Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

Libby gave a nice little feminine shudder. "Don't! If I'd thought you'd really have to use a gun, ever, I'd never have dreamed of asking you to work with us… But anyway, you're safe! And I suppose Mr. Stottman is taking care of… of the evidence, so you'll have nothing to worry about from the police."

I said, "Sure, Mr. Stottman is being a big help. A great big help. Incidentally, what happened to the car you were driving when I last saw you? If I'd recognized that gaudy yellow bucket as yours in Pasco, we wouldn't have had to chase you clear to Seattle."

On the assumption that she was on my side, for reasons still to be determined, I was warning her not to ask me any embarrassing questions on this particular subject. The slightest, briefest hint of a frown let me know that I should have recognized the yellow Cadillac. Chalk one error to Mr. Smith's closemouthed lads and their compulsive security. I guess I was lucky to have got the name of the girl out of them, let alone the brand of her transportation. Well, we could hope Stottman wouldn't check the auto-registration files for the date of purchase.

Libby said quickly, "Why, I told you I was getting a new convertible. You just don't listen, darling! And you haven't said why you had to come here-not that I'm not awfully glad to see you."

I jerked my head toward the door. "Ask our friend over there. He's got a problem. You may be able to help him with it."

She looked at Stottman. "What can I do for you, Mr. Stottman."

The plump man hesitated, and asked formally: "Do you know this man, Miss Meredith?"

"Know him?" She frowned. "Of course I know him! Why, I was the one who recruited him down in San Francisco, when we were asked to supply a courier with a background that would let him do a lot of traveling without being questioned. You know I know him. That's why I was picked to run down to Pasco and check on his double for you!" Libby glanced my way. "Darling, what is this, anyway?"

I laughed. "Mr. Stottman has doubles on the mind, Libby. He figures if one guy was trying an impersonation, two might be. He wants to be absolutely sure I'm me. Am I?"

"Of course you are. Don't be silly!"

"Don't tell me," I said. "I know who I am. Tell him… Go on, tell him. Put it on the record officially."

Libby looked coldly at Stottman. "I don't know what this is all about and it's perfectly ridiculous… Oh, all right! I hereby certify and depose that this man is Grant Nystrom himself, not a substitute or imitation. Okay, Mr. Stottman? Or would you like for me to make out an affidavit and have it witnessed and notarized and recorded at the county court house?" The stout man didn't answer. Libby turned back to me. "Has he made delivery yet, Grant?"

"Hell, no," I said. "That's why I had to bring him here, two hundred miles in the dark, for God's sake! It's like pulling teeth to make Mr. Stottman turn loose of anything, but maybe if we both plead with him, we can get hold of whatever lousy little scraps of information his cell has managed to scrounge up around here, so I can get back on the road in time to pick up the important stuff waiting for me up north."

It worked. My belittling of his contribution hit Stottman in his professional pride, and he said quickly: "Lousy little scraps of information, indeed! I'll have you know I have the key to NCS right here"-he slapped his coat pocket-"and without it, whatever data you get farther north will be absolutely meaningless."

The initials meant nothing to me. I had been briefed about no organization, system, or object known as NCS, but on this murky mission, that was just about par for the course. Obviously it was something, like Libby Meredith's name, that was supposed to be quite familiar to me-that is, to Grant Nystrom-but on the other hand, it didn't seem to be anything I was expected to comment on, so I just said, "All right. It's great stuff if you say so. Now, if you're satisfied I'm me, hand it over."

Stottman hesitated. His little brown eyes were unhappy and uncertain. He glanced toward Libby, who said sharply: "What is it now? If you're still not convinced, we can have somebody else flown up from San Francisco to confirm my identification. Of course, it will cause enough delay to throw Grant's schedule completely out of kilter, but I'm sure nobody'll mind that as long as it makes you happy, Mr. Stottman!"

I felt rather sorry for the victim of her sarcasm. He was, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance, a good agent: good enough to respect his own hunches. His hunch was that I was a phony no matter who vouched for me. However, he'd run his protest as far as he could without making a lot of trouble for himself if he was wrong. He might be a good agent, but he was also enough of an organization man to know when to stop pushing. He shrugged his plump shoulders.

"Very well," he said, and took from his pocket a familiar brown-glass jar which, I could see now, was full of large tablets of some kind. "Here you are, Nystrom..

Wait a minute. Just how was the delivery supposed to be made?"

I sighed, like a man nearing the end of his patience. "I was supposed to be sitting there in the clinic with my dog on leash, waiting to see the vet. You were supposed to say: 'Isn't that a Labrador retriever? He's a beauty. What's his name?' And I was supposed to say: 'Yes, he's a Lab. His name is Hank.'" I looked sharply at Stottman. "And what was your next line?"

"I was supposed to say: 'No, I mean his full name. He's pedigreed, isn't he?'" I said, "And then I was supposed to tell you that the pup's registered name was Avon's Prince Hannibal of Holgate. My God. The people who dream up these long-winded identification routines ought to try them in the field sometime."

Stottman didn't smile. "And then, Mr. Nystrom?"

"Then you were supposed to turn away and raise hell with the nurse about that bottle of dog-vitamins, saying that you'd got them there yesterday but she hadn't given you the brand you'd asked for. The girl would presumably apologize and start to get you the right stuff, and I'd get up quickly and say, 'Are those Pet-Tabs, miss? That's what my dog gets and I'm almost out of them. I'll take them.' And that would be that. Okay?"

"And what's in the bottle besides vitamins, Nystrom?"

His little eyes were watching me closely, still suspicious.

I shrugged. "That's none of my business, friend. I know how it's packed and how I'm supposed to carry it and where I'm supposed to turn it over to somebody else, but what it is, I don't know and don't want to know. Of course, you've just told me it's a magic key of some kind, but I'm going to forget that as fast as I can. The less I know, the fewer people shoot at me, I hope. I've been target once too often on this trip already."

Again I'd disappointed him by making the right response. I held out my hand. After a moment's pause, he shrugged, gave me the bottle, turned and started for the door.

As the door closed behind him, I looked toward Libby Meredith and started to speak, but she shook her head quickly and put her finger to her lips. With the same finger, she then pointed to the little table by the door. Stottman's hat lay there: one of the oldest tricks in the world.

I grinned, stuck the vitamin bottle into my pocket, stepped forward, and took the woman into my arms, doing what seemed indicated. She did not resist or protest; in fact she seemed to feel it was an interesting project, worthy of her cooperation. We were both convincingly flushed and disheveled, both breathing hard, when the door burst open. We jumped apart in a suitably startled and embarrassed manner.

"Really, Mr. Stottman!" Libby said indignantly.

"I'm sorry. I forgot my hat." Stottman looked at us bleakly for a moment. What he'd hoped to catch us doing, instead of what we'd been doing, I couldn't imagine and probably he couldn't either. He'd just felt obliged to give it a try. Behind him, in the hallway, I saw the brown-faced man called Pete. "My apologies," Stottman said, backing out of the room once more.