Go Home, Stranger

  He opened the knife and ran the blade along the crack until he felt it strike the hasp. Marking it with a finger, he began whittling. It was impossible to see anything at all. There was no way to tell whether he was even cutting in the same place half the time. He hacked his fingers. The knife blade broke off at the point. He kept on, sweating in the heat, and hurrying.

  Once the boat appeared to come up against a dock for a few minutes, but the engine continued to idle and they could not be sure whether Griffin was still aboard. Then they were moving again.

  They lost all track of time. That blade of the knife finally snapped off altogether, and he switched to the small one. It lasted only a few minutes, and when it broke off next to the handle he wanted to put his head down in his hands. He sat still then.

  After a while the engine throttled down until they had bare steerageway, and ran that way for a long time. Once or twice Reno thought he heard branches scrape along the hull. They must be up in the bayous, far off the ship channel.

  Then, finally, the engine stopped. They bumped gently against something, and he heard footsteps over their heads. Griffin was tying up. They heard him moving around aft for a while; then there was silence except for the sound of frogs and once or twice an owl hooting. Reno held Patricia in his arms and waited out the hours until daylight. Once she slept for a while, fitfully, making little whimpering sounds that stirred the hatred inside him.

  He sat up, listening. Griffin was unsnapping the padlock. The door swung open and he motioned with the gun. It was dawn now, and light was pouring into the engine compartment.

  Griffin chuckled. “Say, you’re a rugged-looking character, with that blood all over your head. I’d borrow your face for Halloween, if you were still going to be around.”

  Reno looked hungrily at the gun. “One of us won’t be.”

  “Pal, you’re so right. Now, let’s get aft, shall we?”

  They went single file back to the cockpit, Reno hobbling as best he could, Patricia white-faced and ignoring Griffin with icy contempt, and the latter bringing up the rear with the gun and humming under his breath. Reno looked around, blinking at the light. It was a lovely setting. The cruiser was tied up at a rotting old dock on a narrow arm of the bayou. Big trees hung out over the water except at the landward end of the dock itself. There had been a building there at one time, but it had burned down and nothing remained except the chimney and fireplace. Beyond it lay an open field of several acres, brown with dead grass.

  “Robert Counsel’s so-called fishing lodge or what’s left of it,” Griffin said behind them. “Now sit down, both of you.”

  He sat down himself on the leather seat across the cockpit from them, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigarette. The gun lay carelessly in his lap, but his eyes watched Reno. He grinned at them, and nodded his head toward the after end of the cockpit. “Beauties, eh?” he asked.

  The steel cable and mesh bags had been thrown away, and the two lead watermelons lay side by side. The mud had been washed from them and they had a smooth, fat, and somehow deadly look in the early light. They’re a little like bombs without fins, Reno thought. Then he turned to look at Griffin.

  “They’ve killed four men,” he said softly.

  “Right.” Griffin took a drag on the cigarette. “That is, if you count McHugh. He was more or less a by-product.”

  The yearning to kill was very strong inside him now. He could feel the crazy foaming of it, and tried to reason with himself. The thing to do was wait, and play it out. There’d always be that one desperate lunge at the end, if everything else failed.

  “What’s in them?” he asked, his face showing nothing.

  Patricia was leaning forward, staring with fascination, while they waited for Griffin to answer. Reno was conscious of the same suspense. Here was the thing they had trailed so long; the thing that had killed Mac, and had set off this chain reaction of death and disaster. And in the end it was two fat, lead-sheathed, watermelon-shaped objects lying harmlessly in the cockpit of a boat.

  Griffin pushed the white cap back on his head and shrugged. “Somewhere around a quarter million dollars and/or enough high explosive to blow us all to hell and halfway back.”

  Reno slowly expelled his breath. “Quarter million dollars worth of what?”

  “Heroin. The pure McCoy. Uncut. And not grains, or ounces, but pounds of it. Sweet, huh?”

  Reno leaned back against his seat. “So that’s why they never could find out what he did with the money? Counsel, I mean. When they court-martialed him.”

  Griffin eyed him speculatively. “So you found out about that?” Then he went on. “That’s right. Robert was buying dope and stashing it away in a hiding place he had. Packed it in cans and evacuated the air. He had a vacuum pump. We weren’t sure how long it’d be before we could come back after it, or how much it deteriorated with age.”

  “But why dope?”

  Griffin shook his head, grinning. “Robert. You have to understand him. He was a genius, with a nasty sense of humor, and a flair for embroidering a theme. He took a dim view of any kind of authority, and resented being shoved into the military. So what could be better than stealing from the U.S. Army and using their money to buy dope to smuggle in? The Army was financing his operations against the Narcotics Bureau. And then there was the money, too. Tremendous profit this way.”

  “But none of the rest of you knew where he had it hidden?”

  “Yes. We did. But he moved it on us. The night before he was arrested. There’d been an argument with Morton and Devers, and he thought they had squealed on him, or were about to.”

  Reno nodded, his eyes harsh. “So when Counsel got out of prison and went back to Italy after the stuff, Morton and Devers went out to pick it up out of the channel but you didn’t go. Why?”

  Griffin smiled. “Little matter of understanding friend Robert. I began to smell a rat. You see, we didn’t tell them. After all, why split it four ways? But the night the Silver Cape arrived off the bar, they showed up in my office down there on the dock. They’d found out all about it.

  “At first they were going to rough me up for double-crossing them, but they cooled down after a while and I managed to find out how they’d got wind of it. That’s when I wised up. It seems Robert had run into an old girl friend of Carl Devers in Italy and had started shooting off his mouth, and she had written Carl all about it. And the funny thing was, he also ran into an old flame of Chappie Morton, and told her, too. Just chummy, you see.” Griffin broke off and grinned at them. “You begin to get it now?”

  Reno felt a chill along his back. So that was the kind of mind they’d been up against. He nodded.

  “Well, it was simple, then,” Griffin went on. “Just elementary stuff. I played it real yokel and let them throw down on me with that silly Italian gun they had. They tied me up and locked me in the office, and shoved off with the boat. And in just about an hour I heard it let go, like a refinery blowing up, and knew I’d been right. So I untied myself and called the Sheriff and Coast Guard and reported the boat stolen. Then I warmed up one of the tugs and pulled their car off into the channel.”

  Reno glanced sidewise at Patricia. She was pale, and her eyes were sick with horror. He reached for her hand held it. There was nothing else he could do.

  Griffin smiled. “So now you see the enchanting prospect. There are two of these lead pigs, and either one of them is big enough to hold the stuff. Or isn’t it? Can’t you just hear the bastard laughing? He was going to get all three of us with that other one, but just in case he didn’t—Catch on, pal?”

  “Right,” Reno said coldly. “But how do you think you’re going to make me open them?”

  Griffin smiled again. “That’s easy. Your lady friend here. You’ll have one of the pigs, and we’ll have one. If you don’t open yours within ten minutes, we’ll dig into the other. A quarter million’s a lot of money, and nobody lives forever.” He broke off and winked at Patricia. “We’re not chicken, are we,
honey?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  GRIFFIN STOPPED TALKING. HE picked up the gun from his lap and threw the cigarette overboard. “All right, Reno,” he said. “Hustle those two pigs up on the bank.”

  Patricia Devers stood up. Her face was white, but she stood very tall and straight and her eyes were blazing. “No!” she said. “You can’t make him do it. You coldblooded murderer, if you’re so brave, we’ll open them. You and I—” Reno saw her sway a little. She was very near the breaking point.

  Griffin smiled tightly. “Better keep your lady friend quiet, before she gets a mouthful of gun.” He gestured with the Luger. “Now wrestle those pigs.”

  It took ten minutes or more, hobbling on his sprained ankle. He lifted them onto the dock one at a time and rolled them to the bank. Near the ashes where the lodge had been stood a large oak, and beyond it lay the open field. A shallow foxhole had been scooped in the ground under the tree, the dirt thrown up at the end toward the field. Across the mound of earth lay a telescope on a short-legged tripod. Reno looked at it. Smart, he thought.

  The two lead containers lay side by side near the foxhole. Reno knelt in front of them. Griffin stood ten feet away with the gun. Never any nearer, Reno observed coldly; he’s watching me every minute.

  “That’s a thirty-power spotting scope,” Griffin said. “I went back and got it last night. It’s trained on that big stump out there in the field, the one straight ahead about fifty yards. Take your pig out there and put it on the stump, and open it, facing this way. I’ll be able to see every move you make, as if you were about five feet away. If it blows, I’ll know what not to do when I open this.”

  “The heroic Mr. Griffin,” Patricia said contemptuously.

  “Shut up,” Griffin said idly.

  She’s trying to get him to swing at her with that gun, Reno thought, to give me a chance to take him. But he knows it.

  Griffin went on, speaking to Reno. “You can’t run with that ankle. If you try, I’ll shoot you. You’ll have ten minutes, from the time you get the pig on the stump. Ready?”

  “You in a hurry?” Reno asked thinly.

  “I said you could have your choice of pigs.” The redhead grinned, his eyes shining wickedly. “If you can tell one from the other, take a good, long look.”

  Patricia was standing by the tree, silently watching. Reno stared down at the lead containers. Wasn’t it better to stand up and walk to Griffin, taking the whole clip if he had to in order to get his hands on him? Maybe he could live long enough to do it. Patricia would live. And Vickie could go free. Then he knew it wouldn’t work; Griffin was too cool for that. At least one of the shots would be through the head, or the heart, and he’d never reach him. He returned to his study of the containers.

  How did you understand Counsel? Could you? Could anybody? There were three ways it could be, and two of them meant instant death. There could be heroin in both of them; there could be heroin in one and explosive in the other; or there could be both in each one. The detonating triggers would be right under the surface, set to blow at the slightest disturbance of the lead sheath; only Counsel would know how to disarm it, and he was dead. He thought of Carl Devers and Morton, out there in the ship channel at night, holding a flashlight perhaps, slicing into the lead eagerly.

  It was deadly silent now. He thought of something that even Griffin did not know. All the time Counsel had been in San Francisco he had bought the Waynesport paper everyday, watching it for something. Just for a notice about the dredge? Or had he been checking to be sure Griffin hadn’t found these things? If he had, it meant he’d know the instant they were found and opened; that they were both loaded with explosive in addition to the dope.

  There was one thing, however, that maybe neither Counsel nor Griffin had thought of. It was a long chance, but it was better than none at all. He continued to examine the objects before him. Minutes ticked by, and he felt the sun warming his back. He leaned forward, running his finger along the surface and the seams like a near-sighted man reading. He turned first one and then the other, examining every inch. At last he selected one.

  He straightened up on his knees. “Pitch me your knife,” he said, his voice sounding far away and strange in the silence. “I’m ready.”

  Patricia ran across and fell to her knees in front of him. Her arms were about his neck, and he saw the brown eyes were wet with tears.

  “No!” she begged. “No, Pete! Don’t.”

  “There’s no other way,” he said. He brought his hands up and placed one on each side of her face, just looking at her.

  “I can’t stand it,” she whispered.

  Slowly he bent his face down and kissed her, his love for her tearing at him, and wanting to hold her like that forever. Then he gently removed his hands and straightened up. She remained on her knees, her eyes closed and tears squeezing out from under the lashes. Her lips moved without sound.

  “Next week we’ll try East Lynne,” Griffin said. “Now if we’ll pull our feet out of the schmaltz bucket and—”

  Reno turned and stared at him. “The knife,” he said, his voice brittle as ice.

  Griffin tossed it. Reno picked it up, took the lead pig under his other arm, and walked straight out across the field, contemptuously ignoring the agony of his ankle. He placed his burden on the flat top of the stump and went around behind it, facing back the way he had come.

  Griffin was behind the pile of earth, watching through the spotting scope. Patricia remained where she had been, on her knees in the open, her face slightly lifted.

  “Get her down,” Reno said. “Or behind that tree.”

  “I mentioned that,” Griffin called back, “but she says she’s praying. Religious freedom, you know; dealer’s choice. But never mind her. Get with it, chum.”

  Then Patricia crumpled and lay flat. Reno looked away from her and opened the knife. He turned the lead container slightly, placing it so one of the seams ran directly along the top. He could feel the sun on his head, turning, hot now. Sweat ran down his face. The mockingbird sang again somewhere in the trees beyond the field, and he heard the buzz of a locust in the dry, still air.

  He forced everything else from his mind. The world narrowed to this smooth, lead-covered object in front of him and he placed the point of the knife near the seam and pressed. Slowly he drew it along, parallel to the seam, from one end to the other. It left a shallow cut. Wiping the sweat from his face, he moved the knife back to the starting point and deepened the slash.

  He made an identical cut along the other side of the seam. Then he turned the knife and cut directly across the seam in the center, from one slash to the other. He brought the knife back, ready to cut again. This one will do it, he thought, pressing the knife deeper into the lead. He was scarcely breathing now.

  He felt the knife go through. Gently prying with the blade as a lever, he opened the hole, watching tensely. He breathed again, letting air escape with a long, shuddering sigh. All right, he thought; just keep watching through your damned telescope and you’ll learn what not to do.

  Lead will tear if grooved deeply enough. Working very slowly now and with infinite care, he pulled free and lifted the narrow strip between the grooves he had cut. It came up inch by gradual inch, as he held it pressed tightly with his left hand.

  “You hit one of ’em?” Griffin called.

  Reno made no reply. He studied the situation for a moment; then, slowly shifting his body around, he lay across the container so his left arm pressed down on the strip he had just torn up and pushed back. Holding it there, he began slowly cutting loose and lifting, in the same manner, the other half of the strip beyond the center cut, watching beneath it as he lifted. Then, the same distance from the center as the other one, he made a quick movement with his hand, pressed the strip down, and held it. He was immobilized now, lying across it and pressing down in two places at once, his face set in harsh lines.

  “What is it?” Griffin called out.

  “Two
of them. I’ve got ’em, but I can’t move now.”

  “What’s in it? Can you see?”

  “It’s divided in the middle. Two canvas bags. One of ’em feels like little milk cans, and the other one’s sticks. Dynamite.”

  Griffin stood up. He walked out a few steps. “Can you get at the wires?”

  Reno shook his head. Sweat ran down into his eyes and made them sting. “Not yet. It’ll take another cut. What’s the matter? You afraid, or doesn’t that quarter of a million look as big now?”

  Patricia had risen to her knees and was staring in horror. Griffin walked toward the stump. He stopped ten feet away, still holding the gun ready in his hand.

  “Then they’re both booby-trapped,” he said. “Unless you’re lying.”

  Reno stared at him coldly. “All right, maybe I’m lying. But don’t use that gun, because if you shoot me I’ll fall off these triggers. You’re close enough now to get it. And don’t try to move back, or I’ll let ’em go. Now, do you want to hold one of them so I can disarm it, or not?”

  Griffin remained rooted, watching. “Nuts,” he said. “You wouldn’t let ’em go.”

  Reno shifted uncomfortably, but kept his left forearm and right hand pressed against the two points on the strips, leaning over a little. “Pat,” he called out, raising his voice. “Get down on the ground. And listen. If this thing blows now, Griffin goes with it. Leave the other one right where it is, and go after the Sheriff. Warn ’em they’ll have to borrow a bomb-disposal man from the Navy to get it apart. There’ll be enough evidence there to back up your story, so Vickie’ll be in the clear—” He stopped, almost holding his breath in suspense. Griffin had stepped forward.