The Poisoners (30 page)

“Go on,” Mac said, when I paused to catch up with my thoughts.

I said, “I’m beginning to think, sir, that having misfired, the machine was slated for destruction anyway. I just obliged Mr. Soo by shoving it off the road for him, giving him a plausible excuse for calling off the Albuquerque ‘test’ and destroying his supplies. I’d also, previously, obliged him by escaping, with… with the help of Bobbie Prince, but he gave me some help, too. He kept Jason from shooting when we were making our getaway. I thought I was being smart, or lucky, but if I hadn’t managed to make my own escape arrangements, I bet he’d have made them for me. He
wanted
me loose, repeating all the scary information I’d been fed about the dreadful smog machine the Chinese had got hold of, that had run into a little bad luck on this test run, but would be back to threaten us as soon as they could slap together a real working unit. His hope was, I suppose, that to counter the threat, our country would institute a crash cleanup program that would totally disrupt our transportation system and our economy… Naturally, he couldn’t allow Willy to kill me. I was his only hope of salvaging something from this expensive fiasco.”

There was a little silence after I’d finished. Mac was looking, for him, oddly indecisive. At last he said, “It is a temptation, is it not, Eric? Perhaps we should not be too clever. Perhaps, if we let it be believed that the threat is real, it would stimulate…” He stopped.

I said, “It might stimulate a lot of nice anti-pollution activity, yes, sir. That’s presumably what Sorenson himself had in mind when he invented the gadget and turned it over to the Chinese. He must have figured it didn’t really matter who scared us into taking action before we strangled in our own stinking by-products.” I paused, and asked deliberately, “Well, sir, do I spread the word that the Chinese have got hold of a real humdinger of a doomsday weapon, just like Mr. Soo wants me to?”

I won’t say Mac disappointed me. A man who’s spent most of his adult life in the bureaucratic maze reacts in certain predictable ways when it comes to making major decisions outside his particular province; and that goes even when his province is as vague and peculiar as Mac’s.

“No,” he said slowly, “no, I don’t think so, Eric. It is not our decision, is it?”

“No, sir,” I said, and that buck was passed.

Having passed it, Mac said briskly, “We are not qualified to play God, although sometimes it might be tempting to try. Officially, I am concerned here only with the murder of one of my agents and the successful elimination of the enemy operative responsible for her death. Nicholas
was
responsible, was he not?”

I nodded. “He didn’t pull the trigger, but he was responsible. And the girl who did pull the trigger took poison and died.”

“Yes, I was told about that,” Mac said. “And my official interest extends no further. There will be a team of scientists arriving from Washington very shortly. You will report your facts and theories concerning this aspect of the case to them.
All
your theories. They will make whatever decision needs making.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, but we both knew that a committee of scientists would only take the buck we passed them and send it along in an upward direction, where it would eventually get lost in the dim stratospheric regions of official policy-making without anybody ever having had to make any awkward decisions about it.

Mac said, after a pause, “Of course, I don’t have to emphasize the need for discretion in matters that don’t concern these scientific gentlemen.”

After a moment, I started to grin, but thought better of it. Things were normal, after all. It wasn’t tender concern for my health that had brought him two thirds of the way across the continent; it was my amnesia. He’d come to assure himself that, concussion or no, I remembered enough to know what to say when I was interviewed, and what not to say.

In particular, he was making certain that I understood that, while I was free to talk about the Sorenson generator and related subjects to my heart’s content, I’d have to make up an innocuous story to explain how I’d got involved in the case in the first place. I mean, it wouldn’t do to tell a bunch of tame officials from a science-oriented Washington bureau that I’d got mixed up in their complicated affairs while engaged in the relatively simple task of tracking down a guy called Santa Claus for purposes of homicide. Our duties and methods are not supposed to be discussed out of school.

“No, sir,” I said. “I’ll be discreet as hell.”

He hesitated. “Is there anything else you should tell me now, Eric? Of course, I expect a full report eventually, but in the meantime, what about, for instance, a young lady attached to the West Coast branch of a certain special narcotics agency who seems to have taken a violent dislike to you?”

“Charlie?” I said. “When did you see Charlie Devlin?”

“This morning, in Los Angeles. I wanted to get the background before I came here. The girl is almost pathological on the subject of one Matthew Helm. She seems to think that you are responsible for blighting her promising career. Apparently certain plans of hers went badly wrong, bringing embarrassment to her department and an official reprimand to her—men like Frank Warfel are very quick to scream about false arrest and illegal search when no evidence is produced against them.”

I sighed. “Sir, how the hell did we get mixed up with that bunch of do-gooders, anyway?”

He said without expression, “Narcotics are a serious threat to the public welfare. I am certain the agents fighting this insidious menace are all fine people and dedicated public servants.”

“They may be,” I said, “but they don’t hesitate to use their official positions for private revenge. At least Miss Devlin doesn’t. When she decided I’d double-crossed her, she used her cop connections to spread the word that I’d stolen her damn station wagon, just to make trouble for me.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“She’d threatened me with dire retribution if I loused up her play. And the officer who stopped us said they’d got a report the car had been stolen in California and was probably heading east; who else would have made a report like that? As it happened, it worked out very well for me, but it was kind of tough on the officer. Charlie probably figures I killed him myself—I also made a few threats, I’m afraid. Undoubtedly that’s one reason behind her anti-Helm feeling. She can’t bear to let me get away with it, but she doesn’t dare try to pin it on me lest her part in the business should come out. Anyway, this is the same little girl who’s hell on other people following all the laws and rules, but who swore me to secrecy about a violent attack of asthma that, according to the health regulations of her agency, might have affected her career adversely.”

Mac said, “Well, the personnel problems of other departments are really none of our business, are they, Eric?”

“No, sir,” I said. “But ten kilos of heroin are everybody’s business, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

He looked at me sharply. “Do you know where the shipment is?”

I said, “My information is that such an amount of Chinese heroin was given to Frank Warfel as payment for his services in connection with the Sorenson generator. He had the stuff on his yacht down at Bahia San Agustin. From what you say, it wasn’t on board when he was searched by Miss Devlin north of the border. As far as we know, he only put ashore at one other place: Bernardo. Charlie was assuming that he’d come ashore there empty-handed and leave with a cargo worth a couple of million bucks, produced by his camouflaged trailer-lab. But the lab was a fake, set up merely to hide the Chinese origin of the dope. Warfel already had his twenty-two pounds of high-priced happiness when he reached Bernardo. Suppose he did exactly the opposite from what Charlie was expecting. Suppose he went ashore loaded, cached his white treasure right under the noses of Charlie and her Mexican allies, and sailed away carrying with him nothing but a sly smile, knowing he’d be searched as soon as he hit U.S. territory.”

Mac drew a long breath. “It’s another interesting theory. A blow on the head seems to stimulate your imagination, Eric. I’ll notify the head of the agency…”

“No,” I said. “Let’s heap some coals on the fire, sir. Let’s notify Charlie herself, to stand by for Warfel’s
next
trip; he’s not going to leave two million bucks lying by the seashore any longer than he has to.” I grinned. “Whether or not she meant to be, she was a big help, sir. We can afford to give her a hand, the vicious little idealist.”

“Very well, Eric.” Mac studied me thoughtfully. “You do seem to get considerable assistance from the ladies, one way or another. What about the girl who was shot? The circumstances, as reported by the police, seem to indicate that her position was rather ambiguous, too. If the organization owes her a debt of any kind, you’d better tell me now, so I can take the proper steps to repay—” He stopped. “What’s the matter?”

I was staring at him. I cleared my throat and said, “Bobbie Prince? She isn’t dead?”

“Why, no,” Mac said calmly. “Apparently it was close and she is still on the critical list, but barring complications she should be all right.” He was watching me rather narrowly. After a moment, he said, “I see. You thought you had sacrificed Miss Prince’s life to our duty. That’s why you set off on that quixotic charge back up the mountainside, which you have now conveniently forgotten.”

I said politely, “Be so good as to go to hell, sir.” It was all coming back, and of course he was perfectly right, damn him.

He ignored my remark. “You haven’t said whether or not we owe the girl anything.”

“Yes, sir, we do,” I said, “like my life. And I promised her a clean slate in return.”

“Whatever her record may be, within limits of course, it shall be officially cleansed.” He frowned. “Would you consider her a potential prospect, Eric? There is a vacancy, as you may recall.”

It took me a moment to catch his meaning; then I said quickly, “No, damn it! You’re not going to recruit this one, at least not through me. Anyway, she wouldn’t work for us. She’s the non-violent type. That’s what got her a .44 bullet in the back.” After a little silence, I asked, “Where is she? Not that it matters. I’m probably the last person she wants to see.”

“She is two doors down the hall. You will be informed when she can have visitors. And judging by the few words she spoke on the operating table, before the anesthesia took effect, I would not worry about my welcome.” He was looking out the window as he spoke. Then he sighed. “Well, I see a delegation of intellectuals approaching with briefcases and tape recorders. I will leave you to them and trust to your discretion. Oh, and Eric—”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will not insist on your attending the ranch when you are well again,” he said, walking towards the door. “Not if you should happen to find a more relaxing way of spending a month’s convalescent leave, in more pleasant company.”

I did.

Donald Hamilton was the creator of secret agent Matt Helm, star of 27 novels that have sold more than 20 million copies worldwide.

Born in Sweden, he emigrated to the United States and studied at the University of Chicago. During the Second World War he served in the United States Naval Reserve, and in 1941 he married Kathleen Stick, with whom he had four children.

The first Matt Helm book,
Death of a Citizen
, was published in 1960 to great acclaim, and four of the subsequent novels were made into motion pictures. Hamilton was also the author of several outstanding standalone thrillers and westerns, including two novels adapted for the big screen as
The Big Country
and
The Violent Men
.

Donald Hamilton died in 2006.

The long-awaited return of the United States’ toughest special agent.

Death of a Citizen
The Wrecking Crew
The Removers
The Silencers
Murderers’ Row
The Ambushers
The Shadowers
The Ravagers
The Betrayers
The Menacers
The Interlopers
The Intriguers
(February 2015)
The Intimidators
(April 2015)
The Terminators
(June 2015)

“Donald Hamilton has brought to the spy novel the authentic hard realism of Dashiell Hammett; and his stories are as compelling, and probably as close to the sordid truth of espionage, as any now being told.”
Anthony Boucher,
The New York Times

“This series by Donald Hamilton is the top-ranking American secret agent fare, with its intelligent protagonist and an author who consistently writes in high style. Good writing, slick plotting and stimulating characters, all tartly flavored with wit.”
Book Week

“Matt Helm is as credible a man of violence as has ever figured in the fiction of intrigue.”
The New York Sunday Times

“Fast, tightly written, brutal, and very good…”
Milwaukee Journal

A series of slick espionage thrillers from the New York Times bestselling “Queen of Spy Writers.”

Pray for a Brave Heart
Above Suspicion
Assignment in Brittany
North From Rome
Decision at Delphi
The Venetian Affair
The Salzburg Connection
Message from Málaga
While Still We Live
The Double Image
Neither Five Nor Three
Horizon
Snare of the Hunter
Agent in Place