengers (9 page)

“Tell me about the girl,” Harriet said abruptly.

“What girl?”

She laughed. “Your girl, Matt. The one you so nobly left unloved for her own good.” She reached out to cover my hand with hers, briefly. “I don’t mind, really I don’t, but do you think a woman doesn’t know when she’s being used as a substitute? You came down here to the Keys needing somebody to make love to very badly, my dear, obviously because you’d just been with somebody you would very much like to have had, whom you couldn’t bring yourself to touch for, no doubt, the highest reasons in the world.” She studied me shrewdly. “Of course, there’s a possibility that she simply rejected you, but I doubt it. If you’d just had your face slapped, you wouldn’t have been such a little bundle—well, big bundle—of iron self-control, all done up tight in self-tied knots until we. . . She stopped and a little color came into her face. She said quickly, “Steward, my cup is empty again. A little service here, if you please!”

I was glad of the excuse to leave the table and the dark eyes that saw too much; but there was a strong impulse to laugh ruefully, too. While I’d been considering her sad case, she’d been considering mine; and, of course, she was perfectly right. I had found it very pleasant to be with Martha Devine in the home she’d made with Bob. There had been a strong temptation to stay and build upon the comfortable relationship we’d achieved; and bed had certainly been one desirable goal that had occurred to me. I’d been aware that, if I used reasonable restraint and consideration and patience, that goal and maybe others were probably not unattainable. But I’d come here instead, not really knowing why; and it hadn’t been very fair to Harriet Robinson.

“Am I right?” she asked when I sat down again.

I nodded. “All the way down the line. I’m sorry—”

“I hope not!” When I looked surprised, she said, “My dear man, only one thing is totally unforgivable, and that is being sorry afterward.”

I grinned. “All right. I’m not sorry.”

She laughed, and sipped her coffee thoughtfully, watching me. “What’s the big obstacle, Matt? You’re an attractive scoundrel, in a gruesome sort of way; and the work you do should be no problem unless the girl is a very timid type. Most women are attracted to dangerous men, even if some of them don’t care to admit it.”

I said, “Nothing like a little analysis at breakfast.”

“Well, you were analyzing me, weren’t you? I could see you. Is it a strictly masculine prerogative now?”

I said, “The young lady in question is . . . well, fairly young. At the moment she was mourning a just-dead husband and did not feel it proper for me to move into his bed with him so recently buried.”

“That’s what she said, but did she mean it?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. She’s practically a kid, she’s had one not-very-good marriage with a guy in my line of work, and the last thing she needs is another superannuated mercenary just stopping by the house occasionally between wars. What she needs is to boot us lousy spooks out of her life altogether and make herself a real marriage with some gentle and civilized young fellow who faints at the sight of a gun.”

Harriet studied me for a long moment, and shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve lasted so long in the business you’re in. I wouldn’t think being a nice guy had a lot of survival value. And, of course, you’re wrong. Spooks are habit-forming, like heroin. Once you’re hooked on them, life is very dull without them. She’s not going to settle for a handsome insurance salesman now, or nice doctor or dentist.”

I said, “I was obliged to give her the chance. What she does with it is up to her.”

Harriet was still watching me steadily. “So now it’s your turn, Matt,” she said. “What conclusion did you come to about me?”

It was no time for hesitation or diplomacy. “That you weren’t doing so well here any longer,” I said bluntly.

She nodded. “That’s right. I’m a snob, you see. Hiring myself out to find fish for a bunch of beer-swilling peasants and enduring their vulgar pleasantries, living in a space hardly larger than a respectable closet, never looking nice or meeting any nice people—except occasionally as a kind of servant-employee—well, it was fun as long as I could kid myself I was being very clever and putting one over on the world and it wasn’t going to last forever. . . .” She stopped abruptly and cleared her throat. “But it is,” she id very softly. “I keep realizing that’s all that’s left now. Forever."

“I’d pass the crying towel if I knew where you kept it,” I said deliberately.

I was going to have to watch it, I warned myself. It was always a temptation to do it to her, to watch the quick-flashing anger burn away all her doubts and uncertainties and bring her fine head up sharply and put that arrogant, hawk-like gleam into her splendid eyes. She glared at me for a moment; then she threw her head back and laughed heartily.

“Thanks, spook,” she said. “I was getting a bit soggy tere, wasn’t I? Matt. . ."

“Yes.”

“Will you be back? There’s . . . no obligation. I would simply like to know.”

“I’ll be back,” I said. It was a commitment Nobody ever makes it quite alone. Perhaps, after all, we could both make it, together.

The following morning I was in Nassau.

Fred was at the airport when I arrived. I spotted him at once standing beside his cab as I came outside after the customs-and-immigration bit, even though he’d exchanged the big blue Plymouth I remembered for a smaller taxi—red and shiny and new—in line with current fuel-conservation trends that may be ecologically and economically terrific, but tend to ignore the physical requirements of long-legged passengers six-feet-four.

Although it had been some years, I recognized the rather tall and muscular gent with the cheerful black face that became somewhat less cheerful when he saw me, so I knew old resentments were still operative. However, they did not prevent him from maneuvering skillfully so that, with the help of a little judicious stalling by me, we got together at the loading curb; but then some other passengers for the same hotel were put aboard with me, so we couldn’t talk. Fortunately, a great deal of conversation wasn’t needed at this point. When he unloaded my suitcase in front of the hotel, he set down beside it a handsome attache case that apparently didn’t belong to anybody else in the cab. Paying my fare, I wound up holding a small key that presumably fit the case.

“Thank you, sir,” Fred said politely. “I hope you will enjoy your stay in Nassau, sir.”

“It doesn’t seem to have changed much?” I said, turning the statement into a question.

“Ah, you have been here before, sir? No, there have been not so many changes. I think you will find it quite familiar.”

The last time I’d been in Nassau I’d stayed at the British Colonial Hotel, a fine old landmark of a building right on the harbor, with probably the worst service in the world. The Paradise Towers, out on what is now known as Paradise Island—formerly Hog Island—was a step down architecturally, looking like any tall modem confection of glass and chrome and concrete; but the desk crew did condescend to look up my reservation with reasonable dispatch, and the bellboy even thanked me for the tip, which would never have happened at the British Colonial. The room was small, soulless, and expensive; but everything -worked.

I locked my room door, laid the attache case on the bed, unlocked and opened it. It contained a large assortment of paper materials, from pamphlets to clippings to file folders.

It also contained a .38 Special Smith and Wesson revolver with a two-inch barrel, ammunition for same, and one of our standard little drug kits, which I pocketed. I loaded the weapon, but did not conceal it on my person since I did not believe firearms were indicated, at least not yet. Instead, I hid it with the remaining ammo in the secret compartment in my suitcase—well, it’s secret unless somebody who knows how to look, looks for it hard. I hoped that, if I did have occasion to use the unfamiliar weapon, it would shoot somewhere close to where it pointed. Not that these snub-nosed little artillery pieces ever manage any spectacular accuracy, if only because the sight radius is just too damned short.

I examined the other contents of the attache case hastily. Our efficient young man in Miami had done a hell of a job in the short time at his disposal; everything I'd asked for seemed to be there. I would have liked to sit down and study all this new material carefully, but Fred had indicated that there had been no significant changes locally, meaning that the lady in whom I was interested was still where last reported, in her room. I wanted to catch her before she took off somewhere for the day or perhaps, her work in Nassau done, checked out for good. I added the stuff I’d been handed earlier to the papers already in the attach6 case, closed and locked the case, and stood for a moment frowning thoughtfully; but I could see absolutely no reason to be clever. I had to make contact with Ms. Eleanor Brand somehow. The simplest method was to walk up to her hotel room door and knock. Taking the attaché case with me, I did just that. A little silence followed my knock.

“Just a minute.”

It was a female voice, somewhat muffled by the intervening door. Another lengthy pause followed. I heard another door close somewhere beyond the one that faced me. I heard crisp feminine footsteps approach, and the voice I’d heard spoke again, closer.

“Who is it?”

“My name is Helm,” I said. “Matthew Helm.”

“What do you want?”

“Bob Devine is dead,” I said. “I’d like to tell you about it.”

After a moment, the lock rattled. The door swung open and there she was, not quite as big a girl as I’d expected; and somehow that made a difference. What’s plain or even ugly on a large horse of a girl can look merely unusual and intriguing on a female constructed on a smaller and daintier scale.

Not that she was diminutive. There was a reasonable amount of woman there, say five-three, say one-fifteen. I saw that the offbeat monkey face I’d studied in a black-and-white magazine reproduction was really not bad-looking in living color. Her complexion was good, her short straight brown hair was clean and smooth, and there was a touch of lipstick on her long and mobile mouth. She had a small scar on her lower lip, I noticed, not too recent but not dating back to childhood, either. I wondered idly if she’d been slugged by somebody who’d got mad about a story she’d written; but more likely she’d bumped into something in the dark or been involved in a minor car accident.

Her figure was as unfashionable as her snub-nosed face, slender enough but rather long in the body and short in the legs for this era of long-stemmed lovelies; but the legs were quite good and she was smart enough to make the most of them in high heels and nylons. She was built and shaped all wrong according to modem beauty standards for the breed; her conformation was simply terrible as the dog show people would put it; but she projected a strong impression of one Eleanor Brand, a unique person; and uniqueness is hard to find these copycat days.

Whether or not she was aware of it, and it seemed unlikely that she was, she’d taken the direct route to my heart by wearing a neat suit with a skirt, not pants. It was nice for a change to meet a lady who did not feel that the new feminine freedom was best displayed in old masculine trousers. The suit was a light summer number in brownish chambray, if I have that slick cottony material properly identified. There was a little white blouse with a round collar. Her eyes watched me with wary speculation. They were hazel eyes in which a hint of apprehension lurked, but she had no intention of giving in to it.

“Come in, Mr. Helm,” she said, stepping back. “I know you, of course. I mean, I know about you.”

The room was larger than the one to which I’d been assigned. A double bed protruded from the wall to the left. The wall to the right had two doors, the nearer one of which stood open to reveal a bathroom. The farther door was closed. A table and a couple of chairs stood in front of the windows straight ahead. A rather fancy camera bag, equipped with a heavy strap with a rubber shoulder pad, held the place of honor on the table, with a woman’s purse playing second fiddle. I closed the hall door behind me and set down the attache case.

“Yes, you know all about me, I gather,” I said as I straightened up with what I hoped was a friendly and reassuring grin. “And you’re not a damned bit reticent about what you know, I’m told.”

“Is that what you’re here about, Mr. Helm?” She was still studying me cautiously. “You mentioned Bob Devine; was that just to get me to open the door for you?”

I shook my head. “I’m a friend of Martha’s, as you undoubtedly know, among all the other things you know about me. I was just out there to see her. I thought you’d be interested in hearing about her husband’s death.”

“I’ve already heard about it, thanks,” Eleanor Brand said a little defiantly. “Am I to under stand that you consider me to blame for it?”

“Martha certainly did at first,” I said.

She drew a long breath, and her face was troubled. “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry about that. I’m afraid Martha simply doesn’t understand that professional considerations must always take precedence over personal relationships.”

I grinned at her. “A fancy way of saying that you’d doublecross your own mother for a scoop, not to mention a friend who trusted you.”

She’d gone a little pale; she obviously found the conversation difficult, as she was meant to. She raised her head in a nice haughty way that reminded me strangely—since they were such totally different women—of Harriet Robinson, and said, “I don’t really think you’re in a position to criticize, Mr. Helm. Have you never sacrificed your personal feelings to your ... your professional work?” When I didn’t answer at once she said, “Anyway, scoop is a pretty corny and obsolete word.”

I said, “As I told you, Martha did blame you, at first. However, I did a little detective work when I got out there. I determined that your magazine piece had nothing whatever to do with Bob’s death. He’d been playing around, as you know, and a jealous husband took a shotgun to him. So your conscience is quite clear, Miss Brand. I thought you’d like to know.”