The Infiltrators by Donald Hamilton Page B

he wasn’t as young as his partner or as young as he looked; those handsome blond hunks of beef are deceptive. He could have encountered Madeleine Rustin Ellershaw at the time of her arrest and trial. He could have a personal reason for the vicious satisfaction he obviously felt at seeing what the prison years had made of the proud and lovely young woman he’d known.
    I asked softly, “What’s your name?”
    He hesitated, and said, “Dellenbach. Jim Dellenbach.”
    “Well, I’m very glad you said all that, Jim Dellenbach,” I said. “You can’t imagine how glad I am. Here I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to hurt you, a nice young fellow government employee like you. But now I’m just wishing you’d give me an excuse, and it won’t have to be much of an excuse. Ill ask you again: the name of the heavyset dark man with Bennett?”
    He closed his lips stubbornly and stared at me, silent. I sighed and looked down at the arsenal I was holding. I’d already pocketed the trick hypo. Now I stuck my own weapon back into its waistband-holster. I dropped the unconscious agent’s revolver into my jacket pocket. That left me holding Dellenbach’s gun, a rather foolish firearm: a hefty .357 Magnum with a two-inch barrel. Since the .357 cartridge requires a reasonable barrel length in which to develop its impressive power—two inches isn’t nearly enough to burn all that powder efficiently—the guy was putting up with the ferocious recoil and muzzle blast to get little better than ordinary .38 Special ballistics. Well, maybe he was one of those who get a charge out of creating a lot of noise and confusion regardless of results. I shook my head mournfully, and looked at him for a moment longer, and slammed his weapon backhand across his face, raking him with the front sight from ear to nose. He reeled back against the washbowl, clapping both hands to the injury.
    I said gently, “The question was: What is the name of the man with Mr. Bennett?”
    Dellenbach hesitated, his eyes wide and shocked above his bloody fingers. I raised the weapon to strike again. He flinched away and shook his head quickly, defensively.
    “Burdette.” His voice was muffled. “Phil Burdette.”
    “That’s right, Burdette, how could I forget?” I drew a long breath, watching him. “Well, we seem to be establishing a useful relationship, Mr. Dellenbach, but wasn’t that a foolish way to earn yourself a lifetime scar? I hope it’s clear to you that I’m perfectly happy to chop you to bloody ribbons, regardless of what exquisitely important government organization you happen to work for. You see, the government organization I work for thinks it’s pretty important, too, and it doesn’t appreciate interference by other agencies. Do you remember one of your people named Lawson?”
    “Lawson was murdered by a bunch of terrorists in Miami a couple of years ago—”
    I said, “And then there was the one about Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf; and I’m sure you believe that one, too. Ask Burdette how Lawson really died. He was there; he knows. Lawson made the mistake of trying to kill me; never mind why. I’m trying to keep you from making the same mistake. Remember, you and your friends came charging after me with drawn guns; I didn’t start this. Now grab some of those paper towels and mop yourself off and try to check the bleeding a bit. Then well go out of here and visit the
lady’s
room, and you’ll say whatever needs to be said to get the door open. I’ll be holding your own weapon aimed at your back with the hammer cocked…”
    “For God’s sake, man!” he blurted. “That single action trigger pull is only two pounds!”
    “Then you’ll have to be very careful not to startle me, won’t you, Mr. Dellenbach?” I said. “Now grab a wad of clean towels and hold it to your face and let’s go.”
    A middle-aged couple in the coffee shop stared at us curiously as we went out, but I had the gun hidden from them and