The Cut of the Whip Page 3

  “… I understand, Mr. Port. I understand it is confidential, but I am merely trying to point out, Mr. Port—”

  “Damn it, man, can’t you tell when it’s a matter of urgency?”

  “I well understand, Mr. Port, but my position…”

  “Just give him my name! The reason I’m calling is ten times more important than any conference he’s in. Just give him my name, for God’s sake, and you’re out of it!”

  “Daniel Port, you say?”

  “Heaven help me, yes!”

  There was one minute’s silence, and then, “This is Heering. You can get off the phone, Burnett.”

  The private secretary hung up.

  “Mr. Heering,” said Port. “The matter went by me. About one hour ago.”

  Another silence, and then, “Where are you?”

  “Number Ten station on Low Shelf. I’m—”

  “Let me understand this, Port. You are an hour behind?”

  “More now. The matter is still safe, still just between us, but I can’t follow it up without more information.”

  To his complete surprise Port heard Heering curse. Not long, not loud, but completely ferocious.

  “The road after here forks several times, Mr. Heering, so if you—”

  “I know that.”

  “The copter is still here; however that would mean taking the chance of making the pilot suspicious.”

  “Out of the question.”

  There was a long silence while Port let the other man think it over, then, “Mr. Heering. If you have any idea where this matter is going, some contact point, anything like that, then please consider that nothing can be gained from keeping it from me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well?”

  Port heard the other man took a long breath. “It’s difficult, the involvement—” and then he coughed to make it seem less of a revelation.

  “Mr. Port?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please don’t write this down.” The voice was no longer charged and Heering sounded impersonal. “The matter is going to Lubbock. The address is 912 South Brandywine.” There was a pause. And then, smooth and controlled now, “You understand that there must be no contact. You understand that the international nature of all this goes beyond my personal business. If you keep this in mind, Mr. Port, you will not have to be told to keep yourself out of this as much as you can; not to be seen, not to be recognized, not to talk to anyone at that address.”

  Heering was obviously back in command. He had loosened up and had painfully given Port more information, and was now building the wall again.

  “You have a gun, Mr. Port?”

  “I can get one.”

  “Do that.”

  And the less you know the longer you live was the warning behind that exchange…

  “Now, if you will get me the pilot, I’ll arrange for you to be flown to Lubbock. In terms of distance, contact should be tonight, physical contact. And you will have to be there first, to prevent it. There will be a car for you at the airport.”

  “I’ll get the pilot now.”

  “About the arrangement between you and myself, Mr. Port, we will of course change that.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you.”

  “There will be a new arrangement,” Heering said and Port got the impression that Heering had said it to himself. Port could see the witch-burning eyes now…

  Port got to Lubbock at noon. A Heering employee met the copter to give the pilot a briefcase with papers and to show Port his car. The briefcase was a blind to give the trip importance, while Port had just gone along for the ride. The pilot was instructed to leave right after gassing and the Heering employee had to get back to the office

  Heering had picked a good car, a three year old Chevrolet which looked like a hundred other cars in the town.

  Port looked at the Chevrolet for a moment, looked up to watch the employee drive off in a company car, put the keys in his pocket, and then folded his arms.

  This felt nothing like on the plateau. This felt like the middle of a two-handed job with a start that was over and an end which was clear. Port started to whistle and stood a while longer. Then he started to move.

  First he went back into the terminal and asked for a city map at Information. He got one and left.

  Then he drove his car into the first gas station, checked the air in his tires to be doing something, and asked for a roadmap of Texas. He didn’t need any gas. He asked for the warehouse district and drove there.

  He cruised the streets near the depot until he found what he wanted. He parked in a street with small stores and bars and went into the pawnshop that looked most expensive. He could see five pawnshops from where he was standing, but Port wanted quality.

  He picked a Luger because the action was smoothest and the barrel was like new on the inside.

  He went to a second hand clothing store, bought a scuffed leather jacket and a cap with a visor.

  Ammunition for the Luger gave him a little bit of trouble and he ended up downtown finding a store that carried nine-mm.

  Then he had lunch in a restaurant and while his coffee was cooling he figured things out on the Texas map. Heering had been close in his guess. The Benz couldn’t possibly make it to Lubbock till eight or nine; any time between eight and ten was more reasonable.

  It was two now and Port drove out of town. After a while he left the main highway and found an arroyo where he shot twenty-eight rounds of his ammunition, at which point the gun felt familiar enough.

  He had coffee at a truck stop and looked at the city map. He could have asked anyone in the town how to get to South Brandywine, but he still wouldn’t have known where the street was in relation to the rest of the map. He wanted to know how to leave there and get out of town fast.

  South Brandywine had a chummy look. The street was all residential and old enough to show some individual touches from one house to the next.

  Port left his car on Sumner, the cross street at one end of the block, and walked down South Brandywine looking busy. He walked past number 912, which was on his side of the street, but never stopped until he had turned into Pitt Lane at the other end of the block.

  He had seen the stamped-iron sign set into the lawn and the name was Powell. The Powells it had said. He had seen the neat flower beds, the raked gravel on the short drive, and the car in the garage. Everything had looked very well kept. There had been no toys in evidence. Nothing but neatness.

  It took Port ten minutes to get back to his car without going down Brandywine. He sat in the rear of his car, took off his jacket, his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. He came out again wearing the leather jacket and the visored cap.

  The alley was dusty and full of the glare of the sun, looking more like a country lane than the garbage road between two rows of houses. From the back, 912 Brandywine was much harder to spot. It lacked the individual touches that marked the front of the house, and if there hadn’t been another sign, H. Powell this time, Port might have walked by. He was sweating under the leather jacket and stopped to wipe his face. The backyard was as neat as the front, only less attractive and more utilitarian. Garden tools were stacked in a corner and next to the garbage can was a carton half full with empty beer cans. There were also three empty gallon jugs labeled Muscatel, Very Sweet.

  The screen door in back snapped open and a man came out.

  “Howdy,” he said to Port.

  The man was older than Port but dressed younger. He wore two-tone shoes, highly pressed slacks, and a polka dot shirt.

  “You looking for something?”

  “Yes,” said Port. “Could I see you a minute?”

  Heering and his secretive warnings be damned. The only way Port could feel ahead in this job was to know everyone in it. He had known much too little, right from the start.

  “Who you with?” asked the man, nodding at Port’s cap.

  “Are you Mr. Powell?” Port asked. “I’m with utilities,” and pulled o
ut a black notebook and a pencil.

  “I’m Powell. Come in, feller, come in,” and he opened the gate for Port.

  Powell was friendly enough. He had carefully combed hair with one spectacular wave, but the haircut gave him a shaved look about the ears, the kind of thing they do in the country. Like a rancher who had moved to the city and in no way meant to go back.

  “I’m just counting the lines,” said Port. “Maintenance purposes.” He was walking towards the house. “Everything all right here, everything shipshape?”

  “No complaints here, none whatsoever.”

  Port looked up the side of the house where the three power lines were attached and scribbled something inside his book.

  “Man, it’s hot,” said Port and wiped his face. “And as soon as I saw those beer cans there I really started feeling hot. Isn’t that funny?” and he laughed.

  “Hell,” and Powell leaned closer, “you want some? I know you’re on the job, but you want some?”

  “Well, I don’t want to…”

  “No trouble, no trouble. What’s your name?”

  “Dan.”

  “Mine’s Herbie. Come on in, Dan,” and the two men went through the screen door.

  It was cool inside because of a large air conditioner. There were other expensive items. A dishwasher, a washing machine, a dryer next to it, and a garbage disposal unit in the sink. Port heard the sounds of a serial story in the front room and by bending a little he could glimpse the twenty-seven-inch TV set. He couldn’t see the rest of the room.

  Powell slammed the refrigerator and punched open two cans of beer.

  “Mud in your eye,” he said and gave Port one of the cans.

  The beer was a cool pleasure going down his throat and Port felt like closing his eyes and paying attention to nothing else. He put the can down and nodded his head at the kitchen.

  “Nice,” he said. “Nice, cool comfort.”

  “Like it, huh? You’re looking at over two thousand bucks worth of conveniences right here.”

  “I know. I wish I could afford it.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do without it,” said Powell. “I can wash clothes, do dishes, cook supper, and grind up the garbage all at one time.”

  “I can appreciate that,” said Port. “I’m a bachelor myself.”

  “I’m no bachelor,” said Powell. “My wife’s ailing.”

  He sipped beer, then put the can down carefully.

  “But no matter; if you want something done right you got to do it yourself.”

  He had, while talking and between sips of beer, wiped the wet rings made by the cans, hung the can opener on its special hook, and washed the rag and put it to dry on a small rack where three other rags hung side by side without touching each other. It was the best way, the neatest, to let them get dry.

  “Well, sir,” said Port, “it’s sure been a pleasure. And I sure wish I could have a fine kitchen like this.”

  Powell gave a proud smile and put the two empty cans into a trash box.

  “But on my salary, hell—” and Port shrugged. “What do you do for a living, Herbie?”

  “Me? I’m retired. I used to be in cotton, way back that is, but no more of that for me,” and he laughed.

  “What did you do, strike oil?”

  Powell laughed some more and shook his head but never answered.

  When Port was at the screen door he stopped suddenly and turned back.

  “Herbie, would you mind if I go out the front? I got the other side of the street and going out the front would save me time.”

  “Sure, Danny, sure,” and he waved Port into the small hallway. When the two men were next to each other, Powell bent close and said, “Don’t mind if I don’t introduce you to my wife, Dan. When she’s listening to those serial shows there’s no interrupting the old lady,” and then they walked past the living room.

  The woman who sat there was an old lady. She seemed close to twenty years older than Powell, sitting there plump and neat in front of the set. When she heard the men she turned to look into the hall and gave Port a friendly smile. She had a friendly pink face, clear blue eyes, and snow-white hair. She seemed to be wearing a housedress, something wrapped around to be loose and comfortable, but then Powell had Port by the door. The only other thing Port had seen was the nicely shaped glass next to her, half-filled with wine.

  Chapter IV

  AS SOON AS he reached the car Port took off the cap and the leather jacket, threw them into the back seat, and drove off with the vents turned his way so the air blast would cool him. He just drove for a while but then he used the map. He made the rim from South Brandywine to the highway going out of town and clocked himself at twenty minutes.

  He stayed in a roadhouse outside of town, drinking lukewarm coffee and watching the sun go down towards the horizon. He had three cups and with the last one he started to whistle, not loud, not melodious, but mostly a beat.

  When the sun touched the end of the prairie, Port stopped whistling and left.

  As soon as the sun had set the air became cooler, and with the wind springing up Port felt suddenly cold. It was eight, but not dark enough. He stood on Sumner where he could see the length of South Brandywine and by turning a little he could see the parallel alley, the one which passed Powell’s house. But it wasn’t much good this way. If he were in luck the Benz would enter the street, or the alley, from Sumner, and if it were darker Port would even be able to tell when a car swung in from the other end. But if Robert Heering came on foot, Port would know nothing about it.

  The wind, Port noticed, had shifted. It now came straight down Brandywine. It was chilly and had an insistent push, reminding him of the wind on the open prairie. The only thing interrupting the illusion was the cars. One after the other they stopped further down the block until the curb was lined with cars for a long stretch. And the wind carried the voices to Port, snatches of loud talk and forced laughter. Powell’s next-door neighbor was having a party.

  Port could park where the other cars were, sit in the back seat, and no one would pay any attention. It was too dark now to stay at the corner.

  When he parked the car up the block he could see anyone coming down Brandywine, and anyone entering Powell’s house from the street. But he could see nothing of the alley.

  Port felt the Luger under his belt and pulled his jacket into place. There was only one way to handle this. He left the car and walked the few steps down the street. This was the sure way to solve his problem—and the fastest.

  The door of number 912 opened after the first ring and for a moment Herbert Powell squinted out into the dark without seeing clearly. Port thought that the man looked much older than he remembered him. In the unguarded moment when Powell was thinking of nothing but to see better than his eyes allowed, his face fell into old lines with the effort.

  Then he smiled suddenly, and the retired farmer’s face showed again, with the self-satisfied folds around the mouth and the skin tight as if from good health.

  A chair creaked in the living room and, “Who is it, Herbie?”

  “The utility man, Emmy. Remember the one who was here in the daytime? Come in, uh—Dan, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Port and came into the narrow hall. He had his hands in his pockets and smiled apologetically. “I’m really sorry to bust in at a time like this, Mister Powell, and maybe I should have waited ’til morning or called up first anyway…”

  “Who is it, Herbie?” and the chair creaked again.

  Powell shrugged and took Port by the arm. He pulled him to the arch leading into the living room so that Mrs. Powell could see who it was.

  “The utility man, Emmy. See?”

  Emmy Powell looked exactly the way Port remembered her, an impression of pink skin and powdery hair and a housedress on her soft body. Her hair, thought Port, must have turned prematurely. She looked like an elder sister to Powell, but not as old as the white hair and the motherly face might suggest. Besides, Powell had said that
she was his wife.

  “You’re not interrupting a thing,” said Powell. “We were just watching TV.”

  “What a beautiful set,” and Port put admiration into his voice. “It’s clear like a picture.” He laughed at the feeble joke and saw that both Powells liked it fine. Emmy Powell laughed with simple amusement and Herbert Powell laughed like an MC.

  “Great,” he kept saying, shaking his head back and forth. Then he held still and listened. “The water,” and rushed towards the kitchen.

  “Maybe this young man would like a cup, too?” Mrs. Powell called after him.

  “You want some tea, Danny?” Powell yelled from the kitchen.

  “Strong and no sugar,” said Port. Then he sat like that for a while, with the television set humming sounds which might have been drama or commercial and with thin party sounds coming through to them now and then from next door.

  “If you were about to retire,” Port started, but Mrs. Powell shook her head before he was through and said, “No, no, were just sitting around.”

  “Or perhaps you’re expecting company and I shouldn’t take up your time.”

  “No,” she said. “We’re not expecting anyone,” and kept smiling at Port.

  Herbert Powell came back with three cups of tea on a tray and gave one to his wife, one to Port, and kept the last cup himself. The TV kept garbling in dull tones and the only other sound was the light tinkle of the cups. Outside the windows Port could hear the wind. There was a carafe of white wine by the side of Mrs. Powell’s chair and she poured some of it into her cup. Herbert Powell took three lumps of sugar and stirred his tea.

  Port got the eerie feeling that he was in the wrong house. He was spending the blandest, the absolutely nicest of evenings there. The big Luger pinched him under the ribs while Mrs. Powell said, “Ah…” each time she took a sip of her tea. And they all sat sipping while nobody had bothered to ask Port why he was there.

  “You’ll have to do something about the corner screen, Herbie,” said Mrs. Powell. “The way that wind shakes that corner screen…”

  They all listened to the corner screen rattle in the wind. “Oh yes,” he said over his cup. “I forgot.”