Donald Hamilton - The Betrayers

I WAS PLEASED by the picturesque, South Seas appearance of the Halekulani Hotel. It was a random group of unpretentious, rather old-fashioned, cottage-type buildings with shingled roofs, surrounded by fantastically lush tropical gardens. I'd been grimly resigned to being filed away by number in a nylon-carpeted cubicle in one of the usual chrome-plated beach skyscrapers, but this place looked reassuringly as if it had been built to accommodate people rather than credit cards.

The cheerful boys in blue-and-white sport shirts who unloaded my gear from the taxi looked as if they'd just stepped off the nearest surfboard, as did the stocky brown Hawaiian gent behind the desk who signed me in, gave me the compass bearings of the beach, bar, and dining room, and then turned to shuffle through some mail he produced from a pigeonhole behind him.

"Ah, here we are," he said, handing me an airmail letter. "I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Helm. Aloha, as we say here in Hawaii."

I said, "I thought aloha meant goodbye."

He grinned. "It means hello or goodbye, or just about anything else you like, as long as it's friendly, Mr. Helm. It is a very useful word."

He passed the key to the bellboy. Following the kid upstairs-apparently I was to be domiciled in the main building-I glanced warily at the envelope I'd been given. I'm not used to getting much private mail. In the business, we don't accumulate many letter-writing friends. We don't even run up many bills under our own names, and I'd arranged to have mine taken care of.

Generally, mail means trouble in code or cipher, but this letter didn't seem to come from an official source. At least I knew of no potential contact masquerading as a firm of San Francisco attorneys. I stuffed it into my pocket as the boy unlocked the door and let me into my room, actually a good-sized suite. Making my arrangements at the last minute, I'd had to take what was available regardless of expense-not a serious financial hardship since, as it turned out, Uncle Sam would be paying the bills.

It was an impressive layout consisting of a bathroom, a small dressing room, and a big bedroom with twin beds, connecting with a smaller sitting room that was actually a screened sunporch with a view of the gardens below. "Lanai" was the local word for this breezy architectural feature, the bellboy informed me. There was a bouquet of unreal-looking, waxy, bright-red flowers on the lanai table, courtesy of the management. Everything looked pleasantly luxurious without being shriekingly new or modern. I thought that with a little effort I might manage to be comfortable here, as long as the Monk let me.

I tipped the bellboy, and when the door had closed behind him I pulled off my jacket and tie, got a flask from my suitcase, found ice and glasses ready on the dresser, and made myself a drink so as not to lose the pleasant edge of what I'd been served on the plane. Crossing the Pacific by air is a rather alcoholic experience unless you're strong enough to fight off the pretty stewardesses, who outnumber you two or three to one. I'm not quite that strong.

I sat down on the edge of the bed to read my letter. It was from a lawyer named Wilson D. Pratt, of the firm of Prescott, Haverford, and Pratt.

My dear Mr. Helm:

As executors of the estate of the late Philip Grant Marner, we have been advised of the tragic death in France of Mrs. Helm, the former Winifred Philippa Marner who, as you are doubtless aware, was one of the two principal legatees under Mr. Marner's will. Please accept our sincere condolences. We would appreciate your contacting us at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely, W. D. Pratt

I took a drink from my glass, but it didn't help much. The message still made no sense to me. What confused me, I guess, was the fact that I'd used the matrimonial cover several times in my career as an agent; I'd even had a real wife once. Her maiden name had not been Marner, and we'd been divorced years ago, but it took a second reading of the letter with its reference to France before I realized that this communication did not refer to her, but to my latest pseudo-bride, the one I'd known by the code name Claire.

Winifred Philippa Marner, I thought. Philippa, for God's sake! No wonder she'd never told me her real name, although she'd used the Winifred in playing her honeymoon role. And now some San Francisco legal brains wanted to make me rich, maybe, just because we'd signed a few European hotel registers as man and wife. I thought this was a careless assumption for trained lawyers to make, but then, maybe the estate involved didn't amount to enough to make them careful.

If it did, I reflected, it was a pity they hadn't picked on a man with more larceny in his soul, a man who'd have given them a run for their money-well, for Mr. Philip Grant Marner's money. All kinds of interesting possibilities went through my mind. A little fraud wouldn't be difficult for a man with my training and experience.

I sighed regretfully and, being fundamentally honest, at least where money is concerned, I stuck the letter into a hotel envelope with a note addressed to Mac, through channels, asking him to get these people off my neck. Then I sat for a moment debating with myself whether or not, if the letter were intercepted, this action would seem consistent with my cover as an agent being disciplined for shooting off his mouth irresponsibly.

I decided that such an agent would indeed be careful to appear scrupulously honest, and I went downstairs to buy an airmail stamp and find a mailbox. When I got back to my room, the phone was ringing. I picked it up. There was no sound for a moment except the sound of the wires. Then I heard a man groan with sudden, unbearable pain.

"Hello," I said. "Hello, who's there?"

A rich baritone voice I recognized from years ago said, "Helm? Your friend Naguki wants to speak to you Speak to the man, Bernard!"

I heard another quick gasp of pain. I said irritably, "Go peddle your practical jokes somewhere else, wise guy. I don't know anybody named Naguki. Goodbye!"

I slammed down the receiver. The flask of bourbon was still standing on the dresser. It seemed like a good idea, and then it didn't. I mean, I like a drink when I want to relax, but these were hardly the circumstances for quiet relaxation. The phone rang again, as I'd expected it to. I gave it a little time to jangle before I picked it up.

"Eric?" It was the same voice.

I said, "All right, funny fellow, now tell me who you are and where you got hold of that name."

"This is Monk, Eric. Remember the Monk? Remember Hofbaden?"

I said, "For God's sake! Good old Monk! I thought you'd bit yourself and died of rabies years ago. What the hell are you doing on this Pacific rock?"

"Watching you, Eric. Orders. You've been a bad boy, it seems. You always did talk too much."

I said, "Well, I'll tell you, I thought I was in a democracy, Monk. Free speech and all that jazz. My mistake. I won't make it again, so don't get your hopes up." He didn't speak, and after a moment I went on, "So Washington's ordered you to keep an eye on me? Come to think of it, I did notice an incompetent jerk in a motorized roller skate tailing me from the airport. So what else is new?"

"You're sure you don't know anybody named Naguki, Eric?"

Obviously I didn't know anybody named Naguki. I couldn't know anybody named Naguki. If I did know somebody named Naguki-if I had any interest whatever in a man by that name-my flimsy cover story was destroyed, and I was no longer just a suspended agent killing time in Hawaii. This was, of course, exactly what Monk was trying to force me to admit.

I said, "Go to hell. I don't know anybody in Honolulu but that ex-Olympic character, Duke Kahanamoku – at least I saw his picture once, somewhere. Don't try to frame anything on me, amigo. All I did was talk out of turn. Don't try to build it into something big. I'll stand for the surveillance bit because you're doing it under orders, but don't dream up any frills of your own, like persuading some lousy little enemy errand boy to swear I sold him state secrets. I know you, Monk, and you know me, so don't try it. Don't even think it. Now, what's this Naguki routine?"