The Removers

Chapter Twenty-four

J0EY MADE IT in about half an hour. It seemed longer, and I won't guarantee that it wasn't, since I didn't feel like attracting Martell's attention by moving my arm unnecessarily to check my wristwatch-but as a photographer I used to be able to call off intervals of time with fair accuracy, and I'd say half an hour.

At the end of it, even Martell was showing signs of strain. After all, a Jaguar uses a fairly large wheel, and a Jag spare tire can hold a lot of heroin which can be sold for a lot of money, a fact which might percolate even into Joey's dim brain. Of course, Martell had had no choice. If he'd gone after it himself, that would have left us free to work on Joey with threats and blandishments.

The rest of us weren't very relaxed and cheerful, either. I kept my attention more or less on Logan. The guy was supposed to be good, and if he had any ideas, I didn't want to miss them, but all he did was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. His face was shiny with sweat. I guess his leg was starting to give him hell.

On the other side of me, in a chair, Beth sat barearmed and bare-shouldered, trying to assume the casual look of the girls in the corset and girdle ads who float around in their underwear as naturally as if nobody ever wore anything else. I'd paid some attention to her at the start, wondering if I'd misjudged her and if she could have been putting on a deliberate panic act for some reason, but all I saw in her eyes was a dull terror too real to be assumed. There weren't going to be any bright ideas from her.

There weren't going to be any bright ideas from anybody. The age of miracles was over. It was all up to Mrs. Helm's little boy Matthew, who sometimes played cops and robbers under the code name Eric.

We heard the Chrysler turn in from the canyon road and come crashing up to the cabin. Joey hurried inside, holding the Jag's spare wire wheel in a loving embrace. He carried it forward tenderly and placed it on the table.

He'd already, apparently, pried the tire loose from the rim on one side. Now he pulled the rubber aside and produced a shiny, friction-top, tin can, which he set down in front of him. Then he reached in his pocket and came up with a screwdriver he'd probably got from the Jaguar's toolkit. All those British cars come equipped with enough tools to rebuild them from scratch.

Martell put one hand on the can and grasped Joey's wrist with the other. Joey looked up, surprised and hurt.

"I'll do it," Martell said.

"Okay, okay," Joey said.

Martell took the screwdriver and pried open the can. "Keep an eye on them, damn it!" he said sharply.

"Okay, okay!" Joey said, turning to face us.

Martell stuck a finger into the can. I noted that he seemed to poke deeper than necessary, as if he were feeling for something.

"How is it?" Joey asked, watching us.

Martell found what he was searching for. I saw his face go smooth with relief. He withdrew his finger, and tasted the white powder that clung to it, and spat.

"Not bad," he said. "They haven't cut it much." He slapped the lid back on the can and drove it home with his fist. "How many are there?"

"I didn't count. The whole damn tire's full of them."

"All right," Martell said. "Put it back. That Fredericks is a suspicious bastard; if he sees we've had it open, he'll be sure we've had a fix out of it, at least-as if I'd touch the lousy stuff!"

Joey hesitated. "Fenn."

"Yeah."

"That's a lot of horse. What's it bring, around a grand an ounce?"

"So?"

"I was just thinking-"

"Nobody ever got hurt just thinking," Martell said. "Not until they started doing something about it. Did you have in mind doing something about it, Joey?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then stick it back in the tire like I told you and stop dreaming. Okay. Now I want you to keep a sharp eye on these characters while 1 tend to some unfinished business… Duchess!"

Beth's head came up quickly. Martell walked over to stand above her. He looked her up and down, and licked his heavy lips.

"Do you walk or do I drag you?" he asked. "You're a big girl now, Mrs. Logan. You don't want these men of yours to see you dragged across the floor like a baby, kicking and screaming… That's better."

She got up very slowly. She looked at Logan, still staring at the ceiling with the sweat of agony running off his face, and she looked at me. She looked at me longer, I guess, because I had two good legs and might get a little farther before the bullet from Joey's big revolver cut me down. Then she drew a long, shuddering breath and started across the room, and stopped.

"Larry!" she whispered. "Matt!"

Nobody said anything. She started walking again. Suddenly Logan moved. I heard the click as Joey cocked his revolver, and Martell's gun was in his hand. Logan fell back to the cot with a groan, his face gray and wet.

"Helm!" he said. "For God's sake!"

I still couldn't see that it was worth getting killed for. Well, to prevent it, maybe, but nobody was going to prevent it, and I never could get excited about the idea of dying nobly for nothing.

I said, "You're the husband now. You want to be a dead hero, go ahead."

He said, "I can't… We're all going to be dead, old man, don't you know that?"

"I've known it for years," I said. "I'll still wait for the time."

Joey chuckled. He sat down at the table, resting the gun on the big wire wheel lying there.

"Go on, Fenn," he said. "Have your fun. They ain't giving me no trouble. None that I can't handle."

Martell said, in his best Penn voice, "Nobody's dying for you today, Duchess. Too bad."

Beth licked her lips, pulled her shoulders back, and walked straight into the bedroom. He followed her and closed the door. It didn't take long. There wasn't time enough for me to even begin talking to Joey, without looking as if I was rushing things.

He was wide open for it. I could have worked on his greed, which he'd just betrayed, and dressed it up pretty with an appeal to his patriotism. I could have worried him badly just by letting him know I was a government man. Ever since Dillinger they've had a kind of superstitious fear of the 0-men, and I wouldn't have to mention that I didn't happen to be working for J. Edgar Hoover… But she gave me no time at all.

Suddenly the door opened and she came out, looking, except for the expression of her eyes, exactly as she'd looked going in. She hadn't even got her hair badly mussed, not enough that she hadn't been able to pat it back into place. Except for the missing blouse, and the frozen look in her eyes, she looked as if she'd just been for a stroll around the house.

Martell was behind her, and he looked angry and unsatisfied. I knew exactly what she'd done. She'd undressed for him fast and let him have her, to get it over with, since she had no choice, but she'd given him no more than he could have got from a properly constructed store-window dummy. In the years to come, if she lived that long, she'd take pride in the fact, no doubt. He'd had her body but he hadn't touched her soul. Not that she was likely to live that long. None of us were, now.

He grabbed her and stopped her. I saw his glance touch the wheel on the table before it came to rest on Joey.

"Okay, Joey," he said. "Your turn." He rubbed his head ruefully. "Watch that damn upper berth or you're like to knock your brains out."

Beth's stony expression didn't change. She just stood there. Joey looked at her for a moment. It was hard to say what went through his mind, such as it was. Maybe, like me, he'd seen the direction of Martell's first glance, and got a vague hunch it might be best for him not to leave again. And I suppose he could tell that Lover-Boy Penn hadn't gone over real big in there. Maybe he just didn't figure it was going to be worth the trouble for him to try. But I don't discount the possibility that he had some kind of decency. This was a woman from a different world, and he'd just stick to his own kind, thanks.

"I'll pass it, Fenn," he said.

Martell looked surprised and annoyed. He started to speak sharply, stopped, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Suit yourself. I can tell you you're not missing much." He gave Beth a shove. "Go on back over there and sit down."

Joey glanced at his watch. "We'd better get on a phone and report to Mr. Fredericks that we've got it, before he starts getting impatient."

Martell said, "Yeah, sure, as soon as we finish what he sent us to do." He walked up to me and kicked me hard in the shin. He seemed to have a knack for hitting the same place every time. I let him know it hurt. "All right," he said. "I'm through horsing around, Buster. Where's Miss Fredericks?"

I said, "I'm not going to tell-"

He moved in fast and hard, slugging, chopping with the edge of his hand, slapping, kicking. I covered up as best I could and rolled with the worst ones, riding it out: this didn't mean anything, either. This was just Mar-tell taking it out on me because a pretty woman hadn't responded properly to his advances. Or maybe he was just stalling while he figured things out.

Pretty soon we'd settle down to the lighted-cigarette routine, or he'd send Joey for a pair of pliers. And when Joey came back, he might just possibly walk into a bullet-from my gun, to make it look good later, or Logan's, but that was lying outside somewhere. In any case, there was something in that tire beside heroin that Martell wanted, and he obviously wanted to get it without having Joey tell all about it later. And since Joey had been so foolish as to refuse to retire gracefully from the room, something might very well happen to him, as it was going to happen to all of us. Meanwhile, Martell was putting on a show, as Fenn, while he made up his mind.

I drew back from a punch in the eye, and the ancient chair groaned and collapsed, sending me over backwards. It was a chance, but I threw a glance towards the table as I went over, and Joey had the.45 trained on me rock-steady. There was nothing to do but cover up some more, as Martell moved in for some fancy kicking.

I waited, curled up on the floor, but the kick didn't come. Instead, there was a high, crazy peal of laughter. I looked up. Beth had got up from her chair. Martell, sensing attack, had jumped back instinctively, but she had no time to spare for him. She was staring down at me, but her hands were clapped over her mouth, as if the sudden, wild laughter had startled even her. She took them down and giggled.

"Look at him!" she breathed. "Look at him, the big dangerous man, the man I divorced because… because I was afraid of him, God help me!"

It didn't seem like anything that required a reply. I merely picked myself up with as much dignity as I could muster. Then the idea came to me and I made an in-effectual gesture of protest.

"Now, Beth-"

"Now, Beth!" she mimicked, taking a step forward. "Now, Beth!"

"Now, Beth," I said mildly, "you're just upset because-"

"Upset!" she gasped. Her eyes were suddenly wide and a little mad. "Because! I suppose it's nothing to be upset about? And what did you do to prevent it? You just sat there and said you didn't want to be a dead hero."

I was watching her closely, looking for some hint, some sign, some signal that she was acting, but there was not. She was perfectly serious, in an overwrought way. She meant every word, so I'd have to play it on that basis.

I noted that Martell had pulled back near the table, behind me. My one glance told me that he was grinning. She'd made him feel like a lower form of life. Now it was somebody else's turn, and he liked it. He thought it was very funny; funny enough to watch for a while, just for laughs. Joey thought it was funny, too, but he was worried about how much time we were wasting. Mr. Fredericks would be getting impatient-and it wasn't wise to keep The Man waiting.

I said, "Beth, really! What did you expect me to do-"

"Do," she breathed, taking another step forward. "Do? I expected you to do something, anything! Larry would have done it, if he could!"

I said angrily, drawing back a step, "Larry's already had a leg shot from under him because of you! I suppose he would have been fool enough to get himself killed because of you!"

"Yes," she hissed, "yes, you would think that was foolish, wouldn't you, darling?"

I showed my teeth in something that was supposed to be a ratty grin. I said viciously, "What the hell are you squawking about, darling? There's Larry with a smashed leg. Here am I after a four-hour beating, and just what the hell, may I ask, is wrong with you? Nothing that, at the worst, can't be fixed by a small routine operation and a few shots of penicillin! Oh, and a visit to a good psychiatrist, if you're going to take it that big! I mean, just what the hell gives you the right to-"

It worked. I wasn't proud of it, I wouldn't want to have to do it again, but it worked. This was Beth, the girl you couldn't quarrel with, but I guess everybody's got a breaking point somewhere. She came for me then, clawing and scratching, spitting and snarling and kicking, calling me names I hadn't suspected her of knowing.

I covered up and backed away, hearing Martell laughing heartily behind me. I heard his laughter stop, but he'd made his mistake. He'd forgotten I was supposed to be dangerous. I'd worked hard for that forgetting, I'd paid high for it, but it was worth the price. When he realized his error, he was too late, I was too close. I was right there.

I dumped the table on top of Joey. The big Jaguar wheel helped. Sliding off, it took him right in the chest. I turned, and my timing was perfect. The gun was just coming out from under Martell's coat. I gave it to him right in the solar plexus; the dagger-thrust with the stiffened fingers that's worse than the blow of a fist. He doubled up, paralyzed, and I had the gun.

I shot him with it once and threw myself down, and Joey's first shot went over me. It was all he was entitled to. It was close range and I could aim for the head. The first bullet just punched a neat round hole, but the second kind of blew things apart a little. Scratch Joey, who'd had one good impulse in his life, if it was that. Well, many of them don't even have one.

I got up. Martell seemed to be still breathing, and I kind of kept an eye on him, but I was more worried about Joey's single wild shot, at the moment. Beth was sitting on the floor nearby. I went over and lifted her. She was making small, mindless, whimpering noises.

"Are you all right?" I asked. "Are you hit?"

The funny thing was, my worry was quite genuine. A minute or two ago, I wouldn't have given a nickel for her, with or without shirt, but now that it was over, more or less, I didn't want her to have been hurt. She didn't answer. She just kept on sobbing in a disconnected way.

Logan's voice spoke calmly: "The stray bullet struck the wall over here. Elizabeth is merely a bit hysterical, don't you know?"

I knew, all right. I'd be wearing the scratches to prove it for days to come. I helped her across the room. She sat down on the cot beside Logan and buried her face in her hands.

"And you?" I asked him.

"Feeling quite fit," he said. He glanced at his wife.

"You were a bit hard on her, old boy. It's not something women take in their stride, you know."

"It would be difficult to do," I said. "But no doubt it's been tried."

He looked a little baffled; then he said, "Ah, yes. Quite." Then he said, calmly, "You'd better attend to our friend over there. I believe he is reaching for another weapon. At least he is still alive."

"I can't see any necessity for that," I said, and I went over and shot Martell through the back of the head. I mean, it was the only thing to do. We weren't completely out of the woods yet, as I saw it; there was work left to be done. With his wound, Logan could pass out any time, and I couldn't trust Beth to look after a tame rabbit.

I heard her gasp, behind me. Apparently she'd come out of it enough to witness my brutal act. Even Logan seemed disturbed.

"I say, old boy-"

I turned Martell over with my foot. He'd been curled up on the floor like a baby, but he straightened out as he rolled over limply, and his hand swung outward, holding the little.38 revolver he'd taken from me earlier in the day. You had to hand it to the guy. He'd had the old team spirit. They'd slapped his face and sent him to Siberia-or America-but he'd still been right in there trying, to the end.

I reached down and took the revolver from his fingers. stuck his gun into my pocket, and got out spare shells to reload the two fired chambers of my own-the ones he'd used on young Logan. That was something I was going to have to break to the Duke, or somebody was, but this didn't seem like just the time. I looked down at the dead face with the thick sexy lips without any particular satisfaction.

It had been a personal matter, and it was settled. Paul was avenged, and so was a guy named Francis I'd never met. Come to that, you couldn't really say that Paul had been a very close friend of mine. However, Mac could relax and Smitty could transfer the card to the closed file. But I was still going to miss that little knife.

I sighed, and went to the tire on the floor, got out one of the shiny cans, found the screw-driver, and pried off the lid. I poked around in the white stuff, and drew out, cautiously, a small dull metal cylinder. It was quite heavy, and I could scratch the metal with my thumb-nail, which seemed to make it lead. Two small wires, neatly coiled, were attached to one end of the cylinder.

Beth had got up to look. "What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said, "but I don't think it would be a good idea to touch the ends of those wires together, at least not with a battery in the circuit."

"But I don't understand-"

"That makes two of us," I said.

Logan's voice was lazy: "I say, old boy-"

I was getting very tired of that accent, phony or genuine. "What is it, old boy?"

"There seems to be a car coming down the canyon. Can't be sure it's headed here, of course, but nevertheless-"

"Oh, Lord!" I said reverently.

We weren't out of the woods, but at least I was beginning to see daylight through the trees ahead. I tucked the little lead cylinder back into its heroin nest, and put the lid back on the can. This gave me something to do while I figured my tactics. You don't ever want to let anyone know you haven't got the answers right at your fingertips.

Then I went over and dropped Martell's automatic on Logan's cot and went out of the cabin without giving any stupid instructions. If he was as good as he was supposed to be-which we'd seen no signs of yet-he'd think of something intelligent to do. If he couldn't think of it himself, he probably wouldn't do it right if I told him.

They came in beautifully, like ducks to the decoys. I was up above them on the hillside, behind a bush, as they bounced into range in their long, air-conditioned Cadillac. There was Fredericks and a driver, the man I'd once seen guarding the door of Fredericks' office at the hotel. They drove right up below me and got out and looked around.

"Both cars are here," I heard Fredericks say. "I wonder what the hell-"

From inside the cabin came the shrill, outraged scream of a woman. Logan had thought of something, and Beth had done it. I'd have to pin medals on both of them, later.

The driver laughed. "No wonder they were too busy to hear us coming."

Fredericks said angrily, "Damn it, they can do their womanizing on their own time! I'll teach them to keep me waiting."

I had the driver covered, figuring him to be more dangerous. Fredericks wouldn't have been doing his own shooting for years. It should have been an easy touch, but I had to go and remember Mac's words: at least a semblance of legality, to keep our brother agencies happy. I stood up behind my bush.

"Put your hands up!" I said. "You're both under arrest!"

It was a stupid damn business. There must be some good way of doing it-cops do it all the time, I hear- but obviously that wasn't it. They both dove in different directions, going for their guns.

I got the driver all right, leading him nicely, so that he lunged right into the path of the bullet. Then I swung for Fredericks, and something hit me a hard and paralyzing blow in the right side of the chest.

I tried for the gun with my left hand. There's a stunt known as the Border Shift whereby you transfer a weapon from one hand to the other-a kind of juggling trick. The only trouble is, it doesn't work too damn well when your right arm's out of commission, and when else do you need it? The last time it was actually tried in action, on the record, as far as I know, was when Luke Short, an old-time gambler and a tough one, clipped the hand of some wild-shooting drunk, who then tried the Shift, too, but he didn't make it, either. Luke shot him dead.

I felt the revolver drop, and I threw myself on top of it, still trying to find it left-handed. I didn't have much time. I could feel the gun trained on me and I wondered where this one would hi;..

There was a shot all right, and another, but no bullets came near me. I picked up the.38 and looked up. Fredericks was standing there with an odd, slack look on his face, doing nothing whatever. He dropped the gun he was holding. Then he started to fall.

I looked towards the cabin. Well, he had to be good for something, the reputation he had around that place.

It was the shoulder-holster man, the great white hunter, old Bwana Simba himself coming out of retirement, a beautiful sight. How he'd made it to the door on a shattered leg, even with Beth to help him, I didn't know. I didn't intend to ask. He'd just give me some of that stiff-upper-lip, British guff.

He was shooting very carefully, making target practice of it, body as relaxed as his wound allowed, arm extended but not locked. He put two more into The Man as he fell, with deliberate accuracy, making quite sure. He'd been in the business once, himself.

I got up. My chest didn't seem to hurt much. That would come later. I went over and checked the Duke's work, and my own. I made my way to where he still leaned in the doorway. Beth was beside him, steadying him. I looked at the two of them, and spoke to him.

"That was pretty fair country shooting, old chap," I said. "While we still have some privacy, you might let me know how much of this you want credit for, on the books."

He looked me straight in the eye. "None, if it can be arranged," he said.

I thought of various things, and said, "We could probably get you a small medal or some nice words from Uncle or something."

He glanced at Beth. "We would rather not figure in it at all, if it's possible," he said, and she nodded. He smiled faintly. "I would certainly prefer not to be remembered as the man who smuggled a certain number of pounds of heroin, not to mention that other material, across the Mexican border. If it's all the same to you, old man."

It wasn't the same to me, not quite, but the guy had saved my life-at least I thought so at the time. There were occasions during the next couple of weeks when I wasn't quite so sure.