The Poisoners

XII

"You warned me," Beverly said at last, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over us as the warmth of the car's heater began to take effect. "I suppose it was my fault for not listening to you."

I was again driving at the legal speed of a hundred and ten kilometers per hour, seventy m.p.h. to you-well, I suppose I should actually have held it at sixty-eight and four-tenths, but nobody's got a speedometer that accurate, not even, I hoped, the Mexican police. I took my eyes off the road to glance at my companion, finding her bare legs only mildly distracting. I guess I still hadn't thawed out completely.

She'd gotten a comb from her scarred purse, and a mirror that had miraculously survived the crash intact except for a broken corner. She was fighting the snarls out of the darkened red-gold hair that, as it dried, was lightening once more and reverting to its former glorious, if artificial, color. The dead-white pallor had left her face, and she'd treated herself to a touch of lipstick. Even beat-up and waterlogged-or at least not thoroughly dried out yet-she was quite an attractive little person.

"What did I warn you about?" I asked.

"Don't you remember what you said when you were calling a taxi from that motel room, about cars that might be gimmicked so the brakes wouldn't brake and the steering wouldn't steer? But you were talking about that rental car, the one I was supposed to have borrowed from your girl agent, and by the time I got around to picking up my own convertible, I'd forgotten all about it. It never occurred to me… They must have sabotaged it while it was standing at the airport. Of course they had all the time in the world."

We were still driving along the edge of the Pacific. Baja California was beginning to wake up, and there were a few cars on the four-lane toll road, although there weren't many signs of habitation around to indicate where they might have come from, just the rugged coastal hills up to the left, and the rocky shoreline, and the ocean, down to the right.

I said, "So your steering went out, or was it the brakes?"

"Both," she said. "It was… it was like a bad dream. There was a man right behind me all the way from the border. I'd spotted him earlier, he wasn't even trying to be inconspicuous. He was practically riding my rear bumper. I kept jacking up the speed, thinking I ought to be able to outrun a lousy little jeep…"

"Did you know the driver?"

"Sure. I got a glimpse of him under the lights, going through Tijuana: a rock-faced character named Willy Hansen. Among other things, he drives for Frankie, although I don't know why. The few times Frankie had him chauffeur me around-while I was still the golden girl around the place-he scared me stiff. He acted like he'd never even seen a horseless carriage before."

I said, "I know. I rode with him a couple of times myself."

Beverly shrugged her small shoulders under the sports coat she was still wearing like a cape. "Maybe he's better on the open road than in city traffic. Anyway, I couldn't seem to gain on him much, and that glamor-buggy of mine is… was supposed to be fast, a real bomb. That's what Frankie-boy said when he presented it to me, and don't think 1 didn't have to pay for it like all his presents. Ugh." She was silent briefly, her face bleak with memory. "The wages of sin," she murmured. "So now I'm sitting here practically naked, with less than fifty bucks in my purse, and no safe way of getting at all that lovely loot back in L.A. for which I sold my innocent body. Well, almost innocent. That should be an object lesson to little girls who think… Ah, hell!"

"Sure," I said. "We left the heroine pouring the high-test fuel to her high-powered convertible with the villain in hot pursuit. The suspense is terrific."

Beverly laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to moralize," she said. "Anyway, I tried to shake him, and I did gain a little, maybe half a mile. I really had those tires smoking in the curves. I guess that's what he wanted. They must have fixed everything to fail when I put a lot of strain on it. Up above the border, in the fog, I'd been taking it pretty easy. I guess that's why I got as far as I did without anything happening." She looked around and sighed. "It certainly is nice to see blue sky for a change. That damn smog gets me down."

I made a face at her. "As a storyteller, sweetheart, you make a swell movie star. Along with the morality lectures, let's just skip the atmospheric conditions and their psychological effects, huh?"

She laughed again. "All right. I hit that sharp curve going into the bay where you found me, and I really had to lean on the wheel to pull her around. As I came out of the turn, I felt things let go, power steering and all. There just wasn't anything left in that department. So of course I stood on the brakes as hard as I dared, and they went out, too. The pedal held up for a moment and then went clear to the floor. The car was still holding the road with nobody steering it, but that long curve was coming up, the one at the head of the bay where you had your car parked. I knew I had to jump and take a chance of being smeared all over the pavement-" I said, "So you went out the right-hand door. Why?"

She glanced at me. "Matt, what-"

"A man can't help wondering," I said. "The lady is driving the car. This is customarily done from beneath the steering wheel, usually located on the left side of the vehicle here in the U.S. of A. She decides to unload, and the right side of her costume and anatomy takes the brunt of the landing. A man experienced in drawing large deductions from small clues, like me, can't help but wonder why."

Beverly grinned. "You're so cute when you're suspicious, darling. I thought you were looking at me awfully hard down there. Well, believe it or not, I went out the right-hand door simply because I didn't want to risk being caught between the car and the bank-we were drifting over to the left pretty fast-or that damn stone retaining wall, either. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. "I just have to go into my pro act now and then, to keep in practice."

"I mean," the girl beside me said grimly, "I tried to go out the right-hand door, but it wouldn't open. That damn little lock button was down, for Christ's sake, and if you start by pulling at the door handle the crazy button won't come up until you let go, and of course in my panic I got them in the wrong order. While I was fighting it, we bounced off the wail, and then I finally got it open and kicked myself out-and what the hell ever happened to nice sensible door locks that unlock when you pull the inside handle. We used to have them, didn't we?"

"They aren't safe. Some guy in Washington said so."

"Well, I'd like to put that guy in Washington into one of these super-locked death-traps heading straight for a two-hundred-foot drop and see how safe he feels!" She shook her head angrily. "Anyway, when I stopped bouncing and flopping and sliding around, I was still alive. I'd lost a lot of skin, and my clothes were in shreds, and everything was kind of vague and hazy, but my arms and legs seemed to work all right although I hurt like hell in a dozen places. I knew there was something I had to do, somebody I had to get away from…"

"Where was Willy with the jeep?"

"I could see his headlights coming around the point. I knew I had to get out of there before he found me and finished me off, and I just slid and rolled and crawled and scrambled down through the rocks and brush, and staggered to the shore and threw myself off the edge, hoping the water was deep enough so I wouldn't knock out my brains. I guess I had some vague idea of swimming to those rocks way offshore that I could barely see-it was just starting to get light-but when I got into the water I knew I didn't have the strength to make it, cold as it was. Besides, he'd see me swimming long before I got out there, and either shoot me from the shore or come after me. I spotted that hollow at the foot of the cliff and paddled back and crawled into it. It felt like hours, clinging there, with those damn waves splashing over me every few seconds. When I saw a stone hit the water from above, and knew somebody was up there-"

"How did you know it wasn't Willy?"

"I didn't," she said. "But it had been a long time. He should have given up and gone away; and I knew I couldn't last much longer. I had to take a chance. I knew I'd never make it out of there without help, so I yelled with all the strength I had left. And you came."

"Yeah," I said. "I came."

I touched the brake warily, so as not to arouse to anger the short-tempered hydraulic gremlins lurking in the power-assist machinery. I brought the sedan to a halt on the shoulder of the highway, and switched off the engine, and looked at her.

"What would you have done if I hadn't come?" I asked.

"What's the matter, why are we stopping?" Beverly glanced at me, puzzled. "What do you mean, Matt? I… I'd have died there, I suppose."

"Maybe, but I kind of doubt it," I said. "But what if you'd had somebody else to deal with? Say that tall young lady agent, my associate-but of course Willy ran her off the road north of San Diego to get her out of the way. But what about the Mexican police? Willy couldn't very well run interference for you there. What kind of an act would you have put on if they'd got there before me?"

Beverly was frowning in a bewildered way. "Matt, I don't understand! What-" Casually, her hands grasped the purse in her lap as she turned to face me.

"No, sweetheart," I said, and I showed her my left hand aiming the snub-nosed.38 across my body. "No, leave that purse strictly alone, please."

"Matt, darling-" Her voice expressed only surprise and hurt. Her fingers opened obediently and released the purse. Her eyes were big and bewildered. She was a very pretty thing and a good actress. It was a pity she hadn't made it in Hollywood, but perhaps she hadn't really tried. Perhaps she'd had other business in California that seemed more important. Maybe it even paid pretty well, although none of us get rich in this business-at least we're not supposed to. "I don't know what you're driving at!" she said with a nice little touch of anger.

"Sure you do," I said. "It was the blood, you know."

"What?"

"The blood," I said. "I mean, in case you're wondering what finally tipped me off, slow and stupid as I am. All that crusted gore on your arm and leg, very painful-looking and convincing. Except that a girl who jumps into the ocean immediately after she's been hurt, and then hangs onto a rock with the waves washing over her constantly-every few seconds, I believe you said-well, her blood just isn't going to stick to her long enough to coagulate like that, is it?"

Beverly licked her lips. "Matt, you're crazy! I don't know what you're thinking, but-" I said, "I'm thinking I've seen this show before, somewhere. Like back at that motel where you did your maiden-in-distress act for me the first time, with kind of the same costume and makeup, although not nearly so elaborate, just a few smudges and tears, and some convincingly disheveled hair."

"Darling, you can't really believe-"

"This time, of course, you knew you had to make it look very good to convince me. So you set it up right, you and Willy; but it was a damn cold ocean on a damn cold morning and you didn't know how long it would be before I, or somebody, came along to find you, down there under the cliff. You might have frozen to death by that time, waiting down in that hollow, constantly soaked to the skin. Besides, from down there, you couldn't see who was coming. So you hid in the rocks up above, I figure, where you could watch the highway, with your clothes dramatically ripped and your skin convincingly lacerated-"

"Mart, really!" she protested. "You can't believe I did that to myself!"

"With some help from Willy," I said. "Sure I believe it, and it was a swell job, and it must have hurt like hell. You're a pro, baby. I'll give you a testimonial any time you want it. Then you sent Willy on his way and waited. It must have been kind of chilly with the wind blowing through those spectacular rags you'd prepared for my benefit, but at least you weren't being continually soaked with ice water."

Beverly said firmly, "You're being utterly ridiculous!"

"When you saw me stop my car," I said, ignoring her, "and start down the slope towards you, then you slipped into the water and got into position to be rescued, not realizing that by that time the blood and stuff had caked too hard to wash away." I drew a long breath. "I let you talk just now to see if you had an explanation, but you didn't. Of course, you'd have had a hard time, anyway, explaining the gun in your purse…" I made a warning gesture with the.38. "Easy there, doll. This may not be a.44 Magnum, but it makes a nasty hole at short range."

Beverly moistened her lips once more. "Matt," she said, "Matt, I-" I said, "I saw you get it out of the wreck when you pretended to be so concerned.about your keys. I was watching you pretty closely by that time. It seemed to be quite a firearm. Do you mind if I have a look at it?"

She didn't speak. I reached over cautiously and took the carved leather purse. It was heavy now, heavier by several pounds than when I'd handed it to her down by the shore. I opened the flap and looked at the big Colt.45 automatic resting among all the feminine accessories, like a bull in a boudoir.

I frowned at the weapon for a moment, remembering a small girl with a dirty face, very shocked, telling me that, Heavens, she didn't know anything about guns! Now the same little girl had a.45 in her purse, a purse that was big enough to pack even larger artillery, say the Magnum variety. It had a husky shoulder strap to bear the weight. That way, even a small female person could lug around a heavy revolver without bulging in any unusual places.

I heard Beverly laugh oddly, and looked at her. "You men!" she said after a long moment. Her voice had changed. It was no longer helpless and innocent, but sharp and scornful. "It's really quite infuriating, dearie, the way you hulking males all take it for granted that nobody else can fire your big pistols and revolvers. But it certainly makes a fine cover for a girl who can stand a little recoil." She smiled at me crookedly. "Actually, the kick never bothered me much. It was the noise I had some trouble getting used to."

She was a little ahead of me. I'd figured it out only far enough to know that she wasn't the poor little victim of circumstances she'd wanted me to think her. She wasn't just another pretty Hollywood hopeful gone astray in tinseltown. I hadn't yet had time to do much work on the problem of who she might be, if she wasn't Mary Sokolnicek or Beverly Blame. I'd been sneaking up on the answer, after seeing the big pistol, but the idea she presented still came as something of a shock.

I whistled softly. "Don't tell me! It's old Santa Claus himself. I mean, herself."

She frowned. "Santa Claus? What does that mean. Oh, of course: St. Nicholas. Is that what you call me?"

"If that's who you are," I said, watching her. "If you're the mysterious Nicholas we've been looking for all this time."

"Why should you doubt it, darling?"

"Why should you admit it?"

"Why not? You have caught me. You have orders to kill me, do you not?"

"That's what the head man said. If you're really Nicholas."

"My actual code name," she said calmly, "is Nicole. We just changed it to Nicholas for one assignment, where it was important that I be taken for a man. We never expected that I'd be able to keep up the masquerade indefinitely, but somehow nobody ever caught on to the fact that Nicholas was a woman, not until Willy got careless and led that redheaded ingenue of yours, the one with the Irish name, straight to me. She knew enough, from her previous involvement in our affairs, to make the connection. I had to kill her before she revealed who Nicholas really was. There wasn't anything else to do."

"No," I said. "No, I can see that. It was necessary."

"Yes," she said softly, "necessary. So many things are necessary in this business, aren't they, Matthew Helm?"

She was still a little ahead of me. I should have known what came next, after the confession, but she got her hand to her mouth before I could stop her. Perhaps I didn't try as hard as I might have. After all, while Mac had said that retribution wasn't our business, he'd also said that there was no reason for the person responsible for Annette's death to survive.

She didn't.