Donald Hamilton - The Interlopers

Apparently Holz thought he was being clever, sticking her in here dramatically bound hand and foot to share my misery, keep an eye on me and, perhaps, learn something from me that somebody wanted to know.

I felt a little stir of hope. If Holz did want something from me-and if not, why wasn't I dead?-then I still had a chance. And the more carefully I played my attractive companion along, the better that chance would be.

"Greetings, doll," I whispered. "Don't say it. I goofed."

She was tactful enough not to comment on that. "Your dog got away," she said. "They tried to catch him, but they'd already scared him so badly he wouldn't come near them."

"Good for old Hank," I said sourly. I was glad to hear of his escape, but I'd expended quite enough sympathy on him for one day. "How did they catch you?" I asked Libby.

"I ran up there right behind you when I heard him screaming. A man stepped out from behind a tree and put a hand over my mouth and a gun in my back. Afterward, he made me walk back down with him and pay for the gas and drive the truck up the hill so they could load you aboard without attracting attention. Darling, what are we going to do?"

"Could you tell which way we turned from the lodge?" I asked, ignoring her question because I had no answer to it.

"Yes, I can see pretty well out the front here. We're still on the same highway, heading toward Anchorage."

"How long have I been out? Specifically, how long have we been driving?"

"Well, I'm not in the best position to keep checking my wristwatch, but it's only been a few minutes."

"Who's up front?"

"A couple of real characters. There's a woman, plain and plump, in a plastic raincoat and green pants. Why is it that the fatter the fanny, the tighter the trousers? Then there's a plumpish male type who looks as if he'd just stepped off a rainy city sidewalk. He's even got galoshes on, for God's sake!"

I said, "Be charitable. I think it's a disguise. Who's driving?"

"The man. The woman keeps rubbernecking to make sure we're not setting fire to the bus or rolling out into the road." A round, unpretty face I'd seen before appeared at the forward window of the camper, looking back at us suspiciously. When it had vanished, Libby said, "You see what I mean."

"Keep talking," I said. "How many more?"

"It's a real caravan, darling. There's an older couple, middle-aged, driving a big car-" I asked wearily, "It wouldn't be a Lincoln, by any chance?" I was remembering the large, slow-moving sedan I'd passed and repassed on the Haines cutoff. It seemed likely, now, that after seeing me on my way, the tourist-appearing couple had turned back in pursuit of the lab truck. Judging by this morning's events, the pursuit had been highly successful.

"Yes," Libby said, "yes, it's a Lincoln. And then there's a kind of boxy delivery van. The guy who gives the orders is driving that, a man they all call Mr. Wood."

"Mr. Wood, eh?" I kept my voice casual, wondering if the boys in the van were still alive, and if so, for how long. Well, they weren't my boys. "What does Mr. Wood look like?" I asked.

He wasn't very subtle, I reflected, or maybe he was just arrogant. Maybe he thought nobody knew enough German, up here in the benighted wilderness, to remember the English translation of "Holz."

"He's kind of a tallish man," Libby said. "Not a bean-pole like you, but probably about the same weight, since he's broader. He's got metal-rimmed glasses, slick black patent-leather hair, and a silly little black moustache, but I have a hunch there's some dye involved. Nobody's got hair that black. And I don't think his real name is Wood. It's probably Rubinsky or Kubicek or Ivanoff or something. I know a Slav when I see one."

It was my man, all right. She had sharp eyes, or she'd been told exactly what to say in order to gain, or maintain, my confidence, probably the latter. The fact that Holz's name wasn't Holz at all was fairly common knowledge, but we'd never learned the real name and likely never would. Maybe he'd forgotten it himself; he'd been Hans Holz so long. They often go in for Teutonic or Anglo-Saxon labels, I guess because these days, over here at least, people tend to look a little more closely, in cases involving security, at anyone named Vladimir, Ivan, or Olga.

Thinking along these lines, I found myself wondering just what might be the real name of the lady known locally as Elizabeth Meredith.

She asked, "Do you know him, darling?"

I shrugged. "Not under that name. Do you?"

"No, but I can tell just by looking that he's not a very nice man. In fact, he scares hell out of me. Darling, what are we going to do?"

I still had no answer to that question, and if I'd had one I wouldn't have confided it to her. I asked, not because it mattered, but because I'd be expected to be concerned about it, "What about the item I gave you to take care of?"

"It's safe. They didn't get it. They must think the one the dog was wearing is the right one."

"Where is it safe?" I asked.

She hesitated. "I don't think I'll tell you right now. I mean, that way, if things get tough, you can say quite honestly that you don't know."

"Thanks," I said. "That's sweet of you. But suppose we get separated; how do I find it?"

"You'll find it," she said cryptically, smiling a bit. "You'll need some help, but you'll find it."

"Sure."

I didn't press it. Except for the material I'd picked up this morning, which might or might not be genuine, the collar wasn't worth much to anyone. Certainly, it had served my purpose: it had brought me within reach of the man I'd come to Alaska to find-not under the most favorable circumstances, granted, but still within reach.

I was no longer in the dog-collar business, and if anyone really yearned for the lousy strap, I could probably locate it, assuming that she'd really hidden it where she'd hinted. There was, after all, only one place she'd been where I, a man, would need help to find it: the room marked LADIES, back at the filling station.

The woman up front looked in on us once more, giving us a careful scrutiny this time to make sure we hadn't changed positions suspiciously, or tampered with our bonds. I lay there, trying to figure things out. The timing was important. The ropes around my wrists and ankles posed no real problem, since a trick belt with a sharp-edged buckle-well, sharp if you know how to get at it-is part of the standard equipment. The question was whether to use it now or wait.

I decided to wait. At the moment, the risk of detection was too great, and according to Libby's census, the odds were five to one against me, six to one if I counted Libby herself, and there was no good reason not to. It seemed better to let the situation sort itself out a little. Maybe I could somehow, eventually, separate my bull from the cows and steers.

The truck slowed down suddenly, made a sharp left turn, and started bumping over the ruts of a very rough road, little more than a track by the feel of it, leading away from the highway.

"What do you see?" I asked Libby.

"Just trees," she said. "We seem to be in some kind of mountains. The car ahead is stopping in a little clearing. That's the Lincoln. There are some horses, four of them."

"Horses?" I said. "I didn't know they used horses up here. I thought they all traveled by bush plane and dog sled."

The truck stopped. The camper door opened. Somebody reached in, grabbed me under the armpits, dragged me out, and stood me on my feet to face a tall, solidly built man dressed for the woods in boots, wool pants, a heavy lumberman's coat, and a cap-the kind with earflaps-of the same reddish plaid material. Among all this rugged clothing, the little black Hitler moustache and the gold-rimmed glasses looked lost and effeminate.