The Wrecking Crew

Chapter Six

I BROUGHT her back to the hotel a little before ten, took her as far as the door of her room, and put the manuscript, which I was carrying, into her hands.

"Well, I think we've got it pretty well worked out, at least for the first couple of days," I said. "Now all we have to do is shoot it. Good night, Lou."

A hint of surprise showed in her eyes. She'd obviously been prepared to put up at least a token resistance to a token pass. For me not to test her defenses at all was disconcerting. Well, that was a good way to leave her: disconcerted.

"The plane leaves at ten," I said. "I've got some errands to run in the morning, so I'll just meet you at the airport, if it's all right with you." I smiled down at her innocently from my six feet four. "I didn't know I was going to have company on this jaunt or I'd have planned it differently. But I guess you can find your own way out there."

"I'll manage," she said, a little stiffly. "It's perfectly all right. Don't worry about me. Hal trained me well. I won't be any trouble to you. I may even be some help, since I know the country and the people you'll be dealing with. Good night, Matt."

I watched her unlock the door. She didn't look bad at all. I'd been afraid, from the outfit in which she'd greeted me, that she'd turn out to be one of the dirndl girls-at least that was what those peasant costumes used to be called, I think. Maybe they've got a new name for them now: the ones that went with bare legs and thong sandals and artsy conversations.

However, she'd surprised me by appearing in a simple, long-sleeved cocktail dress of thin wool jersey-if that's the proper name for that clinging, knitted-looking material- dead black and quite plain except for a shiny black satin sash or belt done up in a kind of large bow or knot at her hip. Architecturally speaking, she wasn't exactly from Sexville, as the cats back home would put it. But the smoothly fitting black dress indicated that she wasn't hopelessly deformed, either, while at the same time it gave her a nice, smart, covered-up look that went well with her clipped, brushed hair.

She gave me a final glance and a brief smile and vanished from sight. I hoped she was feeling slightly disappointed, even if she was a respectable widow determined to be loyal to the memory of her dead husband. If I'd given her a chance to rebuff me, even in a gentle and friendly way, the advantage would have been hers. Now it was mine. I'd probably have worked it this way, being a diabolical soul, even if I hadn't had a date in the park.

Back in my room, I changed into slacks and a loose sports jacket that gave me a little more freedom than my Sunday suit. Then I opened my suitcase and took out the Smith and Wesson revolver. Mac had wanted to fit me out with some cute luggage lousy with secret compartments, but I'd pointed out that this, if discovered, would be a dead giveaway, whereas anybody who wore hats and boots like mine could probably get away with having a six-shooter

– a five-shooter, to be exact-rolled up in the top of a pair of pajamas. If my stuff was examined, it would just go with my gaudy Western character.

I held the weapon for a moment, weighing it in my hand. It was compact and powerful and deadly. The hammer was shrouded so there was nothing to catch in your pocket; a low, grooved cocking piece let you shoot single-action when accuracy was important and you had the time. Not that it would ever qualify as a target pistol. I didn't like it much. It was too much cartridge for too little gun. It was an ugly, sawed-off little beast, it kicked like a mule, and when it was fired indoors the muzzle blast from the two-inch barrel sounded like an atomic explosion.

The last time I'd worked for Mac there had been a war on, and we'd been allowed to pick our own weapons. For firepower, I'd used a quiet, accurate little.22 and got along fine. But everybody was regulation-happy these peaceful days, and current armaments regulations for people in my category specified a cartridge of no less authority than a.38 Special, a requirement they'd probably got from listening to some cop, since it's standard for most police departments. Of course, we weren't cops-quite the contrary-but that thought wouldn't cross the bureaucratic mind.

I rolled the little monster up in my pajama top again and tucked it back into its nest. Even if I'd liked it, tonight wasn't the time to wear it.

I took the knife from my pocket, next. It looked like an ordinary jackknife with a stag handle, except that it was just a little bigger. It wasn't in the regulations. The sections dealing with lethal cutlery were even more ridiculous and impractical than those dealing with firearms, so I'd decided to ignore them. What I had was a folding hunting knife of German Solingen steel. There were two blades, a corkscrew, and no tricks except that when the large blade was opened it locked into place, so it couldn't close accidentally on your fingers, no matter what resistance it met in dressing out game-or in any other occupation you might find for it. I'd got it from the pocket of a Nazi officer after my own knife had jammed and broken between his ribs and my partner of the moment-a girl named Tina- had had to save the situation with the butt of a gun.

It wasn't as big as a fighting knife ought to be, by a long shot, and it wasn't worth a damn for throwing, being balanced all wrong. But it was inconspicuous enough so that I could carry it anywhere, and even be seen paring my fingernails with it, without attracting much attention except for my bad manners. I'd carried it through the last year of the war, and through fifteen years of peaceful, married, law-abiding existence, when I never touched another weapon but still couldn't quite bring myself to go totally unarmed. I'd never had occasion to use it, as the saying goes, in anger. Well, there was always a first time, but that time wasn't tonight. No weapons except in a clear and deadly emergency, Mac had said.

I made a face at the dresser mirror. I was just teasing myself. I put the knife in a drawer and temptation behind me. It wasn't that I didn't trust my attractive, bluehaired, female corn padre, you understand, as much as I'd trust anybody on a job like this. I'd done some checking with official sources while I was supposed to be changing for dinner; and she was the right girl, all right, operating from the right place: an exclusive little shop called Sara's Modes. She had a perfect record in attendance and deportment, and she'd been thoroughly examined by her department for loyalty and right thinking: she was certified pure. The fact that she'd blown my cover within five minutes of my landing was undoubtedly a clumsy accident due to over-eagerness. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. But a man with my background can't help having a certain feeling about an assignation that puts him in a lighted phone booth in a deserted park in a foreign city in the middle of the night.

I had no trouble at all in finding the booth. It shone like a Christmas tree, at the edge of a little open area that ran down to the water to join the concrete promenade along the sea wall. There was grass for the kids to play on and benches for watching parents and nursemaids, but the place was empty now.

A little farther on, I saw, the sea wall ended and the walk continued along the low shore. I could see parts of the city across the water, and the lights were reflected by the smooth black surface that was broken here and there by an eddy of current-a reminder that this was, after all, a river of sorts, not a stagnant harbor or lake. There's no tide to speak of on this coast of Sweden, but the fresh waters of Lake Mгlaren, west of Stockholm, flow through the city by various channels to mingle with the salt waters of the Baltic Sea, to the east.

So much I'd learned from recent reading. It seemed like a swell place to dispose of a dead body, except that the corpse would probably wash up on one of the multitudinous rocky islands of the well-known Stockholm archipelago to seaward, or be hauled up in some Scandinavian fisherman's net in an advanced state of decomposition… Sometimes I think I have too much imagination for this kind of work.

I looked at the brightly lighted telephone booth. There were a number of ways I could have approached it, but only one that fitted the part I was playing. I made a smart left turn and marched up to it. Nothing happened. There was no sign or sound of anybody around. The traffic of the city was a distant murmur through the trees of the park.

I got inside the booth and, to be doing something, got out my notebook and looked up the number of the man who was arranging the hunting trips that were my excuse for bringing a rifle and a shotgun into the country. It cost me several small coins to discover that in a Swedish pay phone you deposit your money before you pick up the receiver. After I figured this out, and dialed the number, I got a peculiar signal I didn't recognize. Apparently the phones in this country played different tunes from the ones back home. The hotel switchboard must have shielded me from the shock of making this discovery earlier in the day.

While I listened, wondering what this un-American instrument would think of next, someone knocked gently on the door of the booth.