Donald Hamilton: The Removers

I said, "There was something you wanted to tell me."

"Ah, yes," he said. He took a sip from his glass, looked into it briefly, and looked up again. "My wife wrote you a letter," he said.

"Yes."

"Afterwards," he said, "not certain that it had been the right thing to do, she told me, don't you know?"

"I see."

He hesitated, and spoke bluntly: "I do not need any help in taking care of my family, Mr. Helm."

"Right," I said.

"I hate to seem inhospitable," he said, "but you don't look like a chap who'll suffer greatly from one delayed meal. You can buy a good dinner when you get back to Reno. In the future, if you wish to see your children at reasonable intervals-I'll make no objections to that, of course-let me know and I'll arrange for them to meet you away from here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite," I said.

He smiled. "It's an easy accent to mimic, isn't it? I do it myself to a certain extent. It is part of the camouflage, shall we say? I think you know what I mean. I intend to maintain it, just as I intend to maintain the other aspects of my life here, free from disturbance."

I said, "It's nice work if you can get it. I couldn't."

"I know," he said. "As I said earlier, I've heard much about you and, shall we say, guessed more? I intend to profit by your errors. You did make some, you know."

"Everyone does," I said.

"Perhaps," he said. "But one can try to make as few as possible, don't you know? An error I don't intend to make is to let you stay here. It is too bad. From what I've heard and seen, you're a man I might like. I wish we could go hunting together, for instance. It would be an interesting experience, at least. And of course it would be highly civilized of both of us. But in some cases, civilization can be overdone. Please don't think I like being rude. You are the first person who has ever been turned away from this house hungry. But at least you did get a drink." He smiled at me in a thin sort of way. It wasn't a very nice smile. It hinted that this man could be an ugly customer when he wanted to. "I'd settle for that, old chap," he murmured. "I really would."

When I got outside again, the sun was low above the mountains to the west. I hadn't bothered to bring an exposure meter-the light out there is fairly predictable

– so I just made an estimate and set the camera accordingly. As I did so, the voice of young Peter Logan reached me from around the corner.

"If you were in Guadalajara, you should have stopped by Lake Chapala to see us."

"I didn't know you'd be there. Anyway, I didn't feel much like seeing people." After a little, the girl said, "Did I tell you I've got a new car? Kind of a consolation prize. I guess, but who's going to complain about a Mercedes 19OSL? Real leather upholstery and fitted luggage, no less. Choice!"

The boy laughed. "What's with this choice?"

"Hadn't you heard? Nothing's cool any more. Everything's choice. Keep current, man!"

The dialogue made me feel older than the Sierras. I moved away from it, rounded up the kids, and posed them for a group picture in front of the house. Then I moved in for a few individuals, starting with the boys, since I didn't intend to spend much time on them. One snapshot of a little boy does about as well in your wallet as another. With a little girl, though, you want to make sure you get her looking pretty.

Betsy got restive, waiting, and ran off to play with the monkey-dog, as she called it-and it did look kind of like a great gray monkey, with its long tail and fur-framed face. It was lying peacefully beneath the hitching rack to which it had been tied. I figured the child was safe enough there, and turned back to the boys. The next thing I knew, Betsy was screaming and the dog was rearing wildly. Apparently she'd startled it out of a sound sleep, causing it to jump up and away. The leash, pulling tight, had knocked her over; and the animal, towering above her in panic, had frightened her further.

The dog was crying, too, fighting the choke collar and wailing like a lost soul. The girl in the bright green pants came running around the corner of the house. I started forward, putting the camera away, not hurrying too much. I hadn't been an acting papa for some time, but I could still tell the difference between a hurt child and one that was merely scared and indignant.

The girl snatched the leash loose and led the prancing dog off a little ways, trying to talk it in to a landing. It was all over her, still hovering on its hind legs, but she didn't seem concerned about a little dust on her fancy costume. On the other hand she wasn't taking her weird pet's troubles too seriously, either.

I heard her laughing tolerantly at the animal's antics as I bent over Betsy; then somebody shoved me violently aside. Beth was there, snatching up the child and hugging her tightly, and swinging around to look at the girl.

"Get out of here" Beth gasped. "Get out and take that that beast with you!"

The girl's laughter died. "But, Mrs. Logan, Sheik didn't mean-"

"Get out!" Beth cried. "We don't want you here, can't you understand? Not you or anybody else named Fredericks!"

It actually took me a little while, say a full second, to remember where I'd heard the name before.

THEN I WAS back in Washington, in the basement room with the projector, and Smithy's voice was saying: Martell was seen in Reno recently, carrying a gun for a racketeer named Fredericks. It wasn't an uncommon name; it could have been a coincidence. I'd worked for Mac much too long to believe it for an instant, but the meaning escaped me, for the moment.

Beth was still kneeling in front of me, hugging Betsy and glaring at the Fredericks girl. I would have thought she was being very unreasonable, if I hadn't remembered the guns on the saddles and under Logan's armpit, and her own evasive talk of cattle rustlers, for God's sake! Obviously everyone here was under heavy pressure of some kind.

"Get out!" Beth cried.

There was a little silence. The girl turned sharply away. "Sheik, heel!" she commanded, and marched off down the road with the big dog moving obediently beside her.

We watched them draw away. Beth raised her head abruptly. "Peter, where are you going?"

The boy had started across the yard towards a rustic carport, beneath which stood a racy-looking green Jaguar two-seater, and one of those big four-wheel-drive Land Rover station wagons they use for hunting in Africa- apparently the master of the place still went in for British machinery. Peter stopped and looked back defiantly. It was time for me to take a hand, before this developed into a serious family crisis.

"It's all right, Pete," I said, moving towards the truck. "I was leaving, anyway. I'll see that she gets home."

The boy hesitated. Clearly he'd have liked to play the role of rescuer himself. Logan's voice checked him, as he was about to speak. "All right, Peter. Mr. Helm will take care of it."

"Yes, sir."

I opened the truck door, and looked back. Logan was at Beth's side, erect in his faded khakis and bush jacket. The gun didn't show at all. He looked like the great white hunter. Maybe he'd been that, too. I gave him a kind of salute and he answered it. As I got into the truck, I heard him speak to Beth.

"There was no need for a scene, my dear. The girl has nothing to do with-"

"How do you know?" she retorted. "She's his daughter, isn't she? He could have sent her to-"

I had to close the door before it became obvious that I was listening, so I lost the rest of it. I kicked the starter and drove away without further ceremony, passing close by the boy as I made my turn in the yard. He glowered at me suspiciously. Obviously he had no faith in me as the champion of innocent womanhood. I didn't blame him a bit. I didn't have much faith in me, in that respect, myself.