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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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me.
“Mr. Helm....”
“Beat it,” I said.
“But—”
I reached for the dingus that rang the bell and pushed the button. The service was good. Almost instantly a black nurse or aide or something—I didn’t have all the Bahamian hospital ranks sorted out—came in to see what I wanted.
I said, “Get the little stoolpigeon out of here, will you, Miss. Please. She’s interfering with the patient’s recovery.”
Lacey Rockwell departed with a reproachful look on her face. She was just as cute as the Easter Bunny, and I didn’t want to lose her permanently, but I didn’t really think there was much risk of that. I waited, watched the ceiling, and presently Fred came in, kind of diffidently.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but they said it was all right.”
I said, “Oh, you’re the driver who.... Of course, you’ve got some money coming. I think my wallet’s in the table drawer. If you’d get it out....” As he came closer, I said softly, “Careful, the place is bugged.”
He shook his head. “No longer. They took it out last night, Mr. Helm. They’re satisfied.”
“Maybe,” I said. “That white man with Detective Inspector Crawford knows more than he was saying aloud. Have we got anything on him?”
“Not much yet,” Fred said. “He’s not local. Somebody from London, is the word we have. A specialist, but specialist in what? He goes by the name of Pendleton, Ramsay Pendleton. The fact that he seems to be getting full cooperation is significant. With our politics the way they are right now, British officials aren’t generally welcomed with open arms.” Fred hesitated. “That was a brave thing you did, Mr. Helm, tackling the Mink barehanded.”
I looked at him with surprise and, perhaps, a little dismay. Only an amateur worries about courage; and I don t like amateur help. I said, “The guy had only one shot in his gun. He weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. I go over two hundred when I don’t watch myself. I should be ashamed of myself, picking on a little fellow like that and letting him put a crease in my skull to boot.” After a moment, I went on: “Could he possibly have made contact with anybody between the time you spotted him at the airport, and the time you turned him over to me at the hotel?”
“If I’d seen a contact made, Mr. Helm, I’d certainly have let you know.”
Fred’s voice was cool. I’d hurt his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to have feelings, none of us are, but I’d hurt them anyway. I’d forgotten that the British have a thing about being forever brave; and that these island people, although they were in the process of discarding the colonial yoke, had nevertheless been exposed to that stiff-upper-lip tradition since childhood. Furthermore, I’d questioned his professional competence.
I said, “Relax, amigo. You know as well as I do that there are signals nobody can spot who doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for. This thing was set up in advance, well in advance, or we’d never have had a chance to learn about it in time to make the intercept. Okay. But the Mink would have wanted to know, upon arriving, that nothing had gone haywire while he was in transit. It seems probable that somebody, at the airport, the hotel, or points in between, gave him the final green light. Maybe just a bystander blowing his nose on a dirty handkerchief, in which case we’re out of luck. But the most likely candidate is somebody he’d normally have dealings with as an innocent tourist, planted somewhere along the route he’d be expected to take. The driver of the taxi he used, for instance....”
“I drove him in my cab,” Fred said stiffly.
I grinned. “One possibility eliminated, then. What about the rest? Who handed him his luggage at the airport, checked him in at the hotel, took his bag up to his room, waited on him in the restaurant... Hell, maybe that slow, slow service was a signal of sorts, although it seems to be fairly standard operating
“Mr. Helm....”
“Beat it,” I said.
“But—”
I reached for the dingus that rang the bell and pushed the button. The service was good. Almost instantly a black nurse or aide or something—I didn’t have all the Bahamian hospital ranks sorted out—came in to see what I wanted.
I said, “Get the little stoolpigeon out of here, will you, Miss. Please. She’s interfering with the patient’s recovery.”
Lacey Rockwell departed with a reproachful look on her face. She was just as cute as the Easter Bunny, and I didn’t want to lose her permanently, but I didn’t really think there was much risk of that. I waited, watched the ceiling, and presently Fred came in, kind of diffidently.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but they said it was all right.”
I said, “Oh, you’re the driver who.... Of course, you’ve got some money coming. I think my wallet’s in the table drawer. If you’d get it out....” As he came closer, I said softly, “Careful, the place is bugged.”
He shook his head. “No longer. They took it out last night, Mr. Helm. They’re satisfied.”
“Maybe,” I said. “That white man with Detective Inspector Crawford knows more than he was saying aloud. Have we got anything on him?”
“Not much yet,” Fred said. “He’s not local. Somebody from London, is the word we have. A specialist, but specialist in what? He goes by the name of Pendleton, Ramsay Pendleton. The fact that he seems to be getting full cooperation is significant. With our politics the way they are right now, British officials aren’t generally welcomed with open arms.” Fred hesitated. “That was a brave thing you did, Mr. Helm, tackling the Mink barehanded.”
I looked at him with surprise and, perhaps, a little dismay. Only an amateur worries about courage; and I don t like amateur help. I said, “The guy had only one shot in his gun. He weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. I go over two hundred when I don’t watch myself. I should be ashamed of myself, picking on a little fellow like that and letting him put a crease in my skull to boot.” After a moment, I went on: “Could he possibly have made contact with anybody between the time you spotted him at the airport, and the time you turned him over to me at the hotel?”
“If I’d seen a contact made, Mr. Helm, I’d certainly have let you know.”
Fred’s voice was cool. I’d hurt his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to have feelings, none of us are, but I’d hurt them anyway. I’d forgotten that the British have a thing about being forever brave; and that these island people, although they were in the process of discarding the colonial yoke, had nevertheless been exposed to that stiff-upper-lip tradition since childhood. Furthermore, I’d questioned his professional competence.
I said, “Relax, amigo. You know as well as I do that there are signals nobody can spot who doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for. This thing was set up in advance, well in advance, or we’d never have had a chance to learn about it in time to make the intercept. Okay. But the Mink would have wanted to know, upon arriving, that nothing had gone haywire while he was in transit. It seems probable that somebody, at the airport, the hotel, or points in between, gave him the final green light. Maybe just a bystander blowing his nose on a dirty handkerchief, in which case we’re out of luck. But the most likely candidate is somebody he’d normally have dealings with as an innocent tourist, planted somewhere along the route he’d be expected to take. The driver of the taxi he used, for instance....”
“I drove him in my cab,” Fred said stiffly.
I grinned. “One possibility eliminated, then. What about the rest? Who handed him his luggage at the airport, checked him in at the hotel, took his bag up to his room, waited on him in the restaurant... Hell, maybe that slow, slow service was a signal of sorts, although it seems to be fairly standard operating
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