Donald Hamilton: The Poisoners

"None that we know about." Mac sighed on the other side of the continent. "Well, I guess you'd better stay with it. We ought to know what she ran into. Oh, and Matt…"

"Yes, sir."

"Retribution is not our business."

"No, sir."

"However, I would say it was bad public relations- bad for our image, as the Madison Avenue gang would put it-to allow our people to be used as targets by any joker with a big revolver. Besides, murder trials tend to involve a lot of publicity that can be avoided by presenting the police with a case nicely closed by the death of the murderer. Under the circumstances, if the matter can be handled inconspicuously, I really see no reason for the person or persons responsible to survive, do you?"

"No, sir," I said, thinking of a small girl in a hospital bed, "no reason at all."

There seems to be only one taxi company operating in Los Angeles proper. The relationship between this lack of competition and the fact that it took me forty-five minutes to promote a cab may be wholly coincidental, but then again, it may not.

When he finally arrived, I had the driver transport me through the foggy streets to a restaurant recommended by the motel, which turned out to be only half a dozen blocks away. That was a long enough distance, however, for me to determine, with a certain sense of relief and triumph, that I'd aroused some interest somewhere. I was being followed.

It was a rather dilapidated Ford station wagon colored a sort of faded bronze: a repaint job that hadn't weathered well. The driver seemed to be alone in the vehicle. He tailed me as far as the restaurant and continued up the boulevard out of sight while I was paying off my taxi, but I didn't think he'd go far. I had a hunch that my time of loneliness was over and I'd better get used to having company, which suited me fine.

Inside, I found the place decorated in turn-of-the century bordello style, with red leather upholstery, red wallpaper, and red shades on the lamps, which didn't throw much light. As a result, I couldn't get a good look at the people who entered after me, but it didn't really matter, since I hadn't the slightest intention of eluding my escort, no matter how large it might be. I just settled down to a pleasant dinner. Despite the thick period atmosphere, often used as a substitute for good liquor, food, and service, the martinis were fast and acceptable, and the steak was slow but excellent.

When I came out, none of the elusive Los Angeles taxis were in sight. Having no way of knowing what the chances were of catching one cruising in this part of town, I decided that walking was better anyway. I palmed the snub-nosed revolver, slipped it into my coat pocket and, keeping my hand on it, set off.

The battered bronze station wagon was right on the job. It passed me once as I strode briskly through a little park with a pond full of ducks. Well, some of the birds floating out there could have been refugee seagulls from the nearby ocean-in the dark it was hard to tell – but the quacking ones along the shore were certainly ducks. The automotive relic passed me once more as I reached the big thoroughfare on which the motel was located, turned left, and started up the hill towards the illuminated sign still three blocks away.

Nobody sprayed me with buckshot from a sawed-off shotgun, or.45 caliber slugs from a Thompson submachine gun, or even.44 slugs from an overgrown Magnum revolver. I was disappointed. I'd hoped for some action before I got back to this well-lighted street. Nevertheless, it was a cool, misty, pleasant night for walking; and after spending the day riding in planes and automobiles, not to mention waiting in a hospital room for death to pay a visit, I was happy to be stretching my leg and lung muscles, even though the local air still wasn't anything I'd want to make a regular habit of breathing.

The station wagon made a final pass right in front of me as I waited for the traffic light at the intersection by the motel. I started to cross when it became legal to do so, noting that the vehicle had pulled to the curb half a block away. Changing my mind, I turned back to the sidewalk I'd just left and walked down there. The driver leaned over and shoved the door open for me.

"Get in," he said. "The Man wants to see you."

I sighed. There are so many of them: The Man, El Hombre. Every wide spot in the road has got one, and every damn one of them thinks he's Mr. Big himself. I wondered how the hell this particular bigshot had got involved with one of our people or vice versa. Of course, he didn't have to be a simple gangster or syndicate man just because a messenger boy had referred to him in that particular way.

"Get in," said the driver of the station wagon impatiently. "Hell, what does a guy have to do to attract your attention, Mister? I must have put fifty miles on this crummy heap trying to get you to look at me. Get in. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

They never like to be kept waiting, none of the little underworld emperors, if that's what he really was. I looked into the wagon. It was empty except for the driver. I got in and pulled the door closed behind me. As we drove away, I couldn't help laughing.

The driver glanced at me with quick suspicion. "What's so funny, Mister?"

"Never mind," I said.

I was thinking of the elaborate scheming I'd done to attract trouble; and all the time trouble had been waiting impatiently to hand me an engraved invitation. I glanced at the man beside me. He was a large, heavy-set specimen with a big jaw, a lumpy nose, coarse skin, and curly brown hair. He was wearing grubby gray work pants and shirt, and a dark green windbreaker. I classified him, tentatively, as low-priced labor: bright enough for a simple job of open surveillance, but inadequate for anything more demanding, like homicide. Of course, I could be wrong.

He drove badly, never thinking far enough ahead to be in the proper lane when a turn was to be made. When other drivers objected to his sudden last-minute maneuvers, he became childishly indignant. Apparently it had never in his life occurred to him that the whole street wasn't his to do with as he pleased.

I didn't even try to figure out where he was taking me. I just memorized a few landmarks for later reference. Life's too short to spend any part of it committing to memory the whole sprawling geography of Los Angeles. At last we wound up in front of a big apartment house in a neighborhood of similar buildings.

My chauffeur said: "Just walk straight into the lobby and turn left to the elevators. The punk in the monkey-suit knows how high to take you."

I glanced at him. "No escort?"

"Hell, you want to see him, don't you? They said you did. And he wants to see you. So who needs muscle? I'll be waiting with the wheels to take you back."

"Some wheels," I said.

"It runs. But if you complain, maybe he'll send you home in a Cadillac."

I grinned and walked into the building, past the doorman, who asked me no questions, and across the carpeted lobby to the open elevator. The boy sent it up without speaking, to the seventh floor, where a big, jowly man in a neat dark suit was waiting in front of the doors when they opened.

"Mr. Helm?" he said, backing me into a little hall or foyer. "Turn around, please. Hands against the wall, high. Nothing personal, Mr. Helm. Just routine…"

"Never mind, Jake," said another voice. "We'll dispense with the frisk in Mr. Helm's case."

I looked around. Another big, jowly man stood in an open doorway across the hail. The difference was that he'd had a closer or more recent shave and used more lotions and powders, or had them used on him. He was wearing the West Coast uniform of the day: sports shirt and slacks.

The man called Jake said, "He's rodded and bladed, Mr. Warfel. At least I think that's a knife in his pants, and I know there's firepower in his coat."