Read Online The Terminators by Donald Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donald Hamilton
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these damned Norska bunks are big enough for two."
"Do you want to bet. Mr. Helm?"
I didn't bet. It was just as well. I'd have lost
VI.
BREAKFAST was a self-service meal, with a fine display of anchovies and herrings on the big table at the end of the first-class dining room. With silent apologies to my Scandinavian forebears, I passed up this fishy feast and tracked down a couple of boiled eggs and some bacon, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee. In the meantime, my current partner in business, and other endeavors, was heaping stuff on her plate in the manner of a lady who doesn't have to worry about her waistline.
It disturbed me to note that this morning she looked very good, slim and willowy in her own nicely fitting gray slacks and the neat little short-sleeved gray sweater she'd been wearing when I'd first seen her in Tracteurstedet— I'd smuggled the garments aboard under my jacket. Her long coat had been too bulky and had been left with Hank Priest. She had a kerchief over her hair to hide the fact that it wasn't quite as dark as Mrs. Madeleine Earth's hair was supposed to be. She looked quite bright and attractive, and I didn't like it, remembering how drab and colorless I'd thought her the evening before. While I'd have liked to think that a night in my company could cause a perfectly plain female to blossom into quiet beauty, honesty forced me to admit it wasn't likely. The change must therefore be in the way I was looking at her. Changes like that you've got to watch.
There was, of course, also the fact that she looked as serene and untouched as if she'd spent the night chastely alone in her narrow Nordic berth. Professional caution made me wonder uneasily, for a moment, if maybe she wasn't a truly clever little actress putting me on for some sinister purpose. Well, if she was, I had to hand it to her: it was a great act.
"No," she said, sitting down at a table by a window.
"No what?" I asked, seating myself to face her.
"No, it's not an act, darling. That's what you were just thinking, isn't it, looking at me so suspiciously. You were wondering if maybe . . . maybe I hadn't lured you into bed for wicked conspiratorial reasons of some kind."
I sighed. "Kooks I can stand, but clairvoyants give me the creeps."
"Then you're in fine shape," she said, "Because that's all I am, just a simple country kook. And the funny thing is, I never realized it until a few months ago. I thought. ... I thought everybody had those crazy, uncivilized impulses from time to time. And I never dreamed I'd really have the nerve to. . . ." She stopped, and laughed abruptly. "You were wrong, Matt."
"How wrong?"
"Those beds. You said they weren't big enough, remember?" She blushed, and busied herself with some pickled fish on her plate. "Matt."
"Yes?"
"I feel all funny inside. Reckless-funny. Does it show?"
"Not one little bit," I said. "You look very genteel and proper, as a matter of fact." After a moment, I went on, "You did say the Elfenbeins probably don't know you by sight? I hope you're right, Because if I've got the right people spotted, here they come."
"Don't hoard the salt, darling," she said. "Other people eat eggs, too, you know. . . . It's really magnificent scenery, isn't it? I understand it gets even more spectacular up north."
She'd turned to watch the rocky coast passing off to starboard, illuminated by shafts of bright sunshine as the clouds of last night's rain broke up. It was nicely done, giving them no more than the back of her head and a thin profile to compare with any description the blond man might have given them. Then they were coming past us. Greta Elfenbein had changed to brightly checked red-and-white slacks, which was a pity, considering her legs. A white ski-sweater made her look like a sporty elf. Adolf was wearing a dark blue business suit and a conservative blue tie. In daylight, close up, he was just an ordinary-looking, mild-looking little blue-eyed gent in his fifties. All
"Do you want to bet. Mr. Helm?"
I didn't bet. It was just as well. I'd have lost
VI.
BREAKFAST was a self-service meal, with a fine display of anchovies and herrings on the big table at the end of the first-class dining room. With silent apologies to my Scandinavian forebears, I passed up this fishy feast and tracked down a couple of boiled eggs and some bacon, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee. In the meantime, my current partner in business, and other endeavors, was heaping stuff on her plate in the manner of a lady who doesn't have to worry about her waistline.
It disturbed me to note that this morning she looked very good, slim and willowy in her own nicely fitting gray slacks and the neat little short-sleeved gray sweater she'd been wearing when I'd first seen her in Tracteurstedet— I'd smuggled the garments aboard under my jacket. Her long coat had been too bulky and had been left with Hank Priest. She had a kerchief over her hair to hide the fact that it wasn't quite as dark as Mrs. Madeleine Earth's hair was supposed to be. She looked quite bright and attractive, and I didn't like it, remembering how drab and colorless I'd thought her the evening before. While I'd have liked to think that a night in my company could cause a perfectly plain female to blossom into quiet beauty, honesty forced me to admit it wasn't likely. The change must therefore be in the way I was looking at her. Changes like that you've got to watch.
There was, of course, also the fact that she looked as serene and untouched as if she'd spent the night chastely alone in her narrow Nordic berth. Professional caution made me wonder uneasily, for a moment, if maybe she wasn't a truly clever little actress putting me on for some sinister purpose. Well, if she was, I had to hand it to her: it was a great act.
"No," she said, sitting down at a table by a window.
"No what?" I asked, seating myself to face her.
"No, it's not an act, darling. That's what you were just thinking, isn't it, looking at me so suspiciously. You were wondering if maybe . . . maybe I hadn't lured you into bed for wicked conspiratorial reasons of some kind."
I sighed. "Kooks I can stand, but clairvoyants give me the creeps."
"Then you're in fine shape," she said, "Because that's all I am, just a simple country kook. And the funny thing is, I never realized it until a few months ago. I thought. ... I thought everybody had those crazy, uncivilized impulses from time to time. And I never dreamed I'd really have the nerve to. . . ." She stopped, and laughed abruptly. "You were wrong, Matt."
"How wrong?"
"Those beds. You said they weren't big enough, remember?" She blushed, and busied herself with some pickled fish on her plate. "Matt."
"Yes?"
"I feel all funny inside. Reckless-funny. Does it show?"
"Not one little bit," I said. "You look very genteel and proper, as a matter of fact." After a moment, I went on, "You did say the Elfenbeins probably don't know you by sight? I hope you're right, Because if I've got the right people spotted, here they come."
"Don't hoard the salt, darling," she said. "Other people eat eggs, too, you know. . . . It's really magnificent scenery, isn't it? I understand it gets even more spectacular up north."
She'd turned to watch the rocky coast passing off to starboard, illuminated by shafts of bright sunshine as the clouds of last night's rain broke up. It was nicely done, giving them no more than the back of her head and a thin profile to compare with any description the blond man might have given them. Then they were coming past us. Greta Elfenbein had changed to brightly checked red-and-white slacks, which was a pity, considering her legs. A white ski-sweater made her look like a sporty elf. Adolf was wearing a dark blue business suit and a conservative blue tie. In daylight, close up, he was just an ordinary-looking, mild-looking little blue-eyed gent in his fifties. All
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