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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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with caterpillars and mulberry trees instead of chemical vats. Her nylons were so sheer as to be almost nonexistent, just a nebulous hint of stocking, and her pumps had heels a yard long and an eighth of an inch in diameter. Well, almost. She looked sleek and well-fed and expensive.
The last time I’d seen her, on the other side of the Atlantic, she’d been playing a younger, leaner, and cheaper role. I could remember her dressed in grubby white shorts, as short and tight as the law allowed, and a limp boy’s shirt with a missing button. I could also recall her dressed in even less. It had been quite an intriguing assignment, the one that had brought us together out there in the great Southwest.
Fortunately, our national interests had run more or less parallel—it happens occasionally—but we’d played a fast game of trickery and double-cross before this became apparent. I’d put her on a plane afterwards and shipped her out of the country instead of wringing her neck on general principles, as I undoubtedly should have. Winnie, the hard-boiled little kook, would have called that sentimentality, I suppose. Softhearted Helm, the Galahad of the undercover services. Well, hell, you can’t kill everybody.
I said, “If that’s all you, doll, you’ve been eating too much. I don’t like my women pudgy.”
“Your women!” she murmured.
I grinned. “Well, I seem to recall staking a claim of sorts, the way it’s usually done. In a motel in Tucson, if I remember correctly.”
“But now you have a pretty little blonde wife, I am told. And you are celebrating your honeymoon.” She was watching me closely. She waited a little, perhaps giving me a chance to go into my bereaved-husband act, but I knew her well enough to know that my only chance of making her believe I was really married was not to work at it at all. I had to play it cool and straight. Waving my arms and tearing my hair would get me nowhere; she’d know at once I was faking. When I didn’t react, she sighed theatrically. “Ah, to forget me so soon, for another woman, darling! I am hurt.”
The waiter was putting our drinks on the table. When he had gone, I said, “The only way you’ll ever be hurt, Vadya, is with an axe. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I heard you were here, so I came flying to see you.”
“Sure,” I said. “I am flattered.”
She let her playful smile fade, and said, “Strangely enough, I am telling you the truth, Matthew.”
I let that pass. “How am I supposed to introduce you, if anyone should ask?”
She said, in an accented voice, “Ah, you may call me Madame Dumaire,
chéri
. Madame Evelyn Dumaire. Monsieur Dumaire, unfortunately, is no longer among the living, but fortunately he left his widow well provided for.”
“I can see that,” I said, with a glance at the expensive furs. “Okay, Evelyn. And God help the French. I hope they have the ‘Mona Lisa’ nailed down tight or it will be in Moscow by morning.”
She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t the ‘Mona Lisa,’ of course—who would waste a good agent’s time on that smirking canvas female?—and I have been taken off the Paris assignment, anyway. They called me at lunch. They said, ‘There is a man in London with whom you are acquainted, Vadya. He spared your life once, the record shows. This would seem to indicate that you are the best person we have to negotiate with him. There is no time to construct a new cover. You will go over there—immediately, by jet airplane—as plump Madame Dumaire.’” She smiled. “You see, I am being devastatingly frank. I am letting you know from the start that I was sent here because you were here. Because my employers think I am conscienceless enough to try to capitalize on our old friendship. As of course I am.”
It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. To give myself time to think about it, I said, “Some friendship! I’ve still got the scars where you and your partner
The last time I’d seen her, on the other side of the Atlantic, she’d been playing a younger, leaner, and cheaper role. I could remember her dressed in grubby white shorts, as short and tight as the law allowed, and a limp boy’s shirt with a missing button. I could also recall her dressed in even less. It had been quite an intriguing assignment, the one that had brought us together out there in the great Southwest.
Fortunately, our national interests had run more or less parallel—it happens occasionally—but we’d played a fast game of trickery and double-cross before this became apparent. I’d put her on a plane afterwards and shipped her out of the country instead of wringing her neck on general principles, as I undoubtedly should have. Winnie, the hard-boiled little kook, would have called that sentimentality, I suppose. Softhearted Helm, the Galahad of the undercover services. Well, hell, you can’t kill everybody.
I said, “If that’s all you, doll, you’ve been eating too much. I don’t like my women pudgy.”
“Your women!” she murmured.
I grinned. “Well, I seem to recall staking a claim of sorts, the way it’s usually done. In a motel in Tucson, if I remember correctly.”
“But now you have a pretty little blonde wife, I am told. And you are celebrating your honeymoon.” She was watching me closely. She waited a little, perhaps giving me a chance to go into my bereaved-husband act, but I knew her well enough to know that my only chance of making her believe I was really married was not to work at it at all. I had to play it cool and straight. Waving my arms and tearing my hair would get me nowhere; she’d know at once I was faking. When I didn’t react, she sighed theatrically. “Ah, to forget me so soon, for another woman, darling! I am hurt.”
The waiter was putting our drinks on the table. When he had gone, I said, “The only way you’ll ever be hurt, Vadya, is with an axe. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I heard you were here, so I came flying to see you.”
“Sure,” I said. “I am flattered.”
She let her playful smile fade, and said, “Strangely enough, I am telling you the truth, Matthew.”
I let that pass. “How am I supposed to introduce you, if anyone should ask?”
She said, in an accented voice, “Ah, you may call me Madame Dumaire,
chéri
. Madame Evelyn Dumaire. Monsieur Dumaire, unfortunately, is no longer among the living, but fortunately he left his widow well provided for.”
“I can see that,” I said, with a glance at the expensive furs. “Okay, Evelyn. And God help the French. I hope they have the ‘Mona Lisa’ nailed down tight or it will be in Moscow by morning.”
She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t the ‘Mona Lisa,’ of course—who would waste a good agent’s time on that smirking canvas female?—and I have been taken off the Paris assignment, anyway. They called me at lunch. They said, ‘There is a man in London with whom you are acquainted, Vadya. He spared your life once, the record shows. This would seem to indicate that you are the best person we have to negotiate with him. There is no time to construct a new cover. You will go over there—immediately, by jet airplane—as plump Madame Dumaire.’” She smiled. “You see, I am being devastatingly frank. I am letting you know from the start that I was sent here because you were here. Because my employers think I am conscienceless enough to try to capitalize on our old friendship. As of course I am.”
It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. To give myself time to think about it, I said, “Some friendship! I’ve still got the scars where you and your partner
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