Curves Can Kill Page 2

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  It was the perfect situation for a clever reply, but all I could come up with was one word: “Lousy.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected,” she said cheerfully. “I promise that the next time you wake up you’ll feel ever so much better.”

  Something pinched my arm and I fell asleep again.

  The next time I awakened, a man was seated on a chair a few feet from me. He looked familiar.

  “Hi,” he said. “Name’s Grady.”

  “I’ve seen you before,” I said.

  “That’s right. The last time we met you had a hypodermic needle sticking out of your arm. That was three days ago.”

  I looked around. I was in a small room that was illuminated by a weak wall lamp. There was one window—the shades were drawn. There was floral-patterned paper on the walls.

  “This is no hospital,” I said.

  “You’re in an office building,” Grady said. “If you looked through that window, you’d see the Potomac River and, on the other side, Washington D.C.”

  “Then it wasn’t a dream,” I said.

  “What wasn’t a dream?”

  “The helicopter.”

  “No. It wasn’t a dream. I took you to the Americana Building by ambulance. We got into a helicopter on the roof, flew straight here.”

  “I’d like a cigarette, Grady.”

  “It might make you sick. You’ve been fed by injections for three days, and you—”

  “Just give me a cigarette.”

  Grady took out a pack of cigarettes, stuck two in his mouth, lit them, placed one in my mouth. I puffed, inhaled, coughed, felt like throwing up. The cigarette fell from my lips. Grady grabbed it before it could burn the bed things.

  “You see, Kent? That’s how it is. You can’t eat for a while, either. Not until tomorrow, anyhow.”

  “When is tomorrow?”

  “Not long.” Grady glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve got a pill here for you to take and a glass of water to wash it down. Then I’m going to sit here with you until the sandman comes. When you wake up, it’ll be tomorrow.”

  Grady popped the pill into my mouth, held a glass of water to my lips. I managed to get the pill down. He said, “It won’t be long before you’re off. According to the nurse, that’s the strongest bomb the law allows.”

  “I want to know exactly what’s going on,” I said.

  “Sure. Of course you want to know. I don’t blame—”

  “Exactly, Grady. If somebody here in Washington tries to use me as a stooge, I won’t sit still for it. I want the full story. Unadulterated.”

  “If my opinion is worth anything, that’s what you’ll get.”

  “I’d better. If I don’t, there’s going to be some ... some ...” My tongue was trying to glue itself to the floor of my mouth.

  “Sleep tight,” Grady said.

  The room was flooded with light. Sunlight. I kicked the bedcovers away, rolled to the edge of the bed, put my feet on the floor, pushed myself off the bed and stood erect. Not too bad. I walked to the window without much effort. My head buzzed and I felt pretty weak, but I was in working order, thanks to the three—or was it four?—days in bed. I looked out the window. There was the Potomac and, on the other side, the nation’s capital. The door opened. I turned, saw Grady enter the room with a loaded tray. I smelled scrambled eggs and coffee. Grady placed the tray on a collapsible table.

  “You’re now officially back among the living,” Grady said. “Have your breakfast.”

  I sat down and ate. Heavily buttered toast and eggs, washed down with bracing coffee. I ate every morsel and was smoking a cigarette—there was a fresh pack of Camels on the tray—over the last of the coffee when Grady came into the room again.

  “There are some clothes for you in the closet,” he informed me. “The clothes you were wearing when I found you were in bad shape, so I let myself into your apartment and helped myself to a new outfit.”

  “Are you CIA?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Was Stuart?”

  “No.”

  “Army intelligence, naval?”

  “No.”

  “Then what in the hell are—”

  “Take it easy, Kent. You’ll soon have the full picture.”

  “How long is soon?”

  “You’re practically there. Mr. Dumbrille is waiting in his office.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Baxter Dumbrille. That’s right—the same guy you once worked for.”

  “Dumbrille is CIA,” I said.

  “Was.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “You’ll have to ask him about that. Finished?”

  “Not quite.” I lit another cigarette, drank some coffee. “The last I heard of Baxter Dumbrille,” I said, “he was in Walter Reed hospital. That was two years ago. The story was, he had cancer—incurable—and his body was riddled with it. They gave him six months to live.”

  Grady nodded. “So I heard. But he’s still alive.” He waved a hand. “No more questions, Kent. Dumbrille is the answer man around here. When you’ve ready, I’ll take you to him.”

  I stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray, got to my feet.

  Grady led me from the room. We went through two dim rooms that were lined with filing cabinets, then along a hallway. Grady stopped before a broad door, knocked.

  “Yes?” said a voice from within the room.

  “Kent is here,” Grady said as he opened the door. He stepped aside. I walked past him. “I’ll be in my office,” Grady said, closing the door behind him.

  Baxter Dumbrille sat behind a large desk. That is, the desk looked large but it wasn’t—Dumbrille only made it seem so. He had shrunk, dried up, like a raisin in the sun. But it was Dumbrille, no doubt of it. He was seventy pounds lighter and his hair was white and his pale, suffering-mottled face was smaller and deeply wrinkled, but electricity still crackled from him. He offered his hand. Such a small, frail hand. It was like holding a withered leaf.

  “It’s good to see you again,” I said.

  “Good to see you, Larry.” A smile formed new creases in his face. “You didn’t have to come rushing to my office, though. You could have taken the time to get dressed.”

  I realized then that I was in pajamas and was barefoot. “Well,” I said, “when Grady told me you were in charge—”

  I faltered, not knowing what to say next.

  “Yes, of course,” Dumbrille said. “You thought I was dead.” His deep-set gray eyes showed a hint of amusement. “Most people do. Sit down, Larry.”

  I sat on a chair beside the desk. Only a short time before I’d been ready to push my weight around. Now I was thinking back to the time Baxter Dumbrille had been a big dynamo of a man with a never-ending source of vitality. I felt almost like I was sitting next to his coffin.

  “How do you feel?” Dumbrille asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “You had a close call. It wouldn’t have taken much more of that drug. You gave us some anxious moments.”

  “Did the CIA put you here?” I asked.

  The gray head moved back and forth, negatively. “I was retired.”

  “Who put you back in harness?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Larry. I will tell you, however, that I’m in charge of Z Detail. But you’ve already assumed that, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to listen to something ...” Dumbrille reached out, flicked on the switch of a transistorized tape recorder that sat on the desk. The spools began turning and then I heard my own recorded voice:

  “Z Detail? I don’t know anything about any Z Detail. I never heard of—”

  Dumbrille stopped the machine. “You were delirious for a few days. We recorded perhaps twenty minutes of your delirium. This told us that you learned of Z Detail through Julian Kristo. We were hopeful that the enemy was not aware of o
ur existence. Morgan must have talked before he died. Fortunately, Morgan did not know too much about the department ...” Dumbrille paused, looked at the wall for a moment. When he spoke again, it was as though he was thinking aloud. “All Morgan really knew was that Z Detail was paying him twelve hundred dollars a month to investigate front organizations controlled by our friends in the East. He knew so little, in fact, that a poison pill wasn’t part of his equipment. He died of an overdose of Kristo’s serum.”

  “How did Stuart die?” I asked.

  Dumbrille’s gaze met mine. “How did you know that?”

  “Kristo told me Stuart was dead when he was quizzing me.”

  “Oh. Yes. Stuart’s body was found in a Harlem tenement hallway. He had bitten into his poison pellet.” Dumbrille grunted thoughtfully. “Everything is explained now. Grady found a photograph near Kristo’s body. You and Stuart were in the photo. Stuart was Morgan’s contact in New York. Morgan must have given this information to Kristo under torture.”

  “And the rest follows,” I said. “After Stuart killed himself—I guess Kristo and his men took Stuart to that tenement—it had to be that way—well, after that, Kristo checked on me and discovered I’d done some work for the CIA. So he figured I was working with Stuart. But that doesn’t explain Grady’s heroics.”

  “Grady was assigned to watch you, Larry. This was after Stuart’s death. He followed Kristo’s car after you were knocked unconscious outside your apartment building. As soon as Grady learned what apartment Kristo was using, he climbed the fire escape.”

  “Why did Stuart get in touch with me?”

  “He did that on my orders. There was a job I thought you might do for us in your capacity as a private investigator. However, the last time we worked together was almost three years ago. People change. Then, too, you’d been having trouble with certain high-ranking officials with the agency. I wanted to be sure of you, and I wanted Stuart to be sure. He was to fly here to Washington and have a talk with me concerning you. At this meeting we would decide whether to hire your services. If we agreed to do this, there was the problem of how much we dared tell you about Z Detail. Speaking for myself, I was in favor of letting you think the job was for the CIA—without actually saying so, of course. But all that has changed now …”

  He cleared his throat and looked at me. “I don’t think you need me to tell you that you’re in danger, Larry. Julian Kristo must have surely reported to his superiors about you. Now that he and the other two men are dead, you’re a marked man.”

  “Who was he working for, Mr. Dumbrille?”

  “I told you, Larry—the enemy.”

  “The enemy comes in all sizes and shapes. There are Russian agents, Cubans, Chinese, Yugoslavians ... and Romanians, to mention just a few.”

  His eyes down, he said, “Is there any significance to your keeping Romanians until last?”

  “Kristo was a Romanian.”

  “Yes. Quite so. But the best Russian assassin is Korizinski, a Pole. And the Chinese don’t use many Oriental agents, particularly in this country.”

  “Then Kristo didn’t represent a Romanian organization?”

  “You know very well he didn’t. Romania doesn’t have the money or the inclination to engage in serious espionage in the United States.” Dumbrille’s eyes came up to meet my gaze. “I can’t tell you anything more unless I’m sure of you.”

  I took out my cigarettes, lit one. “One thing is pretty clear, Mr. Dumbrille. You’re shooting for high stakes.”

  “We are.”

  “So high that you don’t mind the loss of one private investigator.”

  Dumbrille looked at his hands, maybe to make sure they were clean. Then he rubbed his hands together and lifted his eyes to meet mine. “You’re wrong, Larry. I am concerned about you.”

  “Then give me some idea of what I’m up against.”

  “Very well. If you return to New York, the odds are you won’t live more than a few days.”

  “Unless I join your organization—is that it?”

  “Becoming a member of Z Detail won’t save you. In any case, you’re not qualified to join Z Detail. And please don’t ask me to list our requirements; I can’t even tell you that much.”

  “Well, if you don’t want me to put my right hand on a Bible and swear to be true to dear old Z, what do you want?”

  “I’ll tell you what I would like, Larry ... I’d like you to work for Z Detail, taking orders directly from me—at three hundred a week.”

  “You’re asking me to be a Z Detail man without being a member of the organization—is that it?”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “What if I say no? Do you say goodbye and then go and wash your hands?”

  “No. We have two thousand dollars in our special fund. You can have it—providing you put yourself out of circulation for, say, two months. Considering what has happened, I feel we owe you that much.”

  “That’s running, Mr. Dumbrille.”

  “It’s better than dying.”

  I took a deep drag on the cigarette. “What if I agree to your first proposition? Will you—”

  Dumbrille’s face contorted. He rose a few inches from the chair, his eyes staring hard ahead. A sound of pain rasped its way through his clenched teeth. He fell back on the chair, brought his hands to his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  One hand came off his chest, fell to the handle of the center drawer in the desk. The whole arm shook.

  “Can’t,” he muttered. “Can’t ... open it—”

  I went around the desk, pulled the drawer open. There was a flat .32 automatic, a bottle of pills. I grabbed the bottle of pills.

  “Two,” Dumbrille grunted.

  I unscrewed the cap, spilled some pills on the desk, took two and pushed them into Dumbrille’s mouth. From the sounds he made, I knew he was having trouble getting the pills down. I poured water into a glass from the carafe on his desk, held the rim of the glass upward so he could get all the water down. When I was certain that the pills had been swallowed, I pulled the glass away. Dumbrille just sat there, one hand still on his chest, the other on his throat.

  “Shall I get a doctor?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “But shouldn’t I call someone here? Grady? A secretary?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to leave?”

  “No. Be all right ... a minute or ... soon.”

  I pushed my cigarette butt into an ashtray, walked to the window, looked out. I didn’t want to see Baxter Dumbrille like this.

  “I’m all right now,” Dumbrille said.

  I had been standing at the window for two or three minutes. I turned around slowly. Dumbrille sat straight in the chair.

  “I could come back a little later,” I said.

  “That’s not necessary, Larry.”

  I walked back to the chair, sat down.

  “Why don’t you have a cigarette,” Dumbrille said. “I assure you, the smoke doesn’t bother me.”

  “I just put one out.”

  “I seem to remember that you were a chain smoker.”

  “I’ve cut down a little. Mr. Dumbrille ...”

  “Yes?”

  “You shouldn’t be working. I mean—”

  The gray head nodded. “I know. I’m sorry the attack came while you were with me. I usually have advance notice. That one didn’t give warning.”

  “Do the people who put you in this job know about these attacks?”

  “Only one man put me here, Larry. A great man. Yes, he knows.” A thin smile. “To his way of thinking—and mine—my physical condition rather fits the nature of Z Detail.”

  “You make it sound like a department staffed with—” I stopped myself.

  “Dying men?” A dry chuckle. “Don’t be afraid to say it. We’re all dying. Every breath we take brings us closer. But that would be wrong. Would you say that Grady is a dying man? Of course not. No, Larry, the uniqueness of
Z Detail has nothing to do with—” Another small chuckle. “I’m telling you too much. You haven’t indicated yet what your decision will be. I have the two thousand dollars here, in cash, if—”

  I laughed. “Two thousand dollars. Do you know what my fees are, Mr. Dumbrille?”

  “Rather high, I’d say.”

  “A hundred a day plus expenses. And I’m working most of the time. In addition to this, six companies have me on retainer, and my overseas offices are beginning to show a profit. In other words, your two thousand doesn’t interest me. If I run, I’ll do it with my own money.”

  Dumbrille nodded. “I thought as much. Well, that still gives you two choices. You can either accept my proposition of casual employment, or—”

  “Or I can tell you to go to hell.”

  “Quite.”

  I smiled at him. “You figure you know me pretty well, don’t you?”

  “I think so, Larry.” He said it matter-of-factly.

  “The CIA has me down as a bad security risk—did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kristo knew it, too.” I brought out my cigarettes, lit one, “Who was he working for, Mr. Dumbrille?”

  Dumbrille leaned back, brought his hands together on his chest, studied me over the tips of his fingers. “I can tell you something about that, Larry, only if you volunteer your services to Z Detail.”

  “Volunteer?” I said distastefully. “That’s a dirty word to an old soldier. Anyhow, I’d be silly to volunteer for a job that pays only three hundred a week. That’s not the way to do business with a hard case like me.”

  “Would it make any difference if I ordered you to become part of Z Detail?”

  “It might. Why not try it?”

  “Unfortunately, Larry, there is not one scrap of paper in this entire nation that indicates the formation of a department called Z Detail. I couldn’t very well order you to work for a nonexistent organization, could I? All I can do is ask.”