Death Is My Comrade by Stephen Marlowe Page B

want to be there when Mr. Allen makes his pickup.”
    Jack said, angrily: “What’s the matter with you? That’s exactly what you shouldn’t do. The man making the pickup will probably have to call in to—”
    â€œYou’re a nice guy, Jack,” I said. “But let me handle this, will you? And we’ve got a job for you.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Jack brightened.
    â€œStay here. They’re probably going to call back to check on the twins’ godfather. That’s you. And the name, if they ask, is Drum.”
    â€œSure, but what difference could the name possibly make? They don’t know you.”
    I remembered Laschenko outside Lucienne Duhamel’s summer place last night. Remembered how scared Ilya had been. Suppose Laschenko was the man behind the kidnaping? He wouldn’t be about to dirty his own hands with it, but he could be pulling the strings. The kidnapers might know my name, and my line of work. If they did, their believing I was on ice might help us.
    I told Jack that, then asked Marianne: “Ready?”
    â€œI’m so scared I can hardly breathe. But I’m—ready.”
    Dr. Nickerson said: “See here, I don’t approve of my patient—”
    â€œGot any better ideas?” Tension had tightened the muscles of my calves. The hardest thing was just standing still, just waiting.
    Dr. Nickerson had no better ideas. He glared at me. Then he stuck his hand out and I shook it. “She is a very brave woman, Mr. Drum,” he said. “Don’t let her down.”
    Less than a minute later Marianne and I entered the garage through the hall door. After I got in back on the floor of the Ford, Marianne opened the garage door. Thirty seconds after that we had backed out and were on our way.

Chapter Eight
    A s she drove, Marianne told me she hadn’t seen anyone loitering outside the house. Several cars had been parked on the street, though, and she hadn’t been able to identify all of them as belonging to her neighbors. So far as she knew, we weren’t being followed. But that was the part that worried me; a good tail would be hard to spot, and Marianne was no pro.
    â€œDo I just drive home after delivering the letter?” she asked me.
    â€œRight home, exactly the way they told you.”
    â€œThen what?”
    Then, I thought, she waits while the heavy-footed seconds drag by, while the leaden minutes build. But I said: “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
    We drove for ten minutes. It was still light out, and hot.
    â€œLafayette Park,” Marianne said. “We’re almost there.”
    We turned right, then left a moment later. East Executive Avenue, I thought, and Treasury Place. I wished I could see. We were close.
    The car stopped.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I asked.
    â€œNothing. Red light.”
    I asked quickly: “Where are we?”
    â€œ14th Street corner. Near the Willard Hotel.”
    Two blocks from the post office, which was on 12th and Pennsylvania. It might be my best chance.
    â€œInside lane?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s ahead of you?”
    â€œA cab.”
    â€œWith a fare?”
    â€œEmpty.”
    â€œBehind you?”
    â€œA bus. Chartered, it says.”
    I sat up on the floor. The rear door would open on a space between two parked cars.
    Marianne knew then what I had in mind. Her breath caught on three words: “The light’s changing.”
    â€œI’m going. Do what they told you to. All the way.”
    I opened the door, jumped out in a crouch, shut the door and was on the sidewalk less than a minute after I’d first touched the handle. It had all been too quick for Marianne. She stalled the car putting it into first. The starter ground and ground, then the engine caught and the Ford lurched away. When it crossed 14th Street I started walking in the same direction.
    The Post Office Department and the