By now I'd taken as many precautions as the possibility would seem to merit, but just to be on the safe side, rather than be seen standing in a roadside booth, I stopped for lunch at a small-town restaurant that boasted an inside pay phone. As a final precaution, I made my report to Mac by way of our relay man in Vancouver, insuring that there'd be no incriminating record of a long-distance call across the border.
"Indeed," Mac said when I'd finished. "Very intriguing. What do you make of the lady, Eric?"
I said, "I know what she'd like me to make of her, sir. A crackpot nymphomaniac with alcoholic tendencies complicated by an obsessive guilt complex-that's the picture she was painting for me, stroke by careful stroke. She wants me to believe that deep down in her subconscious she knows it was she who got Grant Nystrom killed by roping him into this courier job in the first place. I'm supposed to think that her mind rejects this knowledge and instead, in self defense, blames everybody else for her lover's death; her Communist pals-or ex-pals-and this gang of youthful interlopers that did the actual shooting. To keep from admitting her own guilt, she's embarked on a career of vengeance against everyone else involved. At least that's the theory I'm supposed to buy."
"But you don't?"
I said, "Hell, that isn't a picture, sir, it's a psychiatric caricature. She's just making it up as she goes along. This girl is as phony as a ten-dollar pawnshop Stradivarius. I don't know who she is, but I do know what she isn't, and that's a rich, dipso, nympho society woman who went Communist for kicks, talked her boyfriend into joining up with her, and is now overwhelmed with remorse because he wound up getting shot as a result."
Mac said dryly, "You seem to have an attraction for interesting young women who aren't what they seem. Don't forget, whoever and whatever she is, this one did save your mission, and probably your life."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm keeping it in mind. Question, sir."
"What is it?"
"She couldn't be one of ours, could she?"
Apparently the question took Mac by surprise, because there was a rather lengthy pause. When he spoke, his voice had a stiff and offended note: "If we'd had any agents on the job who might possibly be of assistance to you, I would certainly have let you know when I briefed you, Eric."
This, of course, meant nothing at all. If the girl was working for us, and there were good reasons for her to keep her mouth shut even with me, they were still good. And if those reasons had caused Mac to refrain from mentioning her earlier, he'd certainly lie about her now. In other words, asking the question had been just a gesture on my part; a way of establishing for future reference-if my suspicions proved correct-that I wasn't quite as easy to fool as people seemed to think.
"Yes, sir." I drew a long breath. "Well, what do I do about the instructions I received from the lady?"
"Instructions?"
"I mean, should I or should I not go out and earn myself some wonderful nights with Miss Meredith?" When Mac didn't speak at once, I said irritably: "For God's sake, sir! Do I kill them or don't I?"
"Oh," he said, "I see what you mean. The answer is fairly obvious, is it not? As long as they're alive, these people are a constant threat to you. Not only are they interfering with your mission, but also, if captured by the opposition, they will undoubtedly reveal that Grant Nystrom-the real Nystrom-is dead because they shot him, and that you are therefore an impostor just as this fellow Stottman suspects."
I said, "I thought we wanted them to suspect me. I thought, since Holz is riding shotgun on this espionage operation, we were trying to give him a motive for descending on me, breathing fire and destruction."
"That was what we'd hoped to do, certainly," Mac admitted. "But I think you can see that the plan must be revised in the light of your recent experiences. Apparently we can't count on Holz coming to you. You must therefore be prepared to go to him, by continuing as Grant Nystrom. It follows that you cannot afford to have your cover compromised by anybody, and that, whatever Miss Meredith's motives may be, her suggestion is quite sound."
"Yes, sir," I said. "Sound. What about the authorities? Dead bodies tend to attract attention, and I'm told the Mounties always get their man. It would be awkward if I were the man."
"Arrangements have been made. The Canadians have a large stake in your mission. You have nothing to fear if you are reasonably discreet. Is there anything else?"
"No, sir," I said. "Not a thing. Eric, signing off."
Hanging up, I made a face at something on the wall of the booth, or maybe it was just in my mind. I tried to tell myself firmly that the fact that she knew how to swing a fishing rod and talk about dogs didn't really say much about a girl's character, and that Pat Bellman was nothing to me but a female fink who'd tried to set me up for murder. This was perfectly true, but I found that I wasn't particularly eager to shoot, or otherwise dispose of, any female finks.
Thinking this, I came out into the warm sunshine after lunch to see a small car-a battered red Opel two-door- carrying two men in front and a rear seat full of luggage, being driven slowly through the parking lot. It seemed about to pause behind my camper rig; then the driver spotted me emerging from the restaurant and put on speed again, swinging back onto the highway. He was a tall man I'd seen once before, leading a black dog into an animal clinic south of the border; he was Pat Bellman's entry in the great Nystrom sweepstakes.
There was no sign of the dog among all the luggage, which was all right with me. I'd been given no instructions to destroy the poor beast, but Mac might insist on a clean sweep if he was in a bloodthirsty mood and I was fool enough to ask.
12
I'D BEEN PLANNING TO DRIVE straight through to the next rendezvous, on a body of water up north called Francois Lake. My intention had been to get up there early enough, by staying on the road all night, so I'd have plenty of time to look the situation over ahead of the contact, which was set for six-thirty the next evening. However, with Nystrom Number Three and his friend hanging around, it seemed advisable to take things a little more easily and maybe get some idea what the boys-not to mention the girl-had in mind.
I thought I knew what it was. The last time I'd seen the tall man, he'd had a black dog like mine conspicuously in tow. I couldn't be absolutely sure there wasn't an animal hidden in the rear of the Opel, but the man had also, undoubtedly, waiting somewhere, a Chevy-based camper rig similar to the one I was driving. At the scene of Nystrom's murder, Mr. Smith's eager operative had interfered before the murderer could dispose of Nystrom's body and appropriate his truck, but Chevy pickups, and pickup campers, aren't hard to come by. Bellman and Company wouldn't have tried the impersonation without a suitable vehicle. But Nystrom Three wasn't driving it now, even though it would have been faster and more comfortable than his present transportation.
The implication was that he'd given up his Nystrom act. That left only one Nystrom in the running: Nystrom Number Two-me. But apparently I wasn't to be allowed to garner the fruits of victory undisturbed.
Pat Bellman hadn't looked like a girl who gave up easily, and she was bright enough to see the obvious, if her Nystrom couldn't get the stuff-and he'd been pretty well disqualified in Pasco-she still had a chance, if she let somebody else's Nystrom get it for her, and then moved in and took it away from him. At least I figured that was the way her mind worked. If I was right, I was in no immediate danger. She wouldn't act until I'd picked up all the material she wanted. But I could count on having plenty of company on my journey northward.