The Intimidators by Donald Hamilton Page B

Louisianne in San Antonio, Texas; the ones where even an ignorant meat-and-potatoes type like me can luck into a superlative meal. Afterwards we had coffee and brandy—well, she had something sweet and ladylike—and it was time to go. Outside, it was very dark. There were no cabs in the treelined driveway.
    “I’d better go back in and get the doorman to call one,” I said.
    “No, let’s walk up to the casino and see what it looks like,” she said. “The taxi-driver said there were plenty of cabs up there, remember?”
    I said, “Look, sweetheart, you’re the little girl who came to me for protection. My opinion, as a not-very-expert bodyguard, is that midnight strolls through the woods are not recommended; and as a matter of fact, just standing out here under these damned lights isn’t really the brightest idea in the world—”
    “Now you’re being stuffy and tiresome,” she said. “Come on.”
    I shrugged, and followed her up the paved path through the trees, toward the large, lighted building up the hill, that seemed to serve as a sizable hotel as well as a gambling joint. Lagging a little, I could see her white dress ahead of me in the dusk.
    “Matt—”
    Her voice was interrupted by a shrill, warning whistle from among the trees. Expecting it, I threw myself flat Lacey was turning, her hand drawing something small and shiny from her white purse, and pointing it at me. I rolled aside, and the little pistol followed me, steadying. I brought up against the bushes at the side of the path and had nowhere else to go, and nothing to do but wait for her shot. Then a heavy firearm opened up from the darkness to the left and cut her down.
    I drew a long breath, picked myself up, and walked forward slowly, brushing myself off. There was a rustle in the bushes. I looked that way. Black men have it all over us light-faced gents when it comes to operating in the dark. I could hardly make out Fred standing there. A large revolver, rather oddly proportioned by American handgun standards, gleamed in his hand: a husky old .455 Webley, at a guess.
    “Okay, Eric?” he whispered.
    “I’m okay,” I said, “but what’s the matter with you, buck fever or something? You cut it damned close. The whistle was okay, but the gun was way slow. The next time, please let me know that you have qualms about burning down pretty young potential murderesses; and I’ll get somebody to cover me who doesn’t!” He didn’t speak. I drew another long breath, still not quite steady, and said, “Excuse it, please. I spoke in the heat of the moment. Forget it. Now you’d better beat it before the mob arrives. Oh, take this with you.” I knelt and freed the little automatic pistol from the fingers of the fallen girl and handed it to him. “Ditch it deep,” I said. “It never existed. Report to Washington right away and check with me later.”
    “Yes, sir .”
    The exaggerated respectfulness indicated that he disapproved of me or my orders or something. Well, I wasn’t very happy with him at the moment; he’d damn near let me be killed. He was good in the dark, though; I had to hand him that. He simply vanished. One moment he was there; the next, I was looking at nothing but shadowy bushes and trees. I could hear voices both above and below as people milled around asking each other where the loud noise had come from. The white, small figure on the ground stirred painfully.
    “Matt?” she whispered.
    “Right here, doll,” I said, kneeling once more.
    “Damn you,” she breathed. “Oh, damn you, damn you, damn you! Morgan will get you. And if he doesn’t, there’ll be somebody else, somebody who’s wanted you dead for a long, long time!”
    “Morgan,” I said. “Is that Sir Henry or old J.P.?”
    “You make jokes, but he’ll hunt you down,” she whispered fiercely. “And there’s an old, old Mend of yours who’ll laugh and laugh when she hears you’re dead. She’s the one you’ve really got to thank. She