On the assumption that the incriminating glove did belong to Genevieve Drilling-and who else would Hans Ruyter be covering for?-I couldn't take the risk of keeping it around any longer. I could think of no useful purpose it could serve me, either as Dave Clevenger or as Matt Helm, and I couldn't afford to let it serve anybody else, certainly not anybody with a legalistic mind. The last place for Genevieve to be, if I was to carry out my instructions, was in jail. She was my baby, all murderous, acid-throwing five feet seven of her; and Hans Ruyter, the competent girl-killer, was my baby, too. It was my duty, I reminded myself grimly, to see that nobody hurt a hair of their scheming, vicious, good-looking heads.
At the very least, I told myself as I made the water run for the last time, the glove could have involved me in unnecessary complications, should there be somebody waiting when I got back to camp. I stalled long enough on the way to make reasonably sure there would be.
They weren't in sight, of course. I'd got a fairly secluded site toward the rear of the camp, shielded by trees and bushes, and they were playing it cute. I didn't spot Johnston in the dark, but that Larry character would never go hunting with me. He was one of the jerks who can't sit still, in a duck blind or anywhere else. I had him located in the brush before I was even out of the car.
I left the lights on to illuminate the tent until I could get the gasoline lantern going. They waited until I had it burning brightly. They waited until I'd set it safely on the nearby picnic table and switched off the car lights. Then Johnston came out from behind a tree and pointed a gun at me. I raised my hands politely. Larry came out of his hiding place, if you want to call it that, and walked up to me, and hit me.
It wasn't much of a punch, but I let it knock me down, figuring that was the easiest way to end the fight before it started. A smart private op named Clevenger wouldn't mix it with a couple of armed men he knew to be government agents; and I've never seen much point in hitting a man with a fist, anyway. All it gets you is some bruised knuckles and a resentful enemy who is probably not damaged enough to prevent him from getting back at you later. There's hardly ever any sense in hitting a man with anything that doesn't make him dead-that is, if you've got to hit him at all. But nobody'd told Larry Fenton that. Having knocked me down, he stepped forward and kicked me.
"You killed her!" he panted. "Damn you, you killed her!" The kick was probably more than tough Mr. Clevenger should stand for. I looked at Johnston, staying well back with his gun. A good, experienced man, Mac had said, but at first glance he looked unimpressive: a plump little figure with goldrimmed glasses. He had thinning brown hair combed straight back from a soft white face. You'd never give him a second look in a crowd. He looked as if he sold shoes or insurance f or a living, and went home nights to watch TV with a plump little wife and a couple of plump little children.
At second glance, I noted the cold, alert blue eyes behind the glasses, and the steady hand holding the gun. I was relieved. This man wouldn't do anything hasty, nor would he let his erratic and amateurish partner go too far astray. It was safe to put on a show for him. He wouldn't get nervous and shoot a hole in me by mistake. I spoke to him without looking at Larry, standing over me threateningly.
"Pull it off me," I said. "If it kicks me again, I'll cut its little foot off, so help me."
"Take it easy, Clevenger," Johnston said. "Take it very easy."
I said, "To hell with you," and reached defiantly into my pants pocket. He didn't shoot. I took out my knife and opened it deliberately. Larry started to reach for me, but Johnston waved him back. I said, "I'll cut it off at the ankle, so help me. Just one more kick and he'll be known as Footless Larry. And you, Chubby, stop waving that fool gun around, hear? You fire it off in the middle of a public campground like this and you'll be making explanations to every cop in Canada."
Johnston regarded me unwaveringly. "You talk pretty big for a lousy private cop."
I said, "You act pretty big for a lousy spy, or counterspy, operating in a foreign country, probably without permission."
"How do you know what we are? And how did you learn that my partner's name is Larry?"
I said, "Hell, you told me the name yourself. Last night in the bushes outside the Drilling trailer, in the rain. He got lost in the dark and you called to him by name, remember?"
The plump little man looked disconcerted. "You were there?"
"I was there," I said. "Unlike some people, I'm real good in the woods, if I do say so myself."
"And how did you learn so much about our business?"
"When I came on the job, I was told the government had an interest in the case. And last night, when the girl was trying to pump me for information in Regina, she told me she worked for Uncle Sam. And when I picked up the phone in her motel room tonight, right here in Brandon, your friend here started making a report to her, on me. I figure that puts you all in the same line of work with the same employer. In the detective business we call it deduction." I looked at him hard. "And now I'm getting up, Chubby. Go ahead and fire that thing, if you think Washington will come back you up. I'm sure they'd love an international protest about U.S. undercover creeps shooting up people north of the border."
"Who's going to protest? You, with murder on your hands?"
I didn't answer immediately. I got to my feet. Larry started to close in again, but again a signal from the older man stopped him. I closed the knife and dropped it into my pocket, looking at Marcus Johnston.
"What's this about a murder?"
"My partner has made it pretty plain. We think you killed Elaine."
I said, "Ah, cut it out. Don't give me that old routine. You come at me frothing at the mouth, throwing it at me hard and sudden, hoping you'll catch me off balance and make me spill something. Well, this hombre doesn't spill that easy. So now let's talk sense. The kid killed herself, and we all know it, and we all know why. Was it her gun?" Their silence said yes. I said, "Okay, then, the only question is, are you going to leave it that way or do you have some notion of framing me for it?"
"Why would we do that?" Johnston asked.
I said, "Income tax men, Treasury agents, 0-men, guys like you, who knows why you do anything? You might want to whitewash her for the good of the service, as they say. Maybe it's bad publicity to have your people committing murder and suicide for personal reasons. Or you might just want to get me out of your hair."
"It's not a bad idea," he said. "I'll give it some thought."
I said, "It's a lousy idea. You leave the thing lay and you're finished with it. It started in Regina and it ends here in Brandon."
Larry was staring at his partner in an indignant, incredulous way. "Why are you listening to him, Marcus? He killed her. Elaine would never have killed herself, and she wouldn't have killed anybody else the way that was done. She'd never have used acid like that."
I looked at Johnston, and shook my head. "Where'd you find this one, pal? You mean he really believes this crap he's been spouting? I thought he was just putting on an act."
Larry said violently, "You killed her. You were there, we know you were."
"Sure. I killed her. And then I picked up the phone and told you all about it. Smart me."
"Maybe that's the way you were playing it, smart." The younger man turned back to his partner. "Who else had the opportunity? We know Mrs. Drilling never went near the motel. I was watching her every minute she was in town."
I said quickly, "But she did go into town?"