The Ravagers

XVI

JENNY WASTED no time wringing her hands or asking what to do-certainly she didn't ask me. The brief look she threw my way wasn't that of a lover, but of a fast-thinking woman trying to estimate the various factors of a troubled situation.

There was a quick, whispered conference between mother and daughter. Penny located a high-heeled white pump that had bounced under the bed, and set it beside one that hadn't. Jenny stepped into the shoes and headed for the door, patting her hair into some kind of order. The kid stayed at her side like a well-trained puppy. Both of them glanced around as I started to follow. There was a curious, hostile similarity between the two pairs of eyes, one with glasses and one without, that looked back at me coldly and dismissed me as an unfortunate nuisance nothing could be done about-but it occurred to me that some plausible explanation of my behavior would be required eventually.

Just getting Hans out of hock wasn't enough. I was going to have to make it look good to him and his female associate-not to mention Marcus Johnston, but that was something I'd worry about later. Maybe I could pull some strings by way of Washington and have Johnston called off if he started to present a real problem. -

For the moment, my big concern was how to sell my rescue act-assuming I could carry it off-to the people most immediately concerned. I had to come up, fast, with a convincing reason why a presumably more or less patriotic citizen like Dave Clevenger would voluntarily involve himself on the wrong side of this international hassle-a reason that would finally impress my sincerity upon Jenny, who hadn't been impressed with my best efforts to date. I also had to convince Hans, himself, of my friendly and unofficial status, and he probably wasn't a man whose judgment would be clouded by gratitude, no matter what you did for him.

Jenny walked right up to the door of her room, started to look in her purse for the key, remembered she'd given it to Penny, and glanced at the kid, who shook her head. Jenny shrugged, and knocked. There was a moment of utter silence; then somebody turned the knob from inside and pulled the door open. Jenny marched right in, trailed by her daughter and, at a discreet distance, me.

It was a trite little scene inside; it could have been a still from a Grade B movie. Hans Ruyter, distinguished-looking in sports coat and slacks, lounged negligently by the closet door. At his feet lay a small automatic pistol, one of the Spanish jobs in which the barrel is exposed instead of being buried in the machinery as is the case with many American automatics, for instance the larger Colts.

The slim, naked barrel had been threaded for a silencer, which was in place. Whether Ruyter habitually carried his weapon that way, or whether he'd assembled it hastily in the darkness of the closet when he knew he was trapped, there was no telling.

It was a professional outfit, although the best pros don't rely upon firearms and prefer not to monkey with incriminating and illegal gadgets like silencers. Besides being embarrassing to have around if you're searched, they aren't as effective as they're cracked up to be, and that big cylinder screwed to the end of the barrel usually masks the sights and prevents you from shooting with any great accuracy.

The wicked little gun with its sneaky accessory told a lot about Hans Ruyter, professionally speaking-both good and bad. His attitude, however, was irreproachable. He looked self-confident and rather bored with the proceedings, which is the way for a prisoner to look, of course, even if he's scared silly. It makes the other guy wonder what he's got up his sleeve.

At the other side of the room, by the hall door, Larry Fenton was responding to the treatment by looking nervous and harassed. His gaunt face was shiny with sweat; even his shaved head showed beads of perspiration. He waved us past him left-handed, and used the same hand to close the door, being careful not to move his eyes or the gun-a sawed-off.38 revolver-very far from Ruyter.

Once inside, Jenny swung to face him. "Just what do you think you're doing in my room?" she demanded. "I don't care who you are, you've no right to break in here like this and frighten my daughter and threaten my… my friends! Now you just put that silly gun away and-"

Larry grimaced impatiently. "Shut up, lady."

"Well, I must say-"

"Don't."

Jenny opened her mouth angrily and closed it again. She was putting on a pretty good show, but I thought her attitude of high indignation just a little overdone. This was obviously the angle she and the kid had decided to play. What else they'd decided on, in their thirty-second council of war, remained to be seen. I was more interested in Larry at the moment. There had been shaky overtones in his voice when he first spoke, but he was gaining confidence. He risked a brief glance my way.

"I was hoping you'd come, Clevenger," he said, surprisingly. He seemed to have forgotten that we hadn't parted friends. He went on: "That's one reason I let the girl go.

Oh, yes, I saw you sneaking out, honey, but I figured you were just going to get your mother, and maybe our detective here, and that's what I wanted. Now we're all here together, one big happy family… You can give me a hand with this handsome joker, Clevenger."

He was talking briskly enough now, but his eyes were kind of pleading. They were saying, as near as I could tell, that he'd apologize for hitting me, he'd do anything I wanted, once we were out of here, but there was no time for any of that personal stuff now. Right now we were allies in a room full of enemies, and he was counting on me to help.

I said, "You name it, amigo."

"First get his gun, there. Cover him for me while I get some information from the women… Careful, don't get between us. He's a real wise guy."

I refrained from pointing out that I'd been picking up wise guys' guns when he was still picking up rattles and putting them in his mouth and making happy gurgling noises, undoubtedly enchanting his proud young mother. Well, almost that long ago. I walked over cautiously and looked at Ruyter from a safe distance. Hans didn't move aside to let me reach the weapon by his shoe.

I said, "When I give the word, you'll move thirty-six inches to your left, or I'll kick you right between the legs. And if you move thirty-seven inches, I'll kick you twice and pistol-whip you with your own gun. Ready? Shift"

I was aware of Jenny glaring at me, one protective arm about the kid in pajamas. To hell with her; she was only a minor worry now. While I was talking tough, with my back to Larry, I winked at Hans. He was my biggest concern. I had to get the message through to him, at least. Otherwise, thinking me an adversary, he might foul me up when the action started. They all might, but Ruyter was presumably the most experienced and dangerous. I saw his eyes widen very slightly. He hesitated. I made a threatening movement forward. He shrugged and stepped aside.

I picked up the silenced automatic, checked the loads, and in a sense there was really no further problem here. I had a reasonably quiet weapon in my hand. All I had to do was turn and fire. It was the only safe and certain way to handle a nervous man who also had a gun.

I knew it, and I knew that the coldblooded, treacherous move would take Larry completely by surprise, and I knew that Mac would approve it, or at least condone it. Anticipating some such situation, he'd as much as given me absolution in advance. The only thing I didn't know was the gun. It's only in the movies that you pick up a strange weapon belonging to someone else and shoot the pips from the ace of clubs at fifty paces. On the other hand, Ruyter was a pro, and his gun wasn't likely to be off enough to make much difference on a man-sized target at pointblank range.

I was stalling and I knew it. The ridiculous thing was, the stupid little dope trusted me. He'd punched me in the jaw, he'd kicked me in the ribs, and still he trusted me to forget personalities and behave like an All-American boy in this moment of crisis. It was crazy, it was infuriating, and still I couldn't quite bring myself to put a bullet into him like I should, either to disable or kill, as long as there was a reasonable possibility of accomplishing the same result by less drastic means.

After all, I told myself, it wasn't as if I had an old hand like Johnston to deal with. If I could just get close enough, I should be able to handle a shaky boy without damage. I let the weapon snap closed, and aimed it at Ruyter.

"Okay," I said to Larry without turning my head. "I've got this one covered, partner. I'll blow him in two if he gives me a dirty look."

I winked again. Hans responded with a microscopic nod, acknowledging my signal at last. I didn't kid myself we'd got ourselves much of a mutual-assistance pact, but at least he'd probably wait to see what help I could give, since I was offering it free. Facing him over the gun, I couldn't help remembering a dead girl in a motel bed, fifteen hundred miles back along the road, but that was personal and irrelevant. He must not be harmed, Mac had said.

"All right, Mrs. Drilling," Larry said behind me. "I want you in that chair over there."

I shifted position so I could watch and still keep Ruyter covered. It was a logical move, and it gained me a couple of feet, almost a yard, toward Larry. I saw Jenny move toward the indicated chair, hesitate, and sit down. Penny started over to join her.

"Not you, girlie," Larry said. "You come right over here, honey. Turn around. Turn your back to me. Now put your hands behind you."

He looked at us over her head: an odd, challenging, defiant look. Then, abruptly, he grabbed Penny's wrist and twisted it up between her shoulder blades. The kid cried out and went to her knees. Jenny gasped and started up from her chair, and sank back slowly, as Larry put his gun to Penny's head.

I made a sound of protest, and managed another step in the right direction. "Look, fella, you can't just-"

"You keep out of this! Just watch the man like you were told. Don't interfere!" Larry's voice was sharp. "Now, Mrs. Drilling, there is something you have that we want, and we're tired of waiting for it. We're not going to let you get out of the country with it. You're going to pick it up somewhere-somewhere here in eastern Canada-and you're going to tell me where, or you're going to hear what a dislocated shoulder sounds like happening to your own kid. We're tired of being led around by the nose, Mrs. Drilling!" Jenny licked her lips. Her face was pale under the freckles.

"We?" she breathed. "Where is your associate? Does he know what you're doing?"

Something changed in Larry's eyes. "Never mind Mister Johnston!" he said quickly. "Mister Johnston is off having an important phone conference with Washington. I'm handling this my way."

Well, it wasn't the first time a young operative had taken a wild, independent gamble in the hope of looking good in his senior's absence. I gained another couple of inches his way, but it got me a quick, suspicious look that wasn't promising.

"Come on, Mrs. Drilling!" I didn't like the sound of his voice at all. He was right on the ragged edge; he was unpredictable and dangerous; he knew he had to pull this off all the way or be crucified when Johnston got back. He said shrilly, "Tell her what it feels like, honey! Tell your mom how it hurts!" He forced the kid's arm up farther.

Penny moaned. "Mummy, it hurts!" she gasped. "Mummy, tell him! Please tell… ahhh!"

I was looking for a clear, safe shot now. I'd made a mistake passing up the chance, earlier. Larry must have sensed some kind of a threat, because he threw another glance my way, and somehow he lost his grip on the kid's wrist while he was doing it, and she twisted around and threw her arms around his knees, and that, as they say, was when the egg hit the fan.

It all happened at once, they were all in motion very fast, and it all seemed very slow and inevitable. Hans reached for something in his pocket, and Larry looked that way while desperately trying to struggle free of Penny, who clung to him tightly. And Jenny was coming out of her chair and making a dive, not for Larry but for me-she hadn't got word that I was on the right side, or she hadn't believed it. Well, I'd been expecting something of the sort; it didn't catch me wholly by surprise.

Hans had whipped out a little package of cigarettes, but he didn't handle it like cigarettes. He pointed it like a gun at Larry, who'd used a knee on the kid to free himself. She was laid out on the rug, and he was taking aim at Hans with the.38, and I'd lost a fraction of a second sidestepping Jenny's flying tackle.

I'd still have made it, however, if I'd had my own gun, but Hans' clumsy, sightless rig shot as high as Benjamin Franklin's kite. I felt the recoil, and heard the more-or-less silenced cough, and saw plaster fly from the wall on a line well above Larry's head. I pulled far down and fired again, hastily, but the.38 went off before the Spanish job kicked back at me a second time. How Hans was making out with his camouflaged weapon, whatever it was, I didn't know and didn't care as long as he stayed alive, the way I was supposed to keep him by any means necessary-but when I looked at him, after making sure of Larry, he was sitting on the floor with a funny, surprised look on his face.

Larry's only shot had been very good, or very bad, depending on the viewpoint. There was a lot of blood on Hans' shirt, and he was obviously dying, and that was that.