The Revengers Page 7

  She’d come close to killing me, or having me killed; and in the end only the breaks of the game had prevented me from killing her or sending her to prison. Despite our differences, however, I’d been relieved when she’d made her escape in the end, diving overboard from her wrecked schooner yacht in the storm in which she was now officially listed as having drowned. It had pleased me to know for sure, later, when she was found living down here under a different name and in considerably different circumstances, that she hadn’t drowned after all. Not that I’d considered it much of a possibility. She wasn’t an easy girl to drown.

  So the long rough game between us had started there up north, where I had thus won Round One by frustrating her plans and those of the foreign associates she’d been angry enough to choose, making a fugitive of her. The second round, however, had been hers, down here, when in the course of a different assignment I’d received information from her that had saved my life, obligating us to do our best to make her secure in her new existence. One and one. Yesterday the bell had rung for Round Three; but as I looked down at her sleeping face I found myself entertaining strong emotions I did not care to identify. Their mere existence, however, indicated that some time during the night it had ceased to be a game. . . .

  She became aware of my presence, and opened her eyes a bit warily; then she turned lazily onto her back, remembering, and smiled to see me standing there.

  “Hey, spook.”

  “Breakfast is served, Captain Robinson, ma’am. The dining room steward wishes to be informed if you want your eggs fried or scrambled.”

  “How about poached, shirred, or coddled?”

  “We can only serve what’s on the menu, ma’am. No special orders.”

  She sat up and shook her tousled dark hair into place—it was short enough that it needed no more to discipline it—swung her feet to the cabin sole and restored a vagrant satin ribbon, pretending to be a shoulder strap, to its proper functioning position. It made her shoulder look very smooth and brown. I’d asked for a gift-wrapped lady and she’d given me one. The nightgown was white, long and graceful, with some discreet lace top and bottom. It was neither wantonly provocative nor innocently bridal; it was simply a handsome and becoming gown that raised the whole man-woman business to a much higher plane than simple, crude, nude copulation. Naked dames have their place, no doubt, and I’m not knocking nudity; but there’s something very special about being allowed the privilege of discovering, and lovingly uncovering as far as necessary, a beautiful woman within a decorative garment she’s put on specifically for the purpose of having her body admired and explored, and in the end, fully exploited, by you.

  Yet there was a sadness, too, in seeing her in her expensive gown. It was obviously something she’d bought on impulse, in a moment of weakness, to remind herself of what she had been and no longer was. It did not belong to her present incarnation as a tough female sportfishing captain living under rather Spartan circumstances on a forty-foot boat. When I kissed her I felt her cling to me for a moment, as if she needed the reassurance of some affectionate bodily contact even though we’d finished with passion for the moment. I’d never before thought of her as someone who might need reassurance and the idea disturbed me; but after a moment she laughed softly and freed herself.

  “Two, over easy,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Coming right up, ma’am.”

  I was just placing our breakfast on the table, about to call her, when she appeared in the deckhouse wearing jeans, a short-sleeved jersey and brown leather boat shoes with white patent soles, the kind with the squeegee pattern that supposedly won’t slip on any deck no matter how slick and wet. I couldn’t see the pattern, but I knew the shoes; they’re worn everywhere around the docks. She looked lean and competent. The soft, clinging female in the fragile, lacy gown might never have existed.

  “What, no toast?” she said, seating herself. “You’ll have to snap into it, steward, we run a taut ship here.”

  “Toast being served, ma’am.”

  We batted it back and forth like that for a while, with variations, but there were tensions here that had not existed as long as we were below in each others’ arms. Now that the hint had been given me I could see that she had changed, and I could realize that what had been so very good about last night was the fact that she’d needed me desperately; me, or at least the assurance I could give her that she was still an attractive and important person— Harriet Robinson, formerly Robin Rosten, who’d never needed anyone before in her life. The evidence had all been there but I’d preferred to ignore it.

  When I’d last seen her she wouldn’t have dreamed of worrying how she’d be received in the cocktail lounge, any cocktail lounge, after working on her engines; in fact, she hadn’t. She’d considered them damned lucky to have her even in baggy pants with grease on them. She’d never have referred to her present existence as an exile; and she’d certainly never have thought of buying some frivolous and expensive lingerie to remind her, in secret, of the gracious life she’d left behind forever. Nor would she have considered holding her tongue about anything for timid and sensible reasons of self-protection. Back then she’d been playing the part of Captain Harriet Robinson to the hilt and enjoying it immensely; but now, I could see, the enjoyment had faded and regret and caution had taken its place.

  I could look at her clearly at last and know that she was lost. She was a lovely lady and she was breaking and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to help her. This rather primitive and, in many ways, humbling life—a charter boat captain, male or female, has to take a lot of guff from a lot of slobs—was wearing her down, not to mention the fact that despite our best efforts she was still legally a fugitive with the ultimate horror of prison still hanging over her. But mainly she was remembering everything she’d given up. She was realizing that she wasn’t really made for this, she was being wasted here, and the waste was irretrievable. I had a momentary sickening picture of another woman I’d just seen who’d been totally degraded by pressures too great for her to bear. I did not think that Harriet’s break, when it came, would take that form—it was an unbearable thing to even consider—but she was obviously no longer holding her own here and the end, some end, was inevitable.

  “Tell me about the girl,” Harriet said abruptly.

  “What girl?”

  She laughed. “Your girl, Matt. The one you so nobly left unloved for her own good.” She reached out to cover my hand with hers, briefly. “I don’t mind, really I don’t, but do you think a woman doesn’t know when she’s being used as a substitute? You came down here to the Keys needing somebody to make love to very badly, my dear, obviously because you’d just been with somebody you would very much like to have had, whom you couldn’t bring yourself to touch for, no doubt, the highest reasons in the world.” She studied me shrewdly. “Of course, there’s a possibility that she simply rejected you, but I doubt it. If you’d just had your face slapped, you wouldn’t have been such a little bundle—well, big bundle—of iron self-control, all done up tight in self-tied knots until we. . . She stopped and a little color came into her face. She said quickly, “Steward, my cup is empty again. A little service here, if you please!”

  I was glad of the excuse to leave the table and the dark eyes that saw too much; but there was a strong impulse to laugh ruefully, too. While I’d been considering her sad case, she’d been considering mine; and, of course, she was perfectly right. I had found it very pleasant to be with Martha Devine in the home she’d made with Bob. There had been a strong temptation to stay and build upon the comfortable relationship we’d achieved; and bed had certainly been one desirable goal that had occurred to me. I’d been aware that, if I used reasonable restraint and consideration and patience, that goal and maybe others were probably not unattainable. But I’d come here instead, not really knowing why; and it hadn’t been very fair to Harriet Robinson.

  “Am I right?” she asked when I sat down again.

  I nodded.
“All the way down the line. I’m sorry—”

  “I hope not!” When I looked surprised, she said, “My dear man, only one thing is totally unforgivable, and that is being sorry afterward.”

  I grinned. “All right. I’m not sorry.”

  She laughed, and sipped her coffee thoughtfully, watching me. “What’s the big obstacle, Matt? You’re an attractive scoundrel, in a gruesome sort of way; and the work you do should be no problem unless the girl is a very timid type. Most women are attracted to dangerous men, even if some of them don’t care to admit it.”

  I said, “Nothing like a little analysis at breakfast.”

  “Well, you were analyzing me, weren’t you? I could see you. Is it a strictly masculine prerogative now?”

  I said, “The young lady in question is . . . well, fairly young. At the moment she was mourning a just-dead husband and did not feel it proper for me to move into his bed with him so recently buried.”

  “That’s what she said, but did she mean it?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. She’s practically a kid, she’s had one not-very-good marriage with a guy in my line of work, and the last thing she needs is another superannuated mercenary just stopping by the house occasionally between wars. What she needs is to boot us lousy spooks out of her life altogether and make herself a real marriage with some gentle and civilized young fellow who faints at the sight of a gun.”

  Harriet studied me for a long moment, and shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve lasted so long in the business you’re in. I wouldn’t think being a nice guy had a lot of survival value. And, of course, you’re wrong. Spooks are habit-forming, like heroin. Once you’re hooked on them, life is very dull without them. She’s not going to settle for a handsome insurance salesman now, or nice doctor or dentist.”

  I said, “I was obliged to give her the chance. What she does with it is up to her.”

  Harriet was still watching me steadily. “So now it’s your turn, Matt,” she said. “What conclusion did you come to about me?”

  It was no time for hesitation or diplomacy. “That you weren’t doing so well here any longer,” I said bluntly.

  She nodded. “That’s right. I’m a snob, you see. Hiring myself out to find fish for a bunch of beer-swilling peasants and enduring their vulgar pleasantries, living in a space hardly larger than a respectable closet, never looking nice or meeting any nice people—except occasionally as a kind of servant-employee—well, it was fun as long as I could kid myself I was being very clever and putting one over on the world and it wasn’t going to last forever. . . .” She stopped abruptly and cleared her throat. “But it is,” she id very softly. “I keep realizing that’s all that’s left now. Forever."

  “I’d pass the crying towel if I knew where you kept it,” I said deliberately.

  I was going to have to watch it, I warned myself. It was always a temptation to do it to her, to watch the quick-flashing anger burn away all her doubts and uncertainties and bring her fine head up sharply and put that arrogant, hawk-like gleam into her splendid eyes. She glared at me for a moment; then she threw her head back and laughed heartily.

  “Thanks, spook,” she said. “I was getting a bit soggy tere, wasn’t I? Matt. . ."

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be back? There’s . . . no obligation. I would simply like to know.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said. It was a commitment Nobody ever makes it quite alone. Perhaps, after all, we could both make it, together.

  The following morning I was in Nassau.

  Chapter 7

  Fred was at the airport when I arrived. I spotted him at once standing beside his cab as I came outside after the customs-and-immigration bit, even though he’d exchanged the big blue Plymouth I remembered for a smaller taxi—red and shiny and new—in line with current fuel-conservation trends that may be ecologically and economically terrific, but tend to ignore the physical requirements of long-legged passengers six-feet-four.

  Although it had been some years, I recognized the rather tall and muscular gent with the cheerful black face that became somewhat less cheerful when he saw me, so I knew old resentments were still operative. However, they did not prevent him from maneuvering skillfully so that, with the help of a little judicious stalling by me, we got together at the loading curb; but then some other passengers for the same hotel were put aboard with me, so we couldn’t talk. Fortunately, a great deal of conversation wasn’t needed at this point. When he unloaded my suitcase in front of the hotel, he set down beside it a handsome attache case that apparently didn’t belong to anybody else in the cab. Paying my fare, I wound up holding a small key that presumably fit the case.

  “Thank you, sir,” Fred said politely. “I hope you will enjoy your stay in Nassau, sir.”

  “It doesn’t seem to have changed much?” I said, turning the statement into a question.

  “Ah, you have been here before, sir? No, there have been not so many changes. I think you will find it quite familiar.”

  The last time I’d been in Nassau I’d stayed at the British Colonial Hotel, a fine old landmark of a building right on the harbor, with probably the worst service in the world. The Paradise Towers, out on what is now known as Paradise Island—formerly Hog Island—was a step down architecturally, looking like any tall modem confection of glass and chrome and concrete; but the desk crew did condescend to look up my reservation with reasonable dispatch, and the bellboy even thanked me for the tip, which would never have happened at the British Colonial. The room was small, soulless, and expensive; but everything -worked.

  I locked my room door, laid the attache case on the bed, unlocked and opened it. It contained a large assortment of paper materials, from pamphlets to clippings to file folders.

  It also contained a .38 Special Smith and Wesson revolver with a two-inch barrel, ammunition for same, and one of our standard little drug kits, which I pocketed. I loaded the weapon, but did not conceal it on my person since I did not believe firearms were indicated, at least not yet. Instead, I hid it with the remaining ammo in the secret compartment in my suitcase—well, it’s secret unless somebody who knows how to look, looks for it hard. I hoped that, if I did have occasion to use the unfamiliar weapon, it would shoot somewhere close to where it pointed. Not that these snub-nosed little artillery pieces ever manage any spectacular accuracy, if only because the sight radius is just too damned short.

  I examined the other contents of the attache case hastily. Our efficient young man in Miami had done a hell of a job in the short time at his disposal; everything I'd asked for seemed to be there. I would have liked to sit down and study all this new material carefully, but Fred had indicated that there had been no significant changes locally, meaning that the lady in whom I was interested was still where last reported, in her room. I wanted to catch her before she took off somewhere for the day or perhaps, her work in Nassau done, checked out for good. I added the stuff I’d been handed earlier to the papers already in the attach6 case, closed and locked the case, and stood for a moment frowning thoughtfully; but I could see absolutely no reason to be clever. I had to make contact with Ms. Eleanor Brand somehow. The simplest method was to walk up to her hotel room door and knock. Taking the attaché case with me, I did just that. A little silence followed my knock.

  “Just a minute.”

  It was a female voice, somewhat muffled by the intervening door. Another lengthy pause followed. I heard another door close somewhere beyond the one that faced me. I heard crisp feminine footsteps approach, and the voice I’d heard spoke again, closer.

  “Who is it?”

  “My name is Helm,” I said. “Matthew Helm.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Bob Devine is dead,” I said. “I’d like to tell you about it.”

  After a moment, the lock rattled. The door swung open and there she was, not quite as big a girl as I’d expected; and somehow that made a difference. What’s plain or even ugly on a large
horse of a girl can look merely unusual and intriguing on a female constructed on a smaller and daintier scale.

  Not that she was diminutive. There was a reasonable amount of woman there, say five-three, say one-fifteen. I saw that the offbeat monkey face I’d studied in a black-and-white magazine reproduction was really not bad-looking in living color. Her complexion was good, her short straight brown hair was clean and smooth, and there was a touch of lipstick on her long and mobile mouth. She had a small scar on her lower lip, I noticed, not too recent but not dating back to childhood, either. I wondered idly if she’d been slugged by somebody who’d got mad about a story she’d written; but more likely she’d bumped into something in the dark or been involved in a minor car accident.

  Her figure was as unfashionable as her snub-nosed face, slender enough but rather long in the body and short in the legs for this era of long-stemmed lovelies; but the legs were quite good and she was smart enough to make the most of them in high heels and nylons. She was built and shaped all wrong according to modem beauty standards for the breed; her conformation was simply terrible as the dog show people would put it; but she projected a strong impression of one Eleanor Brand, a unique person; and uniqueness is hard to find these copycat days.

  Whether or not she was aware of it, and it seemed unlikely that she was, she’d taken the direct route to my heart by wearing a neat suit with a skirt, not pants. It was nice for a change to meet a lady who did not feel that the new feminine freedom was best displayed in old masculine trousers. The suit was a light summer number in brownish chambray, if I have that slick cottony material properly identified. There was a little white blouse with a round collar. Her eyes watched me with wary speculation. They were hazel eyes in which a hint of apprehension lurked, but she had no intention of giving in to it.