The Devastators

chapter TWELVE

It went as smoothly as if we'd rehearsed it for hours. I heard our visitor enter and lock the door again and come forward. I heard him set something on the table. He paused briefly by Nancy's body, and came over to me. I had placed myself so that, because of the table and chair, he had to make his approach from the bathroom side. As he stopped above me, in approximately the right position, I stirred very slightly and let out a feeble moan.

I heard him jump back, startled. There was a quick, predatory movement beyond him, a faint scuffle, a choked-off gasp, and some ugly, muffled, cracking and snapping sounds, followed by a kind of expiring sigh and the sound of a body slumping to the floor.

I heard Vadya's voice: "You can get up now, Matthew."

I rose and brushed myself off. She was calmly putting her pumps back on. The scarf she'd worn about her shoulders now hung from her hand, twisted into a kind of rope. Obviously it wasn't as fragile as it looked. A man in a dark suit lay face down on the rug between us with a broken neck. He looked very dead. It seemed unnecessarily drastic, but I made no complaint. It wasn't as if the guy had been a particular friend of mine. I did, however, wonder briefly if she'd had some reason for silencing him permanently-or maybe it was just an object lesson to show me that, when it came to garottes, two could play.

I glanced toward the table. A bottle stood there, identical with the one on the dresser except that, presumably, the contents were safe to drink.

I said, "My apologies, ma'am. This character seems to have come to do the switch job I accused you of. Do you know him?"

She rolled him over with her toe, looked at him, and shook her head. "No, do you?"

Her denial sounded convincing, but then, I reminded myself, her denials always did. I regarded our visitor- well, to be accurate, Nancy Glenmore's visitor. He was a big, dark man with a broad, Slavic face. I had seen the face before.

"I won't say I know him," I said, "but I saw him this afternoon. He's the guy who was tailing us in a souped-up Mini when we went for that little spin in Crowe-Barham's Rolls."

Vadya was touching her hair into place. She shook the creases out of her scarf and draped it gracefully about her shoulders again, frowning at the man on the floor. "When you saw him, was he alone?"

"No, but I didn't get a good look at the man with him."

"That means there may still be another nearby. We must watch for him as we leave. But first I think we should take a quick look around."

I made my voice casual: "For what?"

Vadya glanced at me. "Don't be stupid, darling. Maybe this one did come only to switch bottles, but maybe he came to find something, also. He must have had some motive for poisoning the girl, must he not? You search the room and check that purse, there's a good boy. I will search the girl-"

"Leave the kid alone," I said.

There was a brief silence. Vadya straightened up deliberately and swung away from the body on the floor to face me.

"So there was something," she murmured. "And you have it."

"There was something," I said. "I have it."

She was a pro. There were a dozen questions she undoubtedly wanted to ask, but she hesitated only a moment. Obviously, I would tell her about it when I damn well felt like it, if I ever did. In the meantime, questioning me would be useless and humiliating. She shrugged.

"In that case," she said, "there is no more for us to do here, is there?"

She walked to the door. I followed her, and let her out. I couldn't help looking back before I joined her in the ball and pulled the door shut behind us. The kid still lay on the floor, in her rumpled, modernized Glennmore kilts. Beyond her lay the man who was probably most directly responsible for her death. At least his attempted bottle-switch seemed to point toward his being the one who'd planted the poison in the first place. You could call his fate a retribution of sorts, but it didn't really help Nancy Glenmore much.

The slow London twilight was fading when we came outside, having aroused no apparent interest in our progress down the stairs and through the lobby. Nobody followed us away from the hotel. For the moment it wasn't raining, and the streets were drying, but it seemed a little chilly for Vadya in her sleeveless dress. Presumably she was capable of catching cold just like an ordinary woman. My gentlemanly instincts made me turn on the Spitfire's heater for her as we drove away, but I got no thanks for it. She was busy powdering her nose with the aid of the little mirror in her purse.

Presently she closed the purse with a snap. "There is no sign of the little Austin, but we have a 3.8 Jaguar behind us," she reported. "Three men. Somehow I think it is your British friends. They seem to lean toward honest faces and elaborate transportation."

I had already spotted the black sedan following us. "I'll check with Les," I said. "He did mention having a Jag available, and I want to call him anyway."

"Crowe-Barham?" Her voice held a wary note. "What are you cooking up with him now, darling? Your last cooperative venture wasn't very comfortable for me."

I grinned. "You're a suspicious Communist bitch," I said, "and a sadistic one. If you wouldn't go around killing people unnecessarily, I wouldn't have to plead with other people to intercede with the police. Or would you rather have us dodging cops clear to Scotland?"

She glanced at me sharply at this mention of our destination, and was silent. I found a phone and parked beside it. As I closed myself into the booth, I saw that the Jaguar had stopped to wait a block behind us, lights out. I decided they were just a little too conspicuous and obvious to be true. They were being clever. Everybody in London was being clever except me, and it was about time I started.

I managed to figure out the combination of the instrument in front of me-some of those British pay phones have more pushbuttons than an old Chrysler transmission – and I got a secretary on the line, identified myself by name, and asked for Les, as I had done once before that day. This time my request got me a funny little pause, as if I'd said something unexpected. After a bit, a male voice I did not recognize spoke in my ear.

"This is Charles Stark," it said. I remembered being told by Les that a Colonel Stark was his current boss. The voice went on: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

"Yes, sir," I said, making a face at Vadya, who was watching me from the car. Obviously, I'd run into a man who went by the book, silly passwords and all. The Anglo-American identification routine thought up by some brilliant bureaucrat required me to answer the passage from the Declaration of Independence with one from the Magna Carta, and I gave the Colonel a good one: "No taxes, except the customary ones, shall be levied except with the consent of a council of prelates and greater barons."

"Very good, Mr. Helm. Do I understand that you were asking for Crowe-Barham?"

"That's correct, sir." It never hurts to sir them when they have pompous voices and military titles. "Why, is something wrong, sir?"

"We hope not, Mr. Helm," said Colonel Stark heavily. "However, Crowe-Barham did not report in earlier this evening as his schedule required. He has not yet been heard from. When last seen, he was leaving Claridge's in your company and that of a certain lady, if I may misuse the word slightly…"

After I'd finished with the Colonel, I made a quick call to our local relay man, asking him to pass the latest developments on to Washington, along with a couple of questions to which I needed answers. When I got back into the roadster, Vadya was powdering her nose again, keeping an eye on the sedan up the block. She glanced at me rather suspiciously, but asked no questions. That's one thing to be said for dealing with a professional, even one whose motives are undependable and whose politics are deplorable: at least you avoid the yak-yak you'd get from an inquisitive amateur. Vadya started to close the purse as I sent us away.

"Keep it open," I said. "I'm going to try to lose them. Keep me posted."

"Yes, of course." She raised the mirror again. "They just turned on their lights. They are following, about a block behind."

"What did you do with Crowe-Barham?" I asked.

She did not take her eyes from the little mirror. "But really, darling! What dreadful crime have I committed now? Is he missing?"

"Apparently. I was just talking with his boss, a Colonel Stark, who thinks you're no lady."

She laughed. "How ungenerous of the Colonel. But am I then to be held responsible for every person dead and missing in the city of London tonight?… They made that turn. They are still behind us. Two blocks behind now. Drive a little faster. Did Colonel Stark accuse me of having made away with his aristocratic operative?"

"He kind of accused both of us. Anyway, he ordered us to report to his office for questioning, immediately."

She glanced at me. "You do not seem to be rushing in that direction, darling. Not unless they have changed their place of business since I was last informed."

"I take my orders from elsewhere," I said. "I don't suppose you're eager to have a chat with the guy, either."

"Well, not exactly. What makes him think we have harmed poor Sir Leslie?"

"Les is several hours overdue. And he was last seen with us, leaving Claridge's. However, you and I both know he was okay an hour later when he dropped me off. And according to Stark, Les did not take you back to the hotel; at least neither you nor the car were seen there again. And it's not a car anybody's likely to overlook. Rolls-Royces aren't that common, even in London."

Vadya said calmly, "I think you lost them on that turn… Naturally we were not seen to return to Claridge's. Was I to walk in the front door of that so snooty hotel, and through that so snooty lobby, wrapped in a too-big man's coat, with my hair hanging in my eyes and my stockings sagging around my ankles? I had Sir Leslie let me out half a block away, and I slipped into the building by… well, never mind. I may want to use that entrance again some time." She closed her purse. "Yes, they missed us. They just went straight on by the intersection back there. Make a right turn ahead, and then perhaps a left, and I do not think we will see them again. Where would I have got this dress, if I had not been back to my room? Tell Stark to look in 443 and he will find your coat on the bed."

"Sure," I said. "Now break out a map of London, there's one on that shelf under the dash, and tell me how to hit the main highway north."

I heard paper rustle as I drove. Her voice came again:

"You said the man we just left dead in that room was following the Rolls-Royce when you saw him earlier. Perhaps this man helped to trap Sir Leslie after I left him."

"Or before you left him," I said.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

I said, "You were in the back seat, and I'd given you back your little gun, remember? Perhaps you held up Les, and turned him over to the driver of the Austin and his unidentified pal, after which your now-dead friend drove you back to the hotel so you could change, while he went on to poison Nancy Glenmore for you. And then you killed him so he couldn't betray you to me."

She laughed easily. "Yes, I am a terrible person, darling. Will you kill me now for my crimes, or will you wait until we reach Scotland? And in the meantime can you tell me the name of this park on our right?… Ah, there is a sign. Now I see where we are. Just keep straight on until you come to a great boulevard, and turn right." She glanced at me. "Well, Matthew? Do I live or die?"

I grinned. "I think that's a very interesting theory I just proposed. I'm quite proud of it. It might even be true. If I find it is, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, just get your hand away from that gun in your brassiere, please, and let me concentrate on my driving."

She laughed again. I felt her relax beside me. After a little, she glanced over her shoulder and said in a different tone, "For a pair of foreigners in a very small car, we certainly made it look easy to lose three local operatives in a fast and powerful automobile, did we not? One might almost think we were supposed to lose them."

"You don't miss anything, do you?" I said. "I think Colonel Stark is being very clever. I don't think he expected us to call him at all; certainly he didn't expect us to turn ourselves in just because we were asked. I think that when Les turned up missing after last being seen with us, Stark had my car located and a beeper planted in it-you know, one of those dinguses that send out a signal to an electronic receiver. Les said his boss was fond of fancy equipment. The Jag was just for show. We were supposed to see it, and lose it, and think ourselves in the clear. Now Stark and his boys can settle down to track us on their radar screens at a safe distance."

"And what do you suggest we do about it?"

"Do?" I said. "Don't be silly. We do nothing. As long as Stark thinks we're leading him in a profitable direction, he'll make sure we have a clear track. We won't have to worry about being picked up by the police, whether for murder or speeding. Sorry we couldn't stop for your things, but I'll buy you a toothbrush in the morning."

Eight hours later we were in Scotland.

chapter THIRTEEN

A driver who knows the country, in a fast, well-broken-in car, can probably make that run in six hours or less, since Britain, like most of Europe, imposes few speed limits on the open road. Missing an occasional turn in the dark, in a brand-new car that had to be babied, it took us a couple of hours longer, and morning twilight was well advanced as we roared through the rolling border country past the neighborhood of Hadrian's old wall, built to keep the savage northern tribes out of peaceful Roman Britain, and entered Scotland at Gretna Green, where people used to go to get married in a hurry, and maybe still do.

Nevertheless, by American standards, it seemed like getting from one country to another in a big hurry. I'd studied maps enough to know, theoretically, that Scotland isn't quite as far from London as Alaska, say, is from New York, but I hadn't quite realized, practically, that you could run clear out of England in a single night's drive. On the other hand, neither had I realized that while it's only about three hundred miles from London to the Scottish border, it's another tough three hundred to the part of the northwestern Highlands in which we were interested.

By the time we reached it, the city of Glasgow was a mess of loused-up, left-handed, early-morning traffic, soaked with rain. Beyond, the country got ruggeder as we proceeded north, the roads got narrower, the weather got wetter, and I got groggier in spite of the fact that I kept Vadya busy pouring me black coffee out of a thermos we'd picked up, along with a bunch of other necessities, like an overnight bag and a few clothes, in a small town where we'd stopped for gas-excuse me, petrol. It's a secret I've managed to keep from Washington so far, but I still occasionally require sleep. I haven't quite managed to kick the habit, although it's not for want of trying.

It didn't help any that pieces had started falling off the car, a characteristic of small British vehicles. They make the most beautifully steering and handling little heaps in the world, but they stick them together with paper clips and old chewing gum. Then they leave a few Rolls Royces and Rovers standing around conspicuously to prove that they can put a car together right when they feel like it. By the time we'd fought the daytime tourist traffic up past famed Loch Lomond and Loch Ness, we no longer had windshield washer, temperature gauge, speedometer, or hand brake, and I was starting to wonder when something really essential would let go.

I guess I was paying more attention to these distractions, and to my growing weariness, than to what was going on around me. Anyway, the big Mercedes almost sneaked up on us without my recognizing it as a threat. I mean, we'd established early in the evening that, whatever Colonel Stark and his electronic wizards might be doing-we'd located his beeper, magnetically attached to the gas tank behind the seats, and left it strictly alone-nobody was tailing us in the normal eyeball fashion. We'd discussed the fact that if somebody beat us up from London, or just made a long-distance phone call, we might be picked up when we got into the desolate Highlands where there were only one or two likely roads for the opposition to cover, but the possibility had kind of slipped my mind.

Suddenly there was a big sedan riding our tail and flashing its lights for clearance to pass-in Europe it's taken for granted that some people will drive faster than others, and that the slow drivers will just naturally get out of the way of the fast ones, even if they have to take to the bushes to do it. I glanced at the mirror mechanically, and looked ahead for a suitable spot to let the big car pass on the narrow road. Then I looked more sharply at the mirror.

It was a chauffeur-driven car, with two passengers in the rear. I couldn't tell much about them, back there, except that one was a woman, but under the natty cap that reminded me of our missing friend Crowe-Barham doing his home-James bit, the chauffeur's face had a certain Fu Manchu aspect. And while every Oriental in the United Kingdom might not be trying to kill me, I had a hunch I'd live longer if I acted on the assumption that he was.

I slammed the transmission from fourth into third and stepped the accelerator to the floor. The roadster jumped ahead with a scream from the gears and a snarl from the exhaust-it was a very sporty-sounding little beast. Beside me, Vadya, aroused by the jolt, sat up sleepily and looked at me. I was glad to see I wasn't the only agent in the world subject to human weakness and weariness.

I said, "You'd better powder your nose quick, honey. You may not get another chance."

The Mercedes, momentarily left behind, was coming up fast. I hurled the Spitfire through a couple of sharp turns without raising my foot-as I say, small British cars may be built fragile, but they do handle well. That gave me a little lead. No ton-and-a-half sedan, no matter how good, is going to take the corners like a sports car half its weight and height. Then the road ran straight for a bit and I had him sniffing at my trunk again, looking big as a charging rhino about to overrun us.

"I think it's Madame Ling in back," Vadya said calmly.

I said, "Hell, every Chinese female is Madame Ling to you. You've got Madame Lings on the brain." I grinned. "You mean the woman actually exists? Congratulations."

"She must have come up from London ahead of us in a big hurry."

I said, "The way I've been nursing this toy along, she could have walked and beat us. Well, I can't hold them off much longer. This damn road isn't crooked enough, and Baby just hasn't got it in the straights, not against a Mercedes. Any guns showing yet?"

"Not yet. But the man in back has shifted over to our side. He is winding down his window."

I reached down, driving one-handed, and freed my revolver and dropped it into her lap. "Use this. That pipsqueak automatic of yours will hardly shoot through safety glass, and they may have special windows in that fancy limousine. Just one thing, sweetheart."

"Yes?" She had flipped open my gun to check the loads.

"Curb those homicidal impulses," I said. "If you shoot the driver dead, he could yank the wheel the wrong way and come right down on top of us. Just give him a faceful of broken glass to discourage him, huh? You can see blood and brains some other time."

Vadya laughed shortly. "What you really mean is, you do not want that car badly wrecked because your wife may be in it. You think they may have brought her with them from London."

I guess I was really getting pretty tired. The possibility hadn't actually occurred to me, and there wasn't time to consider it now. The road was opening up ahead, and the Mercedes was weaving back and forth behind us, looking for a chance to lunge alongside.

I said, "Okay, I'm opening the gate. Here they come."

Something made a funny slapping sound against the Spitfire's soft top. I heard the simultaneous crack of a gun outside. The bullet came to rest somewhere in the package shelf under the dashboard, right in front of me. That took care of any doubts I might have had about the other party's hostile intentions. I swerved the car violently, to indicate that I was hit or badly scared, leaving the road wide open to our right.

The big sedan shot alongside. Vadya fired twice. Even with the howl of the wind and the roar of the motor, the sawed-off.38 Special made a respectable amount of noise. The side window of the Mercedes went to hell, and a rose of cracks blossomed in the windshield right in front of the driver as the bullets passed diagonally through the forward corner of the car. Momentarily blinded, the chauffeur veered off sharply and hit the bank. In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the big sedan plowing to a halt, before a curve put it Out of sight.

Vadya said, "My hand will never be the same. I think all the bones are broken. What a cannon to carry! Here, I give it back to you… What are you doing?"

I'd swung the roadster onto a dirt track leading off into the gorse or broom or heather, or whatever the local vegetation was called.

"You brought up a certain possibility back there," I said. "I'm going to check it out. Besides, I'd kind of like to know what they intend doing next."

Vadya said, "If you really know the place we want, which you are keeping so secret, why waste time on those people? Better to get there before they reach a telephone and send a warning." Then she glanced at me and laughed. "Ah, you always were sentimental about women, Matthew. Very well, we will go look for your little wife. In the middle of an important case, upon which may depend the fate of the world, we will go hunting for a small, stupid blonde."

I said, "If you never met her, how do you know she's stupid?"

"Any woman who would marry you, darling, cannot be very bright."

Well, I'd left myself open for that. I stopped the Spitfire behind an unidentified Scottish bush and got out stiffly and reloaded my gun while Vadya was climbing out and tying her scarf more firmly over her hair. She'd picked up a boy's black leather jacket and a pair of black sneakers on our small-town shopping spree. They changed her appearance drastically. Although her basic costume remained the same, she no longer looked like a lady of fashion from France, expensively dressed for an evening on the town. She looked more like the kind of black stockinged beatnik female who'd rush recklessly around the countryside by motorcycle or small sports car.

In the same spirit, I'd got myself a black turtleneck sweater and a sharp-looking cap. A night of hard driving, and some exposure to rain at various stops, had done the rest, giving us both an authentically shabby, wrinkled, tough, and careless look to go with the jazzy, mud-splashed little car.

As we made our way back along the hillside toward a point from which we should be able to get a view of the road and the wrecked Mercedes, I couldn't help feeling that we'd got a long way from London and civilization in relatively few hours. Driving, I hadn't quite realized how wild the country had become, particularly since we'd turned westward off what seemed to be the main tourist trail, shortly after passing through the town of Inverness, at the end of Loch Ness.

With a little sleep under my belt and nothing on my mind I could really have appreciated the scenery around us. Even under the unfavorable circumstances, I managed to notice that it was pretty spectacular. The vegetation was tough and low and windswept, gray-green in color, with few real trees. All around us, steep mountains rose up into the low-hanging clouds. I had to keep reminding myself that we weren't more than a couple of thousand feet above sea level. The place had that high-country feel that you get in the Rockies above ten thousand feet.

We reached our vantage point in time to witness Madame Ling, her associate, and her chauffeur being invited to climb into the cab of a big truck-excuse me, lorry- that had just stopped, or been stopped, at the scene of the accident. The chauffeur held a stained handkerchief to the side of his face; the others seemed unhurt. At the distance, I couldn't make out their features clearly, but I could see that Madame Ling was smaller than I'd expected-I guess I'd visualized a tall, slinky, Oriental menace. Instead I saw a slight little black-haired woman dressed in smart Occidental clothes, including a mink coat that would have bought a lot of oil for the lamps of China. The cab door slammed and the big truck started up and took them away toward the east.

I said, "They'll probably have him drop them off back in Inverness. I don't think it's any use trying to tail them. They'll be watching for that. How old is Madame Ling?"

Vadya shrugged. "Those smooth-faced yellow bitches have no age, darling. She's over twelve and under eighty. Why, does she attract you?"

"Yeah, like a snake," I said. "I don't like small, subtle women. Big obvious ones are much nicer." Vadya made a face at me, and I grinned and said, "I guess it's safe to go down there now. They aren't likely to double back in that rig. Even if they held a gun on the driver, he couldn't get it turned around on this road."

A bunch of shaggy, black-faced sheep scattered warily as we scrambled down the slope. Reaching the Mercedes, I was surprised at the amount of damage my.38 had done to the window and windshield until I realized that somebody in the Ling party had carefully obliterated all recognizable bulletholes with a rock, to avoid a lot of awkward explanations. On the right side, which had hit the bank, there was a shattered headlight, a bent wheel and front suspension, and some scraped and dented body work. In a way, it was too bad. It was a handsome car.

There was nothing significant inside, just the usual meticulous Mercedes trimmings and upholstery. The keys had been left in the ignition. This caused me a little worry, lest Madame Ling had anticipated our return and set a boobytrap or two, but nothing blew when I took the keys, when I inserted the proper one in the trunk lock, or when I raised the lid. Except for the spare tire and tools, there was nothing in the trunk.

I drew a long breath. I guess I had actually hoped to find something, or somebody. Well, at least it wasn't totally bad news, like a dead body. I straightened up slowly and looked at Vadya.

"So much for your bright idea," I said. "No blood, no bobby pins, no blonde hairs. Two will get you twenty nobody's been carried anywhere in that trunk, dead or alive."

Vadya moved her shoulders easily under the leather jacket, beaded with fine rain. "It seemed like a logical possibility, darling."

"Uhuh, logical," I said. I took the keys from the trunk and tossed them to her. "Put those back in the ignition, will you, doll?"

As she turned away, I took a small metallic object from my pocket and stuck it onto the metal under the lip of the trunk, before I slammed the lid. Colonel Stark might be a little surprised to find his magnetic beeper attached to the wrong car, but I hoped he'd take the hint, when his homing devices led him here, and check up on the damaged sedan and its owner. With his resources, he'd have a greater possibility of getting something that way than we would, but I wasn't optimistic about his chances. Madame Ling would undoubtedly cover her tracks well.

Still, it left somebody with a clue of sorts to follow, if the two of us should fail. I walked forward and found Vadya leaning far into the car to examine the glove compartment.

"Now, that's a hell of an inviting position for a lady to assume," I said. "Find anything?"

She shook her head, backing out and turning to face me. She looked at me rather sharply, and glanced back towards the closed trunk as if suspecting that she might have missed something, but I saw no reason to tell her what I'd done. Her yearning for international cooperation probably wasn't strong enough to include the British. In fact, I rather doubted it was strong enough to include me, in any permanent way.

That doubt had grown stronger since I'd discovered that the Mercedes trunk had been empty. I mean, it had contained no small blonde girls, living or dead, but it had contained no luggage, either, and none had been transferred to the truck that had taken the Ling party away. And a smart-looking woman like Madame Ling would hardly have visited London without at least one well-filled suitcase.

The implication was that she had not just come up from the south ahead of us as Vadya had been so careful to suggest; instead she'd come driving to intercept us from somewhere right here in Scotland, close enough that she'd seen no need to bring even an overnight bag. Madame Ling might not have been in London, kidnapping people, for months. After all, the only one who positively claimed to have identified her there was Vadya…