Donald Hamilton: The Poisoners

"Hell, man," he said, "it's obvious. You're either going to shoot me or talk me to death…"

He stopped. A car had pulled up on our left as we rolled down a wide boulevard. A horn made a brief, beeping sound. Willy glanced over his shoulder.

"Now?"

"Now," I said.

When we came to a stop, I helped the bound man out onto the sidewalk and escorted him to the big tan sedan that had pulled to the curb ahead. The rear door was open and a young woman in a neat gray suit stood beside it, surprising me a bit. I hadn't really been expecting a woman, although there are plenty in the business.

She wasn't one of ours, and neither was the driver or, for that matter, the car. We don't have enough manpower or money to cover the world in depth, or even the country, like some agencies. But there is a certain amount of interdepartmental cooperation, meaning that Mac had apparently done a favor for somebody in the past and now he was collecting a favor in return.

"Here he is," I said to the girl "Can you hold him for me, temporarily?"

"It can be arranged. Temporarily."

Her voice was curt. I glanced at her and decided that for some reason she didn't like men very much, particularly not a man named Helm, with errands to be run. She was another tall girl-the climate of California, difficult though it was to breathe, seemed to favor the long-stemmed variety-but in other respects there was little resemblance between this girl and the blonde in the shimmering blue pajamas.

This one was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had her hair cut shorter than that of a good many men these long-haired days. It was crisp, glossy, and light-brown in color with a chestnut tinge-in other words, it was pretty nice hair that deserved a better deal. Her face was handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, with a high nose, strong cheekbones, and a big, contemptuous mouth. What she had to be contemptuous about, besides me, remained to be seen.

The mannish flannel suit she was wearing was no shorter in the skirt than it had to be, considering the current vogue for mini-garments. Even so, it was mostly jacket, displaying a considerable length of fine leg encased in dark stocking. Her figure was also pretty good, if somewhat more substantial than the one to which I'd recently been introduced by Frank Warfel. This wasn't an acrobatic dancer's figure, but I thought it would probably swim pretty well and swing a mean tennis racket if required. A white silk shirt and low-heeled black shoes completed the picture, along with a black purse of practical size, the flap of which was open, leaving the contents ready to hand. I'd caught a gleam of blue steel as she turned to face us. All in all, she was the image of the efficient lady agent. At least she was right in there trying.

I said, "Okay, he's yours. Temporarily. What about a quiet place to fire a gun? A fairly big gun?"

McConnell glanced at me briefly, his black face impassive. The girl frowned and didn't answer at once, looking from one to the other of us dubiously.

Then she said reluctantly, "I suppose that can be arranged, too, if it's absolutely necessary. I'll check."

"You check," I said. I hauled out the heavy Magnum revolver. "Here's the gun. Keep it safe for me. Him, too."

"How long? We do have other business to attend to besides yours, Mr. Helm." She hesitated, but went on before I could answer: "Incidentally, my name is Charlotte Devlin. In case you have to ask for me, or about me or something."

Her tone was still far from gracious. I realized that she disapproved of me not only because my lousy little errand was beneath her dignity, but also as a matter of principle. Well, our agency isn't the government's pride and joy, exactly. Even the C.I.A. boys, much as they're criticized in some quarters, are popularity kids compared to us. We're only consulted, as a rule, when people find themselves stuck with something they can't handle- or don't want to handle because it stinks too badly. In between the times they need us, they'd like to pretend we don't exist.

"Hello, Charlotte," I said. "Excuse me, I mean Miss Devlin. I won't be long. I've got a kind of hunch I want to check out; I'll be right back to take care of him properly. Just tell me where."

She told me. The driver never turned his head; maybe he disapproved of me, too. The girl got into the rear seat with her prisoner-well, my prisoner-and the sedan moved smoothly away from the curb.

I went back to the old station wagon and told Willy to take me back to the motel. You had to say this for his driving: it was consistent. I was happy to get out of the ancient heap intact. A blare of horns behind me, as I crossed the sidewalk, told me that Willy had taken off in his usual never-look-behind fashion. There was no accompanying crunch of metal. Maybe he was lucky, or somebody was.

I entered the motel grounds. It was a rambling hostelry clinging to a hillside, its different levels served by two intersecting lanes, or drives. The one at which Willy had deposited me was practically a tunnel running up between the buildings, dark and narrow. He could, of course, have dropped me around the corner at the office, under the lights, but I suppose if he had, he wouldn't have been Willy. Or perhaps he had some motive other than pure meanness for sending me up this gloomy passageway.

I slipped my hand into the pocket that still held the.38 Special. As I climbed the slope towards the better-lighted cross-drive above, something moved in the shadows ahead. I could make out three figures struggling. Two were apparently ganging up on the third, much smaller than either of them.

A girl's voice gasped: "Let me go! Oh, don't, you're hurting…Ahhhh!"

Her breathless little whimper of pain was followed by the sound of a blow. I saw the smallest of the shadowy figures fall as I pulled out my revolver and started warily to the rescue, looking around for signs of an ambush. Ladies in distress aren't taken at face value in my business, not by any agent concerned about his mission or his life.

V

It was a simple rescue as rescues go. I just stalked up there cautiously, displaying the gun and making some restrained noises indicating that I disapproved of what was going on. The two men, who had grabbed the fallen girl by the arms and were starting to drag her away between them, looked around guiltily. Seeing me, they released her and ran. I waited until they'd disappeared around the corner of the building and a little longer.

Nothing moved. The girl just crouched where she'd been dropped. I could make out that she had rather long hair, which was a point in her favor according to my personal scoring system. On the other hand, she was wearing some kind of a pants outfit, which counted a couple of points against her, unless she could produce a valid excuse like a horse or a pair of skis. I went up to her, holding the gun ready.

"All right," she whispered without looking up, "all right, you've got me. You've got your gun. You've got your orders from Frankie. What are you waiting for?"

Then she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. I dropped the revolver into my pocket, picked up the good-sized purse lying on the ground a few feet to one side, and slung it over my shoulder by the strap provided. I went back to the girl, lifted her gently, and led her up the passageway and across the intersecting drive to the building beyond. We climbed the stairs and made our way along the balcony to my room at the end.

I was beginning to feel a little disenchanted with the assignment. Except for Annette, who was no longer a participant, it had shaped up as a simple, rugged, masculine job of work. Now, suddenly, it had turned into a complicated coeducational caper involving not just one, not two, but three attractive females-well, I still hadn't got a good look at the latest addition to the cast of female characters, but she had an intriguing little figure and under the circumstances it seemed unlikely that she'd be here if she were ugly.