Donald Hamilton: The Betrayers

"That was… just a bit cruel, wasn't it, Matt? You didn't have to do it like that."

I stared at her for a moment, as if not quite believing what I'd heard. Then I walked quickly across the room and took her by the arm and swung her against the wall, holding her there.

"Cruel, baby?" I said savagely, leaning close to her. "Who are you to talk about cruel? Do you know where I was a month ago? I was in Europe, working with a girl. She was sunburned and nice-looking, like you. She was blonde, like you. She had blue eyes, like you. She wore a white bikini, just like you. And if you think the resemblances are coincidental, you're out of your cotton-picking mind. You were selected for this crummy job, Jill, because Agent Eric is supposed to have a weakness for tanned blondes; because the girl I'm talking about died over there and somebody had the cute notion I'd be just about ready for a replacement. Don't talk cruel to me, sweetheart. Just get the hell out of here."

She didn't move at once. She whispered, "I.. I'm sorry, Matt. I didn't know."

"Sure you didn't. And while you're thinking about how cruel I am, just remember that I could have laid you before I laughed. Now beat it."

I unlocked the door and opened it for her, and locked it again behind her, and listened to her footsteps receding down the hall outside until they were no longer audible. Then I drew a long breath, wondering if I'd just perpetrated a tactical mistake or a stroke of genius.

On the one hand, Monk might wonder how I'd spotted his girl so quickly, but she'd betrayed herself in lots of ways and it had been a pretty obvious plant anyway, so obvious that it would have looked more suspicious if I'd played along with it. That's what a clever man who was interested in getting something on the Monk would have done. I was trying to establish that I didn't give a damn about Monk and his people as long as they left me alone.

I was a little ashamed of the sob story I'd used on the girl. It was quite true, of course. That was why I was ashamed of it. It's never nice to have to play games with your own emotions. But there's no excuse for making enemies unnecessarily. Whether or not Jill was the contact I was looking for, she seemed to be a young agent with a reasonable amount of brains and guts, and I didn't want her hating me. It might just possibly make a difference later, when the chips were down.

I'd had to reject her pretty roughly to make it look good-and sound good for any mikes that might have been planted in the room-and there's only one excuse a woman will accept for such a deadly insult: that it was done by a man with a broken heart. I decided that I'd been pretty smart, after all, and that I should be pretty proud of myself. I should feel real good about my diabolical cleverness: Helm the human calculating machine, unaffected by sex or sentiment. The bad taste in my mouth was undoubtedly caused only by too much rum.

While I was telling myself this, the telephone rang. I went over and picked it up. The voice at the other end was feminine, but it wasn't Jill Darnley's voice. I couldn't place it at once.

"Mr. Helm?"

"This is Helm," I said.

"This… this is Isobel McLain." The voice sounded oddly slurred and uncertain. "Room sixteen-dash-two. That's on the ground floor of cottage sixteen, over by the paddle-tennis court. Would you… would you come at once? The door will be unlocked; just walk in. Please hurry."

I started to speak, perhaps to ask a silly question, but the connection had already been broken at the other end.

I CHECKED THE loads in the snub-nosed, five-shot .38 caliber revolver I'd been issued in Washington, and I checked the spare cartridges in their tricky little quickfeed case. Being designed for police use, it holds six rounds: most cop guns shoot six times. I've never felt the need for that much firepower, but then I'm not a cop. I took my knife from my pocket and made certain it would open smoothly if needed. It looks like an ordinary jackknife, just a little larger than average, but it has some special features. For instance, the long blade locks into place when opened so it won't fold over and cut off your fingers if you happen to hit bone as you go in. I made sure I had my new belt on-it has some special features, too-and I got the little drug kit we often carry and slipped that into a concealed pocket.

I guess this seems like a lot of preparation, but I tend to be a trifle suspicious of breathless midnight telephone invitations from mysterious ladies in distress.

Turning to leave, I stopped, looking at the orchid lei Jill had been wearing, still lying on the chair where she'd dropped it. I picked it up, wondering how to get it back to her, but decided that the conscientious gesture would be out of character for the surly, brooding bastard I was supposed to be-besides, the damn island was lousy with orchids. She wouldn't have any trouble finding more if she wanted them. I made a face at the pretty necklace of flowers, dropped it into the wastebasket, turned out the lights, and left the room.

Just down the hail was an outside staircase leading to the ground. I took this, with my hand in my coat pocket and my gun in my hand. Once I was covered by the garden shadows below, I took the hand and the gun out of my pocket.

It was a fine place for dirty work at night. There was an occasional light but it didn't reach very far through the lush foliage. The path was a tunnel through giant ferns and overhanging palms, not to mention such exotics as bird-of-paradise trees, the flowers of which actually do look like brilliant birds. Not that I could identify them in the dark, or would have taken the time if I could, but I'd kind of checked them out that morning, returning from the beach. I'd also located the paddle-tennis layout, where a kind of bastard court game could be played with what looked like overgrown Ping-pong paddles. You never know when a little local geography is going to come in handy.

There was nobody on the court when I reached it. The deserted spectator tables sprouted beach umbrellas that looked like giant mushrooms in the dark. There were no lights in the adjacent building, but a lamp on a post let me read the number on the nearest door: 16-2. As I moved that way, my foot nudged something on the walk that skidded away with a rattling, fragile little sound. I found the object and picked it up: a pair of glamorized sunglasses that looked familiar. They were unbroken. Remembering the shaky voice on the phone, I wondered if the owner could say the same.

The door was the usual flimsy fresh-air affair with ventilating slats instead of solid panels. It opened silently when I turned the knob, and let me into a shadowy porch or lanai, similar to the one in my own suite. The walls were striped with the light filtering through the louvered doors and window shutters. Beyond, presumably, was the bedroom. It was quite dark in there.

I'd already stuck my neck out coming this far; I might as well stick it out all the way. If I'd really wanted to avoid a trap, I'd have stayed in my room. You can learn a lot about people from the kind of traps they set, if you live through the experience. I stepped into the darkness and stumbled over something soft on the floor. A light came on.

"Welcome, Mr. Helm," said Isobel McLain's voice. "Thank you for responding so promptly to my call."

I wheeled to face her. She was sitting in one of the large beds jutting out from the left-hand wall, and she was unarmed and more or less undressed; that is, she was wearing nothing but an insubstantial nightgown of the pale cafй-au-lait color that makes a woman's skin look very white by contrast. She had nice shoulders, I noticed. This was the glamorous part of the display.

The unglamorous part was that she was holding a small hotel towel to the side of her head. There was fresh blood on the towel and on her hand. Her hair was matted on that side. Her face was shiny and drawn with pain.