Donald Hamilton: The Ravagers

Up here in Canada, things had been only a little quieter. A bush pilot was down in the brush somewhere to the north. A dynamite bomb had exploded in Montreal, in the province of Quebec, leading to speculations as to whether the French-speaking liberation movement was embarking on a new wave of terrorism. And closer to home-well, to the borrowed car in which I sat, that was as much home as I had-the penitentiary at Brandon had lost a couple of prisoners.

I frowned at the last item thoughtfully. It was definitely related to my mission, since it meant that the highways would probably be full of Canadian cops of all kinds, looking for the escaped convicts. I hoped they'd find them fast. Whatever it was I was supposed to do up here, I'd do it a lot easier without the local law looking over my shoulder.

There was a brief mention of a dead man found in a Regina motel-a United States citizen identified as Michael Green, of Napa, California. It was stated that, although death had apparently been caused by a self-administered overdose of sedative, the authorities were not quite satisfied with certain features of the case, and the investigation was being continued.

Nobody seemed to be interested in me sitting there. I drove off. Nobody seemed to be following me. I found a phone booth at the corner of a filling station that handled a brand of gasoline I'd never heard of before-White Rose, if it matters-and I stood inside the booth watching rain drip off the black VW while I talked.

"Say five-two, sir," I said. "Maybe a hundred and ten. Maybe twenty-five. Hair black. Eyes gray. Appendix scar. Small, crooked scar on right thigh that could have come from an old compound fracture. Maybe she fell out of a tree or something when she was a kid. She looks as if she'd have been the tree-climbing type." I knew there was something I'd forgotten. The funny thing was, I had to think a moment to remember it. "Oh, yes. She apparently had smallpox as a kid. It shows on her face."

Mac said dryly, two thousand miles away, "You seem to have made a thorough investigation, Eric. It wasn't really necessary. We have already checked on Miss Harms at Greg's request. She is perfectly genuine."

"Sure," I said. "Well, I couldn't take her word for it. I've got some fingerprints on a bottle, but under the circumstances I guess I'll just forget about what's outside and concentrate on what's inside, which happens to be pretty good Scotch. I see you got hold of your discreet official, sir. There is an announcement in the paper, but it doesn't say much. Did you happen to think to give them a dental description? I mean, there wasn't much in the way of a face or fingerprints to go by, and there's always a possibility that somebody's being very, very clever."

Mac said, "The possibility occurred to me, also. Gregory's identification is positive. We can dismiss the melodramatic idea of a substitution. With regard to this girl, we can check out the fingerprints you have, if you feel it's necessary."

I hesitated. "No," I said. "I think she's genuine, all right. But-"

"What is it that disturbs you, Eric? I gather you're not entirely satisfied."

I told myself not to be a sentimental dope. I was a coldblooded government agent on coldblooded government business, and no damn female could deflect me from my duty by a single degree.

"I don't like that acid, sir," I said. "Isn't it kind of out of character, for the subject we're watching? I mean, the Drilling subject."

Mac was silent for a moment, far away. Then he said slowly, "It seems to be a simple variation of the old ammonia technique. Silent and effective. If you first blind a man with a reagent that also causes excruciating, disabling pain, you can then deal with him at your leisure."

"Sure," I said. "But there are a couple of questions that bother me. Like, how would Mrs. Genevieve Drilling, housewife, learn about the old ammonia technique? And where would she get the drug-whatever it was, and however it was administered-that finished Greg off? I don't think the acid killed him."

Mac said, "It didn't. The cause of death was cyanide or some derivative, but we don't yet know exactly how it was administered. That angle is still under investigation. It could have been done with a dart fired from an airgun or spring gun, the kind that's often camouflaged as a man's cigarette case or a woman's compact. Or it could have been done quite simply with a hypodermic, if the murderer wanted to risk working in that close."

"I know," I said. "But now you're talking about real tricky spy stuff, sir. I didn't know we were dealing with a pro."

"Mrs. Drilling isn't a professional, but her male friend is."

"And just where is this guy Ruyter supposed to be hanging out with his ready stock of acids and poisons? Have we any reason to believe he's here in Regina?"

"We have no evidence that he isn't," Mac said. "At the moment we do not know, unfortunately, just where Mr. Ruyter is. Of course, if he should be in Regina, he could have committed the murder himself."

"It's a possibility," I said. "There's another possibility, sir, that I think we'd better consider."

"Go on."

I looked at the black Volkswagen in the rain, and I thought of a girl in black pants and a white shirt, and I thought of a girl in just a white shirt.

I said, "You said it was a variation of the old ammonia technique. But there's one big difference. The ammonia treatment generally wears off in time. As a rule it's employed by people who don't want to inflict permanent damage. But we've got a sadistic screwball loose here, somebody who likes to torment his, or her, victims before killing them." I hesitated, and went on stiffly: "Either that, or we've got somebody with a real big personal hate, say a girl with a marred face who's had a goodlooking man turn her down crushingly, with snide remarks about her disfigurement."

HAWNO SAID it, I felt much better. As Elaine herself had said, what happens in bed never makes any difference; and I'd done my duty, I'd made my report. Nobody, not even I, could accuse me of concealing my suspicions because I happened to like the girl.

After a pause, Mac spoke in the phone: "You're referring to Miss Harms, I presume. Are you proposing this theory seriously, Eric?"

"No, just calling attention to it as a possibility, sir. I thought I'd better mention it before we got our Drilling thinking all mixed up with a murder that might have been committed by somebody else."

"What kind of evidence do you have?"

"Strictly circumstantial. Motive and opportunity-she admits she was at the motel. She says Greg was already dead when she got there, but we don't have to believe her. And the weapon would have posed no problem for a trained agent, nor would finding the guts to use it."

There was another, longer silence. Then Mac said, "You realize that we are not assigned to investigate a homicide, Eric. That is a problem for the local police, and for the girl's own department, if she's guilty."

It was what I'd hoped he'd say. We don't make a fetish of avenging our dead; half the time we don't even stick around to bury them.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Any other problems?"

"Yes, sir. There are two male characters snooping around. One is tall, either bald or very blond-I couldn't really make him out in the dark-and answers to the name of Larry. He tends to get lost in the woods at night."

Mac said, "Larry Fenton. The other goes by the name of Marcus Johnston. He is the senior of the pair, in charge. I do not think he gets lost in the woods. A good, experienced man, apparently. This information came from the same source as that about Miss Harms. Whether they are all working together, or she is operating independently, I could not determine. I did not wish to ask too many questions. It is a rather delicate situation."