Donald Hamilton: The Devastators

Winnie said, "That sounds like grandstanding to me."

"Not only to you," I said. "The idea has occurred to others. Anyway, investigation of the area turned up a deserted building that had been used as a lab-quite an elaborate setup, as a matter of fact-but it was stripped and deserted. McRow's sponsors, whoever they are, had had time to move their genius and his operation elsewhere. The next time he was spotted, he had a place up in the Andes, but again the agent who picked up the trail managed to stick his neck in a noose before he could pinpoint the location. This one died of chicken pox. And don't tell me you don't die of chicken pox, doll. The agent's health record even showed he'd had a severe case as a child, but Archie's trained bugs paid no attention to his built-in immunity. They killed him dead."

Winnie frowned thoughtfully. "In other words, the man has found a way of increasing the virulence somehow."

"In non-technical terms, that's about it," I said. "Which brings up the interesting question: What happens when he stops playing around with children's diseases and applies his method to something really gruesome, like smallpox or cholera. He's building up to something, obviously. He could have had those agents shot or tossed off a cliff. Instead, he's been passing out samples, deliberately showing us and the rest of the world what he can do. Where does he go from here? And just who are the people helping him and what are their motives? Those are the questions bugging the big boys in Washington. The fact that the same questions are probably being considered in Moscow and elsewhere doesn't help their peace of mind one little bit."

"Are we sure it isn't Moscow that's giving McRow aid and comfort?"

"Sure?" I said. "Who's sure of anything? All we know is that they seem to be just as baffled as we are. And that whoever is sheltering Archie has plenty of money and manpower, but he doesn't seem particularly anxious to take up residence in the workers' homeland."

Winnie hesitated. "If this were a movie, I'd suggest an international mastermind of crime who was hoping to blackmail the world with the ultimate biological weapon."

"Don't think that possibility isn't being considered quite seriously," I said. "But in the absence of any clues to the identity of McRow's current patrons, Washington is just assuming they aren't driven by philanthropic motives. And after three abortive tries to take McRow undamaged, including Buchanan's, well, much as they'd like to have the big brain back working for democracy… Anyway, it was decided as a last resort to give us the job. We're supposed to take care of it before Archie finishes whatever it is he's really working on; also before anybody else gets hold of him, including our friends the British. The only trouble is, nobody has any notion what his target date may be. It could be tomorrow. Or it could be yesterday."

I sighed regretfully and reached for the phone. "Well, this has been real pleasant, ma'am, but we've got work to do."

"Who're you calling?"

"I'm supposed to start the ball rolling, so to speak, by making a date with a certain genealogist."

"A certain what?"

"A gent who draws family trees," I said. "Dr. McRow, fortunately, has two weaknesses. One, as I've said, is money. The other is ancestors. He apparently started life without any, except the usual connection with Adam and Eve. In the U.S. he was born on the wrong side of the tracks, socially as well as financially, but after coming to Scotland he apparently got the notion that his family had once been big and important there. That's how the trail was picked up again after being lost over in South America. He'd sent in his name-it had to be his real name, of course-to an ancestor-hunting outfit here in London. He'd hired them to prove a connection, however dim and distant, between his branch of the McRow family and some fine old Highland clan. For a man in hiding, it was a crazy breach of security, but then there's no real proof the guy's rational outside the laboratory. Anyway, this is where Buchanan started, and we're supposed to kind of follow in his footsteps until we hit a better lead… Shhh, here we go."

The switchboard had got me the number. A man who identified himself as Ernest Walling, of Simpson and Walling, was asking my identity and business. I gave the true name and the false story-the yarn about wanting to trace my own ancestors that we'd cooked up for the purpose. After I'd finished, Walling was silent for a little, presumably digesting the information.

"Ah, I see," he said presently. "Would it be convenient for you to come here at four o'clock, Mr. Helm? That will give me time to do a little preliminary research, and I will be able to say more definitely whether or not I can help you."

"Four would be fine."

He hesitated again. "Ah, you say you are staying at Claridge's? And you are from America?"

"That's right."

"You wouldn't happen to know an American gentleman named Buchanan, Paul Buchanan?"

I laughed. "America is a big place, Mr. Walling. I'm afraid I don't know any Buchanans."

"No, of course not. He called on us recently and I just wondered… I will he glad to see you at four, Mr. Helm. Thank you for calling."

I put down the phone, frowning. "He mentioned Buchanan," I said to Winnie. "That could mean something, but I'll be damned if I know what."

"At this stage of the game, one hardly ever knows what," she said. "Damn it, I'm stuck. Give me a hand, will you?"

She'd got out of bed, and she'd started pulling her nightie off over her head, forgetting to untie the flowing sash beforehand, and now she couldn't reach it. I yanked one end of the bow and it came loose. She emerged from the lingerie quite unself-consciously, revealing a nice little body, brown practically all over-but I noticed that she had got too much sun on the back and shoulders. They had peeled badly, not too long ago. Subsequent careful exposure to sun or a sunlamp had almost restored the uniform brown pigmentation, but not quite. Looking closely at her face as she turned, I now saw similar traces on her nose, masked by makeup.

It happens to lots of girls who try to do all their tanning on the first day of vacation. It wasn't out of character for the role she was playing, but I had a hunch the burns had not been the result of loafing too long on a South Seas beach, drink in hand. She'd apparently had a rough time out there. Well, it was none of my business.

"Well, we're committed," I said. "If the Simpson-Walling phone is tapped, or the office is wired for sound, as Washington seems to think, somebody's already checking on a gent named Helm, staying at Claridge's. We can expect the hostile eyes and ears to focus on us any minute."

She grimaced. "You don't have to tell me. I hope you're not one of the men in whom sex is followed by acute starvation. I'd like to try out that oversized bathtub before we have lunch." She slipped off her tiny wristwatch and looked at it before putting it on the dresser. "The date's for four? It's only noon now. That gives us plenty of time."

"Us?" I said. She glanced at me quickly. I said, "I don't really think you ought to be contaminated by any contact with Simpson and Walling, sweetheart. You're little Kid Innocence, remember? Let's keep you that way."

She hesitated, and said reluctantly, "I guess you're right. Okay, I stay. Matt?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't tell me what Buchanan died of."

"Bubonic plague," I said. "Also known as the Black Death. A fine upstanding adult disease for a change."

She whistled softly and said, "This McRow character. He sounds kind of crazy all around. Delusions of grandeur and stuff."

She looked cute standing there without anything on, but it was my chance to turn the tough-and-humorless treatment on her, and I wasn't about to pass it up.