The Interlopers

22

SITKA LOOKED LIKE A CITY STILL under construction, which seemed odd considering that it was supposed to be one of the oldest communities on the coast, dating from the days when this far northwestern territory was claimed and governed by Russians. I decided that the unfinished effect was mostly due to the fact that the city fathers had apparently just discovered sidewalks and, mad about their new and unique invention, were laying concrete all over town.

It was raining steadily but not very energetically as the taxi carried me toward a display of totem poles that, I'd been told, was one of the main attractions of the place. This was not, however, my primary reason for going there. I was involved in another of the complicated contact routines some deskbound Communist genius had devised for the benefit of a courier named Nystrom.

After the ship had docked and the first rush of shoregoing passengers had subsided, I'd taken Hank for a walk so that he wouldn't forget what dry land looked like-not that any part of this drizzling region could really be called dry. At least the pup's welfare was the ostensible object of the expedition. Actually, I figured, I was displaying myself on shore with dog and whistle so somebody could get a good look at me for purposes of later recognition.

Hank had been deliriously happy at encountering grass and rocks and trees again after twenty-four hours of doing his stuff on greasy metal. I'd let him enjoy himself for ten minutes by the clock, after which I'd taken him back on board and stuck him into the camper to wake up Libby, figuring it was about time the girl got out of bed.

When I strolled off the landing ramp a second time, dogless, a taxi drove up right on schedule. Transporting me through the muddy little town, the cabby gave me a lengthy tourist spiel, telling me all about a pre-Communist Russian gent named Baranov who'd once been uncrowned king of the area; about a fine old Russian church that had burned down; and about the great Good Friday earthquake of a few years back that actually hadn't affected Sitka much although it had played hell elsewhere along this coast.

His chatter made me uneasy at first, but I came to the conclusion that it held no coded messages to which I was supposed to respond in kind. The guy was just talking because he was nervous, and because he always talked this way to tourists off the boat and wanted our relationship to look perfectly normal.

He let me out by a grove of totem poles standing in front of a neat, park-service-type building, inside which, I was sure, I could learn all about them if I had the time and the desire. The poles themselves were quite impressive: tall, slender timbers, carved and painted, reaching up into the gray sky. The mask-like wooden faces were much less garish than I'd been led to expect by photographs I'd seen, and the muted colors went well with the misty day.

But I hadn't come here to study primitive art, and I went on into the building and made a pretense of taking in the exhibits before wandering into the little movie theater off the lobby. It was dark inside. On the screen, a copper-faced gent was showing the steps involved in totem-pole construction. He reminded me a little of Pete, although Pete was probably not a member of the totem-carving Tlingit tribe.

I found an aisle seat near the rear, as instructed, and settled down to watch. Some time passed, which I spent wondering just what the real Pete was up to and what Hans Holz had in mind for me. Well, there wasn't much doubt about his basic intention, but I could speculate on whether he'd had himself smuggled aboard the ship to do the job or was waiting for me further up the line.

I became aware that someone had entered the theater by the door I had used, letting in a moment of daylight. A small, slight man paused at my row, murmured an excuse, and made his way past me with some difficulty, since theater seats are seldom spaced adequately for legs as long as mine. After the man had settled down somewhere off to my right, I felt under the seat-arm he'd used to steady himself briefly. I found a small container about the size and shape of a bottle cap stuck there with some kind of tough rubbery contact adhesive.

I pried it loose, and pickup number four was completed, but I felt a little deprived at not having got a chance to use the identification spiel that I could now rattle off quite glibly.

After watching the educational film a little longer, I glanced at my watch like a man afraid of missing his boat and hurried out, leaving my latest contact sitting there in the dark. I'd never got a good look at his face, but Mr. Smith's boys would have him spotted if they were on the job as they should be-another fish for the dragnet, to be hauled in later, with friends if possible.

The waiting taxi driver returned me to the dock, still spouting his mechanical spiel. I wondered if he'd stop talking when they took him off to jail. When I reached the camper, a little piece of unraveled screen wire that had been caught in the crack of the door a certain way-one of my telltales-was no longer visible.

I hesitated. It could have been done by Libby leaving, of course, or even returning to learn if my mission on shore had been successfully completed. And even if someone else had entered the camper, the chances were slight that they'd planted a bomb, or were waiting inside with gun or knife. Like me, Holz would undoubtedly have orders emphasizing discretion. He would wish to perform a neat and quiet operation that would not reflect discredit on, or draw attention to, his current associates. Alone on the promenade deck at night, I'd be taking a chance, but on this crowded car deck I was reasonably safe.

I opened the door deliberately. Libby was no longer there, but a familiar, stocky, Indian-faced gent was sitting in the dinette. He didn't really look much like the Tlingit carver in the movie. My fine, big watchdog had his head on the intruder's knee and was letting his ears be scratched, with a blissful expression on his silly black face.

"Nice dog," Pete said, glancing at me as casually as if we'd arranged this meeting in advance. "I always like dogs. Can't say as much for people."

"Sure," I said. "I saw you drive aboard last night. Figured you'd be around to see me sooner or later. How about a beer?" I pulled the camper door shut behind me, and turned to the refrigerator. "Tough about Stottman," I said.

Without looking, I was aware that Pete's fingers had paused very briefly before continuing their skillful scratching. "What do you know about it?" Pete asked.

I said, "Hell, I found them, man. I'd been out on that Lake-Francois Lake-making contact as ordered. When I came back to the cabin, there they were on the kitchen floor, all three of them. God, what a mess! I just grabbed my stuff and lit out fast, before the cops caught me there knee deep in blood and dead bodies. Do you want a glass?"

"What?"

"A glass? For the beer?"

"No, the can's okay." Pete took the beer I gave him, swallowed deeply, and passed the back of his hand across his mouth. "That's your story," he said.

I sat down facing him. "That's my story," I said, drinking from my own can.

"Mr. Stottman didn't like you much." Pete's voice was flat and expressionless. His dark eyes watched me instead. "I didn't like Mr. Stottman much," I said. "Come to that, I don't like you much. So what?"

"You didn't report. Some people higher up are annoyed. They had to read it in the Canadian papers."

"Stills aren't my business, friend. I'm not required to report anything to anybody. I just carry the mail."

"Mr. Stottman had a funny idea you aren't exactly what you pretend."

"I know Mr. Stottman's funny idea," I said. "He made it pretty clear. Frankly, I think your Mr. Stottman was a paranoid crackpot who should have been put away in a room with upholstered walls."

Pete drank more beer and studied the can thoughtfully. "Paranoid," he said softly. "Hell, I'm just an ignorant redskin, Nystrom. Don't waste those big words on me."

I grinned. "Sure, you're stupid like Hiawatha."

"That imaginary, romanticized creep!"

"Sitting Bull, then. Mangas Colorada. Chief Joseph of the Nez Percй." He remained silent, and I went on. "Okay, for the sake of your limited intelligence, which I don't believe in for a moment, let's just say that friend Stottman was the kind of sick guy who sees enemies and traitors where there aren't any. I took time out to drive clear to Seattle just to humor him. I got myself a copper-riveted, brass-bound identification to make him happy, and he still wouldn't drop his crazy suspicions. So they got him killed, and we're sorry about that, but-"

"How do you figure?" Pete's voice was sharp.

"If he'd minded his own business," I said, "he'd still be alive down in the state of Washington where he belonged, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have got himself shot, carelessly walking in on a couple of guys laying for me."

"Mr. Stottman didn't walk into places carelessly. And he never used a knife. Those other two guys were killed with a knife, it said in the paper. He didn't even carry a knife, Nystrom. I did the knifework for both of us when it had to be done."

"So he took a knife from one of them. They weren't very bright, judging by their clumsy tailing techniques- they'd been following me a whole day. It wouldn't take a genius to disarm one of them. Only Stottman wasn't quite fast enough with the blade when he did get it, and the other got off a shot."

"You didn't say anything about hearing a shot."

I said, "With an outboard motor running, how much could I hear, a mile out on the lake?"

"You've got answers for everything, don't you? But if it happened like you say, and the punks were laying for you, Mr. Stottman saved your life."

"Who asked him to? I handled the creep with the rifle in Pasco, didn't I? I could have taken care of those two. Hell, I knew they were around, I was just waiting for the right time to ditch them or deal with them when your friend blundered into the line of fire and got himself massacred."

"Pretty cocky, aren't you? For a mere courier who never killed a man in his life before this week. Where's your knife, Nystrom? Could it be in the hands of the cops, labeled exhibit A?"

I hesitated, shrugged, took out the Buck knife, and slid it across the dinette table. Pete looked down at it and up at me. He picked up the knife, opened it, ran his thumb along the edge approvingly, and tried to close it.

"Press the back of the handle near the end, there," I said. "The blade locks. Keeps it from shutting on your fingers when you're skinning out your elk." I reached out and reclaimed my knife. "Just what the hell is your theory, Pete? That I mowed them down, all three of them? That makes me pretty good, doesn't it? Thanks for the compliment."

"You're pretty good, all right," Pete said. "Whoever you are. The question is, are you good enough? Thanks for the beer."

He gave the pup a casual pat, pushed him aside, and went to the door and stopped, looking back. I met his look. It was a moment of understanding. Regardless of what had been said he knew quite well that I'd killed Stottman somehow, and I knew that he was going to make me pay for it somehow, if he could. He was announcing the fact quite openly.

Of course, he wasn't being completely frank. He wasn't telling me that he was delivering his flamboyant challenge, threat, or whatever it was, in order to keep my attention firmly fixed on him while another man sneaked up for the actual kill.