I grimaced. That wouldn't do for me. Reading the reports of three separate investigators left too many open spaces. Each man would make his own interpretation of what was significant in the record of the man he was investigating. I wanted direct comparisons of the actual files on each man.
"Sorry." I smiled at the Major. "No good. Please have each man's complete file here in the morning. I want to study them together, at one time, in one place. I'm not going to look for the big things. It's the little things that count in this business, Major, because suddenly you find out they're not really little things."
Major Rothwell turned to Mona, and I saw she had already picked up the phone and was dialing. He smiled at me.
"See what I mean, Carter?" he commented. "She's thoroughly efficient." He glanced at his watch. "Normally, we re not here anywhere near this late, but we had everybody put on overtime to wait for you. We've rented a small cottage for you at the edge of town. It's roomier and a bit nicer than the hotels. And closer to our offices, too. A car is outside for your use."
"Much obliged," I said. Mona's cool, crisp voice cut into the conversation.
"All the files you want will be delivered here in the morning, Mr. Carter," she said. Major Rothwell stood up.
"I suggest we call it a night and get a fresh start in the morning," he said. "Mona will show you to the car and to the cottage. I'm expected at my club. See you tomorrow, Carter."
Much of the British style was still part of the Australian military, I realized. I waited as Mona gathered her things and then she was beside me, smiling up at me.
"No one told me you were so bloody big and good looking," she said as we went outside to where a cream-colored Anglia stood at the back of the building in a small parking lot. Mona handed me the keys to it and went around to the other side.
"No one told me the Major had an assistant that looked like you," I countered as I slid into the driver's seat, filling up the front of the small English Ford. Mona was nestled in the opposite corner of the seat, the mini skirt revealing the slow, lovely curve of her thigh. Her very large and very deep breasts were, in their way, as direct and frank as the openly interested expression of her eves.
I followed her directions and headed the little English Ford down a broad street through light traffic.
"I try to leave the office behind when I walk out the door, Yank," Mona said. "But I think there's something I should tell you. From what I've seen, I'm convinced that all this is nothing more than our rotten, blundering incompetence and inefficiency. It's just taken till now to start erupting all over the bloody place."
I smiled at her. She was echoing Major Rothwell's thoughts with greater conviction. Perhaps one of their troubles was that they'd rather blame themselves than face the unpleasant and unnerving fact that outside forces were at work under their very noses. I held back comment and she didn't say any more about the matter. We had reached a cluster of neat, small wooden cottages, freshly painted, and Mona told me to stop. She handed me another key.
"Number five," she said. "You'll find it nice enough, Mr. Carter."
"Try Nick," I suggested and she smiled.
"All right, Nick," she said. "Now how about driving me to my place? Just go straight and you'll run right into the Castle Apartments. It's a development just outside of Townsville."
We reached the apartments, the typical angular cluster of apartment buildings, not as tall as the ones in American cities but otherwise very much the same.
"I hope you won't be too busy to come up for dinner some evening, Nick," Mona said. The green of her eyes glowed softly, almost like a traffic fight telling me to move ahead.
"I'll see to it," I said quietly, obeying traffic signals.
Before turning in that night, behind the locked door of the small but neatly furnished cottage, I took Wilhelmina out of her special shoulder holster with the watertight flap. Of all the girls I'd ever known, Wilhelmina had always been the most reliable. Her 9 mm. slugs spoke with total authority, her fast, hair-trigger firing action a reassuring item to have working for me. When I'd put a drop of oil on the takedown latch and the recoil spring, I put the Luger back into its holster. Taking off my shirt, I unstrapped the thin leather sheath from my right forearm. From the narrow casing I drew Hugo out, the pencil-thin stiletto of tempered steel lying in my palm, a beautiful and deadly friend. Razor sharp on both edges that tapered to a perfect point, the blade had both balance and weight for unerring accuracy when properly thrown. Both weapons were more than just tools of the trade. They were a part of me. I wiped the blade off with a drop of oil and strapped the sheath back onto my arm, point upwards. At the proper pressure, Hugo would drop into my palm for instant use. Like all old friends, they were good to have around.
II
Part of this business is to know how to dig. Hawk was fond of saying that a good AXE agent had to have the strength of a bull, the courage of a lion, the cunning of a fox and the ability to dig like a mole. I was at the mole part with the pile of records Mona Star placed in front of me the next morning at the Australian Intelligence offices. They'd given me a small side office where I could be isolated and unbothered. Mona, wearing a white skirt with leather buttons and leather loops, topped by a black blouse, set all the files in front of me and started for the door. She paused, one hand on the knob, and noted the expression in my eyes as I watched her.
"What are you wondering about?" she asked.
"How the hell the Major gets any work done with you around," I said. She laughed and closed the door behind her. It had been a fair question. She was one helluva distraction. But I closed off that part of my mind and concentrated on the thick folders in front of me.
I worked through lunch without stopping and late into the afternoon. I read every damn sheet and evaluation and report first — then I went back over them and started to pick out certain items. I made a list of questionable factors for myself on a notepad, under each man's name, and when I'd finished I had a few hardline items that were of more than passing interest. I sat back and examined what I'd noted.
First the Navy man, Burton Comford. He was a chronic troublemaker. He had been involved in numerous scrapes in bars. He was known to run down the service whenever he got a few drinks too many. He had received various punishments for his on-leave behavior and been bailed out of civilian jails three times.
The driver of the tank that malfunctioned and blew up the ammo dump had also been involved in numerous scrapes. He had been up for several disciplinary actions by his superiors. A dissatisfied personality, he harbored aggressive hostility toward almost everyone, resenting their lives, their jobs. I'd also noted with great interest that John Dawsey and Burton Comford had both been involved in incidents at the same bar, a place called The Ruddy Jug.
The third man, the Air Force lieutenant, had nothing on his record to connect him with The Ruddy Jug, but he had exhibited the same dissatisfied personality as the other two — on his own level, of course. His record showed that he had twice applied for permission to leave the service, and his application had been denied each time. Then he'd requested extended leave which was turned down. Following that, he had taken sick leave for unusually long and frequent periods. According to evaluation reports, his general rating had gone down steadily.
I found my fingers tapping the top of the desk. Three tragic «accidents» and three men, each one of them a confirmed complainer, dissatisfied with his lot in life — each one of them ripe for trouble. It was a thought that stayed quietly on the mind, like an unhatched egg — and led to numerous possibilities. I got up and opened the door of the little office to see Mona putting on lipstick.