The Ravagers

XVII

I STOOD by the door for a full minute, listening. That was first on the priority list. If there had been anybody awake within range of the earsplitting crack of the.38, not to mention the double cough of the silenced automatic, we didn't have to worry about anything but cops. They'd take care of all our other worries.

On the other hand, if there was nobody around but sleeping hotel guests, we might just get away with it. A man wakened from a sound sleep by a single, confused stutter of sound can't always be sure just what woke him-not sure enough to do something about it in a strange hotel in a strange city, perhaps a strange country. There aren't too many tourists public-spirited enough to call the desk, or the police, to report some gunshots they aren't even sure they heard, knowing the red tape that's bound to follow.

Nothing moved in the hail. I gave it another couple of minutes by the watch, and the silence outside remained unbroken. Well, it was time I had a little luck on this job, for whatever good it could do me now. I drew a long breath and turned from the door, to meet Jenny's eyes. She was crouching on the rug in numb silence, exactly where she'd landed after trying to throw me for a loss. She was staring at me helplessly, perhaps because in that room I was the only other creature showing life.

It was kind of a shambles. Larry was dead almost at my feet, and a little distance away the kid lay sprawled in her pajamas, still out cold. I hoped it was no more than that. Across the room, Hans Ruyter sat against the wall with open eyes and a red shirtfront. I walked over to him. He'd finished dying while I checked the hall; he was as dead as he'd ever be. As far as I was concerned, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. I wasn't a bit sorry for him, only for myself.

I stood looking at him grimly, knowing that I'd made the one mistake that's inexcusable in my line of business: I'd let a mistaken humanitarian impulse louse up an assignment. I'd had strict orders to see that Ruyter got through at any cost. I'd known just how to do it, and I'd had the weapon to do it with, but I'd hesitated over paying the full price in blood. I'd tried to do a bargain job instead of the one I'd been assigned.

So two men were dead instead of one, and the job was shot to hell, and sooner or later I'd be back in Washington facing a couple of departmental psychiatrists who'd try to determine the full extent of the softening of the brain and whether or not the disease was curable-but that was kind of beside the point, at the moment. I squatted to examine the thing that looked like a cigarette package-a British brand called Players, if it matters-and saw the little hole out of which something lethal was supposed to come if you squeezed the right place the right way. It occurred to me that this, or something like it, could be the real answer to what had killed Greg, not the hypo left in Elaine's room.

I didn't monkey with the thing. I didn't know if it had been fired or not, and I didn't know how to fire it. It might even be booby-trapped in some way, and I'd made enough of a fool of myself for one night without winding up with a cyanide dart in the eye. But they certainly were a tricky bunch, with their acids and their silencers and their disguised blowguns.

I walked over to Larry. He had a hole in the head. In a sense, I reflected, he'd always had a hole in the head. It had just taken him a while to die from it. I felt nothing particular about his death, now, except regret that it hadn't happened on my first shot instead of my second. I looked at the crazy automatic I was still holding, and I looked at Jenny, still crouching there as if she was afraid to move. Maybe she was.

I said, "What the hell kind of loused-up weapons did your boyfriend carry, Irish? If his gun had shot straight, he'd be alive now. But this crummy thing shoots two feet high at four yards. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it."

She was still staring at me, wide-eyed. Crouching there on the rug, she was no longer the self-possessed woman to whom I'd recently almost made love: she was a scared girl. Well, death by violence isn't pleasant to see, particularly if you've never seen it before. I sensed that she hadn't.

She licked her lips. "But you… you shot a U.S. agent!" she breathed. "I thought… I don't understand She stopped, looked at me with vague suspicion, maybe hope, and said stiffly, "Another trick, Mr. Clevenger? Tell your friend to get up and wipe the catsup off his face."

"You tell him," I said.

She looked at Larry, obviously dead, and the hope-if it had been that-faded. I looked at the gun in my hand and saw some stuff hanging out of the silencer. Part of the sound-absorbent packing had been blasted loose by the two shots I'd fired. I examined the weapon more carefully, and saw that the whole silencer was cockeyed. Hans had either crossed the threads, screwing it on in the dark, or he'd bent it, dropping the gun at Larry's command. Not lining up properly, the silencer had thrown my shots way off. Maybe I owed Hans an apology. You could make a case for its not being his fault.

I took out my handkerchief, wiped the gun clean, and Went over and put it into his hand, closing the dead fingers around it.

"What are you doing?" Jenny asked, behind me.

"They shot each other," I said. "They shot it out at point-blank range and both died. Very neat. Maybe the cops will buy it."

"But it isn't true," she said dully. "You shot him. The government man. I saw you." She frowned up at me, as if her thinking processes were slow and difficult. "Why?"

I'd had time to think it over after a fashion, and I said, "That's a goddamn silly question, Irish."

She licked her lips again. "What do you mean?"

I said, "All right, all right. So you didn't get me into bed and crawl all over me. So you didn't say you wanted a friend in your corner when the showdown came. Okay. Nobody's quoting you, are they? Who's throwing your words in your teeth? Not me."

She said, shocked, "You can't mean-"

"Cut it out," I said. "You're not responsible. Nobody's saying you are, are they? I killed him. Say I killed him because I didn't like the way he shaved his head. Say I killed him because he was twisting the kid's arm. Relax, Irish. I'm a big boy and I don't ask anybody to share the blame for what I do. I'm not asking you. But don't pretend you don't know why I did it, or I'll…" I stopped, and grimaced. "Ah, hell. It's a mess, anyway. It always is, when they break out the guns. That's why I leave mine home when I can. You'd better see about Penny. I'll get some water."

But her maternal instincts weren't operating yet. She was still staring at me in a horrified way. "But I never meant… I never asked you to kill..

I said, "Sure, Irish. Sure. Don't brood about it. I'll figure a way out. Just give me a little time to think."

"But you can't have shot him just because I said-"

"I told you," I said. "I shot him because he was hurting the kid, and I'm a sucker for kids."

"When we first met, you said you hated the little creeps." She got up slowly, never taking her eyes from me. When I didn't speak, she went on breathlessly: "But it's mad! It's absolutely crazy! You can't think I ever meant for you to-"

I said, "Look, Irish, the guy is dead. See? Dead, like in corpse. Let's not waste any more time on who meant what. If I misinterpreted your desires, ma'am, I most humbly apologize. To you and to him. There really wasn't time for a consultation, if you'll recall. I just did my poor best, ma'am, and the next time you get in bed with a man, ma'am, and tell him you're doing it because you need his help, you'd better spell it out a little better or pick a guy who can read minds."

It wasn't a very nice line to take, I guess. Basically, it was the same cheap love-at-first-sight approach that Greg had probably tried, earlier. However, unlike Greg, I now had a dead body to lay at my feet to prove my sincere affection. The fact that she didn't seem to want it-either the body or the affection-didn't really matter.

She whispered, "I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry. I had no idea anything like this would happen or I'd never…" She stopped, frowned at me, and said: "He was a government agent and you shot him! Does that mean that you're not… I mean, that you weren't working with him; that all the time you were really-"

"A poor damn private dick from Denver, named Clevenger," I said. "Just like I always said, ma'am. And right now I'm a poor damn private dick named Clevenger on his way to the electric chair, if we don't get the hell out of here quick. She's your daughter, not mine. We'll just leave her lying there if you say so."

"Oh!"

She seemed to come awake at last, and she looked guiltily over at Penny, who was beginning to stir. Jenny hurried over, suddenly full of remorse and concern. I went to the bathroom for water. I couldn't help thinking bitterly that I'd finally made it. Now that it was too late, I'd made it: at last I had the woman fully believing in Dave Clevenger, the susceptible private eye with the ready trigger finger.

I heard the kid speak out there, and I called, "Is she okay?"

"Her glasses are broken and she's got a bruise on her chin," Jenny called back. "Otherwise I think she's all right. Aren't you, darling?"

Penny said something inaudible, in a fuzzy voice. I let the water run a bit to cool it. I heard the kid speak again, and something moved in my mind, and I remembered something I should have thought of before. I remembered the same young voice, in my room, asking if it was all right to tell. Jenny had said yes, and Penny had said that Hans-Mr. Ruyter, she'd called him primly-had told her certain things, just before Larry Fenton barged in. Some instructions had been passed along to the kid. It was a slim hope, but it was better than no hope at all.

But there was no time to go into it now, and this butcher shop was not the place for it. I had to get us space and time. I walked in with the glass of water and held it for the kid to drink.

"We've got to get out of here," I said. "We've got to get out without attracting attention. We won't check out. No luggage, no nothing. We just up and walk out. Understand?"

She hesitated, and started to look toward the two dead bodies, and restrained herself. "All right," she said stiffly. "All right, Dave. What do I do?"

"Well," I said, "you get the kid dressed just the way she was earlier this evening, hairdo and all. The assumption is she hasn't had her clothes off. And you fix that bird's nest on your head and put on a pair of nylons that don't look quite as much as if they'd been through a briarpatch. You can stick an extra pair in your purse if you like and a toothbrush for each of you, and that's all. When you come downstairs, you'll both look as if you were just continuing a long and pleasant evening by having your gentleman escort drive you around the lovely old city of Montreal."

"Where will you be?"

"I'll pick up a couple of things from my room, and go down and get the car from the garage and bring it around front. It will probably take me a quarter of an hour, but let's say thirty minutes to be sure." I glanced at my watch. "In exactly thirty minutes, you two come out the front door of the hotel, laughing and happy. I'll be waiting. You climb in merrily, and we'll be off. Okay?"

I went out, leaving them with the two dead men for company. Outside, I checked my watch again: twelve thirty-seven. I had some notion of hunting up a pay phone from which I could safely confess my sins to Washington, but it seemed more diplomatic to wait until I had more than a faint hope to report along with the blatant errors. Besides, I wasn't sure I could afford the time.

Maybe I was doing a lovely person a grave injustice, but I was fresh out of sentiment for the night, and I wasn't about to trust a woman just because I'd killed a man for her, or she thought I had. I went quickly to my room and used the phone there to order the Volkswagen made available. I looked around the room, stuck a couple of things in my pockets, grabbed my hat, and went out again, closing the door firmly enough to be heard by anybody listening nearby. I walked briskly past Jenny's door, turned the corner by the elevators, and pushed the button. The elevator came, opened with a metallic rumble, closed again, and went back down. I waited.

They were quick, I'll hand them that. I didn't know there was a lady alive who could change stockings and reconstruct a fancy modern hairdo in four minutes flat, nor had my boyhood experiences indicated that a fifteen-year-old maiden could even get a dress off the hanger, let alone put it on, in that length of time-but four minutes after the elevator doors had clanged shut, they were coming around the corner.

Jenny was in good shape. No one, looking at her, would guess that she'd seen love and death since dinner time. The kid wasn't fully assembled yet, but they were working on her. She was fixing her own hair while her mother zipped and buttoned her. They were so busy with the under-way grooming job that they didn't see me at once. Then they came to a sudden stop. I was on again, as they say in the theater. I walked up to Jenny, looked at her for a moment in what I hoped was a bleak and disillusioned manner, and deliberately slapped her across the face.

"You cheap slut!" I said. "You lousy, teasing bitch! So you were going to run out and leave me holding the baby. The dead babies."

She glanced helplessly at the kid and back to me. "Dave, I-"

I reached into my pocket and took out my little knife, and flicked it open one-handed. There are easier ways of opening it, but that one impresses people.

I said, "I tried to do it nice, Irish. I didn't blame you for anything, did I? I didn't complain about the way you got me into this mess and then tried to weasel out of the responsibility when it came up murder. All I asked was that we stick together, work together, to get all of us clear together if it could be done-and the minute I step out the door, you're on your way without me, or trying!"

"Dave," she said. "Dave, please, I didn't mean-"

"You never mean," I said. "Who do you think you're playing games with, Irish, some little CPA or professor of home economics? Mrs. Clevenger's boy David isn't about to face this rap alone. And if he's got to die for it, he isn't going to die alone. The next time you step out of line, I'll kill you. I hope I make myself clear, ma'am. Now we'll all go down to the car together, smiling and gay, and if anybody makes a wrong step or a wrong sound there'll be a lot more blood on the hotel's rugs than there is already. I don't like guns but I'm real sharp with knives. That's a pun. Get moving, both of you."

It was, I thought, a pretty good speech for an off-the-cuff effort. It seemed to go over well. They moved into the elevator when it came, and they smiled and laughed when I told them to, and we got out at the garage level, and my car was waiting for us. Things were breaking my way for a change.

Montreal is a big city, and it took me a while to work my way out of it. I tried to get news on the Volkswagen's radio, but all that came through on the local stations was Canadian hillbilly music and rapid-fire announcing in French, which is not my favorite language. This came too fast and too accented for me to understand it. Once out of town, however, the little Telefunken radio reached out and got hold of some English I could follow, and I learned that I wasn't the only one with troubles.

The world was still in a sad state, and airplanes were still falling out of the sky like rain or hail, ships were sinking, cars were crashing, trains were leaving the tracks wholesale, and the U.S. Navy was still investigating the recently announced loss of one of its pet atom subs. There was some discussion of the fate of the Thresher, a similar vessel that had met a similar fate some years earlier. At least it had gone down and never come up, and I got the impression this was what had happened to the Sculpin, as the latest casualty was called. The weasel-worded reporting made it hard to be sure of even this word.

I drove along, listening and wondering. You're never told everything a job involves; and sometimes, as in this case, you're hardly told anything, but you can't help trying to connect it up with stuff you read in the papers and hear on the radio. I couldn't see what I could have to do with a missing submarine, but I didn't dismiss the possibility that there was a connection. Well, for the time being the admirals would have to worry about their sick tin fish alone; I had other things to think about.

The newscast ended without a mention of a double killing with international implications in a Montreal hotel. It was early yet, I reflected, but if Johnston should come looking for his missing partner we wouldn't have much of a lead, certainly not enough to do any driving in the wrong direction. I glimpsed an empty picnic area along the dark roadside ahead, and pulled in and stopped.

Jenny sat up and looked at me. I heard the kid stir in the cramped rear seat. After the display of team-work mother and daughter had put on tonight, I didn't like having either of them behind me, but there was a limit to the number of human bottoms that could reasonably be accommodated, for a long drive, upon the two small bucket seats in front.

"All right, ladies," I said. "Stage one has fired successfully and we're off the launching pad. Now it would be nice if somebody would tell me which way to go. I'd hate to set course for Mars if it's the moon we want." Nobody said anything. I looked at Jenny, whose face was a pale blur above the dim white of her blouse. I said, "Come on, Irish. Don't make me do a Larry."

"A Larry?"

"That was the given name of the dead guy back there, the arm-twisting Fenton character for whom I may be taking credit if this getaway doesn't work. Didn't you know?" She shook her head minutely. I said, "I don't just twist arms, doll. When I want an answer and don't get it, things can get very rough."

"What… what do you want to know?"

I said, "Well, right now I don't really want to know anything. I just want what I asked for, a direction. I want to get out of this country fast, and I think you people must have something lined up. Well, don't hog it. Your friend is dead; there's room for another." Nobody spoke. I said harshly, "Come on, now. North, east, south, west, or a point in between. Aim me the right way. Later you can tell me when to fire the retro-rockets." Jenny said nothing. I sighed. "All right, here we go again. Penny, let's get out of the car where I can take off my coat and roll up my sleeves. I know you probably feel like a human punching bag already, honey, and I'm real sorry, but your mother's gone and lost her tongue again…"

I heard the kid stir in the darkness. "Oh, Mummy, for heaven's sake tell him!" she gasped. "Don't let him… I can't stand any more tonight. Just tell him. Please tell him!"

Jenny drew a long, rough breath and said, "Northeast, Mr. Clevenger. Follow the St. Lawrence past Quebec City but stay on the south bank. Drive to a place called Riviere-duLoup, then turn right toward Fredericton." There was a little pause, then she said savagely: "That should keep you busy for a while. I hope it makes you very happy!"

"Sure," I said, and it did. Not that I really needed the direction-I already knew where she had to go, remember, and she'd actually pointed us the right way-but the fact that she could be bluffed into giving it promised well for the future.