Donald Hamilton: The Wrecking Crew

So I held my temper in check, and refrained from pointing out that I was, technically, quite independent of her authority or anybody else's except Mac's. I didn't even bother to tell her that her nursemaiding of me from Gothenburg to Stockholm-as she'd called it-and her presence in my room now, had probably left me with just about as much of my carefully constructed cover as a shelled Texas pecan. She wasn't exactly inconspicuous, with that hair. Nobody watching me could have missed her. Her opposite number on the other team, here in Stockholm, would be bound to know who she was. Any hint of communication between us would make everybody I was to deal with very suspicious indeed.

I was supposed to have got in touch with her by telephone, when I judged it safe. By barging in like this, she'd knocked hell out of most of my plans. Well, it was done, and there was nothing to be gained by squawking about it. I'd just have to refigure my calculations to allow for it, if possible.

I said humbly, "I'm very sorry, Aurora-or should I say Miss Borealis. I didn't mean to-"

She said, "My name is Sara. Sara Lundgren."

"A Svenska girl, eh?"

She said stiffly, "My parents were of Swedish extraction, yes. Just like yours, according to the records. I happen to have been born in New York City, if it's any business of yours."

"None at all," I said. "And I'm truly sorry if I've fouled things up in any way by calling the Taylor woman, but I'd sent her a radiogram from the boat saying I'd be here by three, and the train was late, so I thought I'd better get in touch with her before she got tired of waiting and left the hotel. I'd have checked with you tonight, Miss Lundgren, you may be sure."

"Oh," she said, slightly mollified. "Well, we might have had some important last-minute instructions for you; and I do think orders are made to be obeyed, don't you? In any case I should think you'd want to hear what I know about the situation before you go barging into it like a bull buffalo. After all, this isn't a ladies' tea, you know. The man we're after has already cost us three good agents dead, and one crippled and permanently insane from torture he wasn't supposed to survive-not to mention the Taylor woman's husband. We don't really know what happened to him, except from her story, which may be the truth but probably isn't. I know you were well-briefed before you left the States, but I should think you'd want the viewpoint of the agent on the spot as well."

"Naturally," I said. "I was hoping you could give me a lot of details that weren't in the official reports, Miss Lundgren."

She smiled abruptly. "I suppose I should apologize. I didn't really mean to throw my weight around, but I do like things to be done according to the rules… and you did hurt my feelings, you know."

"Hurt your feelings?" I said, surprised. "How? When?" She laughed. "When a strange lady addresses you in a public place, Mr. Helm, like a railroad station, and smiles her prettiest, you're not supposed to turn on your heel and walk away. It makes her feel… well, unattractive. I was trying to pick you up; I thought that would be the most convincing way of making contact. Instead, you left me standing there with my mouth open, looking like a fool." She laughed again. "Well, the subject is waiting for you; we'll have to talk later. I run a little dress shop on Johannesgatan-gata means street, you know. I live in the apartment above the shop. The stairs are at the side… No, that won't do, will it? You'd better not come there."

After the way she'd already compromised my act, it didn't make much difference. But I said, "It doesn't seem advisable. Although it would be pleasant."

Her smile died. "You can stop that right now, my friend. I've been in this work quite a while; and when I make a midnight appointment for business, I assure you that's all it is-business. Anyway, I'm engaged to be married as soon as I've put in my time here. Please understand clearly that just because I don't like a man to walk away from me as you did doesn't mean I want to go to bed with him!"

I said, "It's understood. Sorry."

She said curtly, "You'll probably have dinner with the woman if you can manage, won't you? You'll have lots of technical matters to discuss with her, but please try to keep the conversation out of the boudoir. You seem to fancy yourself as a fast worker, and that may be the way to handle it, all right. But you'll have plenty of time later, if things work out, and I don't want to have to wait all night for you.

"As soon as you can get rid of her, after dinner, go out for a walk. It won't surprise anybody. Everybody walks in this country. You never saw such a bunch of energetic people. When you come out of the hotel, cross the street to the seawall and turn left. Follow the water. There's a kind of park along the shore. After fifty yards of that, there's a phone booth. You've seen their phone booths? On stilts, kind of, with a luminous white globe on top and illuminated advertising on all four sides, under glass. Very gaudy, par

ticularly at night. You can't miss it."

"I'll try not to."

"When you get there, pretend to make a call, and wait," she said. "I'll be somewhere around. I'll contact you as soon as I'm sure you're not being followed." She smiled at me. "I'm sorry if I was unpleasant. I think we're going to get along."

As I watched her leave the room, walking with a restrained and decorous motion of the narrow hips under the tweed skirt, I wasn't a bit sure of that. I've never managed to get along well with any woman who had that kind of a prissy behind.

WHEN I knocked on the door of Room 311, it was opened for me by a lean dark girl in tight black pants. She was also wearing a loose bulky black sweater and a long cigarette holder. Despite the beatnik get-up, or maybe because of it, she looked much too young to be the woman I'd spoken with on the phone, and I said:

"I'm Matthew Helm. Is Mrs. Taylor here?"

"I'm Lou Taylor," she said, and there was that deep, hoarse voice again. She held out her hand. "Glad to meet you, Helm." I'm always a bit taken aback when a woman shoves her mitt at me like a man, and I guess my face showed it, because the girl laughed huskily and said, "You'll be doing it, too, after you've been here a week. These damn Swedes shake hands at the drop of a hat, males and females both… Well, don't just stand there, come on in. What kind of a crossing did you have?"

"Smooth," I said. "A bit foggy in spots."

"You can count yourself lucky," she said. "The Atlantic can get pretty sloppy at this time of year."

She had closed the door. I followed her deeper into the room. It wasn't laid out quite like mine, but there was a family resemblance. A man was perched on the arm of the only comfortable chair in the place, a big, overstuffed piece by the window. He rose and came forward.

He was tall and big-shouldered and some years my junior, with a handsome boyish face and tightly curling chestnut hair cut quite close to his head as if he was ashamed of it. He was wearing narrow Ivy League gray flannels-coat and pants-a white shirt with a button-down collar, and a bow tie. The tie had been tied by him, not by a machine. I was told by my dad once that a man who tied his own ties was much more likely to be a gentleman than one who did not. Just what constitutes a gentleman in this day and

age, the old man didn't bother to say. To him, the distinction was clear. It must have been nice.

The man facing me, gentleman or not, was the kind of guy who makes you ponder instinctively if you can take him barehanded or if you'll need a club. I don't mean that he looked particularly objectionable. He merely oozed that aggressive masculinity that makes such thoughts come into other men's minds. The funny thing was, I'd met him somewhere before. Even if I hadn't vaguely remembered his features, I'd have known by the look of surprised recognition that showed for an instant in his yellowish eyes.