Donald Hamilton: The Devastators

"Very good," he said. "The auto will be in front of your hotel in ten minutes. Cheerio."

The telephone went dead. I took it from my ear and made a face at it before putting it down. Winnie was waiting for an explanation. I said, "That claimed to be a gent known as Sir Leslie Alastair Crowe-Barham, and from the voice I think it really was. It looks as if my phone call to that genealogical character is beginning to bring in results, although so far you could hardly call them profitable results. The trouble with operating in a friendly country is getting along with their people. Well, I'll do my best to convince him I'm just a blissful bridegroom. That'll put the least strain on international diplomacy."

"He's British Intelligence?" Winnie frowned quickly. "Wait a minute. Crowe-Barham. Not Intelligence, one of the other branches. They had him working out of Hong Kong for a while, didn't they?"

I shrugged. "They may have. I think he mentioned being born out that way, which would make him a logical candidate. I haven't really kept track of him. We worked together just once, several years ago. Now he claims he's being nice to me because I saved his life."

"Did you?"

I shrugged again. "I suppose so. So what? I'd brought him a long way, and I needed him alive, not dead; why should I let him be killed when I could prevent it by pulling a trigger? It was strictly impersonal on my part, and he knows it. He knows damn well he owes me nothing beyond a drink for good marksmanship, but right now, apparently, he thinks it advisable to profess undying gratitude. I guess he wants an excuse to keep a friendly eye on me. After all, it's his country we're playing games in. Did you ever meet him out East?"

Winnie shook her head. "No. You'd better give me a description, in case I should bump into him at a critical moment."

"Sure," I said. "Five eleven, a hundred and fifty-give or take five, reddish hair, gray eyes, a small military moustache. He'd be about thirty now, and he could have put on a little weight, but that languid British type generally doesn't. I never saw him with a monocle, but it would suit him fine." I grimaced. "He was really a pretty good boy-plenty of guts and stamina-but he nearly drove me crazy. I mean, he had a head full of notions about what was brave and what wasn't, as if anybody gave a damn; and his idiot theories about sportsmanship almost got him killed and a lot of other people with him. You know the kind of dope who won't shoot a sitting duck or a standing deer or man with his back turned-as if murder is less reprehensible if the victim is facing north rather than south, or vice versa. Of course he got a lot of that kid stuff knocked out of him on the job, and he's probably outgrown the rest, if he's still in the business, as he seems to be."

"And you feel sure he got in touch with you because of your call to Simpson and Walling?"

I moved my shoulders a bit. "Well, he implied that my name just kind of popped out of a routine checklist of incoming VIP's, but I've been in London three times since Adder, and he's never felt obliged to offer me a Rolls before, or even call up and say hello. Maybe I'll know more after I take this dry-land luxury cruise. Five will get you twenty I'll have the most aristocratic chauffeur in town.

Winnie was frowning dubiously. "Well, be careful," she said.. "At least until you check him out. I mean, just because a man was okay yesterday doesn't mean he's okay today, and the British make some funny security slips from time to time."

I reached around to give her a slap in the appropriate place. "Yes, ma'am. Any other advice or instructions, ma'am? Us young operatives sure do appreciate experienced leadership, ma'am."

She rubbed her behind through the little white shift and grinned at me. "All right, grandpa. Be a genius on your own. Just don't play with any strange germs."

"Check," I said. "And if you see a virile virus coming your way, you run like hell."

I walked downstairs, since we were only on the third floor-the second, by the European way of counting floors, which starts one story in the air. When I reached the front door, a taxi was just unloading a rather plump, smartly dressed woman with a lot of furs and stacks of matched airplane luggage. She swept inside without condescending to notice me standing there. I turned to look after her, keeping my glance low-just the usual, casual male appraisal of a pair of receding ankles. Although the lady was a bit too well-upholstered for my taste, the ankles weren't half bad. In fact, they were damn good. Well, I'd known they would be. I'd met them before.

The doorman was offering me the empty cab.. Even if I hadn't been expecting more luxurious transportation, I wouldn't have got into that particular taxi. It had pulled up just a little too coincidentally, and I knew a little too much about the woman who'd just got out of it, and maybe I wasn't supposed to recognize her with brown hair and a padded girdle. She'd been blonde when I'd last seen her, and her figure had been considerably less generous, although she'd never been exactly what you'd call a skinny girl.

A silvery Rolls-Royce glided to the curb in front of me as the taxi pulled away. I'd guessed right about the driver. The face under the chauffeur's cap was lean and sported a small reddish moustache. We drew away from the hotel in dignified silence. With its rich leather upholstery and velvety ride, it was an impressive vehicle, although you might have found it a little cramped if you'd been brought up on Cadillacs: the Rolls isn't really a big car.

I said, "That cap looks real good on you, amigo."

Sir Leslie Crowe-Barham said without turning his head, "You recognized the lady, of course."

"Probably better than you," I said. "Vadya and I had a lot of fun together down in Arizona and Mexico not so long ago. She's quite a girl. I'd rather have a cobra loose around the place." I grimaced. "Particularly when I'm on my honeymoon."

"Quite. If you've got a four-o'clock appointment, we'd better hurry, old chap. Where can I take you?"

"Wilmot Square," I said. "124 Wilmot Square."

Of course he knew damn well where I was going, having undoubtedly listened in on my phone call to Walling, but he wasn't admitting to any such ungentlemanly shenanigans, any more that I was admitting to being anything but the doting husband of a sweet young bride.

Simpson and Walling's offices were in an old stone building without an elevator. A dusty sign informed me that I wanted the fourth floor, and I started up the dark stairs.

Nobody jumped at me from the shadows with knife, blackjack, or garotte; nobody shot at me with pistol, crossbow, or blowgun; but it was the kind of place where exotic possibilities came to mind. I couldn't help remembering Mac's words: You are the stalking-horse. I was here to attract attention. It didn't have to take the form of seductive ladies in mink or more or less friendly agents in silvery Rolls-Royce cars. It could come as just a plain old bullet in the back.

I stopped in front of the door with the correct legend- SIMPSON AND WALLING, GENEALOGISTS-and paused to catch my breath. There was a button made for pushing, and I pushed it. Footsteps approached the door, which opened cautiously to reveal a thin, sandy, tweedy man with a thin, sandy moustache and pale, nervous eyes of an indeterminate slaty color.

"Mr. Walling?" I said. "I'm Matthew Helm. I called you earlier."

"Oh," he said. "Oh, yes. Do come in, Mr. Helm."

I stepped into a large, untidy room littered with books. There were books on the big table, books on the desk in the corner, and books on the floor, as well as on the shelves along the wall. Mostly they were impressive tomes, hefty enough so that it would take a strong and determined man to think of curling up with one for an evening's quiet reading.