Quebec is one of those odd North American cities — New Orleans is another — in which a picturesque old section has been preserved in the middle of square miles of standard, dull city. Grofield now drove half a dozen blocks and was abruptly out of what he thought of as Quebec. From this point on he might just as well have been in Cleveland or Houston or Seattle. The anonymous urbs sprawled away on all sides, dressed in its undershirt.
The traffic was the standard fare, too. No longer was it a matter of nosing your car slowly through curving ancient streets, now there was the usual heavy flow of vaguely distracted housewives, making abrupt left turns and having to be honked at when the light turned green. Grofield drove among them, waiting them out, and by the time he’d reached the northern limit of his map most of the traffic was left behind.
This was the main road into the Laurentians, the mountain chain above the city, extending northward toward the Canadian woods. The road was four lanes for a while, leaving the city, but about ten miles north it narrowed to two.
It was a sunny morning, bright and cold, with clean snow packed thick on both sides of the road. Occasionally a city-bound truck, red or steel gray, the sun sparking from its windshield, passed Grofield, but mostly he was alone on the road now. Twice, cars full of men in hunting jackets tore by him, heading north for the moose, but he saw none coming back with their trophies tied to the fender.
He was about twenty miles north of the city when he saw a truck pulled off to the right of the road, facing the same way he was going. It was steel-sided and very dirty, with green canvas draped over the rear opening. Grofield paid little attention to it until he saw the man in the bright orange jacket step down from the cab and walk back toward the rear of the truck.
Was this the one? Or was it just a wary hunter, determined not to be mistaken for a moose? Grofield slowed down, and as he got closer the man in the orange jacket motioned to him to pull in behind the truck.
He did, and sat in the car with the motor running. The man in orange came over, and Grofield lowered the window. The man had a round face, a bushy mustache, and a Latin American accent: “Meester Marba ees in the truck.”
“Where in the truck?”
“You suspicious? You wait.”
He nodded, and walked heavily away to the rear of the truck and agitated the green cloth there. Grofield kept one hand on the gear lever, ready to leave if something went wrong.
Someone he didn’t recognize stuck his head out through the green cloth, and he and the man in orange spoke briefly. The one in the truck glanced over at Grofield, nodded, and disappeared. A minute later Marba himself appeared there, and motioned to Grofield to come over.
“Okay,” Grofield said, even though no one would be able to hear him. He switched off the engine and got out of the car. He walked over to the truck, and the man in orange said as he passed, “That’s good. Suspicious, that’s good.”
“Thank you,” Grofield said, and gave him a little bow, and went on to the truck.
Marba said, “Just a moment, we have a stepladder,” and disappeared behind the green canvas again. A few seconds later a ladder was stuck through and leaned against the ground, and Grofield went up and through the opening in the canvas into the truck.
A light was on in the ceiling, but it wasn’t very bright and the interior was full of people and things, causing multiple shadows. Still, it was bright enough for Grofield to see Marba’s slightly sad, apologetic smile and the guns being pointed at him by two of the others.
Grofield showed his empty hands, and made no sudden movements. “What’s the need for this?” he said.
“A small precaution,” Marba said. “A minor inconvenience. Take your clothing off, please.”
“Do what?”
“We have others here for you,” Marba said, and motioned at a card table in the middle of the truck interior. A pile of clothing was laid out there, with socks and underwear on top.
Grofield looked around. Besides the two Latin American-looking guys holding guns on him, and their brother outside, there was an Oriental to his left, between him and the way out. Four others of various races were up toward the other end of the truck, uncrating machine guns.
Marba said softly, “You’re more intelligent than that, Grofield. Don’t even consider it.”
“Why do you want my clothes?”
“It took us quite a while to understand what you meant when you told Carlson you were going to put your radio on. Not turn your radio on, put your radio on. And of course no radio went on no sound of it.”
“Oh,” Grofield said. “That’s right, you’ve been listening in haven’t you?”
“Quite profitably,” Marba said. “We’re in something of a hurry by the way, so if you’d start changing while we talk I’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t have anything to say right now,” Grofield told him, and reluctantly stripped and put on the new clothes. Everything fit except the shoes, which were too tight. “Those were my own shoes,” he told Marba. “They weren’t given to me by Carlson’s people.”
“We’d rather not take the chance,” Marba said. “I’m sorry.”
“These are too tight.”
“Perhaps they’ll stretch as you wear them.”
“You aren’t making me happy,” Grofield said, and tied the shoes. In the meantime a bundle had been made of his old clothing and handed out through the green canvas to someone outside Grofield said, “They’ll go for a ride now, huh?”
“And so will we,” Marba said. “This plank along the side here is, I’m sorry to say, the best I can offer you for seating arrangements.”
“It’ll be better than standing in these shoes.”
“We tried to get your size. I am sorry.”
“So am I,” Grofield said, and sat down on the plank extending along the side of the truck. Marba sat down beside him and nodded to one of the men at the other end of the truck, who rapped a gun butt against the wall, and a few seconds later the truck jolted forward.
Grofield said, “I don’t suppose there’s any point asking where we’re going.”
“Why not? We’re going north, up into the North Woods.” Marba smiled thinly. “Don’t look discouraged, Grofield,” he said, “We aren’t taking you away to murder you.”
“What then?”
“It was decided the best thing to do with you was hold you until we finished our business here. On Monday you will be released.”
“You’re going to hold me for three days?”
“Yes.”
“In the North Woods, in the middle of winter, with shoes that pinch my feet.”
Marba smiled and patted Grofield’s knee. “I knew your sense of humor would see you through,” he said.
Fifteen
The truck stopped.
Grofield roused himself from a brown study. “We there?”
“No no,” Marba said, smiling. “We have a long way to go yet. We’re just stopping for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Grofield looked at his wrist, but his watch wasn’t there any more, it had gone away with his gabby clothing.
“Nearly one o’clock,” Marba said. “Shall we go?”
The others had already started to get out of the truck, and Grofield and Marba joined them, stepping down into cold clear sunlight on a quiet street in what looked like a neat New England town. Grofield said, “Am I allowed to know where I am?”
“Certainly. This is Roberval, on Lake Saint John. We’re about a hundred and seventy miles north of Quebec.”
“I don’t see the lake.”
“I believe it’s in that direction.”
“What’s north of here?”