The Removers

Chapter Seven

WE REACHED town well after dark. It's a gaudy place at night, Reno, self-proclaimed the biggest little city in the world, and we drove through it in silence. Following her directions, I turned into a neat residential area where we stopped in front of a little blue California-type house, probably two bedrooms, bath, living-dining room, and a small, shiny efficient kitchen. Hardwood floors and plenty of closet space would be included in the price, but no character or individuality whatever.

"Just pull up in the drive," she said, and I stopped behind a white sports car parked on the gravel. She seemed to feel that the house required explanation, and said, "It's kind of a big place for just one person, but it wouldn't have been fair to Sheik to try keeping him in an apartment. The neighbors are going crazy trying to figure me out, living here alone." Her voice was dry. "When they do, they'll probably get up a petition to have my lease canceled. Well, thanks for the lift."

I said, "I'll give you a hand with that junior-grade horse."

It took the two of us, again, to get him unloaded. He wouldn't be pulled; I finally had to get in with him and scare him out into her arms. I had my doubts about this maneuver-the beast had jaws and teeth, remember- but apparently I frightened him a lot more than he frightened me. He just cowered against the side of the truck bed until I got behind him; then he made a flying leap outwards. She was ready for him, but seventy pounds of dog was too much for her and she went down in the gravel. She rolled over acrobatically and managed to grab the end of the leash she'd dropped in the fall.

"Now, Sheik," she said mildly, picking herself up. "Well, thanks again," she said to me. "I hope the true confessions didn't bore you stiff. Catharsis, those head-shrinker characters call it, don't they?"

"Something like that."

"Do you want to come in? I've got liquor and ice, and I think there's some hamburger left."

She was brushing herself off in the rear as she spoke. Her voice was as casual as it could possibly be, but her disturbing eyes were very steady on my face. I was being tested. This was where I showed whether I was really a nice guy, or just another middle-aged jerk with an eye for youth and beauty.

"It sounds intriguing," I said, and her eyes narrowed slightly, and I went on, "but I'll have to take a rain-check. I got about twelve hours behind on my sleep, driving across the desert last night."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Riverside Motel," I said.

She hesitated, and asked abruptly, "Do you like hunting?"

"Sure," I said, "but there's no season open that I know of. Besides, I'd have to get an out-of-state license, and they run pretty steep."

She reached down and stroked the dog's lean head. "He doesn't need a license, and there's no closed season on jack rabbits," she said. "At least, no game warden has arrested me yet. It's… kind of interesting to watch. I thought I might go out tomorrow. Would you like to come along?"

"Sure," I said. "Just don't make it too early."

"We could take your truck and save me beating up my little imported jewel, here, on those roads. I'll call you."

She turned quickly and marched into the house with the big dog. The door closed and the lights went on. I frowned thoughtfully. One thing you learn, in this business, is not to take for granted you're just naturally the kind of guy pretty young girls want to do things with, even if it's only watching a dog chase a rabbit.

I gave her parked car another glance as I turned away. It was the small, ladylike Mercedes sports, not the big hot one. Even so, it was quite a car, a good six thousand dollars' worth with extras. I got into my old pickup- worth about two hundred bucks on a trade-in, if the salesman was hungry-and drove back to the motel, and parked in front of the end unit, which was mine.

I got out, and gave the door a careful look as I approached it. Certain indications showed that nobody'd been through it since I had. I laughed at myself for taking such precautions. After all, I was on vacation. I put the key in the lock, and something moved in the ornate shrubbery to my right. A voice spoke in a kind of choked whisper.

"Eric.."

I had my hand on the little knife in my pocket. It was made in Solingen, Germany, and I liberated it during the war, the previous owner having no further use for it. It's not much larger than an ordinary pocket knife, but it's big enough. The blade locks in the open position, so you don't have to worry about its folding over and cutting off your lingers if you happen to strike bone as you go in. But the voice had used my code name. I worried the key left-handed, as if the lock were giving me trouble.

"Name yourself," I said without turning my head.

"Paul."

I waited. He was supposed to say a certain identifying phrase now, and I was supposed to answer with another phrase. Instead, he made a little moaning sound.

"For God's sake, man! Give me a hand, quick. I.

I've been waiting… I'm hurt…" There was what you might call an expiring sigh.

I didn't say anything. I've been kidded before, by real good actors. I took the knife out and opened it, muffling the click against my body. Anybody could have got our code names, any time. Unlike the recognition signals, they were never changed. My humanitarian instincts had atrophied long ago. I wasn't diving blindly into any bushes to give first aid to a disembodied, suffering, unidentified voice.

Nobody spoke and nothing happened. I'd stood there fiddling with the lock long enough. I turned the key and went inside fast. As the untouched door had indicated, nobody was waiting for me there. Having made sure of that, I turned on the light, folded the knife and put it away, and got the.38 revolver out of my boot and checked it over. It's a sawed-off, stripped-down, aluminum-framed little monster with too little weight to soak up the recoil of the big cartridges, particularly in rapid fire, but at the moment I was happy to have it.

I noted the time on my watch: seven minutes past eight. Fifteen minutes ought to do it, I figured: long enough to let them know I wasn't going to fall for the gag, if it was a gag, long enough for them to pull out and think it over, but not long enough for them to set up any fancy alternatives. And if my fellow-operative, the young guy Mac didn't think was going to work out for us, Paul, was really out there, hurt… well, since he hadn't been able to come up with the proper signals, he'd just have to sweat it out as long as it took me to do this right.

We're not a little band of brothers, if you know what I mean. It's a point of pride with us that nobody's ever blown a mission because he hung around sentimentally to care for a wounded pal. The standing orders are very strict on this point. Not that I had a mission yet, but it seemed likely I'd have one soon, one way or another, and I intended to stay alive to execute it.

I'd been given a bunch of good-will stuff when I checked into the place. Now I took it over to the bed and lay down to read it with the gun handy. There was a list of other motels in this particular chain, which seemed to cover most of the states west of the Mississippi. There was a list of eating places in town, and a sketchy map of the town, and a small instruction book designed to make the various forms of gambling more comprehensible and attractive to the untutored tourist.

There was also a courtesy copy of a daily paper. I made myself read it without checking my watch too often. The international situation was going to hell in a basket, as usual. The local politics were as mysterious as they always are in a place where you know nothing and nobody. A house had been broken into. A guy had been robbed on the street. A technician at a nearby government laboratory-I remembered all those installations I'd passed in the dark-had died after suffering massive radioactive contamination when something went bang that wasn't supposed to.

A woman and a child had been killed in a head-on collision with a big truck. The truck-driver had survived with minor injuries. They usually do, which is one reason why I'm still driving my high and tough and massive old vehicle instead of getting something low and glamorous..

I got up and looked at the door. There had been no sound for fifteen minutes. Well, if they wanted me, and were willing to make enough noise, they'd get me, now or an hour from now. I walked out with the gun in my hand. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned motel room. Nothing happened. I got into the truck and drove away. Nobody followed.

When I'd confirmed this, I stopped at a pay telephone booth and called Washington collect, calling the emergency number. The girl who came on at once wanted to give me Mac, but I said she could keep him.

"Has Paul reported recently? Is he overdue?" I asked. "He has no fixed schedule. His last report was the day before yesterday."

"I may need a doctor who'll keep his mouth shut," I said. "Have we got one locally?"

"Just a minute." I heard papers rustle, two thousand and some miles away. "Dr. Ditsinger. We've never used him, but other agencies have, and found him satisfactory. Do you want him alerted?"

"Please."

She told me the address. "Give us a few minutes to get in touch with him."

"It's not definite," I said. "Check back with him in the morning. If he's had no business, tell him to forget it. If he's got a customer, tell the man upstairs that age will take the reins from the faltering hands of youth. As if he didn't know it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't get that, sir. Please repeat."

"Skip it, doll. Just report that if young Paul should be out of commission, which seems to be a possibility, I'll take over. But in that case I want somebody else t~ get out here fast and stand by. No contact unless I call, however.. I've got enough people crawling through the shrubbery already; the management might squawk. Oh, one question."

"Yes, sir?"

"Has Paul made definite identification of his subject?" The papers rustled again. "Yes, sir. In his last report.

Quote: 'Subject Martell definitely established to be man calling himself Fenn currently employed by Salvatore Frederici, alias Sally Fredericks or Big Sal Fredericks, reputed to be head of narcotics trade locally, as well as-'"

"Narcotics, eh?" I interrupted. "The stuff seems to keep cropping up. Rizzi was also in that racket. I wonder what Martell… Never mind. If Paul had made identification, why didn't he take action? What are we saving this guy for, somebody's birthday or the anniversary of the Russian Revolution?"

"I have the agent's instructions here." More papers rustled. "No action to be taken until subject's mission is fully understood."

You could see that Mac might be curious about why a top agent like Martell would play at being a cheap hood for seven years, but his curiosity could get expensive in human lives. Maybe it already had.

I said, "All right. Say I'll call back when I have something to report."

"Yes, sir."

She had a nice voice, but it wasn't any time to be thinking about nice voices or the girls who went with them. I hung up and drove back to the motel. I could have saved myself the trouble of arranging for a doctor. He was lying in the bushes, all right, but there was nothing any doctor could do for him. He'd been beaten to death, or as close to it as made no difference in the long run. Even in the dark, it wasn't a very pleasant sight. It never is.

I squatted beside the body for a little while. As far as I could make out, he'd been a blond boy in his twenties, and he could have been one of those I'd trained with the previous year. They hadn't been assigned code names yet, when I left. I thought I recognized him, but somebody had done a very thorough job, and it was hard to be sure. Well, it didn't make much difference now.

I waited until the premises were clear of people for a moment, carried him out of there, and loaded him into the truck. I took him to Dr. Ditsinger, anyway. I acted surprised and terribly shocked when I was informed that my friend was dead. Controlling myself with a manly effort, I told Ditsinger to call Washington for further instructions, and got the hell out of there with my grief.