I got up and looked at the door. There had been no sound for fifteen minutes. Well, if they wanted me, and were willing to make enough noise, they'd get me, now or an hour from now. I walked out with the gun in my hand. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned motel room. Nothing happened. I got into the truck and drove away. Nobody followed.
When I'd confirmed this, I stopped at a pay telephone booth and called Washington collect, calling the emergency number. The girl who came on at once wanted to give me Mac, but I said she could keep him.
"Has Paul reported recently? Is he overdue?" I asked. "He has no fixed schedule. His last report was the day before yesterday."
"I may need a doctor who'll keep his mouth shut," I said. "Have we got one locally?"
"Just a minute." I heard papers rustle, two thousand and some miles away. "Dr. Ditsinger. We've never used him, but other agencies have, and found him satisfactory. Do you want him alerted?"
"Please."
She told me the address. "Give us a few minutes to get in touch with him."
"It's not definite," I said. "Check back with him in the morning. If he's had no business, tell him to forget it. If he's got a customer, tell the man upstairs that age will take the reins from the faltering hands of youth. As if he didn't know it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't get that, sir. Please repeat."
"Skip it, doll. Just report that if young Paul should be out of commission, which seems to be a possibility, I'll take over. But in that case I want somebody else t~ get out here fast and stand by. No contact unless I call, however.. I've got enough people crawling through the shrubbery already; the management might squawk. Oh, one question."
"Yes, sir?"
"Has Paul made definite identification of his subject?" The papers rustled again. "Yes, sir. In his last report.
Quote: 'Subject Martell definitely established to be man calling himself Fenn currently employed by Salvatore Frederici, alias Sally Fredericks or Big Sal Fredericks, reputed to be head of narcotics trade locally, as well as-'"
"Narcotics, eh?" I interrupted. "The stuff seems to keep cropping up. Rizzi was also in that racket. I wonder what Martell… Never mind. If Paul had made identification, why didn't he take action? What are we saving this guy for, somebody's birthday or the anniversary of the Russian Revolution?"
"I have the agent's instructions here." More papers rustled. "No action to be taken until subject's mission is fully understood."
You could see that Mac might be curious about why a top agent like Martell would play at being a cheap hood for seven years, but his curiosity could get expensive in human lives. Maybe it already had.
I said, "All right. Say I'll call back when I have something to report."
"Yes, sir."
She had a nice voice, but it wasn't any time to be thinking about nice voices or the girls who went with them. I hung up and drove back to the motel. I could have saved myself the trouble of arranging for a doctor. He was lying in the bushes, all right, but there was nothing any doctor could do for him. He'd been beaten to death, or as close to it as made no difference in the long run. Even in the dark, it wasn't a very pleasant sight. It never is.
I squatted beside the body for a little while. As far as I could make out, he'd been a blond boy in his twenties, and he could have been one of those I'd trained with the previous year. They hadn't been assigned code names yet, when I left. I thought I recognized him, but somebody had done a very thorough job, and it was hard to be sure. Well, it didn't make much difference now.
I waited until the premises were clear of people for a moment, carried him out of there, and loaded him into the truck. I took him to Dr. Ditsinger, anyway. I acted surprised and terribly shocked when I was informed that my friend was dead. Controlling myself with a manly effort, I told Ditsinger to call Washington for further instructions, and got the hell out of there with my grief.
Chapter Eight
DRIVING BACK, I slowed as I crossed the bridge over the Truckee River. There wasn't much doubt about how Paul had reached the moteclass="underline" his clothes had been soaking wet. They must have tossed him into the river somewhere upstream. How he'd managed to make it from there, in his condition-crawling, wading, swimming where the water was deep enough-only God or a dying man could tell you.
Why he'd done it was another interesting question. It was possible, of course, that he'd been bringing me information of tremendous importance. It was just as possible that he'd just been looking for somebody to hold his hand.
I shivered slightly, and drove on, and turned into the motel area, and parked where I had before. I went inside and poured myself a drink from the plastic flask I carry in my suitcase. I kept hearing a voice saying, For God's sake… I'm hurt… Well, that was all right. I'd beard voices before. I could live with one more. But I drank the whiskey anyway. Then I got out of my clothes and went into the bathroom to take a shower. Just as I was about to turn on the water, the doorbell rang.
I sighed. I went to the closet and got my dressing gown. I dropped the gun into the pocket, after belting the garment about me. Then I went to the door and yanked it open. So maybe they'd traced Paul here somehow and now it was my turn. I was tired of being careful. I'd been careful enough for one night. To hell with them. I'd get at least one before they burned me down, I would.
The traumatic shock of seeing the door fly open before his eyes sent the Afghan hound into a tizzy; he lunged away and almost yanked the Fredericks girl over backwards. He was really a specimen.
"Oh, Sheik!" she said impatiently, and to me: "Just a minute while I tie him."
I was having a little trouble getting used to the idea that I didn't have to sell my life dearly, at least not yet.
"What he needs," I said sourly, "is a mooring mast, like a dirigible."
"Mister," she said, "I can make cracks like that, but don't you go criticizing other people's dogs. Hell, you can't even keep a wife." She straightened up to look at rue. "Well, aren't you going to ask me in?"
"Do I have to?"
She made a face at me, and stepped inside. I followed her, and pulled the door closed behind us. She was no longer wearing the green beach costume, if that was what it was. Now she was done up in a simple white dress that could have cost ten bucks or a hundred, probably the latter, and white kid pumps with high, slim heels. Her hair was smooth and shining about her head, every pin doing its assigned duty. She even had little white gloves on, very formal for Reno.
I can itemize the assets of a girl in pants without becoming emotionally involved in any way. I have to see her in a dress before I can add up the column and become personally involved in the total. This was a good dress for the purpose, straight, smart, and sleeveless, with a square neck. The material was some textured cotton stuff
– piquй is the word that comes back from my rare forays into fashion photography. She wasn't wearing any jewelry. There weren't any distractions tonight in the way of fancy style, color, or decoration. You could concentrate on the girl, and any man would.
I said, "Okay, so you're beautiful. Now can I go take my shower?"
She said, "You're a liar. I'm not beautiful and I never will be. I'm just sexy as hell."
I said, "You're drunk as hell, too."
She shook her head. She was pulling off her gloves, making herself at home. She said, "No, I'm not drunk. I just had one when I got home-you did, too, by the looks of that flask-and then I started thinking about that damn hamburger and it made me kind of sick. And then I started thinking about going out to eat alone, and that made me kind of sick, too. So here I am. Make yourself respectable. You're taking me to dinner."