The Cut of the Whip Page 2

  “All right, let it go,” said Port. He disliked Heering’s righteous manner. “I would like to know,” he said, “what the job is.”

  Port was not especially interested in Mr. Heering. He even disliked the man slightly, but Heering’s presentation had been so circumspect that it had piqued Port’s curiosity. And there was the girl Jane, who seemed so concerned. And Heering’s son, the one who had rammed him; in retrospect the young man appeared to Port as if driven by furies.

  “You may or may not know,” said Heering, “that I am engaged in some Near East negotiations concerning oil.”

  “I’ve read that Pan-Continental Oil is.”

  “One of my companies. Now, basically, you need no further information on the subject, except for an emphasis on the delicate nature of this kind of business.”

  “How delicate?”

  “As delicate as personal feelings, Mr. Port. So that a delay in a conference, displeasing publicity, any number of little things could throw the balance for or against my enterprises.”

  Heering had not said very much yet. But Port knew that all this was leading up to something highly important and he should not forget it.

  “My negotiations have been completed,” said Heering. He looked at his fingertips, as if nothing were quite so important. “However, at this point nothing has been acted upon. And a contract, as you may know, is only as good as the good will behind it.”

  This time Heering began rubbing his fingertips, the way he had done once before. He did it slowly, too slowly, which was his way of guarding his tension.

  “My son has stolen a packet of papers which bear upon my negotiations. He will attempt to pass them into the wrong hands. If this should happen,” and Heering looked up, “I would expect grave difficulties.”

  It was a delicate way of putting things. Port wondered why the man wasn’t able to come right out and say, “If those papers get out, I’ll be ruined!”

  “All this time,” said Port, “your son is running.”

  Heering’s answer showed a great deal about the man. “After Robert left the house—which was when he ran into you—I phoned the town police to determine which way he was going.”

  “Why didn’t you ask them to stop him?”

  “I thought I explained to you, Mr. Port, that no one is to be involved beyond—”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “I learned,” said Heering, “that the Mercedes Benz he is driving took the right turn at the bottom of the plateau. That road leads nowhere except to join the highway to Lamesa. There is nothing in between. Tomorrow I will have you flown to a spot where you can intercept the Benz easily.”

  “You talk as if I had taken the job already.”

  “You will be paid, of course. The job should not take you more than one day, the way I’m arranging it, for which effort I will pay you one thousand dollars.”

  Port hadn’t been thinking about that part of it. He had been thinking about how little Heering had really said. He had spent a great deal of time impressing Port with the secretive, delicate nature of everything, and he himself had arranged it so the job would take no more than a day. All Port knew about Robert Heering, the son, was that he had robbed his old man, smashed into Port’s car while running away from the house, and that he looked frantic. A thousand dollars for one day’s work catching a truant rich boy? Port didn’t believe it.

  Port did not know exactly why, but he had already decided to take this thing on. Perhaps because he felt suspicious of Heering, because of the way the girl Jane had acted, the way young Robert had looked…

  “One question,” said Port. “Why did your son steal your conference papers?”

  The evasion, which was sure to come, would be smooth. But Heering said, “Because my son is unstable.”

  When they were through Port went back up to his room and found Jane Heering waiting for him in the hall.

  “Father asked you to find him?” she said.

  “Yes. Why so worried?”

  “I don’t know you at all,” she said, “but I think you’ll find him and bring him back without harm.”

  Port wondered what she might be like without the worry and without the regard for her father. He nodded and said, “How sick is your brother?”

  “He’s my half-brother,” she said. She didn’t explain more but took up Port’s question. “If you mean is he crazy, he isn’t.”

  “Your father said ‘unstable.’”

  “I’m sure whatever father has told you is correct.”

  “He told me that Robert stole some business papers.”

  “That doesn’t make him crazy, does it, Dan?”

  She did not seem to have noticed that she had used his first name. It had been the natural thing to say, the more personal thing, when she pleaded.

  “I know the papers mean money,” she said, “but I don’t know if that was his reason for stealing them. Robbie is not very responsible. Father says he did it out of spite. I don’t know.”

  “Where is his mother?”

  “He hasn’t had a mother for a long time,” Jane said, but then they didn’t talk any more because Heering came up into the hall and pointed out that it was late in the evening and that Port’s job would start early. Port touched the girl’s arm and smiled at her.

  “Don’t worry. When I come back, afterwards, maybe things will be simpler?”

  It was the first time that she smiled back at him and only Heering’s presence spoiled the moment a little.

  Chapter II

  PORT WAS at Heering’s private airport at five in the morning. By seven in the morning the Benz would have gone a maximum of three hundred miles. It would put the car about fifteen miles this side of Heering’s Station Ten on his Low Shelf field. The copter would land there as if on business, Port would find a car at the station, and would then drive back toward the Benz, which he should meet somewhere on a stretch called the Red Plateau. In all likelihood Port would meet the Benz and nothing else.

  The helicopter took off on schedule, and it was just a little after six A.M. when it landed in the parking area in front of Number Ten station. There was just a pickup and a new station wagon. There wasn’t a soul anywhere.

  Port and the pilot got out of the copter and went into the pump house. A big Buddah Diesel sat in the middle of it, filling the bare room with a low roar. Still not a soul anywhere.

  “The office is this way,” and the pilot walked across the cement room and around the big Buddah.

  There was less noise in the office, just a vibration. It shook the geranium on the small desk and the coffee pot on the hot plate seemed to be trembling.

  “This is the man Heering called about. To pick up his station wagon,” said the pilot to the man at the desk.

  The man nodded his head and looked Port up and down. “You one of them men from back East?”

  “I just came to pick up the car,” said Port.

  “There’s two of them Dallas men out there now, see ’em there by the rigs? Can’t make up their minds about that fault we got here. You know about that fault, I guess.”

  “I just came to—”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Sorry,” said Port. “I haven’t got time.”

  “Too bad,” said the man. “Here’s the keys,” and he handed them to Port.

  Port took them, nodded good-bye, and went out to the station wagon. When he closed the door to the pump house he shut off the drone from the Buddah and the landscape seemed that much more deserted without the raw sound.

  Port spun the car out of the parking lot fast and a gray jet of dust shot up from the rear end until the car hit the hard-top. Port turned towards the plateau, racing the car all the way. He gunned the car up the plateau, cursing himself for being ridiculous and cursing himself for the coldblooded job he had taken on—cold-blooded because he couldn’t muster enough feeling about it to give him an interest.

  He saw he was driving a flat road now, on top of the plateau.
The terrain was rocky on both sides and the road started to swing so that Port couldn’t see very far. If the Mercedes Benz should show up now and going the same speed… The road suddenly dipped and Port could see miles ahead. The road went down and across the flatlands. And there was the Benz, like a small, shiny bug scooting along the band of road.

  Port hit the brakes hard, then reversed so fast that the gears gave a loud clank. The pilot’s shenanigans had almost cost him his chance and even now there wasn’t the time to pick the best way to handle this thing. Port drove in reverse with his head out of the side window. The motor whined with a high, urgent sound and the rear of the car swung back and forth in sharp jerks when Port started maneuvering through the curve. He hoped that the man in the Benz hadn’t seen the maneuver. He hoped that nobody would come from behind and crash into the station wagon. A pile of junk on the highway would stop the Benz, but then what? Port was out of the curve and could see across the plateau. No one from that end… He braked, swung the car towards the ditch, then headed back into the road and stopped broadside. He turned off the motor and sat for a moment. He noticed that he was sweating.

  If nobody came from the other end this should work fine. Port got out of the car, left the door open, and walked off the road. He stood there, where the Benz would see him last, and listened for the sound of the car coming up to the plateau. With no one else coming, this whole thing could be over in minutes. Except for the drive back, of course, with young Heering who was a little bit crazy.

  Maybe he should have brought a gun, just for the effect… Then he heard the motor.

  The Benz didn’t look like a bug any more but like a missile. The square grille seemed to rear off the road and the black body seemed the size of a bus.

  He’s going too fast! He sees the wagon but he isn’t stopping—

  The Benz was rocking wildly and the brakes screeched but a little too late. What stopped the Benz was the station wagon.

  If the crazy bastard has killed himself, or is hurt bad… Port didn’t think further and ran to the cars.

  The station wagon had one sprung door, a deep dent in the side, and trim bent off the body. The Benz, big and black, showed no damage at all. The man behind the wheel was opening the door and Port could hear him mutter. Port coughed, low in his throat because this was it. Talk to the man. Try it smooth and civilized first.

  The man came out of the Benz and Port stopped walking towards him. This was not Robert Heering.

  Chapter III

  THEY STARED at each other for one dead moment and then the other man made a slight move which broke the tension. “Who in hell are you?” Port yelled at him.

  The other man was young and shaggy looking. He didn’t understand what Port meant nor was he listening to the words, just the tone of voice Port was using. He yelled right back:

  “You got no better place to park that wreck than smack in the middle of the highway?”

  “It wasn’t a wreck until you came driving, or rather flying, along here! And I asked you a question. Where in hell—”

  “Wait a minute—wait a minute!” and the young man leaned his back against the station wagon. “Gimme a chance, willya? I’m getting the shakes.” And he stood there, breathing deeply, his eyes closed, while the shock of the accident caught up with him.

  Port lit two cigarettes and gave the man one of them and in a short while they both stood by the sprung door of the station wagon, looking at the damage.

  Port was thinking of something else though.

  “I know this car,” he said. “Where’s the guy that was driving it?”

  “I was driving it. He said he was tired. Jeez, I wonder what—” he stopped in the middle of the sentence and in the middle of turning around. The only thing Port was sure of was that it hadn’t been the young man who had cracked him on the back of the head. And then he passed out.

  The first thing Port saw was the big sky and then he noticed something nice and soft under his head and he didn’t want to move at all because he knew how it would feel.

  He gritted his teeth and sat up.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you up!” said the voice, and then, “Listen, you got an idea where we are?”

  Port closed his eyes and said, “Wait up a second, will you—” and he waited for the pain to simmer down in his head.

  He was sitting among the rocks, there had been a musette bag under his head, the highway was empty, and the station wagon neatly pulled up to one side. The young man from the Benz was squatting next to Port, anxious for him to get better.

  “He’s gone,” he said, when Port looked at him.

  “The bastard,” said Port.

  He stood up and knew there was no point rushing it. His head might fall apart. The young man helped Port light a cigarette and then took one for himself.

  “Listen,” he said, “will you explain something to me? All I want to know—”

  “Later, later.” Port breathed slowly for a moment. “Stop me when I’m wrong. You were hitchhiking, the Benz came—”

  “The what?”

  “Benz. That’s the car you were driving. The car came along and the driver gave you a lift. Then he got in the back and let you drive. You hit my car, then the guy came and hit me, then you pulled the station wagon out of the way and the Benz took off without you. Right so far?”

  “Yes. And he throws my musette bag out when he drives off.”

  “Considerate. Now tell me this. What explanation did he give you for all this?”

  “Robby? Nothing. He—”

  “You know his name?”

  “Just Robby. I don’t know the last name.”

  Port breathed with relief and even the pain in his head seemed less important now. The whole thing with Robert Heering was still between him and his father and Port. “How long ago did he take off?”

  “You’ve been out maybe ten minutes. Listen, I don’t know anything goes on here, but all I want to know where this is. And can you give me a lift outa here?”

  Ten minutes only. Port started running to the car.

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Come on, come on,” Port said. “Jump in if you want a lift.”

  The sprung door stayed open but it didn’t slow Port. He raced for the end of the plateau, half hoping he’d see the Benz down below once the road dipped into the flatland. This should have happened earlier, he thought, this little trick of getting slugged from behind. If it had happened to him before he had gone to wait for the Benz on the plateau, there would have been enough good, red-hot intent inside him to handle young Robert Heering and his Benz and his papers with one hand tied behind. Which was the way Port felt now. He knew the heat would go after a while, but he’d still be after the man, and with a purpose this time.

  “Look, Mister, I know how you must feel and all that, but would you just answer me one—”

  “We’re on a plateau. Red Plateau is the name.”

  “I’m not from around here, so the name doesn’t mean anything to me. What—”

  “What you want to know is where you’re going? Don’t ask me, fellow,” and Port kept watching the road.

  When the car left the plateau Port could see far ahead. There was no Benz anywhere.

  The blank sight of the terrain ahead did it. The pain in the back of his head seemed to turn stiff and the rest of his neck and the muscles along the spine grew tense and painful. It was like urgency riding his back but where his aim ought to be, straight ahead, it was just blank.

  Robert Heering was crazy! Why else pick up a hitchhiker while running with a million dollar bundle of paper. Or at least a little bit off, though not enough to stop him from going all out to get his way. Not like Port, who’d been standing alone on the plateau worrying about how to act with the man. But that part was all fixed now.

  Except for the problem of old Mr. Heering. When he heard what had happened—though that need never come up.

  Port raced past the cut-off that went to Station Ten. There was
a fork in the road a little further on and Port took the right one, only because of momentum, and then the road forked again. There were now enough dips in the terrain to give only a short view.

  Port stopped the car hard and maneuvered around.

  “You want to get out here? I’ve got to go back.”

  “Here? Jeez—didn’t we pass a pump station before? Maybe somebody there could—”

  “Whatever you say,” and Port took off, trying to hold the sprung door close to the body.

  The office was full of people when they arrived. There was the pilot, the old man at the desk, and three engineers. Dallas men, without doubt. They all wore fatigue caps. “Hey!” said the pilot. “What are you doing back here?”

  “I got to use your phone,” said Port. “This is urgent.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “If you could clear the room for me,” he said close to the old man’s ear. “This business is confidential.”

  “About the fault?” the pump man whispered back. “You don’t want them Dallas men—”

  “That’s right. Hurry it, will you?” and then Port watched the old man clear the small room, telling the men that Mr. Heering’s special man had to make a call which was confidential. And they’d better be sure about that fault not being a danger because there were other outfits with maybe other opinions and there better not be anything wrong with their figures.

  The door shut and he picked up the phone. When the operator came on he asked for the town of Heering, Heering residence, and to push that call through.

  It was now forty-five minutes after the time when Robert Heering had met and then left Port on the plateau.

  It was one hour and twenty minutes after the time on the plateau when Port finally reached Heering.

  No one but the butler had been at the house when Port called and Mr. Heering had flown to the Galveston office. At the Galveston office nobody had ever heard of Dan Port and Mr. Heering was in a conference. The best private secretary in the Southwest kept Port at arm’s length without hanging up on him and without causing offense.