Donald Hamilton - The Wrecking Crew

Her eyes widened slightly. "What's the message, Matt?" I said, "I offered you a deal, remember? You turned it down."

"I remember."

I said, "Well, if Massa Caselius should be in any way dissatisfied with the films you-all went to so much trouble to get tonight, honey, you just whisper in his ear that I might be able to help him out. There's only one catch. He'll have to come in person. I still have a downright yearning to see his face."

She was staring at me, wide-eyed, with a look of shock and horror. "Oh, no!" she whispered, as if to herself, and then to me: "Oh, you fool! You stupid, meddling fool! How could you-"

Her voice caught on a sob. She whirled and snatched at the door handle in a blind sort of way, got the door open, and ran out. I heard the scuffing sound of her soft shoes go down the hall fast.

After a moment, I shrugged and went after her. I was a success. I'd got a great big reaction. I'll be honest and admit I didn't know why. I went after her to find out. She was turning down the stairs as I came into the hall. I heard her stop halfway down. I went as far as the corner and took a cautious look.

From the head of the narrow stairs you looked right down into the lobby. Actually, it was little more than a vestibule, with just room enough for people to transact their business at the desk and hang up their coats on the way to the dining room. This limited space, I saw from my point of vantage, was rapidly becoming occupied by cops and other people, just as fast as they could get in the door. Halfway down the stairs, pressed against the wall, was Lou, staring down at this influx of law-enforcement talent.

When she came out of her trance and tried to flee, it was too late. One of the policemen had spotted her and pointed her out to Grankvist, our blond friend with the pale eyebrows. He was fast on his feet. He came up those stairs like a man in first-class condition. She missed a step in her haste, coming back up toward me; she went to one knee. Before she could recover, Grankvist had her.

Surprisingly, she gave him a fight. He was just a poor damn government employee doing his duty, but she gave him the battle that, with much more provocation, she hadn't given me. He got thoroughly bitten and scratched, and two tall policemen had to give him a hand, before he got her subdued.

I'd been too busy watching the ruckus and keeping in the shadow and out of sight-they'd been pretty close to me- to pay much attention to what was going on below. Now, as Lou was hauled down the stairs, I saw a familiar figure down there. They grow Swedes tall, but they don't generally grow them very wide. This man was both tall and wide. He crowded that little vestibule just by being in it.

"I. see you've got her," he said in English to Grankvist.

"Yes, Herr Wellington," said the blond man, patting his scratched face with a handkerchief. "We have her. But the next time we work together for the good of our respective countries, may I suggest that you take the woman?"

Wellington laughed. "I warned you she'd be a wildcat." He gestured toward the door. "Our part of the operation went like clockwork. We caught him with the photographs in his possession, all legal and proper. Herr Grankvist, may I present Herr Caselius?"

I looked toward the door. The dapper small figure was practically invisible in that room jammed with tall men; but I had reason to remember a deserted road and a swift blade. Unlike Lou, the little man had apparently allowed himself to be taken without a struggle. He looked neat and serene between his police guards, and the pin in his tie reflected the light brightly.

"There must be some mistake," he said calmly. "My name is Carlsson. Raoul Carlsson, of the house of Carisson and LeClaire…

Well, I had my answer, for what it was worth. I went back to my room. They'd be coming for me soon enough, but maybe I could get some sleep first.

IT WAS four in the morning when they started breaking down the door. At least it sounded like that to a man fighting his way upward out of fathoms of sleep. Everybody else had seemed to have no trouble whatever getting in and out of my hotel rooms, wherever they might be. I couldn't see why these jokers had to make such a production of it.

"This is the police." It was Grankvist's voice. "Open the door, Herr Helm."

"I'm coming," I said.

I turned on the light and glanced at the knife on the bedside table. There have been cases of people getting dead from opening the door to cops who weren't cops. But the voice was familiar and I wanted to look gentle and peaceful in the eyes of the local law. I'd finished one theatrical engagement; now I had a new role to play. I dropped the knife back into the pocket of my pants, where they hung on a chair, yawned, checked the time-that's when I learned it was four o'clock-and went over barefooted to let them in.

I turned the key in the lock. The door came back at me, knocking me off balance. I caught a glimpse of Wellington's massive shape; then his fist caught me alongside the jaw and I went sideways and down. Like I say, I never could do much with fists myself, but there are people who can.

He gave me no chance to pick myself up. He was on top of me as I got to hands and knees. He was growling like a bear. I gathered he was mad about something. I could even make a fairly accurate guess what it was. He clubbed me across the back of the head and I went down again. I had barely consciousness enough left to roll away, knowing that a kick was next. It caught me in the ribs and slammed me against the wall. That was enough. I curled up and played possum. He kicked me once more and yanked me up and slapped my face a couple of times, but you don't get much of a charge from beating up a guy who apparently can't feel it. He let me go again, and I slithered artistically to the floor and stayed there with my eyes closed, thinking about the fun I'd have with him some day. I love big tough men who shove me around. They buried the last one I met with five bullets in his chest.

"You dirty renegade," Wellington was saying. "You miserable scum, to call yourself an American-"

I didn't pay much attention to him. What he said didn't matter. He wasn't going to finish me off, obviously, and that was his mistake. He got into a hassle with Grankvist, who thought he'd overdone it a bit, I guess. Finally Grankvist lost his patience.

"I. am in command here, Herr Wellington!" he snapped. "Your help has been appreciated, but if you do not take control of yourself I will call the men outside and have you escorted from this room. There was no need for such violence!"

Wellington said in a sour voice, "All right, all right, I'll be good. I just wanted a couple of swings at him before you boys took over. After all the trouble we've gone to, to have it all shot to hell because of one lousy-"

"Please, Herr Wellington!" Grankvist approached and knelt beside me. "Herr Helm."

He rolled me over. I let myself come to, gradually, opening my eyes and looking up into his narrow Nordic face. I sat up and rubbed my jaw without speaking. Grankvist looked embarrassed.

"Are you all right, sir? Can you stand up?" He helped me to my feet. "It was an error on my part, I'm-afraid. I misjudged the strength of Herr Wellington's feelings."

I said, "That's not the only part of Herr Wellington you misjudged the strength of. Jesus!" I glanced at the big man, and looked back to Grankvist. "What's that gorilla have against me, anyway?"

Grankvist frowned. "You ask that?"

"Damn right I ask it," I said. "I'm just a poor damn American photographer, I know, a foreigner and all that, but I was under the impression this was a peaceful and law-abiding country. So the police wake me up in the middle of the night, and I open the door, and a crazy man eight feet tall knocks me down and walks all over me!"