Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

He stood on the middle seat, very tense, ready to unload in a hurry if this crazy, unstable, waterborne vehicle should sink or explode. I talked to him reassuringly while I shoved off and got the motor started. He almost went over the side when the outboard fired; but gradually, as we swung out of the river and into the lake, he relaxed a bit and sat down to enjoy-or at least endure-the ride. I snapped some kind of a flashy lure to the end of my line, tossed it overboard, and settled down to tow it around the lake in a slow and purposeful manner, as if I really expected it to catch a fish.

I trolled down the shore away from the lodge for half an hour, then cut across to the south side of the lake and came back, passing opposite the outlet and the lodge. I continued in that direction for another half hour, and turned back again, having seen no fish and very few fishermen. Reaching the spot opposite the lodge once more, I glanced at my watch and found that the time was a few minutes before six. I'd hit it about right, just a little early.

I reeled in my well-traveled lure, exchanged it for a gaudy red-and-white spoon, and made a show of casting for a while. No fish were intrigued by this performance, either, which was just as well, since I wouldn't have had time, now, to mess with one if I had managed to hook him. At a quarter past six, I cranked in my line once more, started up the motor, and headed straight across the lake toward the lodge I could see on the distant shore.

It was a big lake. East and west it ran, according to my road map, for better than fifty miles; but even its narrow north-and-south dimension was impressive to a landlubber brought up in the relatively waterless areas of southwestern U.S.A. I was glad that the day was clear and calm, and that the rented motor was running strongly. I wouldn't have wanted to have weather trouble on a body of water that size, or engine trouble either.

"You and me both, pup," I said, as Hank shifted position nervously. "Take it easy. We'll be back on terra firma pretty soon."

I saw my contact coming. Another boat was approaching from the left-excuse me, from port-running down the lake on a course that would intersect mine about a quarter of a mile ahead. It was another open fishing boat, pretty much like my rental job, but slightly larger and with a somewhat bigger kicker hung on the stern. When we were within about thirty yards of each other, the other man cut his motor and I did the same. The boats ran on silently, losing speed until they lay still in the water, almost side by side.

I saw that my contact was a big, red-faced, city-fisherman type with sunglasses. He was wearing a straw hat that had a number of glittering lures hooked to the band. A fancy tackle box was open on the seat beside him. I was aware of his eyes studying me and my dog appraisingly from behind the dark lenses. The way the luck had been running on this job, I reflected grimly, it wouldn't surprise me a bit to discover that this man had gone to high school with the real Nystrom, or raised the real Prince Hannibal from a pup.

But if he had any doubts about our authenticity, he didn't show it. He just went smoothly into the act that had been prepared for us.

"Any luck?" he called.

"Not even a strike," I said, reading off the lines I had memorized in San Francisco. "How about you?"

He shook his head. "I guess they're just not biting." He plunged into the identification routine: "Isn't that a Labrador retriever? He's a beauty. What's his name?"

"Yes, he's a Lab," I said. "His name is Hank."

"No, I mean his full name. He's pedigreed, isn't he?"

These were the exact words Stottman should have used to me in the pet clinic in Pasco, only he hadn't got a chance to. They were almost the words Pat Bellman had used to me earlier the same day. I wondered if, knowing the required gibberish, she had perhaps paraphrased it deliberately to confuse me. But anyway, it was nice to have a contact proceed strictly according to plan, for a change.

I said, "His registered name is Avon's Prince Hannibal of Holgate." That took care of the identification part of the dialogue, and I went on casually, "Say, you don't happen to have a jug of water or something. I forgot to bring anything to drink and I'm parched."

"I've got some beer," he said. "Here, have one… No, no, it's all right, I've got plenty more in the cooler. Well, I'm going to try that cove over there. Good luck."

"Same to you," I said. "Thanks for the beer."

The red-faced man yanked his motor into life once more. I pulled the cap off the beer bottle, and raised the bottle in a salute, which he answered with a wave of his hand. I drank deeply, watching him draw away, riding out of my life, I hoped, as rapidly as he'd come into it. What happened to him next was none of my concern. Mr. Smith's boys would presumably put a tail on him, hoping he'd lead them to other members of the local cell. Or maybe the Canadian authorities would take over. In any case, like Stottman and his partner, this man would be rounded up later, after we'd spotted the rest of Nystrom's contacts.

I wondered what the Canadians had worth spying on in this remote part of the north woods, but it wasn't really any of my business. I drank some beer and it was flat. Well, that figured. You can't keep capping and recapping a bottle without losing some of the fizz. I set the bottle on the seat, pried the cork liner out of the cap, took out a little tinfoil wafer similar to the one I'd obtained from Stottman, and hid it in the second stud of Hank's collar. Then I carefully stuck the cork back into the cap, dropped the cap overboard, and watched it sink out of sight to where nobody would ever see that it had been tampered with. The beer I drank, flat or not, and the empty bottle I left in the bilge for the benefit of anybody who might have been watching through binoculars, from the shore.

When I reached the dock, it was just about dark. The proprietor and his wife were climbing into a big outboard runabout. They said they were heading up the lake to have dinner with some friends, and asked if I minded holding the fort alone. I said I didn't, and watched them disappear around the point. I whistled for Hank, and started for the cabin, and told him to shut up when he growled softly as we approached the door.

It was nice of him to warn me, but I'd set a few indicators about the door before I left, and I already knew somebody had been inside and very likely still was.

I TOOK A CHANCE AND LET THEM catch me by surprise. I mean, having no inkling of their presence-well, admitting none-I walked right into the trap, just like any of those handsome, brave, bone-headed movie operatives who are forever strolling casually into dark rooms and getting clobbered by sinister gents hiding behind doors.

This was another of the housekeeping cabins popular up here, and the room into which I sauntered innocently, dog at heel, was actually the kitchen. To my relief, the guy who stepped out behind me didn't actually clobber me. Maybe he was afraid of what the dog would do if he used open violence, or maybe he just didn't like hitting people over the head unnecessarily. Anyway, he merely told me to set down the fishing tackle I was carrying, very carefully, and put my hands up, which I did.

Then he hit a switch and the lights came on, dispelling the twilight gloom of the place. Nystrom Three appeared in the bedroom doorway, holding a familiar-looking.357 revolver-a mate to the one I was carrying-in a gingerly sort of way.

"Close the door quick!" he snapped at the man behind me. "Don't let the dog out!"

I heard the door being shut, but I didn't move or turn my head. There are advantages to dealing with amateurs, but there are disadvantages, too: they're much more likely than pros to blow your head off accidentally. You don't want to do anything to startle them as long as they're pointing firearms in your direction, since as a rule they've never bothered to learn how much trigger pressure-or how little-it takes to make their guns go boom.