Brady said, "You really are extraordinarily naive, Napier. I told you that Mr. Willoughby and his officer were severely injured when our plane crash-landed, yet you seemed hardly surprised to see them here. Perhaps you're just stupid. Perhaps events have moved too fast for your limited intellect. Our plane, of course, did not crash-land. No forest ranger pilot spotted you. We never saw your helicopter on the way to our alleged crash-landing.
"Deerhorn, the lake just over the hill there, was our destination from the time we left Fort McMurray, because we knew exactly where you were. You sing like a lark, Napier. But Brinckman and Jorgensen sing like angels. They're going to turn State's evidence. Should get off with five years."
"Brinckman and Jorgensen!" Napier jumped to his feet then collapsed back in his chair with a whoosh of expelled air as the barrel of Carmody's machine gun caught him in the solar plexus. He sat there gasping for breath. "Brinckman and Jorgensen," he wheezed, and had just started in on a resume of their antecedents when Carmody's gun caught him lightly on the side of the head.
"Ladies present," Carmody said pleasantly.
"State's evidence!" Napier said huskily. "Five years! Good God, man, Brinckman's my boss. Jorgensen's his lieutenant. I'm only number three on the totem pole. Brinckman is the one who fixes everything, arranges everything, gives all the orders. I just do what I'm told. State's evidence! Five years! Brinckman!"
Willoughby said, "Would you swear to that in court?"
"Too damn right, I would! Treacherous bastard!" Napier stared into space, his mouth no more than a compressed white line.
Willoughby said, "And before all those witnesses, too."
Napier shifted his gaze from faraway places to-Willoughby. His expression was one of total incomprehension.
"Mr. Brady was quite right, Napier. You really are a rather simple person, but as a singer you just got raised to the rank of angel. Until this moment we didn't have a single solitary thing we could pin on either of them. Thanks to you, they'll join you behind bars tonight. It should be a fascinating get-together."
The big white helicopter touched down on Deer-horn at five forty-five in the afternoon. Lucky Lorrigan with a muzzle of Carmody's gun screwing into his ear, had flown the seven-minute hop in impeccable style. The two meteorological station operators had been freed and, when told why, had willingly sworn themselves to secrecy for the next twenty-four hours.
Brady was first off the plane, followed by Dermott and the wounded men. A curious reception committee from the Sikorsky, headed by Lieutenant Fraser, was there to greet them.
Fraser said, "That was fast work. Congratulations! No problems?"
"Routine exercise." Brady was a master of the throw-away phrase. "Some for Dr. Kenmore, though. Three silly people got in the way of flying bullets."
Kenmore said, "I'll fix them up, Mr. Brady."
"Thanks. But you look mighty young to me to be an orthopedic surgeon."
"So it's like that?"
"Patch them up as best you can. Nobody's going to take your license away from you if they peg out during the night."
"I understand." The young doctor's eyes widened as the women descended the steps. "Well, well."
"Brady Enterprises," Brady said with a smirk in his voice, "associates only with the best and the most beautiful. Well, Mr. Lowry, we'll have to see about getting back those splendid machines of yours. And now, Lieutenant, if you will excuse me ― a matter of some urgency."
He had taken some few steps toward his aircraft, when the lieutenant overtook him. "It got pretty cold in your plane, Mr. Brady, so I took the liberty of transferring some essential supplies to our nice warm Sikorsky."
Brady turned ninety degrees without breaking stride and headed purposefully toward the Sky-crane. He patted Lieutenant Fraser on the arm.
"Lieutenant, a very promising future lies ahead of you."
Dermott said to Bernie, the Sikorsky radio operator, "Any luck?"
"Got through to all three, sir. Your New York number and one of your Anchorage numbers ― a Mr. Morrison ― said they had no information for you yet and probably wouldn't have for the next twenty-four hours. Your other Anchorage number ― a Dr. Parker ― asked if you would be kind enough to call him back now."
"Would you get him please?"
"No bother." Bernie smiled. "And then you'd like some privacy?"
Brady had been reduced to the discomfort of sitting on a packing box ― admittedly a large one ― in the fore part of the Sikorsky's cavernous hold. He appeared not to be suffering too much. He was speaking to a fully conscious Ferguson.
"You've made it, son. You're damned lucky, but not nearly as lucky as we are, thanks entirely to you. We'll discuss this ― ah ― later, in private. Sorry your eyes are still troubling you."
"Just a damned nuisance, Mr. Brady. Otherwise, I could fly the plane with no trouble."
"You're not flying anything," anywhere," Ken-more said. "It may be two or three days before we can be sure that your eyesight is stabilized. I know a specialist in Edmonton."
"Thank you. How are our wounded heroes, by the way?"
"They'll live."
"Ah, well. We can't have everything."
Two and a half hours later Brady was again presiding over a cheerful company, but this time rather more comfortably ensconced in the best armchair in the Peter Pond Hotel. Doubtless inspired by the thought of the enormous fees he would extort, he was positively Maecenas-like in his hospitality. Reynolds had been joined by his wife. The atmosphere was festive, but Dermott and Mackenzie didn't seem very jovial. Dermott approached the beaming Brady ― he wasn't beaming at anything in particular but was just sitting there, wife's hand in his left, daiquiri in his right ― and said, "Donald and I would like to slip away for a bit, sir. Do you mind?"
"Of course not. Do you need me?"
"Minor matters, only."
"Go right ahead, George." The beam, which had faded slightly, lit up again. Brady would now have the field to himself, and it was possible that his retailing of recent events might vary slightly from the one he would have given if his two lieutenants had been present. He glanced at his watch. "Eight-thirty. Half an hour or so?"
"About that."
On their way out they stopped by Willoughby's chair. Dermott smiled at a rather misty-eyed Mrs. Reynolds, then said to Willoughby, "Brinckman and Jorgensen?"
Willoughby smiled happily. "Are guests of the Canadian Government. Heard fifteen minutes ago. Look, gentlemen, I don't know how to ― "
"Wait." Mackenzie smiled. "We aren't through with you yet."
"Some more matters to be attended to?"
"Not in Alberta. But we have to cast a net again. Can we see you in the morning?"
"When?"
"Late. May we call you?"
Dermott and Mackenzie spent not half an hour but an hour and a half in Dermott's room, talking, planning, and mostly, telephoning. When they returned to the lounge Brady greeted them effusively. He was totally unaware of how much time had elapsed. The number of the company had increased. Dermott and Mackenzie were introduced to a couple who turned out to be the mayor and his wife. Jay Shore had returned from the plant and they were introduced to his wife, too. They were introduced to a charming lady who turned out to be Mrs. Willoughby. After that they were introduced to two other couples whose names they failed to catch. Jim Brady was spreading his wings that night.
Willoughby came up and spoke to them quietly. "Another item, although it's just another unnecessary nail in the coffin. We retrieved the prints from Shore's house and compared them to the ones in the kidnap truck. Two matching sets were found ― Napier and Lucky Lorrigan's."
At eleven o'clock, Dermott and Mackenzie approached Brady again. He was still in sparkling form: his tolerance for rum passed mortal understanding. Dermott said, "Mr. Brady. We're bushed. We're off."