The Betrayers

Chapter Fifteen

LATER, WE HAD ANOTHER drink out on the hotel terrace-well, on one of the several terraces jutting from the seaward hillside like random bookshelves from a wall. It was getting dark and the bathers had deserted the beach below. An attendant in swim trunks was putting half a dozen small boats to bed. That is, he was taking down the colorfully striped, triangular little sails and hauling the tiny vessels out on the sand. They looked like the same kind of sailing planks, twelve or fourteen feet long, that I'd seen used by kids in the surf off Waikiki.

Where we were, on the western shore of the island, the trade winds couldn't hit us directly, but far out beyond the lee of the land the ocean looked rough and choppy in the growing dusk. There was a low island out there in line with the sunset: that would be Lanai. To the north was the brooding, cloud-wrapped mass of Molokai. Between here and there, according to the chart I'd studied, was something called the Pablo Channel, ten miles wide and some hundred and thirty fathoms deep.

I'd once, long ago, been exposed to a bit of rudimentary seamanship in the line of duty. A course in basic boat-handling had been required at the time, since we were operating along the coasts of Europe, and reliable nautical help wasn't always to be had. I still remembered that one fathom was equal to six feet. Not that it mattered. You can drown in six inches of water if you put your mind to it.

"Is it permitted to disturb the Master at his meditations?" Isobel asked respectfully.

I looked up. "Only for matters of the utmost importance."

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

I grinned. "Now there's a way to make a man feel he's given real satisfaction. The dame regrets, yet."

"I didn't mean that." Isobel didn't smile. "I was merely apologizing for being a perverse bitch. I know you were being nice and trying to protect me as much as possible, and I do appreciate it."

"Sure," I said. "Well, let's figure how much damage has been done. We'll have to assume that they overheard what we said, but even if they didn't, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that a wench who's in bed with the guy before the bellboy's even made it back to the desk obviously isn't a wench who's reluctantly keeping her part of a distasteful bargain. So that story's out. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said. "I didn't say anything." There was a certain coolness in her voice.

I laughed at her. "I know, you'd rather I put it in a more dignified way, Duchess. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm trying to look at it through the eyes of the opposition. You'll never make them believe you're an unwilling patsy now, not after our little high-temperature interlude. Whether or not they heard you say it, they'll assume that you know what I am, as you do. They'll probably think you know what I'm doing, even though you don't. They may even think you're an agent yourself, sent out to help me, maybe somebody I've worked with before."

"Worked?" Isobel smiled. "One day you'll have to tell me all about your work, Mr. Helm. Some of the details sound fascinating."

I said, "Tell you, hell. The way you've fixed it, Mrs. Marner, you stand a good – chance of learning all about it firsthand. I think we can safely say that you are now involved in it up to your pretty neck."

She was silent for a moment. Then she reached out and covered my hand with hers. "Maybe that's what I really wanted, Matt. Maybe I like being involved. It's certainly a lot more amusing than sitting in Honolulu watching fat Mainland tourists dress up like fat Hawaiian natives."

I moved my shoulders slightly. "As I've said before, how you get your kicks is your business. I just hope your sense of humor bears up under the strain."

Isobel laughed and patted my hand lightly and took her hand away. I leaned back, regarding her across the table. Our mild argument had no real significance, because for the moment we had that kind of special understanding that comes between two people who have just learned certain things about each other in the only way those things can be learned. I don't mean that we now liked each other better or trusted each other more than we had before; this had nothing to do with the emotions or the intellect. It was strictly a physical thing and probably quite temporary, but it was kind of comfortable while it lasted.

She looked, however, remarkably unlike a lady who'd just been making passionate physical discoveries in bed. Her dark hair was quite smooth again, and her subdued lipstick was beautifully applied. There was no unbecoming shine to her nose or betraying flush to her cheeks. The inevitable California sunglasses gave her a remote and mysterious look.

She was wearing a slim, short, sleeveless cocktail dress in a silk print of large stylized flowers, predominantly red, on a white background. Somehow, despite the bold design, it managed to look neither gaudy nor native, just summery and elegant. The dress made no great point of baring a lot of back and shoulder; in fact, it was quite discreet in those areas, but it was draped quite low in front. In this modern age of athletic, sunbaked babes, I discovered, an old-fashioned snow-white bosom has a kind of tender appeal.

Isobel smiled faintly when she saw where I was looking, but she made no phony-modest gesture of rearranging her bodice; the view was there to be admired. She was quite a girl. Her green glasses reflected the architectural patterns of the hotel behind me, in a distorted way. I reached out, on a hunch, and drew them off gently and looked through them, and laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, rather defensively.

"You wouldn't understand," I said. "It's a kind of reverse twist. I once met a girl who was pretending to be somebody else, somebody who wore glasses. Only this girl's eyesight was perfectly good, so she just had windowpanes in her goggles. Now you come along with what look like ordinary sunglasses, and they turn out to have prescription lenses."

"Of course," Isobel said. She laughed. "Isn't a woman allowed a little vanity? I can't wear contact lenses, my eyes get all bloodshot and bulgy-looking. And ordinary, clear spectacles make any girl look like a frumpy schoolmarm. But dark glasses make her look like a movie star in disguise. I hope."

"Well, stick with them," I said. "They may come in handy; you never know. There are times when a bit of broken glass can be very useful."

She made a face. "Don't go getting any melodramatic ideas about my fifty-dollar specs," she said. "Besides, I'm half-blind without them. What happened to the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one who was pretending to be somebody else."

"She died," I said.

"Oh." After a moment, Isobel said quietly. "I won't ask how it happened. I don't think I want to know. Besides, you wouldn't tell me."

"You don't and I wouldn't," I agreed. "If you're finished with that drink, we might try eating for a change.

Wait a minute. Let's get things settled first." I studied her thoughtfully. "How seasick do you get in small boats at night?"

Her gray eyes widened a bit at the abrupt question. "I've never been seasick in my life, Matt."

"Well, there's always a first time," I said. "There's a supposedly deserted coastline I want to take a look at without anybody knowing. Way over there on Molokai.

No, don't turn your head."

"I'm sorry. That was silly of me. Are we being watched?"

I didn't answer her question. I said, "It'll be a long, wet boat ride against the wind, even if I manage to promote some kind of reasonably reliable craft back in Lahaina. That's where I was going this evening to make the arrangements, while you were nursing your headache in bed. I was more or less planning to take off immediately if things looked right. However, now that you've revealed yourself as my willing accomplice, I don't dare leave you behind. Once I disappear, they'll want to know exactly what I'm up to, and if you're still around, they'll most likely come to you for the answer. That could get pretty rough. So you're probably safer out there with the wind and the spray in your hair."

She said calmly, "When it comes to boats, I'm not exactly Lady Columbus, but I have done a bit of sailing from time to time. When do we leave?"

"Easy, easy," I said, grinning. "You're such an impulsive dame. We're going in to dinner now, but halfway through I'll have to pay a visit to the men's room. I won't come back. You'll tap your foot impatiently, finish your dessert, smoke an indignant cigarette, and come back out here. You'll sit here, drowning your sorrows in a ladylike way. That'll keep our hatchet-faced friend busy here, watching you. He's up on that side terrace now with his little binoculars. Don't look. Let him think he's invisible."

"I wasn't looking."

"That'll give me only one guy to cope with, I hope. Kamehameha Junior, who's probably hanging around the car. I'll get him out of the way somehow, between here and Lahaina, and make arrangements for the boat. By the time I get back to you here, you'll have worked up a real good mad at me. We'll go off into the dark to quarrel privately-and see if we can't suck in our snooping friend up there and put him out of action, too. Temporarily, of course. Fortunately, I've got lots of sleepy-juice for my little hypo. Then we'll grab some seaworthy clothing from our rooms and take off. Okay?"

"It's… very clever," she said, watching me steadily. "Do you know what it sounds like, Matt?"

"What?"

She spoke without expression. "It sounds just like the kind of story a man would tell a girl he was planning to ditch, to keep her quiet until he was safely on his way. How do I know you'll be back?"

I laughed, and picked up the dark glasses, and reached across the table to set them carefully on her nose. "You don't." I said. "But while you're waiting to find out, don't drink too much. There's nothing worse than a hangover at sea."

Three quarters of an hour later, with most of a good steak inside me, I made my excuses and left the table. The dark-faced man had come in while we ate; he was having his dinner alone at a table for two near the door. I walked past him without looking at him. Outside the dining room, I turned toward the john, but I didn't go in. Instead I made a circle around the fancy fountain in the center of the lobby. There was a lot of tropical greenery spotted around in pots and planters. I stopped behind something exotic with big shiny leaves. From there I could see straight through the wide dining room doors to where Isobel was sitting.

She didn't keep me waiting very long. She didn't do any of the staffing I'd suggested; she didn't even have dessert and coffee. She just finished what was on her plate, got the waiter, signed the check, and came toward me, opening her purse. She took out a cigarette, hesitated, and stopped at the hatchet-faced man's table.

He looked up and rose politely to supply a match. I saw her lips move, whispering, as she bent toward the flame. Then she thanked him with a reserved little smile, came out, and crossed the lobby and went out of sight, a slender, lovely, smartly dressed woman with, you'd have thought, nothing on her mind except possibly the impression she was making on the other fashionable tourists in this classy place.

I sighed. It was too bad. She'd put on a great act. Her sister-in-law story had been a stroke of genius, and I still didn't know just how much of it, if any, had been the truth. But she'd overplayed her part in the end. They very often do, the women in our line of work. They have this oddball theory that sex has got something to do with business, and that the way to make sure of a man and allay his suspicions is to seduce him at the earliest possible moment.

Unfortunately, I've never quite managed to convince myself that I'm so fascinating that every girl in the world just naturally wants to drag me into bed. When it does happen, as today, I automatically ask myself what the lady could be after besides love. Well, it looked as if I was on the way to finding out…