The Mindwarpers Page 14

  “Why not?”

  “They never come here. There isn’t an interstate depot in this town.”

  “That means they may not have been what they appeared to be, eh? Well, I saw them myself and they certainly looked like truckers.”

  “In our servicing bay we’ve a chump who looks like Napoleon—but he isn’t.”

  Returning to the counter, Bransome leaned across it, grasped Richards’ forearm, held it up and said loudly, I declare you the winner.”

  He left, moodily crossed the yard and reached the exit. The gateman came out of his hut and asked, “Any luck, mister?” Bransome said, “I was too late. They’re being fried tomorrow. Justice shall be done.” He kept on walking, giving no opportunity for further questions. Behind him the gateman spent a moment looking thunderstruck, then dashed into his hut and snatched up the phone. “Who’s being taken and what for? Or is that fellow a nut-case?” A voice replied, “You’re paid to keep ‘em out, not to show ‘em in. Wake up, Sweeny!”

  Knowing from experience exactly what Dorothy’s routine would be, Bransome stationed himself at the back of a small parking lot and observed her arrival. About five minutes before the meeting time she drove through the entrance, expertly reversed into a vacant space, got out and locked the car doors. Pausing only to feed the meter she left the park, turned to the right and sauntered along the road. Her handbag was tucked under her right arm, a familiar-looking suitcase was swinging from her left hand and she was displaying the usual long, slender legs at which various males threw appreciative glances.

  Another car drove in and positioned itself not far from Dorothy’s. Two men emerged, put money in the meter and turned to the right. They walked at easy pace a couple of hundred yards behind Dorothy. Ordinarily, Bransome would have felt highly suspicious of this pair, but both were elderly and silver-haired, in his opinion too old to play the professional tracker. All the same, he came from his hiding place and followed them in their turn, meanwhile keeping careful watch for any other shadowers that Dorothy might innocently be leading around.

  Before long the two oldsters mounted the steps of an office building and pushed through its revolving door. Dorothy was still visible walking onward with occasional slowings in pace as she passed an interesting shop window. Keeping his eyes peeled, Bransome could find nothing to show that she was under observation. He was looking mostly for a too-casual pedestrian strolling in the same direction and it did not occur to him to watch passing traffic.

  Dorothy reached the small restaurant where, years ago, she had lost and regained her compact. She went inside, being characteristically right on time. On the opposite side of the road Bransome kept going, walked a hundred yards or so farther on, crossed the street and came back. He failed to spot anyone confused by this maneuver. So far as he could tell, the coast was clear. He went into the restaurant and found her sitting expectantly at a secluded table for two.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” Slinging his hat onto a nearby hook, he took the opposite chair.

  “Hi, sloppy!” she greeted. “Been sleeping in your suit?”

  Instinctively smoothing his sleeves, he said, “It’s not that rumpled.”

  “What have you been sleeping in?” she asked with dangerous sweetness.

  “Beds,” he told her. “See here, I haven’t met you just to—” He shut up as she leaned sideways, grasped the suitcase on the floor and pushed it forward slightly. It was the one that he’d abandoned on the train. He gazed at it morbidly. “How did you get it?”

  “A tall, dark stranger crossed my path. He knocked at the door and gave it to me.”

  “Did he give you his name as well?”

  “Yes—Reardon. Naturally I wanted to know how he’d come by it and what you were doing without your shaving gear and pajamas.”

  “If you must know, I’ve slept in my underwear. What did he tell you?”

  “He said you were growing a beard and sleeping naked for reasons he did not care to mention. He remarked that if I asked no questions I’d be told no lies and, anyway, he wanted no hand in a possible divorce.” “Trust him to say things like that,” commented Bransome. “He wants you to gab about me. No doubt he figures you’d be more willing to co-operate if you were annoyed. Did he ask a load of questions about whether you had heard from me and where I was and what I was doing and so on?”

  “He did ask a few. I told him nothing. After all, there was nothing I could tell him.” She became more serious. “What’s going on, Rich?”

  “I wish I could give you the full facts, but I can’t. Not yet, at least. When it comes to an end the authorities may want to keep it dark. You know how tough they are with people who talk too much.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “However, I can tell you this: it’s a security matter. It involves me, and that’s what had me worried before I went away. I’ve since discovered that it affects a number of other employees as well. The big consolation is that as far as I, personally, am concerned it’s not as serious as first it seemed.”

  “That’s something,” she said, openly relieved.

  “But it doesn’t satisfy me. For reasons I cannot explain, this thing must be seen through to the bitter end.” He sought a way of making her understand without revealing anything. “It’s like a decaying tooth. By dabbing it with oil of cloves I’ve stopped the ache and feel happier for it. However, that’s only a palliative and I’d be a fool to kid myself that it’s a cure. To do a proper job the tooth must be extracted.”

  “By you?”

  “I’m one of the sufferers and I feel entitled to do something about it—if I can.”

  “What of the others you’ve mentioned? Are they incapable of taking action?”

  “They’ve lammed out of reach and don’t realize what is going on. I found—” He caught her warning look, glanced up and found a waiter standing silently by his elbow. Accepting a menu, he discussed it with Dorothy and gave their orders. The waiter went away. Bransome continued with, “I found one character who before long may be able and willing to help. Fellow named Henderson, a red-area ballistician. Remember him?”

  “Can’t say I do,” she admitted after some thought.

  “Burly type with a slight paunch, hair thinning on top, wears rimless glasses and talks like a lecturer. You met him some months ago.”

  “I still don’t recall him. Evidently he didn’t create much of an impression.”

  “He wouldn’t. He never tries to. He’s not what one would call a ladies’ man.”

  “Meaning he keeps his paws to himself?”

  “That’s right. Doesn’t want to get his fingers trapped. He may phone at any time. I won’t be home for a few days hut don’t let that worry you. I’ve good reasons for staying away.”

  “So this man Reardon implied.”

  “Damn Reardon! Now, if and when Henderson calls, tell him that I’m on the job but not immediately available and that you’ll take his message. If he expects a reply, ask him if I’m to phone the store or some other number. Is that okay?”

  “I’ll cope. The art of marriage is coping.”

  “Another thing: if Reardon or that big foreigner or anyone else arrives at the house and starts pestering you with questions, you still know nothing, see? You don’t know where I am or when I’ll return. You’ve never heard of Henderson even though you’ve just been talking to him. Doesn’t matter who the questioner may be, a reporter, an F.B.I, agent or a ten-star general in full uniform, you don’t know a darned thing.”

  “Check,” she said. “Am I permitted to know just who this Reardon is?”

  “A security officer. Belongs to Military Intelligence.”

  She showed surprise and some puzzlement. “Then surely it’s his job and not yours to—”

  Bransome interrupted, “For one thing, suffering is educative and he hasn’t suffered and can’t be expected to understand the mentalities of those who have. For another, there are different ideas of what constitutes security. For a third, h
e’s trained to deal with orthodox problems by orthodox methods. I don’t want him tramping all over my feet, messing me up and pushing me around. There’s enough regimentation in the plant without having more of it outside.”

  “All right, if he calls on me I’ll treat him to a demonstration of wide-eyed ignorance.”

  “You do that. He won’t be fooled for one minute-but neither will he learn anything.”

  The meal came. Until it was finished they resorted to idle gossip. Over coffee, Bransome came back to the subject.

  “One more item. This big clunker whom you believe to be a foreigner. I’ve seen him a few times and know how he looks. But I’d like to have your description of him. Different people notice different things and you may be able to augment my own picture of him.”

  Dorothy obliged in manner showing that she was very observant. To Bransome’s memory of the man she added a thin white scar, about one inch long, set diagonally on the right side of the upper lip. He had a habit, she said, of pursing his lips after putting a question and it was then that the scar showed up as a crease in the flesh. Apart from that she had nothing to add except her intuitive feeling that he was a stolid but brutal type who’d be slow to lose his temper and equally slow to recover it.

  “He seemed the sort of man who’d take an awful lot of provocation before he hit out—but once started he wouldn’t know when to stop.”

  “His manner toward you wasn’t tough?”

  “No, not at all. He was unctuously polite.”

  “H’m!” His fingers tapped idly on the table as again he visualized the subject of their conversation. The waiter misunderstood his rapping and brought the bill. Bransome paid it and, after the other had gone, said to Dorothy, “During the last few days have you noticed anyone following you around?”

  “No, Rich. I haven’t been watching for any such thing. Do you consider it likely?”

  “It’s possible. Anyone wanting to find me would keep an eye on you.”

  “Yes, I suppose they would.”

  “From now on I’d like you to see if you can spot anyone tagging along behind. If you do, don’t let it bother you. Try to get a close look at him so that you can describe him to me. I may be able to figure out a way of making him provide me with a lead.”

  “He could be another security man, couldn’t he?”

  “Yes. One of Reardon’s bunch. But there’s a chance that he might be an observer for quite a different mob, in which case he’s my meat.” Getting up, he reached for his hat. “Tell the kids I’ll be home before long. I’ll phone you tomorrow evening after they’ve gone to bed.”

  “All right.” She gathered her things together and left with him. Outside she asked, “Do you need the car? Or can I drive you somewhere?”

  “I’m better off without the car. Too many snoops know its license number. I don’t want to advertise myself all over town.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Rich, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m like a blind man fumbling in the dark and hoping to put a hand on something worth grabbing.” He gave her hand a reassuring pat. “I may get nowhere, in which case I’ll be happy in the thought that it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  “I know how you feel.” With a doubtful smile she set off in the direction of the parking lot.

  Watching her until she was out of sight, Bransome hailed a taxi and was taken to the office of another trucking company. He was not sanguine about the usefulness of this visit but did want authoritative confirmation of the remarks made by Richards.

  They said, “Look, mister, without names or photographs you’ve as much chance of tracing those guys as of having a drink with the Pope. They might be anybody and they might be anywhere. What d’you expect us to do about it?”

  He left the place feeling satisfied that this line of investigation was fruitless. Ergo, he’d have to try some other line. He’d admit himself beaten when he had exhausted every possibility and not before.

  Walking through a series of side streets he tried to work out his plan of campaign. Were there any other paths of approach that might lead him to the truckers? He could imagine only one, that being the station snack bar where he had encountered them. Somebody who frequented the place might know the identities of those two, a railroad official or a fellow commuter or some other trucker.

  If he eliminated this pair as unfindable, what other leads remained? For one, there was the big shadower who had out-stared him in the mirror, who had disappeared not far from home and therefore might be living in that neighborhood. And then there were the two unknown men who had witnessed his fall down the steps and reacted thereto. He’d seen them only hazily in the second or two before he’d collapsed, but more clearly after his recovery. Their faces remained impressed upon his mind with photographic accuracy, especially the one who had been slapping his face to bring him to his senses. He felt sure that if he should encounter them again he would recognize them at once. But where to look for them? Like the vanished truckers, they might be anybody and might be anywhere.

  At the last resort he had the choice of three moves. Using Dorothy as bait he could try to pick up a shadower and use him as a lead to others in the background. Or he could make another pass at Henderson in the hope that two might succeed where one had failed. Or he could treat Reardon to an hour of true confessions and leave the powers-that-be to handle things in whatever way they saw fit.

  The last idea was so distasteful that automatically he rejected it, speeded up his pace and headed for the station. He did not and could not know it at the time but it was his first move in the right direction. At long last he was about to start getting somewhere.

  TEN:

  MARCHING INTO the snack bar long before his customary time, he eased himself onto a high stool, ordered coffee and waited until the attendant had finished serving others. When the fellow was free he gave him the nod, leaned over the counter and spoke in low tones.

  “Walt, I’m looking for someone and you may be able to help me. Do you remember a couple of hefty characters in denims and peaked caps? They were in here swilling coffee a week or so ago. Looked like truck-drivers. They were talking about a murder somewhere or other.”

  “Murder?” Walt’s eyebrows twitched. He put on the expression of one hoping for the best while expecting the worst. “No, Mr. Bransome. I heard nobody talking about anything like that. I don’t remember those guys either.”

  “Try and think. Two truckers sitting right here.”

  Obediently Walt tried and thought. “Sorry, Mr. Bransome—I don’t recall them at all. I ought to, if they were truckers. We don’t get ‘em here very often. I couldn’t have taken much notice of them at the time. I don’t pay much attention to casual customers unless they attract it by busting a window or fainting on the floor or something like that.” Another thought struck him and he asked, “You sure I was on duty then?”

  “Yes, it was a Friday evening. You’re always on duty Fridays, aren’t you?”

  “Sure am. Maybe I was busy. I don’t take a lot in when I’ve plenty to do. People can be talking all around me and none of it registers until they shout an order.”

  “Do you think you’d remember them if they’d been here a number of times?”

  “That’s likely,” said Walt. “As I said, it isn’t often we get truckers in here.”

  “So the implication is that they were here only the once and you haven’t seen them since?”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, how about another fellow? Here by himself a couple of days later. No, four or five days later. Big guy. Over six feet tall, two hundred pounds, flattened nose, florid face with heavy chops, white scar on top lip, looked like an ex-pug or maybe an older policeman in plain clothes. He sat up here right by the counter, saying nothing and staring at the mirror as if it fascinated him.”

  “Wears a snake-ring on his left hand?” prompted Walt, frowning to himself.

  “I believe he did
wear a ring of some kind, but I didn’t see it close up.”

  “Talks like a foreigner?”

  “Haven’t heard him speak a word, but I’ve good reason to think he may be a foreigner.”

  “Been in here a few times.” Walt glanced at the wall-clock. “Somewhere about now or perhaps a little later. Haven’t seen him for a week though. I can remember him because he gave me the creeps. Always by himself, using his eyes a lot and saying nothing. Used to stare at me as if making ready to complain about something and wreck the joint. But he never got around to it.”

  “Know anything about him?”

  “Only that I sized him up as a foreigner.”

  “Ever see him in the company of anyone you do know?”

  “No, Mr. Bransome.” Walt wiped an imaginary stain from the counter and looked bored.

  “Too bad,” said Bransome.

  A customer called for attention. Walt moved along the counter, served him, did a bit more perfunctory wiping. Bransome brooded over his cup of coffee. After a while Walt ambled up to his end and offered an afterthought.

  “I think that big lug is called Kossy or Kozzy. What is all this, anyway?”

  “I’m asking to forestall the cops. How did you get his name?”

  “I was here one evening and he was squatting by the counter and giving the evil eye to the mirror as usual. Four young fellows came in and sat at that table over there. One of them gave him the hi-ho and called him Kossy or Kozzy. He didn’t like it. No, sir, he didn’t like it one little bit. He gave this youngster a look of sudden death and dumped his cup and went out. The other fellow laughed and shrugged it off.”

  “Know who this youngster is?”

  “No, I don’t. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before. Probably he’s a casual customer who comes in once in a blue moon.”

  “What about his three pals?”

  “Oh, I know one of those—Jim Falkner.”

  “Stand back and let the dog see the rabbit,” said Bransome, putting down his cup and getting off the stool. “Where can I find Jim Falkner?”