Free Matt Helm--The Interlopers by Donald Hamilton Page B

startled and embarrassed manner.
    “Really, Mr. Stottman!” Libby said indignantly.
    “I’m sorry. I forgot my hat.” Stottman looked at us bleakly for a moment. What he’d hoped to catch us doing, instead of what we’d been doing, I couldn’t imagine and probably he couldn’t either. He’d just felt obliged to give it a try. Behind him, in the hallway, I saw the brown-faced man called Pete. “My apologies,” Stottman said, backing out of the room once more.
    After he’d gone, I checked the door to make sure that, this time, the lock was set and the latch had caught. I turned to face Libby Meredith.
    “Now what?” I asked.
    Then I saw that she was calmly unbuttoning her blouse. She looked amused at my expression. “It’s what they expect, isn’t it?” she murmured. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would we?”
    We didn’t.

10
    I awoke to find myself lying in a big motel bed without any clothes on, with a naked woman for company. Morally speaking, it was no doubt very shocking, but we don’t do much moral speaking in this line of work. I was more concerned with the professional aspects of the situation.
    Ungrateful and unappreciative though it might seem, after the pleasant night we’d just spent together, I couldn’t help wondering just what the glamorous Miss Meredith really wanted from me. I mean, it hadn’t been essential for her to go to bed with me as part of the act—in fact it hadn’t been necessary at all—and I’ve long since given up the notion that I’m so irresistible that any woman who meets me just naturally grabs at any excuse to get out of her clothes and into my arms. I’ve found it much safer to assume that ladies who act in this uninhibited manner probably have nasty, ulterior motives for their behavior.
    “What’s your name, darling?” Libby Meredith’s voice interrupted my wandering, early-morning thoughts. “And I don’t mean Grant Nystrom.”
    I turned my head to look at her. She was being very casual about security. I certainly don’t make a fetish of it myself, but I am aware that there are such things as electronic eavesdropping gadgets that can easily be installed in motel rooms. She read my thoughts and laughed at me.
    “Relax, darling. I’m a very important person in the organization. They still trust me implicitly; they don’t suspect a thing. I’m sure they wouldn’t bother to put a microphone in my room.”
    It was a naive little speech for anyone as deeply involved with a lot of unpleasant people as she seemed to be.
    I said, “If by organization you mean this Russian west coast espionage outfit we’re trying to trip up, this is the first I’ve heard of any Communist group having implicit faith in any of its members, particularly amateur help playing at intrigue just for kicks.”
    I was trying it for size. Apparently it fit well enough, or she wanted me to think it did, because she didn’t get very mad. A truly dedicated idealist, whether radical or reactionary, will blow his stack violently if you accuse him of being a thrill-seeking political amateur. Miss Meredith merely narrowed her eyes slightly.
    “Don’t be obnoxious, darling. I helped you out of a lot of trouble last night. You might at least be grateful enough to be polite.”
    “Sorry, ma’am,” I said. “I always take off my manners with my pants. And I’m grateful enough for the trouble you helped me out of, but that doesn’t keep me from wondering about the trouble you’re helping me into.” I reached out thoughtfully and drew a finger across her breast, incompletely covered by the sheet. “I mean, Miss Meredith, it was a lovely evening. Now what am I expected to do to pay for it?”
    Her eyes remained narrow a moment longer; then she laughed softly. “I think I’m going to like you,” she murmured. “Grant was sweet but he wasn’t very bright. A woman gets bored with a man who has implicit faith in her. Poor Grant.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Poor Grant. Did