Read Online Matt Helm--The Interlopers by Donald Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donald Hamilton
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and back again. Then she stepped forward impulsively and threw her arms around my neck.
“Grant!” she cried. “Oh, Grant, darling, I’ve been so worried about you…!”
9
There are all kinds of Elizabeths, and you can pretty well determine which variety you’re dealing with by the nickname your specimen wears. At one end of the personality range are the sweet, shy Beths—I was married to one, once. It was at a time when I’d quit all undercover activities and was earning a peaceful living with typewriter and camera, but things happened, as they do to people who retire from this profession. She learned about my dark and bloody past the hard way. It broke her up and our marriage as well. A typical, sensitive Beth. She went to Reno and I went back to work for Mac, but ever since I’ve considered myself something of an authority on Elizabeths.
In the middle of the personality spectrum you’ll find some wholesome, normal girls called Betty. At the far end are the tough and sexy ladies who go by the nicknames Liz and Libby. I don’t say it always works this way, but I’ve found the correlation pretty good.
Libby Meredith did nothing to make me revise my conclusions, Elizabeth-wise. She might be tired from all the driving, but the kiss she gave me showed me no signs of it. By the time she’d finished, I’d been made uncomfortably aware that there was a healthy woman inside the slightly wilted silk-and-lace outfit that something drastic should be done about, and if a bed wasn’t handy, the wall-to-wall carpet would do. Of course, it wasn’t a very practical idea at the moment, but I couldn’t help having it just the same.
She drew back slightly to look at me. There was a hint of malice in her greenish eyes, letting me know that she was well aware of the biological effect she’d produced; but from where he stood, Stottman couldn’t see her eyes. Her voice, which he could hear, was tender.
“Oh, darling!” she murmured. “When I saw that strange man and that crummy black dog trying to impersonate you and your Hank in that funny little pet clinic, I was so afraid… I figured he must have killed you, or at least had you kidnaped, so he could take your place. I wanted to stay and find you, but you know how they are about following instructions. Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said. She’d given me time to get my brain working again, and the role I was expected to play was pretty obvious. I went on, “Some crazy kids tried to run me into a deadfall, but I managed to shoot my way out of it.”
I made my voice carefully casual, the way a man like Grant Nystrom might, after having for the first time proved his manhood with a gun. Libby Meredith looked aghast.
“
Shoot
your way?” she gasped, and of course she was acting, too.
Her mocking eyes told me she knew quite well that shooting guns at people was nothing new in my life. It was fairly easy, now, to guess where she’d learned this. I was beginning to understand from whom Mr. Smith’s young men had extracted so many intimate details of the late Grant Nystrom’s life; although her motive in spilling all this information to the authorities, and in coming here to help me act the part of her dead boyfriend—if that was why she was here—was not yet apparent.
“Shoot your way!” she repeated, sounding shocked and horrified. “Oh, darling, you’re supposed to be just a courier, not a gunman. If I’d thought for a moment, when I talked you into it, that there was any danger in the work our people needed you for…” She paused. Her expression was, for the moment, odd and unreadable. “Did you… did you have to kill anybody?”
“I got one of them, a punk with a fancy rifle who was drawing a bead on Hank.” I was still Grant Nystrom, trying to work out the proper attitude for discussing his first homicide. “It was pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. I’ve worked lots harder stalking deer and elk. I don’t know what’s so tough
“Grant!” she cried. “Oh, Grant, darling, I’ve been so worried about you…!”
9
There are all kinds of Elizabeths, and you can pretty well determine which variety you’re dealing with by the nickname your specimen wears. At one end of the personality range are the sweet, shy Beths—I was married to one, once. It was at a time when I’d quit all undercover activities and was earning a peaceful living with typewriter and camera, but things happened, as they do to people who retire from this profession. She learned about my dark and bloody past the hard way. It broke her up and our marriage as well. A typical, sensitive Beth. She went to Reno and I went back to work for Mac, but ever since I’ve considered myself something of an authority on Elizabeths.
In the middle of the personality spectrum you’ll find some wholesome, normal girls called Betty. At the far end are the tough and sexy ladies who go by the nicknames Liz and Libby. I don’t say it always works this way, but I’ve found the correlation pretty good.
Libby Meredith did nothing to make me revise my conclusions, Elizabeth-wise. She might be tired from all the driving, but the kiss she gave me showed me no signs of it. By the time she’d finished, I’d been made uncomfortably aware that there was a healthy woman inside the slightly wilted silk-and-lace outfit that something drastic should be done about, and if a bed wasn’t handy, the wall-to-wall carpet would do. Of course, it wasn’t a very practical idea at the moment, but I couldn’t help having it just the same.
She drew back slightly to look at me. There was a hint of malice in her greenish eyes, letting me know that she was well aware of the biological effect she’d produced; but from where he stood, Stottman couldn’t see her eyes. Her voice, which he could hear, was tender.
“Oh, darling!” she murmured. “When I saw that strange man and that crummy black dog trying to impersonate you and your Hank in that funny little pet clinic, I was so afraid… I figured he must have killed you, or at least had you kidnaped, so he could take your place. I wanted to stay and find you, but you know how they are about following instructions. Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said. She’d given me time to get my brain working again, and the role I was expected to play was pretty obvious. I went on, “Some crazy kids tried to run me into a deadfall, but I managed to shoot my way out of it.”
I made my voice carefully casual, the way a man like Grant Nystrom might, after having for the first time proved his manhood with a gun. Libby Meredith looked aghast.
“
Shoot
your way?” she gasped, and of course she was acting, too.
Her mocking eyes told me she knew quite well that shooting guns at people was nothing new in my life. It was fairly easy, now, to guess where she’d learned this. I was beginning to understand from whom Mr. Smith’s young men had extracted so many intimate details of the late Grant Nystrom’s life; although her motive in spilling all this information to the authorities, and in coming here to help me act the part of her dead boyfriend—if that was why she was here—was not yet apparent.
“Shoot your way!” she repeated, sounding shocked and horrified. “Oh, darling, you’re supposed to be just a courier, not a gunman. If I’d thought for a moment, when I talked you into it, that there was any danger in the work our people needed you for…” She paused. Her expression was, for the moment, odd and unreadable. “Did you… did you have to kill anybody?”
“I got one of them, a punk with a fancy rifle who was drawing a bead on Hank.” I was still Grant Nystrom, trying to work out the proper attitude for discussing his first homicide. “It was pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. I’ve worked lots harder stalking deer and elk. I don’t know what’s so tough
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