More Good Old Stuff Page 6

  He smeared the blood off the gun barrel onto a handful of leaves and went back to the car. The woman was sitting as he had left her.

  He got behind the wheel and started the car.

  “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

  “I tied him up. He’ll be okay.”

  He reached over, took the baby out of her arms, put it between them, its head toward the gearshift. It was asleep.

  The motor was noisy. He shouted at the woman, “One wrong move from you or from those kids in the back and I’ll—”

  He held his clenched fist over the baby’s head on the car seat. She nodded, chewing at her underlip.

  Backing the car out onto the highway, he put it into low gear and labored up what remained of the hill. The little girl in the back seat began to sob. The woman turned and reached back, patted the child. At his snarled request, she stopped, but she still kept her face turned, her eyes on the two in the back. When he glanced at her, her lips were moving and he wondered if she was praying. Prayer wasn’t going to do her much good. Not as far as her husband was concerned.

  The roadblock was in the flats a half mile from the foot of the hill. As he took his foot from the gas pedal, shifted it to the brake, he said, “Not a peep out of you, sister. If they ask questions, I do the talking.”

  The car wheezed to a stop and the two troopers, their faces grim, stepped up, one on each side.

  He gave the answers in a calm, almost bored voice. “I’m Andrew Robelan. I’m a machinist. We’re going to Florida.” They wanted to see identification. He showed them the card. But he held it with his left hand. The gun was under the front seat, but in position for a quick hand to grasp it. He kept his right hand on his thigh, inches from the head of the sleeping baby.

  The troopers waved them on. He wanted to laugh with crazy glee. The clatter of the old motor was a song of triumph. He felt bigger than life size, enormous with cleverness. Ahead the road was open and free.

  She was praying again.

  They were on a three-lane highway. Suddenly the world exploded around him, smashing into dark flame and bitter lights. He was dimly conscious of sagging toward the wheel, of her hand reaching out to grasp the wheel. He tried to push himself back up, but the second crushing blow drove him back into utter blackness.

  It was dusk when he came to. He was on a cot and his hands were up over his head. When he tried to move them he found that he was handcuffed to a steam pipe that ran down the wall.

  The clink of chain on metal brought a big trooper into the room. He clicked on the light and looked down with an expression that indicated both satisfaction and disgust.

  “You’re going to keep a date, Johnny,” the trooper said.

  He cursed the trooper, infuriated by the man’s grin. But in the middle of the cursing, he stopped and frowned.

  “What happened?” he asked. “What went wrong?”

  “You didn’t ask enough questions, Johnny. You took too much for granted. You had a hell of a fine plan and you made us look like suckers, but you weren’t as smart as that beat-down Mrs. Robelan.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll tell you just to watch your face. Mrs. Robelan gets the reward money, you know. You should have found out more about them, Johnny. If you knew more about them, you’d know how she told the kid to slug you on the head with the wrench that was on the floor in the back.”

  “She didn’t open her yap!” he said.

  “Sure she did, Johnny. Sure she did.”

  And suddenly Johnny knew. He heard the trooper’s words of explanation through the roaring in his ears.

  “Yeah, the old lady, the baby and the little girl are okay, but the old man and the boy were deaf-mutes. They both could read lips. She told him to hit you without making a sound.”

  Johnny turned his face to the wall.

  Death for Sale

  On the way to the hotel he sat in the back of the taxi, a broad, sullen-looking man, searching inside of himself for the sense of satisfaction that should be his. There was nothing there but weariness—a dejection compounded of the solid year of search. From the beginning he had known he would win, one day. The perennial cliché of the ever-narrowing world drifted through his mind, and he smiled. No, there is no haven in this world for a man who is hunted.

  Once upon a time there had been hiding places. The Foreign Legion, the lonely cattle camps along the Amazon, the fields north of Kimberley. But this is a day of fingerprints, forms, visas, permits, regulations—statistical control of population. “And what is your reason for desiring entrance to this country, monsieur?” “How long do you intend to stay, sahib?” “How do you intend to support yourself, señor?”

  Of course, there is always the secret landing by night from a small boat. But then the wheels of bureaucracy grind out the little pink and green forms—work permits, income taxes, census—and it is as though your coming and your forced departure and your name and your secret were written across the sky for all to see.

  Even so, it is easier to hide from a government than it is to hide from a man.

  Jan Dalquist, riding placidly up Canal Street in the back seat of the taxi, recognized this fact. Particularly if the hunter is provided with adequate funds. The hunter doesn’t have to be clever. Jan Dalquist knew his own faults. He wasn’t clever. He was dogged, painstaking, stubborn, silent and grim. Not clever. Not clever at all.

  But he was an excellent hunter of men.

  The huge net of the justice that the democracies dropped over France and Germany after the war was a net of compromise. The diameter of the mesh had to be small enough to entrap the major and intermediate beasts who walked like men. But it could not be so small that it would seine in millions, who, by burdening the mechanism of justice, would make fair trial impossible. As a consequence, thousands of vicious little men had slipped through the meshes and scattered across the world.

  Jan Dalquist had been after one of these men for a year.

  He was not employed by any government. He was paid by a small group of French industrialists: men who had been beaten to the earth by the German occupation, men who had not known how to compromise, men who thirsted for revenge in the calm, unemotional manner of a banker collecting a debt. They paid for the hunting of other Frenchmen. They were well satisfied with Jan Dalquist. They paid well for the service of a reliable assassin.

  Jan Dalquist was after a Jean Charlebois. The facts were very simple. At the time of the Allied invasion, a large band of Maquis were wiped out by German troops. A betrayal was suspected. Only three of the Maquis escaped. Later, after the town was captured, German records indicated that the betrayal had been engineered by one Jean Charlebois, one of the three who had escaped. The son of one of the industrialists who financed Dalquist had been killed in the raid. Thus the assignment to find and kill Charlebois.

  The industrialists had little patience with the slow machinery of government. So Jan Dalquist, who had lived in France before the war, and who had gone back during the war as an operative—air-dropped—was contacted and hired as a trustworthy killer.

  Had they asked him a bit earlier, or a bit later, he would have refused—for he recognized that he was a man with a profound distaste for taking the tools of justice in his own hands, for acting as judge, jury and executioner. But the offer was made while Dalquist was still in an army hospital where a clever surgeon was attempting to make the ragged flesh and shattered bones of his hands resemble fingers, trying to cover the bone-deep burns on the soles of his feet with skin grafts from the insides of his thighs.

  The memory of the basement room in Gestapo headquarters was too vivid. And so Dalquist had said yes. And having once agreed, it was not in him to back out until the job had been completed.

  They gave him three names. Dalquist had found the first traitor in Brazil after nine months of search. He still awakened in the middle of the night, seeing again the death of the first. He remembered the man’s hand most of all. It had happened in
a field outside of Belém. Long after the man had appeared dead, the hand scrabbled at the white dust.

  He had found the second one in Montreal after another seven months. The ice was thin on the river. Almost transparent. After he had shoved the body down through the hole he had stamped through the ice, he saw it being borne away by the current, turning lazily so that once the misty face was turned toward him, the eye sockets dark under the film of ice.

  And he often dreamed of this, too.

  The taxi arrived at the hotel and he registered and followed the boy up to his room. He tipped the boy, locked the door and stood for a long time at the window, his mutilated hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring down fourteen stories at the busy New Orleans streets. A square, quiet man with a grave face which held a look of suffering. He looked across the gilded channel of Canal Street, looked into the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Jean Charlebois might yet be there. If so, it was the end of the third search, the end of the mission. But he wouldn’t permit himself to think of what he would do once Charlebois had been found and punished. Such thoughts would dilute resolve.

  He unlocked his bag, took out the small black notebook. He sat on the edge of the bed and examined, with little interest, the record of the search for Charlebois. The man had escaped the consequence of his treachery for two and a half years. There was very little writing on the sheet.

  Jean Charlebois left France on foot, crossing into Spain. He remained in Barcelona for three months, perfecting his Spanish and obtaining a passport as a Spanish citizen. He took the name of Ramón Francesco. With a Portuguese visa, he went to Lisbon. He remained there four months, and booked illegal passage on a Portuguese freighter, debarking in Guatemala. He dropped out of sight, reappearing in Mexico City. During the time he was out of sight he assumed the name Pierre Duval. Crossed the Mexican border into Texas illegally in December 1947.

  Was unable to locate him until I intercepted a letter he wrote to a Mexican girl in Mexico City. Letter stated that he was working as waiter in a café called the Ancient Door on Burgundy Street in French Quarter of New Orleans. Have arrived in New Orleans twenty-four days after the letter was written. Believe that he is still in the city.

  Jan Dalquist slapped the book shut and put it back in the suitcase.

  He sat, studying his hands, rubbing the numb tips of his fingers together, looking at the places where there should have been fingernails. There was no sense of accomplishment in him. Only fear. And not of Charlebois. It was an odd fear. It was as though, three years before, in a basement room in Gestapo headquarters, he had ceased to exist. He had become a machine, dedicated to the wishes of a small group of bitter men.

  This was the last case. After it was over, he would have to find himself again. There would always be men who would pay him to hunt other men. But that wasn’t the answer. He knew that the two and a half years of constant search, of sudden violence, had deadened him, soured him. No, that wasn’t the answer. He began to think of himself working with moist earth and growing things, with placid acres on which the sun beat and the rains fell. He could almost smell the rich loam.

  After his shower, he strapped on the shoulder holster, checked the clip on the .32 automatic and snapped it into place. It made no visible bulge under the dull gray suit. He sighed heavily, and left the hotel, walking toward Burgundy Street. As he walked, he carried in his mind the accurate picture of Jean Charlebois.

  Five foot nine. One hundred and thirty-five pounds. Dark, thinning hair. Sallow complexion. Heavy eyebrows. Gold cap on right eyetooth. Nervous, agile, quick. High voice. Neat and clean. A chaser of women. Likes jewelry. May have small mustache. Weak eyes, but unlikely to wear glasses.

  The late sun was gone and the lights were beginning to click on. Jan Dalquist walked through the dusk, feeling at each step the little bite of pain at the soles of his feet—the pain that would be with him until he died. And, in his heart, he carried another type of pain—the pain of an intelligent and civilized man, a man of intuitive delicacy, who has been thrown up against the most brutal and animal aspects of war; who, having discovered that the battle must be fought on the brute level, has made the tools of violence his own, has learned to use them with an incredible efficiency because they are foreign to his essential nature.

  He walked and his mind was like a closed fist; the muscles tensed, the kinetic force poised, the entire organism aimed at the careful destruction of Jean Charlebois.

  It had to be a delicate destruction. You cannot shoot a man down in the street and walk away. The circumstance must be right. It must be planned like a successful civil murder. Not like military justice.

  The trapper baits and sets his trap, and then backs off, removing sign and scent of his passage. He stands for a moment and tries to look at his trap with the eyes of the animal which he wishes to catch. What are the possibilities of escape?

  In that way, Jan Dalquist looked at the Ancient Door. It was in a building set flush with the sidewalk, with buildings tight against it on either side. Two rooms opened onto the street. One was a small bar, dim, unclean, with rough wood walls, old flags and swords on the wall. The other room was a dining room with a small raised platform at the far end. Between the bar and the dining room was a big, ornate iron gate with a sign on it which said “Meals Served in the Court.” He noticed, then, an open door in the back wall of the bar.

  He ordered a drink at the bar, picked it up and walked casually back. There was a small court there, open to the sky, with an asthmatic fountain bubbling in the center of it. A few tables were covered with soiled, checked cloths. Another sign said “Dance by Candlelight under the Stars.”

  There were only two doors leading from the court, the door through the bar and one into the kitchen. Except for one old man who sat at the bar, staring moodily down into his drink, Dalquist was the only customer. Through the open grillwork of the iron gate, he saw the entrance to a stairway that went up to the rooms overhead. That would bear investigation.

  He selected a position at the bar which gave him the widest view of the dining room and sipped his drink patiently. Jan Dalquist had a great deal of patience. As he waited, he went over the several plans which he had devised to accomplish the destruction of Jean Charlebois, alias Ramón Francesco, alias Pierre Duval, ex-Maquis, ex-employee of the Gestapo, ex-Frenchman, ex-human.

  Two noisy couples had a drink at the bar, and then went into the dining room. Jan Dalquist watched carefully without giving the impression of watching. He relaxed internally when their order was taken by a doughy man who could not conceivably be Charlebois.

  A pretty girl, her hair a close-fitting cap of blond curls, walked into the bar from the street and sat two stools from Dalquist. She had a wide face, with something secretive and sensitive about the mouth. He glanced at her hands and liked their square, competent look. It suddenly occurred to him that a couple would be far less likely to arouse Charlebois’s suspicions than a single man.

  He watched her carefully, saw her look at her own image in the rounded, polished surface of a silver decanter that stood, out of place, on the back bar. He saw the little wrinkle of laughter as she saw her distorted image.

  “Not very flattering, is it?” he said quietly.

  She turned toward him quickly, startled by the way his words had spoken her thoughts. He saw the flicker of analysis, the debate with self whether to ignore the comment. He knew that his grave, impassive face would weigh in his favor, that she would not rule against him because of his appearance.

  She didn’t. She smiled and said, “Keep a woman away from anything in which she can see her face.”

  “Men are just as vain, you know. Before you came in, I was staring at that thing and imagining what it would be like to go through life with the face I saw in there. It made me feel happy about the face I have. That is a pleasure seldom experienced.”

  She cocked her head to one side and inspected him gravely, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Why seldom? You’ve got a very good
face. Solid and dependable-looking. Nice eyes.”

  He bowed and said, “Thank you, friend. And what else do you see about me?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment and then said, “Let me see. About thirty-six. Scandinavian ancestry. By the way you speak, you’ve been well educated. Your suit is well cut. There’s something sad about your face. As though you’ve had a great deal of trouble. I’d guess that you’re some sort of professional man. Maybe an engineer.”

  He laughed. “You’re observant. However, I’m thirty-two. And I’ve had an average share of trouble. I have a small job to complete and then I’ll be unemployed. How did you learn to use your eyes so well?”

  “I’m down here trying to paint. Let me see your hands. I can tell a great deal from hands.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re not pleasant. They were injured a few years ago.”

  He saw the quick compassion. He said, “I’d very much appreciate it if you’d have dinner with me. That is, if you haven’t other plans …”

  Her smile became wooden. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that—”

  “I know. You’re not accustomed to meeting men in bars and being taken to dinner. But I’m perfectly harmless and I’m lonely. I have no ulterior motives. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  She looked down at her cocktail for a long second and then smiled over at him. “Okay. I’m Jerry Ellis.”

  “How do you do, Jerry. Jan Dalquist. Now I’ll have to give you a second chance to refuse. I told you that my hands aren’t pretty. They’re insensitive to the extent that I can’t wear gloves over them while I eat. For that reason, I haven’t had dinner with a woman in a long time.” He put his right hand, fingers spread, on the top of the bar. He looked closely at her face, saw her eyes, saw the minute tightening of her lips.

  She said, “Sit over here, Jan.” He moved over and sat on the intervening stool. She put her warm fingers on the back of his hand and said, “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. And you’re a very silly man. Very silly.”