Murders' Row

ONE

THE MOTEL WAS Off the left side of the highway leading from Washington, D. C., to the eastern shore of Maryland by way of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. So said the map; I’d never been there and wasn’t about to go. At least I didn’t think I was. In my line of business, you can’t ever be absolutely sure where you’ll wind up tomorrow.

As I made the turn and headed into the driveway, my watch said I was arriving precisely on schedule at a quarter-past-ten in the evening. I parked the little car that had been assigned to me among others displaying an assortment of license plates. Mine read Illinois, and I had a complete and phony identity to go with it, in case of trouble.

My real name is Helm-Matthew Helm-and certain government records have me cross-flied under the code name Eric, but for the evening I was James A. Peters, employed by Atlas Enterprises, Inc., a Chicago firm. The nature of the company, and my exact position with them, remained carefully unspecified on the identification I carried. Anyone who became really interested, however- interested enough, say, to send a set of fingerprints to the Chicago police-would be informed that I was known locally as Jimmy (the Lash) Petroni, a man with influential friends and an unsavory reputation.

In other words, I wasn’t, for the record, a very nice guy. It was just as well. The job wasn’t a very nice job. In fact, one agent had already turned it down.

“Sentimentality!” Mac had snorted, in his Washington office on the second floor of a rather ancient building, never mind where. “These delicate buds we get nowadays, nurtured on beautiful thoughts of peace, security, and social adjustment! They may be brave and patriotic enough in the right situations, but the thought of violence turns them inside out. Not one of them would kill a fly, I sometimes think, to save an entire nation from dying of yellow fever.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Yellow fever isn’t carried by flies, sir. It’s transmitted by mosquitoes.”

“Indeed?” he said. “That’s very interesting. I could have made it an order, but the young fool probably would have botched the job, feeling the way he did. It’s a damn nuisance. Being on the spot, he was the logical person. However, I remembered that you were on your way in from Cuba; and I thought you might like to spend a little time by the seashore-the bay shore, to be exact. Not that you’ll have much time for swimming, if everything goes according to plan.”

“I’m a lousy swimmer, anyway,” I said. “I lack buoyancy, or something. Besides, it’s getting a little late in the season.”

“You know the area. You took two weeks of small boat training at Annapolis during the war, according to the files.”

“Yes, sir, but there wasn’t much time for sight-seeing. I wouldn’t say I’d learned much about the area. Besides, it will have changed considerably since those days.” Subtlety wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I said bluntly, “Besides, there was some talk of a month’s leave, sir.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he said smoothly. “However, we are setting a trap. We can’t risk failure because a sentimental boy hasn’t got the stomach to prepare the bait properly.”

“No, sir.”

“I hope I’m not interfering with any plans of long standing.”

“No, sir,” I said dryly. “It was only arranged some six months ago-subject, of course, to the call of duty. I was only on my way to Texas to see a lady.”

“I see.” His voice was cool. “That one.”

“You don’t approve, sir? She helped us out once.”

“Against her will,” he said. “Very much against her will, as I recall. She is rich, irresponsible, jealous, impulsive, and totally unreliable, Eric.”

The indictment gave him away. The whole thing was beginning to make sense. I was being recalled from leave to keep me from getting further involved with a woman he considered unsuitable, as a rich college boy might be sent on a sea voyage to forget a pretty waitress. I tried not to show anger. It would be easy enough to blurt out that my private life was none of his damn business, but it wouldn’t be true. In our line of work, there’s no such thing as a private life.

I said carefully, “Gail Hendricks is all right, sir. She’s seen us at work and she knows the score. I don’t have to pretend to be a respectable car salesman, or something, when I’m with her. And she doesn’t have to pretend to be a fragile and sensitive southern beauty, either. I happen to know-and she knows I know-that she’s just about as fragile and sensitive as a female lynx. It makes for a beautiful relationship, sir, I hope you aren’t going to ask me to give it up.”

It was obviously what he’d had in mind, but the direct question, and the implied submissiveness, put him off balance, as I’d hoped it would.

“No,” he said quickly, “no, of course not, but I will have to ask you to postpone your trip West until you’ve attended to this matter. It is quite important, and it shouldn’t delay you more than a few days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go see Dr. Perry. I don’t want to waste time briefing you further until you know exactly what’s involved.”

I had seen Dr. Perry, a cheerfully callous young medical man in a starched white coat. I’d been briefed, and now I got out of the car and walked past the motel swimming pool, which was empty. A breeze carrying a hint of autumn dipped over the windbreak on the far side and ruffled the surface. The submerged lights made the water look blue-green, luminous, and very cold, like the pool at the foot of a mountain glacier. I didn’t have the slightest desire to try it out.

Some tourists drove up to the office, at the other end of the motel, where there was also a cocktail lounge, coffee shop, and dining room. You can still tell them from hotels, however. Hotels have elevators. The newcomers paid no attention to me, as I let myself into the unit with the right number, using the key Mac had given me.

“Jean has been one of our best female operatives,” he’d said, pushing the key across the desk to me. “Very good appearance, attractive without being conspicuous, the pleasant young suburban-matron type. It’s most unfortunate. We do encounter such breakdowns now and then, you know; and alcoholism is almost always one of the symptoms. Have you noticed how these slightly plump, pretty, smooth-faced women seem to crack up more readily than any other kind?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s a fact,” he said. “That, of course, is why she was selected for the assignment originally. She could make it believable, if anyone could. When the matter suddenly became urgent…” He paused, and let that line of thought go. “As I said, she is good. In addition to drinking too much, she has been showing convincing signs of disaffection, not to say, you understand, of active disloyalty. Overtures have been made. It is very distressing. We are very much disturbed.” He looked at me across the big desk. The window behind him made his expression difficult to read. “At least that is the impression we are trying to convey-trying very hard to convey. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s clear.”

It was still clear as I entered the room and closed the door behind me. I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, since I was wearing gloves. They made me feel like a hardened criminal. All the lights in the place were on. There was the usual blond motel-modern furniture. There was also as much of a mess as one female lush could make without really straining herself, in a room that had presumably been cleaned by the management earlier in the day.

There was a full fifth of whisky on the dresser, and a half-empty one standing beside a soiled glass on the telephone stand by the big double bed, which was rumpled as if she’d taken an afternoon nap-or just passed out temporarily-on top of the covers. A stocking with a run in it had been discarded on the floor by the wastebasket, a near miss, I guess.

Other garments of an intimate nature, some flimsy, some surprisingly sturdy, were distributed about the premises, again mostly on the floor, along with some wads of Kleenex, the afternoon paper, a pair of thong sandals, a fuzzy pink sweater, and a pair of pink corduroy pants, the narrow, tapered style all women seem to have adopted lately, whether it suits their rear ends or not. Female rears being what they are, mostly it doesn’t.

I’m strictly an anti-pants man myself, where women are concerned, but with all the mad trousers you see on the street nowadays, it’s getting so even jeans look good, while a well-cut pair of Bermuda shorts is a real treat.

I sat down to wait in the big chair facing the TV set, which was turned off. I didn’t bother to look around for mikes or wires. Mac had said there’d be some, and that the phone was probably tapped as well, which figured. If the opposition was interested in our supposedly drunk and disloyal operative at all, they’d be checking up to see if she were the real thing or a plant.

I hadn’t the slightest intention of interfering with any of their electronic equipment. In fact, I hoped it was all in first-class condition and working well, since it was my job to make Jean’s act more plausible, and I wanted an audience.