The Removers by Donald Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page B

hadn’t been able to come up with the proper signals, he’d just have to sweat it out as long as it took me to do this right.
    We’re not a little band of brothers, if you know what I mean. It’s a point of pride with us that nobody’s ever blown a mission because he hung around sentimentally to care for a wounded pal. The standing orders are very strict on this point. Not that I had a mission yet, but it seemed likely I’d have one soon, one way or another, and I intended to stay alive to execute it.
    I’d been given a bunch of good-will stuff when I checked into the place. Now I took it over to the bed and lay down to read it with the gun handy. There was a list of other motels in this particular chain, which seemed to cover most of the states west of the Mississippi. There was a list of eating places in town, and a sketchy map of the town, and a small instruction book designed to make the various forms of gambling more comprehensible and attractive to the untutored tourist.
    There was also a courtesy copy of a daily paper. I made myself read it without checking my watch too often. The international situation was going to hell in a basket, as usual. The local politics were as mysterious as they always are in a place where you know nothing and nobody. A house had been broken into. A guy had been robbed on the street. A technician at a nearby government laboratory—I remembered all those installations I’d passed in the dark—had died after suffering massive radioactive contamination when something went hang that wasn’t supposed to.
    A woman and a child had been killed in a head-on collision with a big truck. The truck-driver had survived with minor injuries. They usually do, which is one reason why I’m still driving my high and tough and massive old vehicle instead of getting something low and glamorous...
    I got up and looked at the door. There had been no sound for fifteen minutes. Well, if they wanted me, and were willing to make enough noise, they’d get me, now or an hour from now. I walked out with the gun in my hand. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned motel room. Nothing happened. I got into the truck and drove away. Nobody followed.
    When I’d confirmed this, I stopped at a pay telephone booth and called Washington collect, calling the emergency number. The girl who came on at once wanted to give me Mac, but I said she could keep him.
    “Has Paul reported recently? Is he overdue?” I asked.
    “He has no fixed schedule. His last report was the day before yesterday.”
    “I may need a doctor who’ll keep his mouth shut,” I said. “Have we got one locally?”
    “Just a minute.” I heard papers rustle, two thousand and some miles away. “Dr. Ditsinger. We’ve never used him, but other agencies have, and found him satisfactory. Do you want him alerted?”
    “Please.”
    She told me the address. “Give us a few minutes to get in touch with him.”
    “It’s not definite,” I said. “Check back with him in the morning. If he’s had no business, tell him to forget it. If he’s got a customer, tell the man upstairs that age will take the reins from the faltering hands of youth. As if he didn’t know it.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t get that, sir. Please repeat.”
    “Skip it, doll. Just report that if young Paul should be out of commission, which seems to be a possibility, I’ll take over. But in that case I want somebody else to get out here fast and stand by. No contact unless I call, however. I’ve got enough people crawling through the shrubbery already; the management might squawk. Oh, one question.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Has Paul made definite identification of his subject?”
    The papers rustled again. “Yes, sir. In his last report. Quote: ‘Subject Martell definitely established to be man calling himself Fenn currently employed by Salvatore Frederici, alias Sally Fredericks or Big Sal Fredericks, reputed to be head of narcotics trade locally, as well