The Executioners Read online

  "No one told me the Major had an assistant that looked like you," I countered as I slid into the driver's seat, filling up the front of the small English Ford. Mona was nestled in the opposite corner of the seat, the mini skirt revealing the slow, lovely curve of her thigh. Her very large and very deep breasts were, in their way, as direct and frank as the openly interested expression of her eves.

  I followed her directions and headed the little English Ford down a broad street through light traffic.

  "I try to leave the office behind when I walk out the door, Yank," Mona said. "But I think there's something I should tell you. From what I've seen, I'm convinced that all this is nothing more than our rotten, blundering incompetence and inefficiency. It's just taken till now to start erupting all over the bloody place."

  I smiled at her. She was echoing Major Rothwell's thoughts with greater conviction. Perhaps one of their troubles was that they'd rather blame themselves than face the unpleasant and unnerving fact that outside forces were at work under their very noses. I held back comment and she didn't say any more about the matter. We had reached a cluster of neat, small wooden cottages, freshly painted, and Mona told me to stop. She handed me another key.

  "Number five," she said. "You'll find it nice enough, Mr. Carter."

  "Try Nick," I suggested and she smiled.

  "All right, Nick," she said. "Now how about driving me to my place? Just go straight and you'll run right into the Castle Apartments. It's a development just outside of Townsville."

  We reached the apartments, the typical angular cluster of apartment buildings, not as tall as the ones in American cities but otherwise very much the same.

  "I hope you won't be too busy to come up for dinner some evening, Nick," Mona said. The green of her eyes glowed softly, almost like a traffic fight telling me to move ahead.

  "I'll see to it," I said quietly, obeying traffic signals.

  Before turning in that night, behind the locked door of the small but neatly furnished cottage, I took Wilhelmina out of her special shoulder holster with the watertight flap. Of all the girls I'd ever known, Wilhelmina had always been the most reliable. Her 9 mm. slugs spoke with total authority, her fast, hair-trigger firing action a reassuring item to have working for me. When I'd put a drop of oil on the takedown latch and the recoil spring, I put the Luger back into its holster. Taking off my shirt, I unstrapped the thin leather sheath from my right forearm. From the narrow casing I drew Hugo out, the pencil-thin stiletto of tempered steel lying in my palm, a beautiful and deadly friend. Razor sharp on both edges that tapered to a perfect point, the blade had both balance and weight for unerring accuracy when properly thrown. Both weapons were more than just tools of the trade. They were a part of me. I wiped the blade off with a drop of oil and strapped the sheath back onto my arm, point upwards. At the proper pressure, Hugo would drop into my palm for instant use. Like all old friends, they were good to have around.

  II

  Part of this business is to know how to dig. Hawk was fond of saying that a good AXE agent had to have the strength of a bull, the courage of a lion, the cunning of a fox and the ability to dig like a mole. I was at the mole part with the pile of records Mona Star placed in front of me the next morning at the Australian Intelligence offices. They'd given me a small side office where I could be isolated and unbothered. Mona, wearing a white skirt with leather buttons and leather loops, topped by a black blouse, set all the files in front of me and started for the door. She paused, one hand on the knob, and noted the expression in my eyes as I watched her.

  "What are you wondering about?" she asked.

  "How the hell the Major gets any work done with you around," I said. She laughed and closed the door behind her. It had been a fair question. She was one helluva distraction. But I closed off that part of my mind and concentrated on the thick folders in front of me.

  I worked through lunch without stopping and late into the afternoon. I read every damn sheet and evaluation and report first — then I went back over them and started to pick out certain items. I made a list of questionable factors for myself on a notepad, under each man's name, and when I'd finished I had a few hardline items that were of more than passing interest. I sat back and examined what I'd noted.

  First the Navy man, Burton Comford. He was a chronic troublemaker. He had been involved in numerous scrapes in bars. He was known to run down the service whenever he got a few drinks too many. He had received various punishments for his on-leave behavior and been bailed out of civilian jails three times.

  The driver of the tank that malfunctioned and blew up the ammo dump had also been involved in numerous scrapes. He had been up for several disciplinary actions by his superiors. A dissatisfied personality, he harbored aggressive hostility toward almost everyone, resenting their lives, their jobs. I'd also noted with great interest that John Dawsey and Burton Comford had both been involved in incidents at the same bar, a place called The Ruddy Jug.

  The third man, the Air Force lieutenant, had nothing on his record to connect him with The Ruddy Jug, but he had exhibited the same dissatisfied personality as the other two — on his own level, of course. His record showed that he had twice applied for permission to leave the service, and his application had been denied each time. Then he'd requested extended leave which was turned down. Following that, he had taken sick leave for unusually long and frequent periods. According to evaluation reports, his general rating had gone down steadily.

  I found my fingers tapping the top of the desk. Three tragic «accidents» and three men, each one of them a confirmed complainer, dissatisfied with his lot in life — each one of them ripe for trouble. It was a thought that stayed quietly on the mind, like an unhatched egg — and led to numerous possibilities. I got up and opened the door of the little office to see Mona putting on lipstick.

  "Coming out of your cocoon?" she smiled.

  "Don't tell me it's that late," I said.

  "You've been in there all day," she answered. "How about telling me what you've come up with while you drop me off at my place?"

  Major Rothwell had apparently already left. I shrugged and started for the door with Mona at my side. Her breasts brushed against me as I opened the door.

  "Ever hear of a bar called The Ruddy Jug?" I asked as we drove toward her apartment. "It's in Townsville."

  "Yes, it's a rough kind of place, mostly used by servicemen and working blokes," she said. "Townsville is about fifteen miles past my place. It's a copper town — copper refining and smelting, fabrication — even some copper jewelry."

  "I might drop in and do a little checking around there tonight," I said. "But first I'm going to drop in on John Dawsey."

  "The chap in the tank," she said quickly. "Don't think you'll get far, but good luck."

  We halted in front of the Castle Apartments and Mona got out and leaned back into the car, her firm breasts jutting forward temptingly.

  "Don't suppose you have time for drinks and something to eat," she offered. I gave her a slow smile that said something on its own. She was quick to get the message.

  "I suppose you're right," she said. "I'm not much for doing things in a hurry, either. Be careful, I've a dinner date coming up."

  "How could I forget?" I grinned at her and drove off.

  * * *

  Though John Dawsey had been dismissed from the service, his file showed an address to which they sent pay still due him. It was a Townsville address. As I entered the city I saw rows of dingy, gray houses, not unlike those in the mining cities of Wales. Though Townsville was Queensland's second largest city, there was a roughhewn air to it — an unfinished feel — the kind of a place where you feel that it's moving on to another chapter in its life. The address I had for John Dawsey turned out to be a house in the center of a staggered row of narrow houses — dull, dreary, and needing paint. A woman wielding a broom on the steps outside quickly told me that John Dawsey no longer lived there.

  "He's gotten fancy," she said,
emphasizing the broad «a» of the British upper-class speech. She gave me his new address, 12 Chester Lane, which she described as being in the "new part of town." Armed with directions from her, I found it after getting lost only once. It was indeed very new, very suburban and very reminiscent of the more expensive American suburban developments. I located number 12, a low, ranch-style brick and frame house, just as darkness started to close in. I rang the bell. The man who answered smelled of beer. A flattened nose sat in the center of the heavy face, and his eyebrows were thickened with scar-tissue. He'd spent some years in the ring — a kind of constant belligerency was a part of his countenance. It turned to open hostility when I told him I was there to get some more information on the tank incident.

  "I'm out, digger," he growled at me. "They tossed me out and glad of it, and I don't have to answer a bloody question."

  I wanted information, not trouble, and I tried the honeyed approach first.

  "You're absolutely right, Dawsey," I smiled. "I happen to be making a check for the American government. We had a few people involved, and I just need a few minor points cleared up."

  He glowered at me but let me move inside. The place was furnished not tastefully but expensively. A bottle of stout was on the coffee table, along with a half-dozen catalogs for sleek motor cruisers. I glanced quickly at them and figured the least expensive to cost about eighteen thousand. On the page of one of the catalogs I saw a column of figures noted in pen. Dawsey poured himself another beer, pointedly ignoring me.

  "Let's get on with it," he muttered. "I'm busy."

  "Thinking of buying one of these?" I asked casually, picking up a catalog.

  "None of yer bloody business," he snarled, yanking the catalog out of my hands. I smiled pleasantly at him. "If you've any questions you better be fast with them," he said. "I'm busy."

  "Yes, picking out your new boat." I smiled. "Pretty expensive stuff for a man just out of the service, I'd say."

  Dawsey's eyes narrowed at once. He was a square man, not as tall as I and with a belt of fat around the middle. But I knew the type. He could be an ugly customer.

  "Get out of here," he growled.

  "New house," I said, looking around. "Expensive new house. Fancy boat catalogs. New furniture. You saved an awful lot of your service pay, didn't you, Dawsey? In fact, I'd say you saved more than you earned."

  "Maybe I was left a bloomin' fortune by an old uncle," he snarled. He was blustering now, but behind his angry eyes there was sudden alarm. I was quick to press the point.

  "Maybe you'd like to tell me his name," I said. "Or where he lived."

  "You get the bloody hell out of here," Dawsey yelled, the bottle of beer in his hand.

  "Not yet," I answered. "Not till you tell me the secret of how to leave the service and make a bundle overnight."

  I saw his hand come down fast, smashing the bottle against the edge of the coffee table. His face was deep red, his eyes small and mean as he started around the edge of the table toward me, the jagged bottle in his hand still dripping beer.

  "Goddamn you," he snarled. "I'll teach you to come around here with your smart questions."

  He lunged and I twisted away from the jagged edge of the bottle as he thrust it at my face. I moved back carefully. I could have ended it with one shot from Wilhelmina, but I wanted him alive. No, not just alive, alive and worried and scared. He moved forward, and I saw he was on the balls of his feet, moving the way a fighter does in the ring. I'd made it a rule never to underestimate anyone. John Dawsey was not the man to violate that rule with, I knew. I let him move in again, swing with a wide blow and then catch himself. I saw he hooked with the bottle as he swung. I moved forward and he countered at once, hooking with the jagged glass weapon again. This time I shot a hard right under the hook. It hit him under the heart and I heard him gasp in pain. He automatically brought his right hand down and I caught him with a looping left high on the head. It opened up the old scar tissue with a thin, red line. He tried an uppercut with the bottle, coming up viciously with it. I sidestepped it, getting a fleck of beer foam in my face as it whistled past, and crossed a perfect right to the point of his jaw. He went back, over the coffee table, and sprawled across the sofa, the bottle falling to the floor. I knicked it out of the way and saw him start to shake his head. I waited a few seconds till his eyes cleared and he focused on me.

  "I'll be back," I said to him. "You better start getting the right answers together, pal."

  I slammed the door behind me, got into the Anglia and drove off. He didn't hear me humming to myself. I drove around the corner, stopped and hurried out of the car. I crossed the street, keeping clear of the beam of light from another house, and settled down at the foot of a young oak tree.

  Right now I figured he was throwing cold water in his face, straightening himself up, putting a dab of ointment on the opened scar tissue — and worrying. I gave him another minute. I glanced at my watch. Exactly fifty-one seconds later he came bursting out of the house to rush around to a small, attached garage. I did a fast fade, crouching low, and returned to where I'd left the car. I let him start his engine, move out of his garage and go past the corner before I turned the engine over.

  He was driving a little Sunbeam and I swung in behind him, letting his tail lights lead me as we moved through the surburban streets. When he moved into Townsville traffic, I switched on the headlights. He was an easy tail. He hadn't the faintest idea I was behind him and I was tempted to make bet as to where he was headed. When he pulled up in front of The Ruddy Jug, I paid myself off.

  I eased the car in between a number of others in a small parking lot and let him go inside first. Overhead, a red neon sign outlined the form of a large beer mug. Inside the place there was sawdust on the floor, booths at the sides and a number of round tables in the center of the floor. A bored pianist divided the music chores with a garish jukebox that stood at one side. A long bar took up one entire end of the place. It was large enough and crowded enough for me to stay out of sight while watching him at the same time. I slid into an empty booth and saw him make his way toward the bar and toward a girl, a hostess, at the end of it. She was pretty in an unpolished way, wearing a dress that was too blue, too tight and too shiny. But it was low-cut enough for the customers and her round, high breasts spilled out generously over the top.

  I saw a good sprinkling of sailors and soldiers among the customers — mostly, as Mona had said, hard-working men. Dawsey waited as the girl went to show a couple to one of the booths. When she returned, he immediately started talking to her, his red face strained and agitated. The girl listened while she looked out across the tables, smiling at customers she knew, waving at others. A waiter appeared at my elbow, and I sent him off with an order for whiskey and water.

  I could see the girl's lips moving guardedly, as she answered Dawsey. Suddenly finished, he turned abruptly and walked away from her, moving to the door through the crowded tables. My eyes swung back to the girl, but she had left the bar and I saw her against the wall, putting a coin into a wall telephone. She waited a moment, then spoke into the phone — hardly more than two or three sentences — and hung up. I leaned back and watched her move out to circle amid the customers.

  It had been easy to understand what I'd just seen. The girl was some sort of contact or intermediary. Dawsey had told her he wanted to make a contact and she had relayed his message. Now, I had to fill in the details. She was starting to make her rounds of the booths and I waited till she neared mine. She was good at her job. She was both adept and firm at eluding and turning aside eager hands and overzealous fans. She was friendly, welcoming, yet distant without being standoffish — altogether a neat job. I heard a number of steady customers call her by the name "Judy." Her manufactured gaiety was less contrived than that of most girls in her job, and under the makeup was a face that might once have been sweet. Now it showed the hardness of life in a certain tightness around the jaw. Her eyes, smoke-gray, were the eyes of one who had seen to
o much too young. But they were eyes that smoldered. She reached the booth where I sat and gave me a big smile.

  "Hello, digger" she said. "Welcome to The Ruddy Jug."

  "Thanks, Judy," I grinned at her. "Got a minute to talk?"

  "You're a Yank," she said, her eyes lighting with interest. "Sure. What do you want to talk about? What are you doing here in Queensland — vacation?"

  "In a way," I said. "What do you know about John Dawsey?"

  I saw astonishment leap into her smoke-gray eyes, but she made a quick recovery.

  "I think you've made some kind of mistake, Yank," she frowned at me. "I don't know any John Dawsey."

  "You always make phone calls for people you don't know?" I said casually.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped. She started to get up but I shot a hand out and grabbed her wrist.

  "Stop playing games, Judy," I said quietly. "Talk."

  "You ruddy cop?" she asked, warily.

  "I'm a friend of Dawsey's." I said.

  "Hell you are," she said, yanking her wrist away. She was on her feet, signalling across the floor. I saw two long-armed, heavy-set characters detach themselves from a corner table and head toward me. Judy was looking at me as I stood up, her eyes apprehensive.

  "He won't take no for an answer," she said to the two goons as they came up, and I smiled. She'd given me one of my answers without realizing it. She was strictly on her own insofar as Dawsey was concerned. If the two goons or the bar had been involved, she wouldn't have given them a phony story. They got on each side of me and I let them lead me off. I'd get back to little Judy.

  "Stay out of here," one of the goons growled at me.

  "I'll try and remember." I grinned at him. I saw him trying to decide whether he ought to give me something to help my memory. Maybe it was the fact that I towered over him, or maybe my complete acquiescence had thrown him off stride. Anyway, he decided against it and he and his buddy walked back into the bar.