I found a hotel, got a room, and sent the bellboy away with a tip. I opened the suitcase he'd placed on the stand at the foot of the bed and grimaced at the gaudy Petroni apparel inside. I found a silver flask and started towards the bathroom for a glass and said to hell with it. Drinking When I felt lousy had never made me feel any better. I screwed the cap back onto the flask and dropped the flask back into the suitcase. The telephone rang. I picked it up.
"Is this Mr. Peterson?" a female voice asked. "Is this Mr. Peterson, from Chicago?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm from Chicago, but the name is Peters, ma'am. James A. Peters."
"Oh, dear," the voice said. "I'm terribly sorry. I do hope I didn't wake you, or anything."
"It's perfectly all right, ma'am," I said.
I put the instrument back in its cradle. It was code, of course. There were half a dozen names she might have asked for. Peterson meant I was supposed to hunt up a clear phone and call Washington. I didn't ask myself how Mac had known where to reach me. After all, I'd told him I had a date with the Michaelis kid, whose temporary residence was known; and I hadn't made it very hard for anybody who wanted to tail me from there. The only question was, should I call and learn where I stood, or should I be proud and, independent.
I didn't feel very proud and independent. I went down into the lobby and used one of the pay phones.
"Eric here," I said, when I heard the familiar voice on the line.
Mac said, "Yellow Cadillac two-door, male driver."
"It rings no bells."
"It should. He was behind you all the way from the girl's motel, our man says, trying to make up his mind to close in. No armaments in view, but that means nothing."
"No, sir."
"I got your message."
"Yes, sir."
"Independence is a virtue, I'm told, but there are arguments in favor of discipline. We will discuss the matter later."
"Yes, sir."
"I presume what you have in mind could be classified under the heading of atonement. Even assuming that you were at fault, which you have denied, it is a sentimental notion."
"Yes, sir."
"Sentiment is rare in our line of work." His voice was dry. "Well, Jean would have appreciated the romantic gesture. Since you seem to have a lead of sorts and nobody else has, you may as well carry on, if you feel capable- What did you say?"
"Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all, sir."
"What did the little Michaelis girl have to propose?"
"She has hired me to assassinate Mrs. Louis Rosten in a discreet way. Twenty-five hundred down, twenty-five hundred on delivery. I've only collected five C's so far, but I'm getting the rest tomorrow after she's been to the bank."
It silenced him briefly. I'd hoped it might. He asked at last, "What are your plans?"
I said, "I thought the deal was that no questions would be asked."
"That was in another connection. You can't very well-"
"Can't I?" I asked. "How important is this machine of Dr. Michaelis'? The last I heard, the fate of the world hung in the balance."
"But-" I heard him swallow at the other end of the line. He thought I was needling him, but he wasn't quite sure. Well, I wasn't quite sure, either. He called my bluff. "Very well. Use your judgment."
"Thank you, sir, but judgment-wise I'm suffering from fatigue, remember? And a superman complex. Ah, hell." I was being childish. "I want everything anybody's got on Michaelis, Theodora. Orcutt, William. Rosten, Robin. Rosten, Louis. And a schooner named Freya. Oh, and a man named Nick, paid hand on the schooner. Can do?"
"I think we have most of that information. In a minute, I'll switch you to the girl downstairs and she'll read it off for you. Anything else?"
"One thing. There was a New York private detective, name unknown, who came down here to investigate for Miss Michaelis and got scared off."
"He was taken aside by some people with impressive credentials and told to forget it."
"That wasn't too smart," I said. "It would have been better, maybe, to let him keep working and have him send her innocuous reports, or maybe not. This way the little girl's on the warpath. Maybe she'll help us blast something loose."
"Yes. It would be well, however, if the blast damage were confined to a reasonable area. Eric?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Concerning Michaelis, senior. Keep in mind that this is a valuable man. Merely because the orders permit a certain course of action does not imply that course is mandatory. I had some high officials in here this evening-"
I said, "Do they want him shut up or don't they? This isn't the search-and-rescue branch of the U.S. Coast Guard, for God's sake! There's only one chance in a thousand I can even reach the guy, and if I do, 1 may have all of ten seconds to act. Now, do I have the go-ahead or don't I?"
He sighed. "You have it."
I hesitated. "How's Alan, sir?"
"Alan is going to be all right."
"Sure," I said. "Well, give me that office girl and let me find out something about these people. A yellow Cadillac, you say?"
"That's right. Be careful. Report when you can." He paused. "As for that matter of discipline-"
"Sir?"
"It will depend on which of us turns Out to be right, won't it, Eric?" He cleared his throat delicately. "Judgment-wise, I mean."
ELEVEN
WHEN I CAME out of the hotel, after getting the information I wanted, the sky to the east held a pale hint of dawn. There weren't any yellow Cadillacs around. I hoped I hadn't lost him. I started walking. It might not be the best plan, judgment-wise, but I was too sleepy to be clever. I wanted to stir up some action, and if it happened to involve hand grenades, submachine guns, or sawed-off shotguns, well, it was about time a little hardware came my way, for a change, so I could prove I could be real tough on the receiving end, too.
Atonement, Mac had said. He'd pulled the rug out from under me very neatly-or, rather, instead of pulling it out, he'd left me standing on it. He'd given me no chance to back away from the position I'd chosen. To put it a different way, I'd stuck my neck way out, with melodramatic flourishes, and instead of crudely chopping it off, as I'd invited him to do, he'd just pulled it out a little farther and tied a pink ribbon around it…
Balanced or unbalanced, glad or sorry, I was stuck with the job. In theory, I was picking up the case where Jean had left it. In practice, I wasn't anywhere near that place and had no idea where to find it. Jean, according to her reports, had had a real contact, a muffled voice on the phone, somebody interested enough in an alcoholic, disillusioned, potentially disloyal member of our team to make propositions; interested enough to bug her motel room and check up on her. All I had, so far, was a screwy kid with a grudge against her vanished papa's handsome lady friend.
What I needed was action, I thought, or about twelve hours' sleep, or a month in the sun with a lady named Gail. Well, it was no time to start thinking about that. I was thinking about it, nevertheless, when a yellow Cadillac glided up beside me and stopped. I stopped. The near door of the car opened, and the handsome, sunburned face of Louis Rosten looked out.
"Please get in, Mr. Petroni," Rosten said. "I've been trying to catch you. I would like to speak with you."
I shrugged and got in. He sent the car away smoothly. Well, it was action of a sort. I leaned against the door, watching him drive and wondering if he could possibly be Jean's mysterious telephone contact. That slick, gutless air could be a fake-so could Orcutt's Don Quixote act. So could Mrs. Rosten's air of regal indifference, or pretty little Teddy Michaelis pose of a blood-thirsty kitten.