Free The Devastators by Donald Hamilton Page B

us, locking the inner one, and pocketing the key.
    Aside from the double door, it seemed like a room that matched the run-down neighborhood. It had a threadbare rug, a battered dresser, a tired old bed, and a single heavy armchair that seemed in better repair than the rest of the furnishings. There was an enameled tin basin, and a water pitcher, on the dresser. The cracked handle of a china thunder mug peeked out from under the bed. The illumination came from an ancient fixture suspended from the ceiling that had once burned gas. It gave surprisingly good light considering its apparent age.
    Vadya had turned to face me. Her glamorous hairdo and glossy furs looked completely out of place in the dismal room. I felt a momentary qualm, but what the hell, she wasn’t really the pretty, plump, fashionable Madame Dumaire. She was just a cheap hired actress masquerading in a fancy-dress outfit paid for, no doubt, with state funds.
    She said, “Matthew, really, I—”
    The nice white kid gloves were a handicap, from her point of view. They not only made her fingers a little less nimble than they might have been, they made it very easy for me to see what her hands were doing. When one disappeared inside the furs, I socked her hard, right in the middle of her expensive suit. She doubled up, gasping. I clipped her judiciously across the neck and she fell to the floor. I mean, you can ask questions all night and get nowhere and prove nothing. If you’re going the interrogation route anyway, you might as well save everybody a lot of time by showing right at the start that you don’t mind bruising your knuckles.
    I picked up the purse she had dropped, and yanked her furs free. She was already beginning to stir. Waiting for her to recover, I looked the stuff over. There was nothing in the purse beyond the usual feminine accessories and some official items confirming her identity as the widowed, wealthy Madame Evelyn Dumaire, citizeness of France. I tossed it on the bed.
    The furs, as I’d expected, proved more rewarding. A cunningly hidden pocket at one end yielded up a tiny automatic pistol. Another secret fold in the satin lining produced a slim little plastic case. Inside was an interesting assortment of pills and powders and the means with which to administer them. It was the other side’s counterpart of our special drug kit, a sample of which reposed in my suitcase at the hotel.
    I remembered that, down in Mexico, Vadya had been a fast girl with a Mickey. At that time she’d happened to be working to our mutual advantage, but it was something to keep in mind. I tossed the things on the bed, and went over and nudged her with my toe.
    “Wake up,” I said. “But do it slowly.” She didn’t move.
    I said, “Cut it out, Vadya. Don’t play possum with me. This is your old friend Matt speaking. Remember Matt, the guy you once carved your initials on with a hot iron? Get up and get into that chair, and be very, very careful doing it.”
    After a moment she moved, and pushed herself to a crouching position, and looked up at me through the hair that had fallen into her eyes. She started to speak, changed her mind, rose, and walked unsteadily to the big chair and sat down. I went to stand over her.
    “I’ve got your gun,” I said. “I’ve got your cute little portable pharmacy. There’s one more thing I’m going to have from you before we commence the singing lesson. Will you give it to me now, or do I have to strip you to find it?”
    “I… I don’t understand.”
    I said, “Cut it out, Vadya. Save it for the peasants. We’re both pros here. You’ve got one somewhere. Hand it over. The kill-me capsule.”
    Her eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps with a hint of apprehension. My taking the trouble, before questioning her, to separate her from the death-pill most agents carry made it seem as if I really meant business. Well, it was supposed to.
    After a moment she drew a long breath and pulled off her left-hand glove and