The Devastators

chapter SEVEN

There was nothing in the room, of course. I mean, there were no signs of violence. There were no clues, or if there were I didn't spot them as such-I'm not much of a clue man. There were no cute little last-minute oh-help-me messages scrawled in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Well, there wouldn't be. We weren't dealing with amateurs.

That was the catch. The only amateur involved, by decree, was Winnie herself. I realized belatedly that I might as well have skipped the precaution of making her stay in the hotel. She was no safer there than elsewhere, with the instructions she carried. She was my sweet, harmless, gutless little bride, and she was under orders to remain so no matter what happened, to me or to her, until she got herself next to a gent named McRow or got herself killed. The latter possibility was one we hadn't considered as fully as we might have, since I was the one who was supposed to be running the big risks. On the other hand, I was allowed to fight back. Winnie wasn't.

If strangers called from downstairs, perhaps claiming to be old friends of mine, she had to invite them up politely. When they knocked on the door, she had to open unsuspectingly, just like the innocent honeymoon kid she was supposed to be. If she was grabbed, she had to forget everything she'd ever learned about defending herself. And if, with a couple of preliminary slaps for emphasis, she was ordered to write something at the point of a gun, she had to write, with convincing big tears of pain and fright trickling down her cheeks.

I didn't look around too hard. I didn't even want to know if they'd planted a few hearing aids on me while they were in here. It seemed unlikely they'd pass up the chance. I just sat down on the bed and tore open the envelope. The note inside was very good. Without going into details, it hinted at all kinds of fascinating secrets and relationships.

Dear Matt:

I have just learned something that hurts me very much. I'm sure you know what I mean. I've been a blind little fool. Please don't try to find me.

Winnie

I frowned at this thoughtfully. It was really a very fine note. It said all the right things to everybody who might read it, from me to the hotel maid who might find it in the wastebasket later.

To me, of course, it was a warning in double-talk. It said quite clearly that if I tried to find Winnie, she'd be hurt very much. Presumably I was supposed to wait for contact to be made, meanwhile playing the part of the older husband whose young wife had learned his dreadful secret and left him. I was supposed to keep things quiet with this story, disturbing neither the hotel management nor the authorities. The implication, not necessarily reliable, was that if I did all this, Winnie would be okay and might even be released eventually, perhaps in return for further cooperation on my part.

I stared at the note grimly. I'm sure you know, it said, presumably meaning that I surely knew with whom I was dealing, but I didn't really. I only knew that Vadya bad moved into the hotel here at just about the same time that Basil was getting ready to receive me at Wilmot Square, but I couldn't be absolutely certain they were working together. These could have been independent actions triggered by my phone call to Walling. The first thing I had to do was determine, maybe by a process of elimination, just who did have Winnie. Of course, I'd been warned not to try to find her, but that was routine. As a desperate husband who was also a trained and ruthless agent, I wouldn't really be expected to do nothing at all.

I reached for the phone. It took me a while to learn Les's current office number, and a while longer to reach him. Then I had him on the line.

"Crowe-Barham here."

"Helm," I said. "Did you get everything taken care of at that place, amigo?"

"I did," he said, "but there is a feeling in the higher echelons that a certain amount of reciprocity would be very nice, old chap. If you ask for our assistance, it has been suggested, you might at least take us into your confidence."

"Who asked?" I said. "Check your tapes of the conversation, old pal. I asked nothing. You called and made the offer, unsolicited. Not that I'm not grateful, and all that jazz." Before he could speak, I went on quickly, "But I'm asking now. Are Her Majesty's troops still at my disposal? My wife is missing."

There was a brief silence; then he said quietly, "I say, I am sorry to hear it. What can we do to help?"

"I need a quiet room. A very quiet room-soundproof perhaps and a car with a deaf-and-dumb chauffeur." After a moment I added without expression, "The car and driver you lent me this afternoon would do fine."

There was another little pause. "Are you planning to leave anything in the quiet room, old boy? I mean, who cleans up afterwards, you or we?" I didn't say anything. There was yet another silence. I could visualize him frowning, perhaps chewing or tugging at his moustache, while he made up his mind. Then his voice came again:

"Ah, well, accidents sometimes happen in this work, don't you know? If one should occur, just leave the debris, slip the latch, and let the door lock behind you. We'll take care of things again. Incidentally, it would seem as if somebody wanted you both alive. We found a hypodermic on the stairs at Wilmot Square. The contents would have put you under for quite a while, but they would not have killed you."

"I see. Thanks for the information."

"There have been some very odd kidnappings lately. We do not quite understand the purpose. Killing, yes, but not kidnapping. Perhaps you have something to contribute on the subject."

"I'm afraid not," I said. "All I know is that my wife is missing."

"To be sure." His voice was cool. "Well, where and when will you want the car?"

I told him. Afterwards, I replaced the phone, got up and made a face at my image in the dresser mirror. I don't really like asking help from people I have to lie to, or lying to people I have to ask for help. I got my suitcase, threw it on the bed and did some tricks to open a camouflaged compartment holding, among other ingenious toys, my little.38 Special revolver: the snub-nosed, five-shot, aluminum-framed model that, too light to absorb much of the recoil of its heavy cartridge, will damn near tear your hand off when you fire it, not to mention blasting holes in both eardrums.

It is, in my opinion, just about as logical a weapon for a man in a supposedly hush-hush job as a 20mm antitank gun, but it's what the efficiency experts in Washington have decided we need. Regulations state that we must keep the miniature cannon handy at all times, cover permitting, but no experienced operative takes that rule seriously. I'll carry it in my suitcase because I have to, but I'm damned if I'll wear it unnecessarily. Nothing can get you into more trouble, particularly in a foreign country, than a firearm. Winnie, of course, had orders to carry no weapons whatever on this assignment, in line with her innocent act. When the time came for her to do her stuff, I was supposed to supply whatever she needed out of my private stock.

I closed the secret compartment, tucked the wicked little gun under my waistband, buttoned my coat and topcoat over it, and put my hat back on. There was one more item I required, and it was one that wasn't supplied in the standard agent's travel kit. I didn't have anything suitable in my belongings. My only belt was needed to keep my pants up. I might even need it for other purposes, sooner or later, since it's a rather special belt.

Luck came to my rescue-if it was luck. Maybe I'd found a clue after all. In hastily cleaning out the dresser, packing under duress, Winnie had apparently overlooked one small drawer. It contained some gloves, some nylons still in the plastic factory package, some odds and ends of cosmetics and costume jewelry, and a couple of belts. I chose a wide, black, soft-leather number with a big, tricky, dramatic buckle. Flashy though it was, it looked as if it might possibly be strong enough for what I had in mind. I coiled it up and dropped it into my pocket and went downstairs.

Claridge's lounge bore no resemblance to the kind of dark, cramped chrome-plated cocktail-trap you'd find in, say, a New York hotel. It was a high-ceilinged, light, rambling, luxurious, pillared room that could have been the anteroom of a castle or palace where high-class people awaited audience with royalty. Silent waiters glided about with drinks procured from some unknown source. Nothing so vulgar as a bar was in evidence.

Vadya, still sitting at the same table near the door, was doing her part to maintain the tone of the place. She looked very high-class indeed. I walked up and seated myself facing her after tossing my hat and coat on an empty chair. I ordered a martini from the waiter who materialized at my side.

Vadya showed no surprise at seeing me. "Better make it a double, darling," she said lazily. "They serve them in thimbles around here."

"Make it a double," I said.

"And get me another, please."

"And another for the lady," I said.

The waiter bowed and vanished. I leaned back and regarded Vadya with critical interest. After all, aside from our momentary encounter in the hotel doorway, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen her last.

She was putting on quite a show. Her hairdo was big but elaborately simple, if the words aren't incompatible. The thrown-back mink stole was the real stuff. Her suit was tan wool-beige is the technical term, I believe-with a straight, short, close-fitting skirt, and a straight, short, loose-fitting jacket. I wondered idly what had happened to the old-fashioned notion of cutting jackets to fit the female human form. I'd thought it was kind of a nice idea, but then, fashion-wise, I'm obviously way behind the times.

There was a high-collared blouse of the kind of silk associated with caterpillars and mulberry trees instead of chemical vats. Her nylons were so sheer as to be almost nonexistent, just a nebulous hint of stocking, and her pumps had heels a yard long and an eighth of an inch in diameter. Well, almost. She looked sleek and well-fed and expensive.

The last time I'd seen her, on the other side of the Atlantic, she'd been playing a younger, leaner, and cheaper role. I could remember her dressed in grubby white shorts, as short and tight as the law allowed, and a limp boy's shirt with a missing button. I could also recall her dressed in even less. It had been quite an intriguing assignment, the one that had brought us together out there in the great Southwest.

Fortunately, our national interests had run more or less parallel-it happens occasionally-but we'd played a fast game of trickery and double-cross before this became apparent. I'd put her on a plane afterwards and shipped her out of the country instead of wringing her neck on general principles, as I undoubtedly should have. Winnie, the hard-boiled little kook, would have called that sentimentality, I suppose. Softhearted Helm, the Galahad of the undercover services. Well, hell, you can't kill everybody.

I said, "If that's all you, doll, you've been eating too much. I don't like my women pudgy."

"Your women!" she murmured.

I grinned. "Well, I seem to recall staking a claim of sorts, the way it's usually done. In a motel in Tucson, if I remember correctly."

"But now you have a pretty little blonde wife, I am told. And you are celebrating your honeymoon." She was watching me closely. She waited a little, perhaps giving me a chance to go into my bereaved-husband act, but I knew her well enough to know that my only chance of making her believe I was really married was not to work at it at all. I had to play it cool and straight. Waving my arms and tearing my hair would get me nowhere; she'd know at once I was faking. When I didn't react, she sighed theatrically. "Ah, to forget me so soon, for another woman, darling! I am hurt."

The waiter was putting our drinks on the table. When he had gone, I said, "The only way you'll ever be hurt, Vadya, is with an axe. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious? I heard you were here, so I came flying to see you."

"Sure," I said. "I am flattered."

She let her playful smile fade, and said, "Strangely enough, I am telling you the truth, Matthew."

I let that pass. "How am I supposed to introduce you, if anyone should ask?"

She said, in an accented voice, "Ah, you may call me Madame Dumaire, chйri. Madame Evelyn Dumaire. Monsieur Dumaire, unfortunately, is no longer among the living, but fortunately he left his widow well provided for."

"I can see that," I said, with a glance at the expensive furs. "Okay, Evelyn. And God help the French. I hope they have the 'Mona Lisa' nailed down tight or it will be in Moscow by morning."

She shook her head. "No. It wasn't the 'Mona Lisa,' of course-who would waste a good agent's time on that smirking canvas female?-and I have been taken off the

Paris assignment, anyway. They called me at lunch. They said, 'There is a man in London with whom you are acquainted, Vadya. He spared your life once, the record shows. This would seem to indicate that you are the best person we have to negotiate with him. There is no time to construct a new cover. You will go over there- immediately, by jet airplane-as plump Madame Dumaire.'" She smiled. "You see, I am being devastatingly frank. I am letting you know from the start that I was sent here because you were here. Because my employers think I am conscienceless enough to try to capitalize on our old friendship. As of course I am."

It wasn't exactly what I'd expected. To give myself time to think about it, I said, "Some friendship! I've still got the scars where you and your partner played tic-the-toe on my chest with a hot soldering iron."

She said, quite undisturbed, "It was a misunderstanding. Poor Max."

"Poor Max, hell," I said. "After that little branding session, what made him think I wouldn't shoot when he tried to pull a gun on me next day? Well, I guess you could call that a misunderstanding, too." I grimaced. "Are you serious? Do you really expect me to believe you were sent here officially to renew our old acquaintance?"

She said, "Don't be so clever and suspicious, my friend. Remember that sometimes the direct approach is the best. Anyway, it is the one I have been instructed to use. You see, we know why you are here in England."

I said, poker-faced, "And why am I here?"

"You are here because there is a crazy man at large, an American scientist named McRow.. This man is working on a fantastic biological weapon with which he apparently intends to blackmail the world, my country included. At least that is the intelligence we have received. Well, there are many crazy men with big ideas about getting rich, and this one would not worry us, were it not for the fact that he has acquired strong backing somewhere. McRow's motives seem to be simple and financial, but we are not sure of the motives of his backers. They could be military, and there are certain countries eastward that, while they boast of their ancient civilizations, are not, we feel, advanced enough politically to be trusted with a weapon such as this."

"You mean they don't have quite the right Communist slant on things?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Matthew. They don't have quite the right democratic slant on things, either. There is also a certain racial factor. I do not believe many would weep, out there in the East, if all white men were to get very sick and die. There are even some irresponsible leaders out there, we feel, who would willingly sacrifice large parts of their own populations to achieve this purpose-as long as a loyal elite was assured of survival. That could be achieved by a serum or vaccine; and we think that is what McRow is now working to perfect, since he has already shown that he can produce super-virulent forms of several common diseases. He will presumably select the one for which he can most easily produce an effective antidote." She drew a long breath. "You see, I am being absolutely frank; I am describing the problem to you exactly as it was described to me. Naturally, we would like this development for our own, but although they have tried hard, our people have failed to get it. So have yours."

"What makes you think so?"

"The fact that you are here makes us think so, for one thing," said Vadya. She laughed softly. "We are specialists, darling, you and I. We are not called upon to capture men alive, or bring home their nasty little secrets. When we are summoned everyone knows what it means. It means that all other methods have failed, and time is getting short, and there is only one thing left to do." She looked at me earnestly across the table. "I am instructed to cooperate with you in any reasonable way, Matthew, until this international threat is removed. Until this man is killed and his laboratory destroyed."

There was a little silence. Presently I said in a tentative way, "You know, the funny thing is, I really am on my honeymoon." She didn't say anything to this, and after a moment I went on: "Of course, that doesn't mean I'm out of the business entirely."

She smiled faintly. "I thought not."

"I'll have to know a little more before I get in touch with Washington. Suppose we have dinner together and you tell me exactly what you have in mind."

"Yes, of course. Do you want to eat here?"

I threw a look toward the impressively formal dining room opening off the lounge, and said, "These Claridge waiters give a poor country boy from New Mexico a raging inferiority complex. I seem to remember a little place off Piccadilly Circus where we can relax and talk."

"Whatever you say.?'

She drew her furs around her, and waited for me to rise and attend to her chair like a gentleman. Then she pulled on her gloves, picked up her purse, and smiled at me over her shoulder to indicate that she was ready.

We walked out of the lounge together, and through the lobby to the street. Les was right on the ball. The doorman didn't even have time to offer his services before the gleaming silvery sedan was gliding to the curb in front of the hotel. Vadya stopped and glanced at me with sudden suspicion.

"So I've got friends in London," I said. "Hop in."

She frowned at the chauffeur-driven Rolls, and looked back at me. "It is not that I do not trust you, darling, but I think I would prefer a taxicab."

"Sure," I said, close behind her. "But get in anyway. If I have to shoot from this angle, we'll get blood and guts all: over that lovely vehicle, and that would be a pity, wouldn't it?"