Donald Hamilton - The Devastators

It was time for a show of indignation, and I said, "Look here, if you're hinting that I'm a fake, too-"

"No. That is why I apologized, Mr. Helm. All your family information-in sharp contrast to Mr.

Buchanan's-seems to be absolutely correct. Of course, without seeing your birth certificate and other evidence, I cannot be sure that the family you claim is actually yours, can I? But at least you have presented me with genuine data bearing on a genuine problem in my field, and I appreciate the courtesy."

I reflected that it was just as well, after all, that I had not tried to deceive this sharpie with forged documents. I said hopefully, "Then you'll take the job?"

"No?'

"But-"

"Let me explain, sir." His hands got hold of each other again, as if to make sure they wouldn't escape. "Your information is correct and fairly complete. It traces your maternal line back to the early seventeenth century. In other words, you already know what people usually employ a genealogist to find out. You are asking me to start where I would usually finish, and I cannot do it. What you want done is either too hard or much too easy."

"Just what does that mean?"

He looked up from his interlocked fingers and spoke as if he were lecturing a class of backward students: "The official registration of births, deaths, and marriages did not begin in Scotland until 1855, two hundred-odd years later than the period in which you are interested. Earlier, we must depend on the parish records and other documents that may have survived. I have just checked the status of the parish records of Dalbright. They are at present in the Register House in Edinburgh, and unlike some they are fairly complete, but they go back only to 1738. Beyond that-" He shrugged. "It is anybody's guess what diligent research could turn up. My own feeling is that it would be a waste of your time and money, sir. I doubt that you are interested in research for its own sake, and with respect to the more prominent families of Scotland, the basic work has already been done and is readily available to anyone who can read."

"Where?" 1 asked.

"Sir J.B. Paul's Scots Peerage gives the Glenmore history as far back as a certain Norman gentleman, Hugh Fitzwilliam de Clenemar, who was awarded lands in Scotland in 1278. You look surprised, Mr. Helm. You did not know that many of the old Scots names are of Norman origin? It is true. Sinclair, for instance, was originally St. Clair. And Robert the Bruce was descended from a Robert de Brus. Similarly, de Clenemar became Glenmore." Walling grimaced at his clasped hands. "I could, of course, have taken your money and copied the information out of the book and presented it to you, with a flourish, as the result of weeks of laborious research. Instead, I just give you the reference. The Scots Peerage, Volume III. You can find a set in any large library. I would lend you our copy, but we do not like to let our books leave the premises, and I am about to close up and go home for the day." He unwound his hands and placed them flat on the desk, preparing to rise. "I hope that is satisfactory, Mr. Helm."

"Why, sure," I said. "I mean, I appreciate your help, Mr. Walling, and I'll go after that book. You're sure I can't… I mean, I'd like to pay you for your trouble."

He shoved himself to his feet as if he had to lift a lot more weight than he actually possessed. "It was no trouble, no trouble at all. Incidentally, you will be interested to learn that one of your collateral ancestors, a later Hugh Glenmore, acted as a spy for the Stuarts-that romantic Prince Charlie of whom you may have heard. He was caught and beheaded for his pains. Well, the work of a secret agent has always been a dirty and dangerous business, hasn't it, Mr. Helm?"

"So they tell me," I said, rising to face him.

We stood like that for a moment. I reached out and retrieved my papers and put them away while he watched. His expression wasn't exactly hostile, but it wasn't friendly, either. He was making some allowances for me. He was giving me the benefit of the doubt, Glenmore-wise.

The family information I'd shown him had been accurate. He'd liked that. He was willing to assume it really applied to me. However, as far as my business here was concerned, he wasn't fooled for a minute. He knew that, whoever my ancestors might have been, I was no casual tourist.

He drew a long breath. "If you'll wait just a moment, Mr. Helm, I'll walk down with you."

"Sure."

I stood in the outer office while he got his hat and coat.

He ushered me out to the stair landing and paused briefly to lock the door behind us. As we descended the stairs, a small, slant-eyed, furtive-looking man in a pulled-down cap and buttoned-up trench coat emerged from a third-floor doorway marked Oriental Exports Ltd. He glanced our way, and scuttled downstairs ahead of us.

It was very neatly done. I mean, they had me sandwiched between them. Suddenly the sinister little man ahead swung around in a threatening manner. While I had my eyes on the big, bright knife that had appeared in his hand, Wailing blackjacked me from behind.

At least that was the way it was supposed to work. As I say, it was very neat-a little too neat. I've been in the business a reasonable length of time, and when somebody flaunts a junior-grade Fu Manchu under my nose, complete with slant eyes, furtive manner, and gleaming knife, I can't help wondering just what's supposed to hit me from elsewhere while I'm watching the Oriental menace going through the motions.

After all, I'm six feet four inches tall, and for a guy a foot shorter, four or five steps below me on a steep stairway, to do me any immediate damage, he's going to need a pogo stick-or lots of help. There had to be another element involved to make this a reasonable trap, and since there were only three of us present, that element had to be the gent above and behind me, however unlikely a candidate he might appear to be.

As the man below me turned, I brought my hand out of my pants pocket, flipped open my own little folding knife-which I keep in my hand whenever the situation looks doubtful-and pivoted sharply, ducking low and driving the blade up and back. If I was wrong, I was going to have some awkward explanations to make, but that decision is one I made long ago. The only death I'm not prepared to explain is my own.

I wasn't wrong. The whistling sap-I guess they call it a cosh in England-told me as much, as it missed my skull by an inch or so and glanced off my raised shoulder instead. Then my knife connected, but my luck was bad and I hit a belt buckle. I was once told that all British gentlemen wear suspenders-excuse me, braces-but apparently Mr. Walling was no gentleman. Well, I'd already begun to suspect that.

Because of the belt, I got no penetration, but the force of my lunge was enough to make him sit down hard, temporarily breathless. The sap got away from him and thumped a couple of times, rolling downstairs. At least for the moment he was out of weapons and out of wind.

I had to settle for that, since I could sense the yellow peril at my back, looking for a soft spot in which to plant that foot-long sticker. I didn't think I had time to turn. I just kicked out rearwards like a mule. My luck was improving a little. The kick connected somewhere and sent him stumbling back downstairs, but not far enough. He caught himself by the banister and came up again, catlike, his knife ready. It was three times the length of mine, and above me Walling was returning to life and groping in his clothes for some new weapon, as yet unidentified.

I was fast running out of strategy and tactics. The stairs were too narrow for any fancy work. It's only in the movies that a lone hero can stand off two trained and armed opponents indefinitely, unless he's got long legs and plenty of room to run in. I had the legs, but the space was lacking. It was beginning to look, I reflected grimly, as if Winnie might have to find herself another stalking-horse.