Donald Hamilton: The Wrecking Crew

Elin made a sharp little gesture. "We're wasting time!" Her face was pale. "Where are the films?"

I drew a long breath. "All right," I said resignedly. "All right, but I'm going with you."

It was the right move. It was the thing I was supposed to say. I saw the faint gleam of triumph in her eyes: my reaction was the one she'd been warned to expect, by Caselius, who'd know that in our business we don't have families or lovers or friends. He'd know that no threat to Lou would hold me back-she was a grown woman who had to take her own chances-and he expected me to come, wanted me to come, and was ready for me.

Elin said, with a show of surprise: "Do you expect me to lead you to the man you came here to kill? Do you take me for a fool, Cousin Matthias?"

I hesitated. Then I took her little gun from my pocket and laid it on the table. I hesitated again. Then I took my own gun out from where I was wearing it, tucked under my belt on the left side, butt forward. The agents of the F.B.I., those scientific boys, have determined that the best place to pack a small concealed weapon is on the right hip under the coat, high up, in a holster firmly anchored to the belt. You sweep the coat aside and go for the gun in a single movement. This is fine if you like holsters and are quite sure your right hand is going to be available when the time comes. Personally, I'm opposed to carrying a lot of leather gear-if discovered, it makes you look like a gangster- and if I'm going to break down and wear a firearm, I want it where I can reach it with either hand.

I laid the little Smith and Wesson beside the Spanish pistol. "There's your gun," I said. "And there's mine. Where's the risk? I'm alone. Caselus has at least five men; I met them in Stockholm-"

"No, only two now-" She checked herself quickly, flushing~

I grinned. "Okay. That checks. Two were picked up by the police today, weren't they, after the shooting here at the hotel? Caselius was kind of slow calling them off, wasn't he? If they hadn't shot the wrong man, he'd never have got his films… And then there was the guy last week, shot in the shoulder by my friend Vance. Miracle drugs or no miracle drugs, he'll be out of commission for a while, won't he?"

"He's dead!" Elin said angrily. "Your friend murdered him!"

I said, "I don't think so. Vance said he shot for the shoulder, and he was a boy who could call his shots. If the man's dead, which doesn't grieve me greatly, it's probably because Caselius couldn't be bothered patching up a cripple, and got rid of him… Okay, so he has two men and you, all armed, against one unarmed man. What kind of odds do you people want, anyway?"

She glanced at me and smiled. "Unarmed, Cousin Matthias? What about your little knife? Caselius says you are quite expert in its use."

I sighed, with the air of a man caught trying to pull a fast one. I took the Solingen knife from my pocket and laid it beside the little.38-that damn little revolver that we'd gone to so much trouble to get into the country. Well, that was the way it went. You spent weeks providing yourself with arms and explosives, and laid elaborate plans for their use, and then half the time you wound up doing the job barehanded. It was like my pretending not to know Swedish, another waste of time. I might have learned something important that way, but as it turned out, I hadn't.

"All right," Elin said slowly. "All right, I will take you. Now give me the films."

I went to the closet and pulled out the metal cartridge boxes, painted white to reflect the hot sun of my native state. Suddenly I found myself very homesick for the sight of a nice red sandstone butte, or a cute little gila monster. I flipped the lids up, displaying the solid masses of film inside.

"There you are," I said. "You'll find what you want down near the bottom. Take every box with a pencil dot in the 'a' of Kodak. No sense in my helping you, since you'd insist on checking my work anyway. I'll see if I can find you a couple of paper bags and some strong string."

LEAVING the hotel with her, I couldn't help being aware that I stood a good chance of running into an ambush anywhere along the line. Chance was too mild a word: it was a certainty that Caselius had something nice all figured out for me. Having used me, he'd want to get rid of me now, so he could relax and stop looking over his shoulder. It could be something very simple. There was even a possibility-Caselius' accomplices being strictly expendable, as Sara Lundgren had found out-that there would be somebody stationed outside the hotel to mow us both down, grab the packages of film, and run.

We made it without incident, however, and then we walked some distance, which didn't help the state of my nerves. When we reached the car, it looked familiar, which could explain why she'd parked it so far away. It was the same taillight-heavy Ford that Caselius-Raoul Carlsson then-had been driving the night he'd almost run me off the road in my little rented Volvo. Elin took the wheel. The sight of her expertly handling Caselius' car seemed to bring home what I'd learned about her. It made her a complete stranger, someone I'd have to learn to know all over again, if I decided it was worth the trouble and if I lived that long.

As we left Kiruna behind, she said, "These big American cars are terrible. So soft, like perambulators swaying on their springs. And these automatic gears-you Americans must not like to drive, or you would not invent such intricate machinery to do the driving for you."

If she was trying to pick an argument, she'd come to the wrong man. You couldn't give me an automatic transmission if you threw a Cadillac in with the deal. I've done some racing and I enjoy shifting gears. But it was hardly the time to discuss the shortcomings of Detroit iron.

"That's right," I said. "I remember. You're the Jaguarand-Lambretta kid." I watched the wilderness going past the window. "Where are we going?"

She gave me a secretive smile. "I will tell you only this much: it is a cabin on a lake upon which a small airplane with floats will land when the proper signal is sent." She glanced at me, and added slyly, "I am afraid you are going to have to walk a considerable distance, but I will try to pick the easiest way."

Proudly masculine, I started to tell this cocky girl that

I could danm well go anywhere she could, but I shut up quickly. If she wanted to consider me helpless in the woods, why should I disillusion her? Upon reflection, it seemed like a notion that deserved encouragement.

We drove eastward at a fast clip. The highway was gravel, but wide and well-graded, the nice, friendly, informal kind of road we used to have out west before they went crazy and started pouring asphalt on every little track across the desert. Around us, the arctic foliage still retained its bright fall colors. There was a low bush with small red leaves that grew everywhere, so that the ground seemed to be on fire. Presently Elin turned into a small logging road heading off in a northerly direction. It turned into a couple of ruts, and then into a trail full of mud holes. She stopped the car and got out.

"From here we must walk," she said.

"How far is it?" I asked, showing no enthusiasm for the prospect.

"About one Swedish mile: ten kilometers. That is about six of your English miles."

I said, "Six and a quarter, to be more precise, one English mile being equal to one and six-tenths kilometers."

She flushed slightly. "I am sorry. I do keep trying to educate you, don't I?"

I looked at her for a moment. The trouble with people is that they're practically all human. It would be much easier if they weren't. This kid had shoved a gun in my back, and threatened Lou with torture and death, but I couldn't seem to hate her very hard. As a matter of fact, I still kind of liked her, I discovered. I won't say her being lovely didn't influence me a little.