The Wrecking Crew

Chapter Twenty-five

As IIE'I) SAID himself, some guys are tough. When we got to him-Grankvist had left some men on the premises, and being downstairs, they beat me to it-he was breathing and gave promise of continuing to do so for a reasonable length of time, barring further accidents. He was even, after a few minutes, conscious and cursing. The doctor who arrived shortly diagnosed a broken arm, a broken collarbone, an undetermined number of broken ribs, and a neat furrow along the bone above the left eye, caused by a bullet. There seemed to be no serious damage to skull or eye. They took him away to the hospital.

I went back to my room and shaved. I was almost dressed when Grankvist arrived. I let him in, and finished tying my tie, watching him go to the window, look around, and discover for himself where the bullet had buried itself in the wall after glancing off Wellington's cranium.

He said, "You were in there, according to the report I have." He jerked his head toward the curtain.

I nodded. "I didn't shoot him."

"Obviously," Grankvist said. "As a matter of fact, we already have the would-be assassins. Their lorry-truck, I think you call it in America-broke down thirty kilometers east of town. The rifle was still in it. They were caught fleeing into the woods. We haven't yet determined which of the two fired the shot, but it's not a matter of great importance, except perhaps to the court that will try the case." He glanced at me. "You wouldn't want to hazard a guess as to why Herr Wellington should be shot?"

"No," I said, "but he's an hombre who'd naturally have lots of enemies-I mean, of course, because of his business."

Grankvist nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at the window again. "It was still quite dark, was it not? And the light of the room was behind him, and you are both tall men, although he is heavier. And it is your hotel room, not his."

I looked shocked. "Why, son, nobody'd shoot at me!"

"Maybe not," Grankvist said, "but I find it strange how you attract violence and death, Herr Helm. There was a lady in Stockholm, was there not? Had we not thought it essential to our plans that you should be free to proceed to Kiruna with your cameras, you would have been questioned quite thoroughly about that murder, I assure you, although there was some evidence to indicate that you were not responsible. The Stockholm police would like a statement, upon your return. Then there was the man found dead in your hired car, outside this very hotel. Now this unfortunate incident. Somehow I do not think Herr Wellington has been quite frank with me in the matter of your identity. I received a distinct impression of-shall we say?-professional jealousy."

I said without expression, "Naturally, I don't know what you're talking about, Herr Grankvist."

"Naturally," he said. "But please keep in mind, Herr Helm, that we Swedes feel very strongly about violence. We do not even allow our children to watch your American cowboy films. It is our belief that even known criminals and spies are entitled to a fair trial. To simply shoot them down, except in cases of dire necessity, is a travesty of law enforcement. I hope I make myself quite clear." He turned toward the door, and paused. "What is this?"

He'd picked up my flask from the top of my suitcase, where Wellington 'had left it. "Just a flask with whisky," I said. "It's not illegal, I hope."

"Oh, no," he said. "I was just interested. They make so many interesting things of plastic these days."

As soon as he'd gone I went to the suitcase. I didn't have to look very far; I found it stuck down among my clean, rolled socks, cold and hard to the touch: my little five-shot Smith and Wesson, still fully loaded. I frowned at it for a moment. Grankvist had been cryptic, to say the least. I didn't really know whether he was returning the gun for my protection-after what had happened to Wellington- and warning me sternly not to misuse it, or whether that fancy speech of his had been double-talk to cover up the fact that he was turning me loose with a loaded revolver and his blessing. It's always a little hard to interpret these characters who deal in abstract concepts like law and justice.

I checked the weapon over carefully, since it seemed that the time had come to start wearing it. Then I went over to the hospital to see how my compatriot was getting along. I had a lot of trouble getting through the outer defenses, but finally they let me into Wellington's room. He'd been set and stitched and bandaged by this time. When I dosed the door behind me, his eyes opened.

"You sonofabitch," he whispered.

I felt a lot better. Apparently the experience hadn't done a thing for him. He was just going to go right on being the same old objectionable loudmouth. I'd been afraid he might say something to make me feel remorseful.

"You knew they were out there," he whispered.

I moved my shoulders. "It was a possibility," I said. "You should have thought of it. What are you crying about? You're the fellow who was damned if he was going to ask for help from me, remember? Have I got to take you by the hand and lead you around to keep you from targeting yourself at lighted windows?"

We stared at each other for a long moment; then he grinned faintly. "All right," he murmured. "All right, at least you're a consistent bastard. If you'd come in here whining how sorry you were and how you'd have given anything, but anything, to keep me from getting hurt, I'd have spat in your eye." He closed his eyes, and opened them again. "Find my coat, will you?"

It took me a while to track it down, but they finally located it and gave it to me. I took it to the bed.

"Is the door closed?" he whispered.

"It's closed."

"In the lining," he said. "Front right. Use your knife. I guess the damn coat's not worth much any more."

I got out my knife and cut the lining open and found a small spill of paper. I took it back to him.

"Hell, it's gibberish to me," he said irritably. "Don't wave it at me. If it means anything to you, you're welcome to it."

I unrolled the paper and recognized the code. I looked at him, but his eyes were closed again. I took the paper to the table in the corner and worked it out. It had my code number and some transmission signals I didn't recognize since it hadn't come through Vance, who wasn't transmitting messages any more. The station of origin was Washington. The text read:

Original orders operative, changes canceled. Go get him. Mac.

I got out a match and burned the paper. When I went back to the bed, Wellington was wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"You might ask a guy before you stink up his room like that," he whispered.

"Look who's talking," I said.

"Well, are you satisfied? Can you find him?"

"I don't have to find him," I said. "He'll find me. I've got something he wants."

Wellington grimaced under the bandages. "Yeah. I figured that, finally. It just came to me, lying here. You and your goddamn films. You couldn't touch him; you didn't have your orders; I had them. So you let him walk off with a bunch of phonies, fogged so nobody could tell the difference, and kept the real ones to use for bait when the time came."

I said, "I'm listening hard. I seem to recall being accused of doing it for spite. I'm waiting for an apology."

He said, "I ought to sic Grankvist on you again, you human calculating machine."

I looked down at him for a moment longer. Flat on his back, he wasn't such a bad guy. "Anything I can get you?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Caselius. Get the hell out of here. I want to sleep."

When I got back to the hotel, there was a girl talking to the clerk at the desk. This time I recognized the narrow, gaudy pants. Having seen that plaid once, you couldn't forget it. She was still, I saw, wearing her hair pulled smoothly back to the big knot at the neck, like last night. Her profile was wonderful, in the moment before she became aware of me and turned. I thought I'd have to dream up an excuse to photograph her, some time when I had leisure to concentrate on simple things like truth and beauty. At the moment she was just a distraction and a nuisance.

"Good morning, Cousin Elin," I said.

It was a good morning," she said. "But it is afternoon now. I was asking for you. I was going for a walk, to take some colored pictures, the leaves are so lovely at this time of year, but my camera is stuck. It will not wind properly. I wondered if you could possibly-"

It was hard to realize that, among some people, life was still going on normally, and pretty girls were still going out to take lousy color slides with which to bore their families and friends in the long winter evenings to come.

"I'll take a look at it," I said. "Come on up to my room. I've got some tools and a changing bag up there."

She gave me the camera as we went up the stairs. It was a little 35mm Zeiss job in that kind of ever-ready case with a flap in front, kind of like the drop seat of grandpa's drawers. When you see a guy packing a case like that, don't bother to ask him what publication he's working for. If he were a pro, he wouldn't be cluttering up his camera with a lot of extraneous leather. I unlocked the door, let her in, followed her inside, closed the door, and went past her to the nearest table.

"I think you've torn the perforations," I said. "That means the sprocket has nothing to engage, so the film won't advance when you wind it. I'll get the changing bag…

I stopped talking. She'd come up behind me-to look over my shoulder, I thought-but the thing that poked me in the ribs was hard and unmistakable, if totally incredible.

"Don't move!" she said. Her voice was strained. "Don't move or I will shoot. You know what we want. Where is it?"