Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
Davidian Report (24 page)
Mr. Oriole was a little cross. “So you are here.”
“Who were you expecting?”
The door widened. “After last night, we did not know what to expect.”
Steve walked in. “What are you grousing about?” His voice was louder than it should be, to make sure it was heard in the next room. No sense going through the routine twice. “I was out working. You were sitting around on your fat behind.”
Mr. Oriole’s lip pouted but he only said, “In here,” and parted the portieres.
The Eldon Mortizes weren’t there or their lovely niece, they were too elegant for dirty business. But Schmidt was there, and Llewellyn, the bookshop fellow, already promoted to Albion’s position? A burly six-footer who could drive piles with his bare fist was by the side window. His companion was the popcorn man. Steve wasn’t surprised at the aggregation; this was it. The hatchet squad and the executives. First they’d have the report, then they’d hold court. Maybe Albion had passed on his suspicions. Maybe it was only Schmidt’s jealousy. Easy enough to send black-bordered regrets to New York, accident in line of duty; better yet the outright lie that Stefan Winterich was a traitor. Even a suspected traitor didn’t rate an investigation, much less a tear.
Steve took an arrogant stand, in line with the back-parlor exit. “Quite a gathering,” he commented.
Schmidt was cold. But he couldn’t quite disguise the crackle of excitement as his eyeglasses glinted towards the manuscript under Steve’s arm. “You have the Davidian report?”
“Certainly I have it. You don’t think I’d be here wasting time if I didn’t.”
Schmidt’s fingers trembled.
“The question is,” Steve said insolently, “can you take care of it reaching New York safely?”
“You may depend on that.” Schmidt’s voice was almost eager.
Steve didn’t pass it over yet. “I wasn’t asked to bring it back. My part of the job ends right here.”
“That is my understanding.”
“Just so it’s clear,” Steve said. He walked over to Schmidt’s chair. “It’s your baby now.” He let it drop to Schmidt’s lap.
The neat fingers clutched it. The eyeglasses lifted after a moment. “You took care of Davidian?”
“What do you mean?”
From behind him he could feel the creak of the brute and the catarrhal breathing of the popcorn man. Mr. Oriole twined his plump hands together. Only Llewellyn, made in the Schmidt image, was unperturbed.
Schmidt almost screamed it. “You allowed him to escape?”
“He’s around. All I did was get him drunk enough to talk. And take his God-damned report away from him.”
Schmidt said thickly, “The F.B.I. will find him.”
“They haven’t.”
“He can write another report.” Schmidt was the type to worry. “He’s a traitor. He can’t be let go.”
“I follow orders,” Steve said. “That way I stay out of trouble. My orders didn’t say anything about Davidian. Only to get the report.” He moved as if he were about to leave. “I got the report. Okay?”
The scream was rising. “We don’t know where he is.”
Steve smiled. He swiveled his head to give all of them a good look at the smile. But he was getting nervy. It was time something should be happening. “You want me to bring him in?” The contempt for Schmidt’s organization was as open as if he’d spit on them.
Schmidt was saved an answer. It began to happen. Steps on the porch, the doorbell. Mr. Oriole didn’t believe it. He moved uncertainly in the direction of the disturbance. There was silence awaiting his return. It happened fast then. Schmidt clenching the report as Oriole returned with a big man; it was Hale. Ferber had come in the back way. There’d be others on the doors; a friend out back.
Hale said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr. Schmidt?”
Schmidt knew his rights. “I do not understand.”
“We’ve got a few questions to ask you. And you, Mr. Oriole. And your Berlin friend, Steve Wintress, or Stefan Winterich.”
Schmidt sputtered, “This is an outrage! You invade a private home—”
“We’ve got a warrant,” Hale said patiently.
Ferber said, “I’ll take those papers.”
Schmidt hadn’t known Ferber was behind him. He wasn’t going to give up the report easy. They were both hanging onto the phony report. Steve dived as he announced, “I’m not taking this rap.” Ferber was too busy to grab a gun. Oriole was in Hale’s way. Steve dived for the back parlor, cracked out the window. He heard Hale’s shout, Ferber’s reassurance, “He can’t get away.” And a rumble, that would be Hale, “Where do you boys think you’re going?” The goons wouldn’t get to duck out.
And he was in the blackout of the back yard, cutting swiftly for the fence. A heavy hand on his shoulder halted him. “Come on.”
He mouthed, “W-5,” but the hold wasn’t released. It couldn’t be there’d be a mess-up now. There was no time for a confab, he had to get clear and fast.
He tried to wrest away but the clamp held on his shoulder. He didn’t want to use the gun but it looked as if he’d have to. He was struggling for his pocket when the guy undertoned in his ear, “Come on, you fool! Why do you think the engine’s running?”
He heard the purr of it then; recognized the shape of a car in the driveway headed towards the street. He let the fellow drag him along.
“Get in. Lie on the floor, pull the robe over you until we’re out.”
As Steve ducked into the rear, he caught a quick glimpse of the man. Wilton. He burrowed under the robe. Wilton was at the wheel and had the car rolling.
Steve told him, “I’ve got a car around the corner in the next block. Drop me there.”
Wilton said, “You’re driving this one.”
A shapeless hat, an old raincoat. A man who was as much like him as his own brother. He should have caught on before. There were always earmarks of a man on a special assignment. He felt the swerve of the car out of the drive. They were picking up speed.
And then the implication of the words slashed through. He yanked the cover off his face. “I’ve got a bag and a hotel bill.”
“They’ll be handled.”
He tried again, raising his voice enough for the weight of it to carry through. “I’ve got to make a stop.”
“No stops.”
“Look here, Wilton. It’s safe. No one’s looking for me tonight. The little Cocos won’t move until Schmidt gives the word. And Schmidt’s going to be too busy tonight to worry about me.” It wouldn’t take a minute. “The F.B.I. will know you’ve got me under wraps.” Wilton could keep the car gunned while he picked her up.
“Orders, Steve.”
Desperation tore the words from him. “I’ve got to, Wilton!”
She was there waiting for him, the pulse in her throat beating. He’d told her he’d come, that this time he wouldn’t let anything keep him from coming.
“Sorry, Steve.” Wilton meant it; he’d know; he was in the cage himself. “I’ve got to put you aboard a fishing smack at San Pedro before midnight. We’re cutting it fine.”
It wouldn’t take a minute. Just while he told her it couldn’t be tonight. The road from Hollywood to San Pedro wasn’t by way of Main Street.
Some other time, baby.
It wouldn’t take that long to look on her face once more.
“I signed you on two days ago. You’ll find the duds I wore back on the seat. Once we get loose on Sepulveda you can change.”
She’d wait for him until he didn’t come. And then she’d walk home alone,” hurting; hurting like hell tonight; tomorrow, hating.
“Your name is Dick Wilton. You’ll get your new orders in La Paz.”
The punk in the sharp suit and the curly sideburns would want to take her home. She wouldn’t let him tonight. At least tonight she’d walk alone.
“I drive the car over the border and ditch it. Your coat and hat will be in it and enough identification. You’re getting away to Mexico.” He made it clear. “We won’t use you in this country again until it’s safe.” Until never. “Can’t take any chances. You’re worth too much to us, Steve.”
The car was on a straightaway now, moving fast. Faster, further away from her waiting there. Her breasts rising and falling like proud music under the stars; her eyes watching every passer-by, eyes brighter than the brightest stars. Tomorrow they would be stones. If he could stop thinking about her … “How did the F.B.I. get into this?”
“We asked them in.” There was relief in Wilton’s voice. Steve was taking it. “We needed them. The C.I.C. hasn’t any power in civvie matters. They get some men they’ve been watching; we get the report. Pop ought to be setting the real one down in Washington by now. No one will ever know the one you gave Schmidt was a phony. It’ll be returned to us unread. Too bad, we coded a beaut. You can start changing, Steve. But keep down.”
Don’t take any chances. We need you. We need the bloody heart out of your body.
“How much does Haig know?”
“About you? Nothing. He knows our outfit loaned me to the F.B.I. to take Stefan Winterich. Unless he starts figuring. He’s smart.”
Smart enough to know that Steve was telling him that Janni might need help? Beyond the line of duty? Yeah, smart enough. Smart enough not to mention Steve, to let her forget, to take over.
“Conceited bastard.”
“You’re wrong. He’s a straight shooter. He played it that way because of your reputation for arrogance, to beat you at your own game.”
“He hates my guts.”
“He hates the guts of anyone who’s venal enough—or ignorant enough—to sell out to the Kremlin.”
So he was a decent guy. So she’d be better off with him than she could ever have been with Stefan Winterich. Don’t think about her. “What about Davidian?”
“He’s safe.”
“There isn’t a safe place left,” Steve said. “Nowhere in our world.”
“That’s why we’re in this business,” Wilton said.
Yes, that was why. The agents and the special agents of the Counter Intelligence Corps. Trained in—he could quote it word and letter—“… the art of catching spies, also the science of denying the enemy the information he must have …” The expendables. Eating danger and hanging onto the hope that men of good will would someday realize the old, old dream of peace. Until then there was the job, a dirty job, because war was dirty. You didn’t need a proclamation calling it war; without peace, war was. Steve was a good agent, he could stoop to any dishonor without conscience, steal from a blind begger, bribe a saint, lie to the beloved’s face, murder without trace or tear. A monotone along the dusty alley of death.
Wilton said, “We think we can keep him safe. He’s going to work for us.”
“You can’t trust him.”
“We know. We’ve had others like him. But it’s surprising how a man can change when he, has plenty to eat and a decent place to live and a doctor to take care of the sore spots. When he’s treated like a man. You can cure hate.”
Steve had squirmed into the rough pants, the work shirt, the leather jacket. The suit he’d worn, this cloth her hands had touched, would disappear with Steve Wintress. And Davidian. She’d believe that he had hounded Davidian into another rotten exile.
“They’ll catch up with him, Wilton.” That hurt too. “They can’t afford to let him go.”
“Don’t be so sure. We know a few tricks ourselves. He’ll have you to dinner when you get back.”
When you get back. If you get back. There’s an end to everything, there’s an end to this game. If only he could have told her. Who do you think held the gun at that guard’s spine while Davidian scurried across the barrier? Who fixed it so that you could get away to the refuge of this last, very best hope of all men, this land still of the free and the brave? If only he could have touched her.
“You say something, Steve?”
“Nothing.”
Some other time baby. Another year. Another eternity.
My darling
…
my darling
…
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1952 by Dorothy B. Hughes
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
978-1-4804-2702-0
This 2013 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
