The Betrayers

Chapter Twenty-one

IT WAS HIGHLY unprofessional behavior, of course, and it would undoubtedly have served me right if I'd been caught there playing Adam to dark-haired Eve on an open beach in broad daylight, but I wasn't. Afterward I did what I should have done first: I hid the boat carefully up the stream, and I scouted around for traces of hostile life forms-or any human life at all.

I reflected on what a ridiculous, impulsive, schoolboy act it had been, but I didn't think of it with any great amount of shame or regret. Hell, I'd got away with it, hadn't I? And after all, I was more or less planning on getting myself caught, somehow, although not necessarily here and preferably with my pants on.

There were no indications that any human being had passed this way since the invention of the beer bottle and the tin can. The little inlet quickly dwindled to a jungle brook that was definitely no secret small-boat harbor, and the valley was too narrow to hide any sinister installations. K was apparently farther down the coast, maybe just around the cliff to the west, maybe miles away.

All I found was a couple of talkative mynah birds, a lot of brilliant flowers, and a pretty pool with some fish in it, reminding me that I was getting hungry. Unfortunately, hunting is my sport; I've never been much of a fisherman. While I stood there, considering the problem, I heard Isobel's voice.

"Matt? Matt, where are you?"

"Up here," I called. "Just follow the creek."

She came into sight on the other bank, carrying some gear that seemed to be mostly mine-I'd put on only my shoes and slacks for exploring.

"Damn you, don't run off like that," she said a little breathlessly. "I was starting to get worried. This is a lovely spot, darling, but I'd rather not have it all to myself. Here are your things; they're practically dry." She dumped her burden by a rock and looked down at the clear water. "It looks almost good enough to drink. Is it?"

I shrugged. "I've been sampling it. It hasn't killed me yet."

She knelt on the rock and bent over to drink from her cupped hands. Straightening up, she dried her hands on her dress in a slightly defiant way, as if to emphasize that she was a nature girl now, and no longer the fastidious, well-groomed lady of yesterday. Well her dress was hardly the smooth, bright, smart silk sheath of yesterday either. However, considered just as a garment and not as a status symbol, it had sustained remarkably little real damage. It was sea-stained and badly faded, of course, and it had a puckered and rough-dried look, but it was essentially intact: it even retained a hint of style in the provocative draping of the bodice.

In a way, it was disappointing. I mean, this was just the spot for some real shipwrecked-looking, peekaboo, desert-island-type rags. By way of partial compensation was the fact that she quite obviously wasn't wearing a damn thing but her dress and shoes and glasses. I guess she'd left the rest of her stuff hanging up to dry somewhere.

I said, "Lady, you're not decent. If you don't watch out, bending over like that, you're going to fall right out of the top of that beat-up garment."

She sighed: "The man's insatiable… If they arouse you so violently, darling, why don't you come over here and do something about it." When I made no move to accept this wanton challenge, she laughed and looked down at herself with clinical interest. "My husband should see me now. He has an idea that I'm incapable of existing more than a hundred feet from a beauty parlor."

I said, "This is a hell of a time to be talking about husbands."

I waded over to her and sat down on the rock beside her. We didn't speak for a little. Presently she slipped off her still damp pumps, with a sigh of relief, and dipped her feet in the pool. There are areas of the female anatomy that fascinate me more than feet, but she looked kind of cute sitting there like a kid, trailing her toes in the water. It scared me to realize once more that I was getting quite fond of her. I cleared my throat and started to say something businesslike, to dispel the dreamy atmosphere of the place, but she was already speaking.

"Do you want to know a funny thing, Matt," she said very quietly. "Don't laugh, but I'm happy. It won't last, of course, but for the moment I feel beautifully irresponsible and very happy. I don't have to worry if my stockings are straight or the bank account is overdrawn. I don't have to wonder what we're going to do when Kenneth puts it all on the red and the black comes up. It's not that I'm in love with you, darling, you understand that, of course."

"Sure," I said. "Of course."

"I think you're. a nice enough man in your way-a kind of cold-blooded and ruthless way. Did you really kill those men you were scaring me with last night? No, don't tell me, I don't really want to know. And you're certainly a brave man or a very foolhardy one to put to sea on a poker chip without knowing how to sail. And making love with you is very pleasant, and being here without you wouldn't be the same thing at all. But that doesn't mean I'm yearning to marry you and spend the rest of my life mending your socks and shoulder holsters."

"I told you," I said. "I don't wear them. Holsters, I mean."

She patted my arm, smiling. "Am I hurting your feelings, Matt? Isn't it enough that I'm happy for a moment in this crazy place? Do I have to pretend to be passionately mad for you, too?" She laughed quickly, as if embarrassed, and spoke in normal tones: "And if anybody'd ever told me that one day I'd be sitting on a rock in the jungle with a wrinkled dress and stringy hair and no undies on, talking sentimentally about happiness…!" She broke off and drew a long breath. "Hadn't you better do something about that gun?"

"V/hat?"

I'd actually forgotten about the weapon. I don't forget loaded guns, but my subconscious mind apparently refused to be bothered with keeping close track of a gun that wouldn't really shoot.

"Your gun, Mr. Secret Agent," Isobel said. "There in the jacket I just brought you. It got all wet and salty, remember?" She reached down and picked up the wrinkled coat and pulled out the revolver and looked at it curiously. "How do you break it, Matt?"

I said, "Throw it against a rock. Or hit it with a hammer. It's a very light model. You ought to be able to smash it without too much trouble."

She made a face at me. "Don't make fun of me, just because I used the wrong word. I meant, how do you open it?"

"You push the latch at the side and swing the cylinder out… That's the way."

"Why, it only holds five. I thought they all had six shots. Will it shoot after being wet?"

"Sure it'll shoot." The lie made me feel a little guilty, and I went on quickly, "Modern ammunition is pretty well waterproof and oilproof."

She snapped the cylinder back into place. "How do you work it?"

"You put a big wad of cotton in each ear, and then you hold it out right-handed-if you are right-handed- and brace your right hand with your left and pull the trigger back smoothly until all hell breaks loose. You do that five times. Then you throw the thing away and get a baseball bat and walk up and hit the guy on the head until he dies."

She laughed. "You don't seem to have a great deal of faith in the tools of your trade, Mr. Helm." She used a corner of her skirt to wipe the weapon clean. "How far will it shoot? Accurately, I mean?"

"Having worked at it for a few years, I might be able to hit a man at fifty yards if he stood real still. You probably couldn't hit a man at ten feet, unless you were lucky." She made me nervous, playing with the gimmicked gun, or I probably wouldn't have said it: "Or unless you're faking."

She glanced at me quickly. "Faking?"

I asked flatly, "Just what is this thing you have about guns, Mrs. Marner?"

"I don't know." Her voice was cool now. "What is this thing you have about bosoms, Mr. Helm? Guns make me feel all funny inside. I've always wanted to know how to use one, but whenever I asked somebody, they thought I was joking or planning to murder my husband. Maybe it's a fetish I have, or something. They're such perfect phallic symbols, aren't they?"

I grinned. "You really are a screwball. Put that phallic symbol down before you hurt somebody with it."

She laid it gently on top of my jacket. She wasn't smiling. She drew a long breath. "Well, now we know, don't we?" she murmured.

"Know what?"

"You weren't quite sure I wasn't going to turn it on you. Were you?"

I said, "Any experienced man is afraid of a gun in the hands of a novice or a kook, doll. But okay, let's put the cards on the table. Am I supposed to have implicit faith in you now, just because we've made beautiful music under a tropical sky? Am I supposed to forget that you trafficked, as the saying goes, with my enemies?"

She said, "Those enemies were U.S. agents, Matt." Before I could speak, she went on swiftly, "I asked you!

Remember that I asked you. You wouldn't tell me. If 1 couldn't get the answer from you, I had to get it from them, didn't I?"

I looked at her for a moment. "How did you know they were American agents?"

"I… I played detective. At that porpoise place. When you were talking to that boy, the one you put to sleep later, I sneaked up behind the tree and listened. I had to. You wouldn't tell me what was going on. I had to know what I was getting involved in. And you or he, I don't remember which, said something to indicate that you were all American agents. Only you had done something bad, something to make the others watch you and follow you. That's why I asked you that, later. Whether whether I'd be a traitor to my country if I helped you. And you wouldn't tell me."

I said grimly, "But Pressman was glad to tell you, I have no doubt. And of course you believed him. And spilled your guts to him."

She licked her lips. "I had to, Matt. Everything fitted. Everything except the fact that I rather liked you."

I sighed. "You know, Duchess, the funny thing about this racket, full of suspicion and deceit, is how many times you just damn well have to haul off and take somebody on faith. But all right. You tricked me and I tricked you. We're even. Now if you still want to hear the words said, I'll say them. But first tell me one thing: where did you learn to sail?"

"Well, we do a bit of it around San Francisco, but I learned on Chesapeake Bay, when I was a child. I told you I was born there."

"It's a good place for it. That's where I picked up what little I know. Then you are Isobel Marner?"

"Yes, of course." She looked startled. "Did you really think I wasn't?"

"When I saw you playing footsie with the opposition, I didn't know what to think. Okay. Now what do you want to know?"

In response to her questions, I told her everything I dared, everything that wouldn't involve anybody else in danger, if she let something slip later or was made to talk. When I'd finished, she shook her head in a bewildered way.

"All this, so many people dead, and you still don't know where you're going, or what you'll be trying to stop when you get there! Why, you don't even know that Mr. Rath-this man you call Monk-is up to anything very reprehensible."

"Sure," I said. "He shoved Naguki off the Pali just for laughs. And he's just playing Chinese checkers with these experts from Peking. I know the Monk, doll. If it's his, it's big and nasty." I grimaced. "As for where I'm going, I was hoping to get that out of you."

"Out of me?"

"Why do you think I brought you along?" I grinned at her. "I told you I had a use for you, remember? And you certainly did come in handy, but I didn't know how well you could sail when we started out. I just figured if you were in cahoots with Pressman, you probably knew the location of K. And anything a girl knows, a girl can be made to tell."

She stared at me, aghast. "You mean… you mean you really brought me here to beat me up?" Then, surprisingly, she began to laugh. "Oh, darling, you're wonderful! Maybe I am a little in love with you, after all. When I think of all those creepy little frightened men with their creepy little country club intrigues… Matt."

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do now? Shouldn't you be, well, doing something? I mean, besides watching the top of my poor bedraggled dress, hoping I'll fall out."

"I am doing something," I said. "I'm trying to figure out how to catch that fish. He looks like a nice big tasty one. What do you know about survival-type fishing?"

She moved her shoulders. "Well, I once read a story where a girl unraveled her stockings for a line and used a bit of metal from her garter for a hook…"

I heard it then. Somebody was slipping through the jungle from the west, as well as one can slip through that tangled stuff. Somehow we'd been spotted sailing in here, and now the fish-the big fish-was taking the bait I'd offered him: me. I wouldn't have to go through the motions of looking for him, after all. He was coming looking for me.

I said casually, "Well, we can give it a try. I'm getting pretty damn hungry. I think your stockings are still on the boat, keeping company with my necktie. Where'd you hang up your intimate garments?"

She told me. She seemed intrigued by the project. "I'm afraid the garter stuff is all plastic nowadays," she said, "but there's a wire in my bra we can use. Matt, be serious. What are you going to do?"

I leaned over to kiss her, and gave her ungirdled behind a disrespectful slap that I'd never have presumed to apply to the smoothly controlled derriere of yesterday's aloof and dignified Mrs. Marner. I hoped the by-play looked nice and casual to the man out in the brush.

"Relax, doll," I said. "Food first. Now just stay put; don't go wandering off and getting lost. Isobel..

"What is it, Matt?"

"I'm glad you were happy, if only for a moment. Sorry I had to get suspicious and spoil it."

Her eyes searched my face, suddenly questioning. I shouldn't have got sentimental; she was smart enough to guess there was trouble on the way. I could see that she wanted to look around uneasily, but she restrained the impulse. Instead she just smiled and patted my arm. I walked away quickly, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible before they lowered the boom on me, one way or another.

It happened just as I reached the edge of the clearing, but not the way I'd expected. The way it happened was my fault. I'd forgotten that damn gimmicked gun again. I'd left it lying right there on my coat in plain sight, not thinking much about it one way or another, since I knew it wouldn't shoot-but, of course, Isobel didn't know that, and neither did the prowler in the woods.

I heard the snap of a breaking branch out there, and I heard Isobel jump up and cry a warning as sunlight flashed on bright metal among the leaves. Maybe she was just defending herself instinctively. Maybe she was defending me. Or maybe it was that thing she had about guns: here was her chance, at last, to shoot one.

Whatever the reason, she went for the sawed-off revolver on the ground and got it into her hands-both hands, the way I'd told her-and started to aim it, kneeling there.

The gun in the jungle fired only once.