I guess the fact is that I'd been counting on her as I'd have counted on a good female agent in the same spot-or any woman with courage and good sense, for that matter. I'd been depending on her to take Martell out of the play and be real nice to him when the opportunity presented itself, like now, long enough for me to put in some propaganda work on Joey, who was long on experience and know-how, but a little short on brains.
But it was fast becoming obvious that the thought hadn't crossed her mind, or that if it had, she'd dismissed it as something too horrible to be seriously considered. A provocative glance or two, maybe, even a smile, perhaps, but if anybody seriously expected her to go into that room with this vile man and entertain him… Well! How disgusting could you get, anyway? I wasn't going to get any help from her, that was abundantly clear.
At the moment, I would gladly have traded her, and three more like her, for just one kid I could remember, named Tina, who'd have put up a fight, sure, who'd have sobbed and pleaded, perhaps, but who would have yielded at just the right moment, reluctantly at first and then enthusiastically, as if she couldn't help herself, making Martell feel big and strong and virile and irresistible, keeping him busy and happy until she could get her hands on his gun and blow his brains out. With Tina, I'd have had nothing to worry about except Joey. Martell would never have come out of that room alive.
Well, Tina was dead. As a matter of fact, I'd had to kill her myself, under orders, the way you kill a savage female watchdog that starts biting the wrong people. It was Tina's death last year, and Beth's stumbling upon the unpleasant scene although she'd been warned to stay away, that had led to the break up of our marriage. At the moment, disappointed and disillusioned and a little scared, knowing it all depended on me now, I couldn't really see how I'd come to marry the fool woman in the first place.
Joey had us men covered. Martell had Beth by the arm again, and was pulling her across the room.
"Please!" she was crying, holding back desperately, "oh, please…
I mean, it was really kind of a silly performance, from a grown woman. I'd known teen-aged girls in France, nice, sheltered young girls, who'd done much better when the Nazis came, without a fraction of Beth's knowledge and experience. Her terror was too much for the Duke. Whatever he'd had in mind, playing dead-it was a gambit with good possibilities-he gave it up right then.
"That won't be necessary," he said, opening his eyes and pushing himself up on the cot. "The spare wheel you want is five miles back down the road, five-point-three by my odometer. Look for a ravine on the south side. You may have to climb down a ways. Wheels roll, don't you know?"
Chapter Twenty-four
J0EY MADE IT in about half an hour. It seemed longer, and I won't guarantee that it wasn't, since I didn't feel like attracting Martell's attention by moving my arm unnecessarily to check my wristwatch-but as a photographer I used to be able to call off intervals of time with fair accuracy, and I'd say half an hour.
At the end of it, even Martell was showing signs of strain. After all, a Jaguar uses a fairly large wheel, and a Jag spare tire can hold a lot of heroin which can be sold for a lot of money, a fact which might percolate even into Joey's dim brain. Of course, Martell had had no choice. If he'd gone after it himself, that would have left us free to work on Joey with threats and blandishments.
The rest of us weren't very relaxed and cheerful, either. I kept my attention more or less on Logan. The guy was supposed to be good, and if he had any ideas, I didn't want to miss them, but all he did was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. His face was shiny with sweat. I guess his leg was starting to give him hell.
On the other side of me, in a chair, Beth sat barearmed and bare-shouldered, trying to assume the casual look of the girls in the corset and girdle ads who float around in their underwear as naturally as if nobody ever wore anything else. I'd paid some attention to her at the start, wondering if I'd misjudged her and if she could have been putting on a deliberate panic act for some reason, but all I saw in her eyes was a dull terror too real to be assumed. There weren't going to be any bright ideas from her.
There weren't going to be any bright ideas from anybody. The age of miracles was over. It was all up to Mrs. Helm's little boy Matthew, who sometimes played cops and robbers under the code name Eric.
We heard the Chrysler turn in from the canyon road and come crashing up to the cabin. Joey hurried inside, holding the Jag's spare wire wheel in a loving embrace. He carried it forward tenderly and placed it on the table.
He'd already, apparently, pried the tire loose from the rim on one side. Now he pulled the rubber aside and produced a shiny, friction-top, tin can, which he set down in front of him. Then he reached in his pocket and came up with a screwdriver he'd probably got from the Jaguar's toolkit. All those British cars come equipped with enough tools to rebuild them from scratch.
Martell put one hand on the can and grasped Joey's wrist with the other. Joey looked up, surprised and hurt.
"I'll do it," Martell said.
"Okay, okay," Joey said.
Martell took the screwdriver and pried open the can. "Keep an eye on them, damn it!" he said sharply.
"Okay, okay!" Joey said, turning to face us.
Martell stuck a finger into the can. I noted that he seemed to poke deeper than necessary, as if he were feeling for something.
"How is it?" Joey asked, watching us.
Martell found what he was searching for. I saw his face go smooth with relief. He withdrew his finger, and tasted the white powder that clung to it, and spat.
"Not bad," he said. "They haven't cut it much." He slapped the lid back on the can and drove it home with his fist. "How many are there?"
"I didn't count. The whole damn tire's full of them."
"All right," Martell said. "Put it back. That Fredericks is a suspicious bastard; if he sees we've had it open, he'll be sure we've had a fix out of it, at least-as if I'd touch the lousy stuff!"
Joey hesitated. "Fenn."
"Yeah."
"That's a lot of horse. What's it bring, around a grand an ounce?"
"So?"
"I was just thinking-"
"Nobody ever got hurt just thinking," Martell said. "Not until they started doing something about it. Did you have in mind doing something about it, Joey?"
"Well, no, but-"
"Then stick it back in the tire like I told you and stop dreaming. Okay. Now I want you to keep a sharp eye on these characters while 1 tend to some unfinished business… Duchess!"
Beth's head came up quickly. Martell walked over to stand above her. He looked her up and down, and licked his heavy lips.
"Do you walk or do I drag you?" he asked. "You're a big girl now, Mrs. Logan. You don't want these men of yours to see you dragged across the floor like a baby, kicking and screaming… That's better."
She got up very slowly. She looked at Logan, still staring at the ceiling with the sweat of agony running off his face, and she looked at me. She looked at me longer, I guess, because I had two good legs and might get a little farther before the bullet from Joey's big revolver cut me down. Then she drew a long, shuddering breath and started across the room, and stopped.
"Larry!" she whispered. "Matt!"
Nobody said anything. She started walking again. Suddenly Logan moved. I heard the click as Joey cocked his revolver, and Martell's gun was in his hand. Logan fell back to the cot with a groan, his face gray and wet.