Donald Hamilton - The Devastators

There was a brief silence; then he said quietly, "I say, I am sorry to hear it. What can we do to help?"

"I need a quiet room. A very quiet room-soundproof perhaps and a car with a deaf-and-dumb chauffeur." After a moment I added without expression, "The car and driver you lent me this afternoon would do fine."

There was another little pause. "Are you planning to leave anything in the quiet room, old boy? I mean, who cleans up afterwards, you or we?" I didn't say anything. There was yet another silence. I could visualize him frowning, perhaps chewing or tugging at his moustache, while he made up his mind. Then his voice came again:

"Ah, well, accidents sometimes happen in this work, don't you know? If one should occur, just leave the debris, slip the latch, and let the door lock behind you. We'll take care of things again. Incidentally, it would seem as if somebody wanted you both alive. We found a hypodermic on the stairs at Wilmot Square. The contents would have put you under for quite a while, but they would not have killed you."

"I see. Thanks for the information."

"There have been some very odd kidnappings lately. We do not quite understand the purpose. Killing, yes, but not kidnapping. Perhaps you have something to contribute on the subject."

"I'm afraid not," I said. "All I know is that my wife is missing."

"To be sure." His voice was cool. "Well, where and when will you want the car?"

I told him. Afterwards, I replaced the phone, got up and made a face at my image in the dresser mirror. I don't really like asking help from people I have to lie to, or lying to people I have to ask for help. I got my suitcase, threw it on the bed and did some tricks to open a camouflaged compartment holding, among other ingenious toys, my little.38 Special revolver: the snub-nosed, five-shot, aluminum-framed model that, too light to absorb much of the recoil of its heavy cartridge, will damn near tear your hand off when you fire it, not to mention blasting holes in both eardrums.

It is, in my opinion, just about as logical a weapon for a man in a supposedly hush-hush job as a 20mm antitank gun, but it's what the efficiency experts in Washington have decided we need. Regulations state that we must keep the miniature cannon handy at all times, cover permitting, but no experienced operative takes that rule seriously. I'll carry it in my suitcase because I have to, but I'm damned if I'll wear it unnecessarily. Nothing can get you into more trouble, particularly in a foreign country, than a firearm. Winnie, of course, had orders to carry no weapons whatever on this assignment, in line with her innocent act. When the time came for her to do her stuff, I was supposed to supply whatever she needed out of my private stock.

I closed the secret compartment, tucked the wicked little gun under my waistband, buttoned my coat and topcoat over it, and put my hat back on. There was one more item I required, and it was one that wasn't supplied in the standard agent's travel kit. I didn't have anything suitable in my belongings. My only belt was needed to keep my pants up. I might even need it for other purposes, sooner or later, since it's a rather special belt.

Luck came to my rescue-if it was luck. Maybe I'd found a clue after all. In hastily cleaning out the dresser, packing under duress, Winnie had apparently overlooked one small drawer. It contained some gloves, some nylons still in the plastic factory package, some odds and ends of cosmetics and costume jewelry, and a couple of belts. I chose a wide, black, soft-leather number with a big, tricky, dramatic buckle. Flashy though it was, it looked as if it might possibly be strong enough for what I had in mind. I coiled it up and dropped it into my pocket and went downstairs.

Claridge's lounge bore no resemblance to the kind of dark, cramped chrome-plated cocktail-trap you'd find in, say, a New York hotel. It was a high-ceilinged, light, rambling, luxurious, pillared room that could have been the anteroom of a castle or palace where high-class people awaited audience with royalty. Silent waiters glided about with drinks procured from some unknown source. Nothing so vulgar as a bar was in evidence.

Vadya, still sitting at the same table near the door, was doing her part to maintain the tone of the place. She looked very high-class indeed. I walked up and seated myself facing her after tossing my hat and coat on an empty chair. I ordered a martini from the waiter who materialized at my side.

Vadya showed no surprise at seeing me. "Better make it a double, darling," she said lazily. "They serve them in thimbles around here."

"Make it a double," I said.

"And get me another, please."

"And another for the lady," I said.

The waiter bowed and vanished. I leaned back and regarded Vadya with critical interest. After all, aside from our momentary encounter in the hotel doorway, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen her last.

She was putting on quite a show. Her hairdo was big but elaborately simple, if the words aren't incompatible. The thrown-back mink stole was the real stuff. Her suit was tan wool-beige is the technical term, I believe-with a straight, short, close-fitting skirt, and a straight, short, loose-fitting jacket. I wondered idly what had happened to the old-fashioned notion of cutting jackets to fit the female human form. I'd thought it was kind of a nice idea, but then, fashion-wise, I'm obviously way behind the times.

There was a high-collared blouse of the kind of silk associated with caterpillars and mulberry trees instead of chemical vats. Her nylons were so sheer as to be almost nonexistent, just a nebulous hint of stocking, and her pumps had heels a yard long and an eighth of an inch in diameter. Well, almost. She looked sleek and well-fed and expensive.

The last time I'd seen her, on the other side of the Atlantic, she'd been playing a younger, leaner, and cheaper role. I could remember her dressed in grubby white shorts, as short and tight as the law allowed, and a limp boy's shirt with a missing button. I could also recall her dressed in even less. It had been quite an intriguing assignment, the one that had brought us together out there in the great Southwest.

Fortunately, our national interests had run more or less parallel-it happens occasionally-but we'd played a fast game of trickery and double-cross before this became apparent. I'd put her on a plane afterwards and shipped her out of the country instead of wringing her neck on general principles, as I undoubtedly should have. Winnie, the hard-boiled little kook, would have called that sentimentality, I suppose. Softhearted Helm, the Galahad of the undercover services. Well, hell, you can't kill everybody.

I said, "If that's all you, doll, you've been eating too much. I don't like my women pudgy."

"Your women!" she murmured.

I grinned. "Well, I seem to recall staking a claim of sorts, the way it's usually done. In a motel in Tucson, if I remember correctly."

"But now you have a pretty little blonde wife, I am told. And you are celebrating your honeymoon." She was watching me closely. She waited a little, perhaps giving me a chance to go into my bereaved-husband act, but I knew her well enough to know that my only chance of making her believe I was really married was not to work at it at all. I had to play it cool and straight. Waving my arms and tearing my hair would get me nowhere; she'd know at once I was faking. When I didn't react, she sighed theatrically. "Ah, to forget me so soon, for another woman, darling! I am hurt."

The waiter was putting our drinks on the table. When he had gone, I said, "The only way you'll ever be hurt, Vadya, is with an axe. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious? I heard you were here, so I came flying to see you."

"Sure," I said. "I am flattered."