The Removers by Donald Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page A

like hunting?”
    “Sure,” I said, “but there’s no season open that I know of. Besides, I’d have to get an out-of-state license, and they run pretty steep.”
    She reached down and stroked the dog’s lean head. “He doesn’t need a license, and there’s no closed season on jack rabbits,” she said. “At least, no game warden has arrested me yet. It’s... kind of interesting to watch. I thought I might go out tomorrow. Would you like to come along?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Just don’t make it too early.”
    “We could take your truck and save me beating up my little imported jewel, here, on those roads. I’ll call you.”
    She turned quickly and marched into the house with the big dog. The door closed and the lights went on. I frowned thoughtfully. One thing you learn, in this business, is not to take for granted you’re just naturally the kind of guy pretty young girls want to do things with, even if it’s only watching a dog chase a rabbit.
    I gave her parked car another glance as I turned away. It was the small, ladylike Mercedes sports, not the big hot one. Even so, it was quite a car, a good six thousand dollars’ worth with extras. I got into my old pickup— worth about two hundred bucks on a trade-in, if the salesman was hungry—and drove back to the motel, and parked in front of the end unit, which was mine.
    I got out, and gave the door a careful look as I approached it. Certain indications showed that nobody’d been through it since I had. I laughed at myself for taking such precautions. After all, I was on vacation. I put the key in the lock, and something moved in the ornate shrubbery to my right. A voice spoke in a kind of choked whisper.
    “Eric...”
    I had my hand on the little knife in my pocket. It was made in Solingen, Germany, and I liberated it during the war, the previous owner having no further use for it. It’s not much larger than an ordinary pocket knife, but it’s big enough. The blade locks in the open position, so you don’t have to worry about its folding over and cutting off your fingers if you happen to strike bone as you go in. But the voice had used my code name. I worried the key left-handed, as if the lock were giving me trouble.
    “Name yourself,” I said without turning my head.
    “Paul.”
    I waited. He was supposed to say a certain identifying phrase now, and I was supposed to answer with another phrase. Instead, he made a little moaning sound.
    “For God’s sake, man! Give me a hand, quick. I... I’ve been waiting... I’m hurt...” There was what you might call an expiring sigh.
    I didn’t say anything. I’ve been kidded before, by real good actors. I took the knife out and opened it, muffling the click against my body. Anybody could have got our code names, any time. Unlike the recognition signals, they were never changed. My humanitarian instincts had atrophied long ago. I wasn’t diving blindly into any bushes to give first aid to a disembodied, suffering, unidentified voice.
    Nobody spoke and nothing happened. I’d stood there fiddling with the lock long enough. I turned the key and went inside fast. As the untouched door had indicated, nobody was waiting for me there. Having made sure of that, I turned on the light, folded the knife and put it away, and got the .38 revolver out of my boot and checked it over. It’s a sawed-off, stripped-down, aluminum-framed little monster with too little weight to soak up the recoil of the big cartridges, particularly in rapid fire, but at the moment I was happy to have it. I noted the time on my watch: seven minutes past eight. Fifteen minutes ought to do it, I figured: long enough to let them know I wasn’t going to fall for the gag, if it was a gag, long enough for them to pull out and think it over, but not long enough for them to set up any fancy alternatives. And if my fellow-operative, the young guy Mac didn’t think was going to work out for us, Paul, was really out there, hurt... well, since he