Matt Helm--The Interlopers (4 page)

Then I snapped my fingers to arouse the pup, went out to the truck, and drove to a specified gas station a few blocks away. Why my motel hadn’t also been specified, since there seemed to be only one in town that would take dogs, I didn’t know, but nobody’s planning is perfect, not even ours, so I won’t complain about Mr. Smith’s.

While the attendant was filling the tank, I went over to the phone booth at the side of the lot and dialed a number which, as it was supposed to, didn’t answer. I let it ring seven times, as instructed, and hung up disgustedly, retrieved my dime and went back to the truck, leaving the ducky little plastic box magnetically attached to the underside of the metal shelf in the booth. It was a nice routine, and it made me feel just like a real secret agent, Hollywood division.

“Where can I buy some fishing tackle around here?” I asked the attendant as I forged Grant Nystrom’s signature to the credit-card slip.

“Right down the street about a block,” the man said. “Just across from that supermarket—you can see the sign. Leave your rig here if you like. Just drive it over against the fence.”

If he hadn’t suggested it, I would have. I thanked him, parked the truck, stuck my head into the camper and told the pup to behave, and went off. I spent five minutes walking to the store, and twenty minutes picking out some spinners and sinkers more or less like those the girl had given me, and pumping the salesman for steelhead-fishing advice. That still left me twenty minutes to kill of the forty-five I was supposed to stay away, and I crossed the street to the supermarket and bought a bag of dry dog food, and some bread and salami for human-type sandwiches. That took another fifteen minutes. The five-minute walk brought me back to the telephone right on time. I dialed the same number. This time I got an answer.

“What’s the big idea?” asked an aggrieved male voice. “Grasshoppers, for God’s sake!”

“That’s what was handed me this morning,” I said. “They didn’t have microdots for eyes, or anything?”

“You got them from the girl you met on the beach?”

“That’s right. I’m glad your snoopers are keeping their eyes open. Have they learned anything about her?”

“Name, Patricia Bellman. Degree from Berkeley, currently working in Seattle. That’s all to date; more will be supplied as forthcoming. If required. But she’s either pulling your leg, or she’s just a generous lass who passes out angling equipment to handsome strangers. Live bait and fishing tackle is all you’ve got.”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll do some more work on it and get in touch again when I can.”

“If you get any more ’hoppers, check them out yourself. I’ll be happy to lend you a microscope. Be careful.”

I retrieved the magnetic capsule from under the shelf, where they’d returned it after examining the contents. I got into the truck and drove away, wondering if we were fooling anybody with this nonsense. I headed back to the motel, and hesitated momentarily, before turning into the driveway. A sporty little fastback Ford Mustang, maroon in color, was parked in front of my ground-floor room, a tall, slim girl in jeans was knocking at the door. I drew a long breath, completed the turn, and parked the camper unit beside the pony-Ford. Pat Bellman looked around, recognized me, and came over.

“I was just getting some gas,” I said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. But you’re kind of early for our lunch date, aren’t you?”

She laughed. “I was on my way out to the ranch, to change for the great occasion, but I couldn’t resist stopping by to show you something. Come over here.”

She walked to the sloping rear of the Ford and yanked the trunk with a flourish. Inside lay the biggest trout I’d ever seen at close range, steely-dark and impressive-looking even in death.

“God, what a beauty!” I said. “How big is he?”

“Around thirty inches and twelve pounds,” she said happily, closing the trunk again. “I feel a little guilty about it, Mr. Nystrom. It’s really your fish. After you left, I waded out where you’d been standing, and on the third cast, wham! He went halfway across the river on his first run. It took me fifteen minutes to land him. Well, I thought you’d like to see him. Now I’d better go get cleaned up.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s eleven-thirty and I’m hungry again and you look all right to me. Of course, you know the town better than I do, but I hadn’t noticed anybody being particularly formal around here.”

“Well, my hands are pretty fishy—”

“Come on in and wash up while I hunt up the pup’s registration certificate and pedigree.” When she hesitated, I said, “We’ll leave the outside door open, if you’re worried about your reputation or something.”

She flushed slightly. “Don’t be silly, I just… All right. Just let me get a comb and lipstick out of the glove compartment.”

Any room with an unmade bed tends to create a certain awkwardness in a newly formed man-woman relationship, no matter how platonic. As yet we had nothing in common but fish and dogs, but when the girl paused just inside the door, it was clear that other possibilities were occurring to her—whether favorably or unfavorably I couldn’t tell. It didn’t really matter. The situation obviously called for me to behave like a perfect gentleman, for a start. Later, if necessary, I could easily break down and become a lecherous heel.

“That door over there,” I said. “There are clean towels in the rack over the john.”

“Thanks.”

I grinned as she disappeared into the bathroom. Her voice had been just a trifle cool. As usual, the gentlemanly approach had given me a slight psychological advantage. No lady, no matter how virtuous, really enjoys having it demonstrated that she’s so undesirable in a strange man’s eyes that she’s perfectly safe alone with him in his motel room.

By the time she’d finished in there, I’d found the necessary papers. We spent lunch, at the nearby café, discussing Hank’s pedigree in detail—well, the pedigree of the true Avon’s Prince Hannibal of Holgate, deceased. The girl knew her hunting dogs. She concentrated on the field champions, working retrievers proved in field trials, in action against stiff competition. She practically ignored the dog show champions, pretty dogs who’d proved only that they could trot around a show ring without falling over their feet. If she was a phony, she was a good one.

Well, I’d been pretty well briefed too. I managed to discourse knowledgeably about the various illustrious Labradors featured in the pedigree, and the kennels that had produced them, and the trainers who’d trained them, and the events in which they’d performed most notably. Maybe my days in San Francisco hadn’t been wasted. Afterwards, having come to terms—I stood to make a hundred dollars on the deal, if Hank proved his virility in a satisfactory manner—we went out to our vehicles, parked at the curb.

“Just follow me,” she said. “It’s only about seven miles. The place belongs to my aunt and uncle. I’m a city girl myself these days—I live in Seattle—but an apartment’s no place to keep a big dog when you go to work every day, so I leave Maudie here and come down weekends.”

I watched her get into her car. Girls in jeans leave me pretty cold as a rule, but I’m not unreasonable on the subject; I’ll accept a good excuse like hunting or fishing. The kid was very convincing and I was beginning to like her, neither of which was good. I mean, if she really was what she claimed to be, I was wasting my time with her, and in any case my personal likes and dislikes were totally irrelevant to the job at hand.

Well, there was obviously nothing to do but officiate at the proposed canine nuptials and see what, if anything, happened besides canine sex. If she made no further move to give me what I’d come here as Grant Nystrom to get, I’d have to break away to reach the alternate drop in time for the scheduled contact at four-thirty and see who turned up there.

The ranch to which she led me was a rather shabby place in the bleak, rolling hills north of Pasco. No expert on the U.S. northwest, I had visualized the whole state of Washington as a land of lush wheatfields. This looked more like the arid range country of my native New Mexico, where you figured on forty acres to support one cow.

There was a small ranch house, a windmill, an old pickup truck with a flat tire, some tired farm machinery, a barn, and a battered outbuilding or two. A few scraggly trees tried to shade the house but gave no protection to the bare, trampled yard.

Pat Bellman parked beside the house and got out and looked around. “Well, their car’s gone; I guess there’s nobody home,” she said as I came up to her. “You might as well turn your dog loose; he can’t get into much trouble around here.” She watched Hank give me a couple of slobbering licks before taking off across the yard. “He’s pretty fond of you, isn’t he?”

I shrugged, wiping my face. I got a leash from inside the camper and tucked it into my hip pocket in case it should be needed. “I wish he’d find some other way of showing it,” I said. “Where’s the blushing bride-to-be?”

“We’ve got a kennel of sorts out behind the barn. This way.” Pat laughed, walking beside me. “We don’t usually keep her locked up around here, of course, but with a female dog—particularly a pedigreed female dog—there are a couple of times a year when you’ve got to be careful. I’d hate winding up with a litter of half-coyote pups… Oh, damn!”

She hurried forward. I followed more slowly around the corner of the barn to the dog run, an enclosure of fence posts and hog wire with a little wooden doghouse at one end. There was a door in the other end of the run. This stood ajar, and there was no Labrador bitch in sight.

“Damn, damn,
damn!
” Pat Bellman said. “They must have had her in the house and forgot to wire the latch down when they put her back… Now where’s your dog got to? Let’s not lose both of them.”

I blew the whistle. After a moment, Hank came charging around the barn and romped up to me where I stood at the kennel door. He sat down beside me automatically, as he was supposed to, and looked up, obviously wondering why he’d been summoned. I gave him a pat for his obedience.

“He’s all right,” I said. “He sticks around pretty well. What do we do about yours? We’d better get her back quick, before she meets some virile male.”

“Well,” she said, “well, if you don’t mind helping—”

“Just tell me where to look.”

“There’s a house over that ridge,” she said, pointing. “They’ve got a kind of collie-looking mutt that plays with Maudie; she could have headed over that way. Why don’t you take a quick look, while I take the car and drive around a bit; I know the back roads better than you do.”

“Sure,” I said. “Okay, pup, off we go to find your lady love.”

As I walked slowly through the brush toward the bare, open ridge ahead, with Hank cruising back and forth in front of me, I heard the Mustang start up and drive away. I didn’t glance around. I was busy trying to find the rifle, without seeming to look, and presently I had it located by the glint of light off the telescopic sight—a big one by the looks of it—on a little brushy knoll some hundred and fifty yards off to the left, from which the sniper could easily cover the entire hillside.

Well, it wasn’t a bad trap, or wouldn’t have been if the girl had known as much about dogs as she’d pretended to.

When you’re hunting an animal that can smell you, you’ve got to figure your approach very carefully according to the wind; when man is the quarry you can forget such refinements. The wind was right, anyway, blowing gently from the sniper to me, and there was good stalking cover the whole way—if I could only break away to take advantage of it without getting shot first.

I mean, if I could see him up there through the intervening brush, he could undoubtedly see me down here, and he was presumably doing his looking through the rifle-scope, with his finger on the trigger. I was gambling that he wouldn’t try to drive a light, high-speed, easily deflected .243 bullet through a mess of twigs and branches as long as he had a good chance—or thought he had—of catching me in the open if he waited. But the minute he guessed that I was aware of the trap and trying to get out of it, he’d undoubtedly shoot rather than risk losing me.

Of course, it didn’t have to be a .243 and he didn’t have to be the mysterious marksman who’d killed Nystrom and his dog with two well-placed shots for reasons still to be determined. But that sharpshooter was the most likely candidate, and I wanted badly to get out of his sights before he chalked up two Nystroms—one real and one phony—to his credit.

Luck helped me out, in the form of a rabbit that took off in front of Hank, who was too young to resist the temptation. He was gone in a flash, right on the bunny’s heels. Running rabbits is a serious crime for a bird dog of any kind, and it gave me an excuse to blast fiercely on the whistle and shout loud imprecations that I hoped carried well against the wind to the man with the gun while I stumbled clumsily after the chase—until it carried me out of sight into a brushy gully.

Crouching there, I continued to whistle and yell until the pup came slinking back, very guilty and ashamed of himself. I spoke to him severely and used the leash to tie him to a tree, letting him think that was part of the punishment. Then I drew a long breath; I’d made it out of sight, and there were no bulletholes in me, and my adversary was not alerted. At least I hoped he wasn’t. Leaving the pup tied, keeping low, I made a quick circle of the little knoll, slipping up behind the rifleman without further trouble. When I got within a couple of hundred yards of the spot, I could see that he was still there.

I had a good view of the sole of a boot sticking out of the brush, and from this angle I could see about half a bare head above the undergrowth. It had a lot of hair on it, but sexwise that means nothing these days, and as far as I’m concerned, no double standard applies to people who hide in bushes with rifles, anyway.

With a rifle of my own, I might have tried the shot, but all I had was Grant Nystrom’s choice of sidearms: a short-barreled Colt .357 Magnum revolver with the butt trimmed down for concealment purposes. It wasn’t a bad gun as revolvers go—it was a lot more gun than the .38 Specials we’re usually issued—but it was no long-range weapon, and I’m not much of a long-range pistol-shooter, either. The long-range capabilities were all with the opposition, which made my problem clear if not simple: I had to get close enough for one good shot before he spotted me, since I probably wouldn’t be given time for a second should the first one miss.