We had a little rain, but not enough to drive us to cover; and we finished up around two o'clock without having stopped to eat. I spent the ride back to town worrying about the tipping problem, and settled by shaking hands with Lindstrцm, our young guide, and thanking him for all his trouble. Then I slipped the middle-aged driver five crowns, the equivalent of a buck, which didn't seem to excite him tremendously, but he didn't throw it away, either.

"Let's get something to eat uptown," I said to Lou after we'd hauled my stuff up the stairs. "I'm getting kind of tired of the hotel food."

"All right," she said, "just give me a couple of minutes to change my socks and scrape the mud off my shoes."

I went into my room to wash up-also to perform my little switch routine with the day's films. Then I went out to the car. I never like to drive a car that's been standing around, while I'm on a job, without first giving it a quick inspection, and this one had spent the night far from home.

The Volvo was standing in the hotel parking space with nothing but somebody's Triumph motorcycle for company. I walked around the little sedan once and looked inside; it was empty except for a rug or blanket provided by the management, which had slid off the rear seat onto the floor. I decided to take a chance on the doors; generally, if they have the vehicle booby-trapped, they prefer to let you get inside before they blow you up, since the explosion has a better crack at you in a confined space.

Nothing happened when I opened the door. I got the hood open. The little four-cylinder mill looked all right to me. There didn't seem to be any unnecessary wiring around the starter or its switch. I crouched to look underneath for signs that the brakes had been tampered with. There weren't any, but something was dripping out of the differential housing.

I went around to the rear and held my hand under the drip and brought it out again. The stuff wasn't any legitimate lubricant I'd ever met. It was thin and bright red like blood. Still crouching there, frowning, I saw that the source of it wasn't the differential housing at all. The stuff came from farther forward. It was dripping through the floor boards of the car onto the drive-shaft and running back.

Chapter Eighteen

HE WAS LYING on the floor of the car, in the narrow space between front and rear seats, with his arms locked tightly across his stomach. I'll admit I didn't recognize him instantly. Curled up like that, he wasn't showing much of his face, and it had been a long time since I'd known him well. He was dressed in rougher clothes than those he'd worn to visit my Stockholm hotel room, the night Sara Lundgren had been killed. But it was Vance, all right. I'd have thought him dead when I removed the blanket and saw him there, except that blood doesn't usually run with any enthusiasm out of a dead body-once the heart stops pumping, there's nothing to make it run except gravity.

I tried to reach a wrist to check the pulse, but he wouldn't let himself go. I guess he had the usual gut-shot man's conviction that those arms were all that was holding him together. Maybe be was right. Whoever had done the job had certainly got him there more than once.

"Vance," I said. "Vance, this is Eric."

I thought he didn't hear me; then his eyelids fluttered. "Excuse… the hemorrhage," he whispered. "Very embarrassing…"

"Yeah," I said. "Let's get you to a hospital. You can crack wise there."

He shook his head minutely. "No time… drive me where… talk…

I said, "The hell with talk. Just hang on while I find out where to take you in this town."

"Eric," he said in a stronger voice, "I want to report. I've been waiting several hours, hoping you'd come before before…"

"All right," I said. "Report, damn you, but make it fast."

"The fiancй," he whispered. "Named Carisson. Much business on Continent. Raoul Carisson. Little man-"

I said quickly, to save his strength: "Pass the description. I've met the gentleman. What did you find out about Wellington?"

If he had to tell it, the stubborn dope, I could at least hurry him through it. But he didn't seem to hear me. He was off on another tack.

"Under no circumstances take action," he breathed. "This is an order. This is an order. The soft, peaceful sheep in Washington! How can a man defend himself, if he is for~ bidden to kill? He was as slow as molasses in January. Fine old American expression, eh? Did you know I've never been back to the States since the war? Always some new job, some new place. Slow as… I shot him in the shoulder. All I could do, with those orders. Bah! He laughed and gave me this. Under no circumstances… Why not simply order us to commit suicide?"

"Who was it?" I asked. "Who got you, Vance?"

He shook his head. "Nobody. Just a nobody with a gun. Waste no effort on him. Just put another one into Caselius for me, when the time comes." He frowned painfully. "Forgetting something. Oh, Wellington. You wanted to know about Wellington…"

"Never mind Wellington," I said. "We've got to get you to a doctor now."

"No," he breathed. "No. Important. Must tell you about Wellington. Watch out for… Wellington is…" He drew a long breath, and suddenly his eyes opened wide and he smiled a brilliant, bloody smile. "It is too bad, Eric. Now we will never know."

"Know what, Vance?"

"Know if you could… take me…"

Then he was dead, with his wide-open eyes staring past me, seeing nothing, probably, although I can't guarantee that, never having been there. Scratch Vance, a brave man who'd made his last report, not quite complete. It occurred to me I didn't even know his real name. I got up and looked at my hands. They were red. Well, people don't usually bleed any other color.

I heard footsteps in the gravel behind me, and turned to see Lou come running from the hotel.

"What is it, Matt?" she called. "You look so… What's the matter?"

I walked slowly to meet her. She stopped before me, panting from the run. I said, "There's a dead man in the car. We'll have to notify the police."

"A dead man?" she cried. "Who? Matt, your hands-" She tried to pass me, to look, but I put myself in front of her. I said, "I'm protecting you from a horrible sight, Lou, Turn and walk into the hotel ahead of me."

"Matt-"

"Give me an argument, doll, and I'll kick your teeth in. Turn and walk. He was a good man. He doesn't want trash like you near him." She got pale and started to speak and changed her mind. She turned slowly and walked toward the hotel. Walking behind her, I said, "You'll forget I said anything to indicate I knew him."

"He's a perfect stranger to both of us. We have no idea how he came to be in the car. We haven't used the car since yesterday evening. It was left at Direktцr Ridderswhrd's overnight. Don't forget to bear down heavy on the title. It was driven here this morning by Frцken Elin von Hoffman-"

"You want me to say that?"

"Why not?"

"I thought you liked the girl."

"Like? What's like got to do with anything? I like you. Not very much right now, but I'll get over it. But I'll slit your throat at the first opportunity if you say one thing out of line; and if you think that's a figure of speech, honey, just remember what I carry in my pocket and what my business is, and think again."

She said, "Take it easy, Matt."

I said, "Use the names. Ridderswдrd. Von Hoffman. Honest, upright Swedish citizens. Maybe. Anyway~ it'll confuse the issue. And just keep clearly in mind that right now I'd just love to put my gory hands about your pretty neck and strangle hell out of you."

She said, "I didn't kill him, darling."

"No," I said grimly. "You have an alibi, if it happened last night, don't you, sweet?"