The Silencers

"That's the guy, Mr. Peyton," he said. "That's the pickup he was driving. He was coming along the street real slow with his head out the window like he was looking for something."

"When was this?"

"Oh, say fifteen-twenty minutes ago. When I saw him come by again from a different direction, and stop, I figured I'd better let you know."

The younger man never took his colorless eyes from me. They weren't gray, they weren't blue, and they certainly weren't green or brown. They must have had some kind of pigmentation, since they weren't white, either, but I couldn't put a name to it. They were the eyes of a man who'd always think he was right, no matter how wrong he might be.

"Well," he said, "who are you and what have you got to say for yourself?"

Buddy McKe

It made me feel a little guilty to have him come to my defense like that, since-although he didn't know it-I was on Uncle Sam's payroll, too.

The man called Peyton turned slowly to face him. "Mr. McKe

"All right, all right," Buddy said, "so who's communicating? Can't I say hello to an old friend I see on the street?"

He winked at me. We were newspapermen together, disrespectfully bamboozling the pompous forces of law, order and security, as always, for the sake of the picture and the story-and maybe, incidentally, an ancient principle known as the freedom of the press.

"You know this man?" Peyton demanded.

"Sure, I'm just telling you-"

"How long have you know him? When was the last time you were in touch with him?"

"Why, hell, it was… "Buddy thought back and seemed shocked at the passage of time. "Jeez, he was just a long, ski

"And you haven't seen him since or communicated with him in any way? And today you just happen to see him driving along the street… You say he's a photographer? That's very convenient, isn't it, your coming across a photographer friend at just this time? You may be sure the coincidence will be investigated, Mr. McKe

Buddy said, "I don't like your insinuations. I didn't send for-"

"In that case," Peyton said coldly, "since you haven't heard from this man in-what is it?-fifteen or twenty years, you're hardly in a position to vouch for him, are you? I think you'd better leave us. I'll talk to you later."

Buddy hesitated, shrugged and gave a mock salute. "So long, Flash. Remember the motto of the working press:

Illegitimati non carborundum. That means don't let the bastards grind you down."

He strolled away. Peyton watched him go, and I knew that if anything could happen to Buddy in the way of clearance or censorship troubles, it would. Well, I'd got other men into worse difficulties-LeBaron for one- but I was sorry just the same. On the other hand, while he'd given me some interesting things to think about, Buddy hadn't exactly helped me out, either.

Peyton started to turn back to me, and I braced myself for the coming inquisition, but the top-brass argument by the cars was just breaking up, and he swung his frown in that direction.

The dark-haired man, Naldi, was saying, "Doctor, I respectfully submit that I know these mountain and desert roads better than you do, having explored them quite thoroughly in all kinds of weather-"

"And I say, Doctor," Re

"Doctor-"

"There will be no further postponement," Re

The dark-haired man glared at him and flung away, coming towards us briefly so that I could see his face, quite swarthy, with rather small rimless glasses perched on a rather large bony nose. He snatched out a key and started to unlock the door of one of the motel units, and for a moment I caught a view of the back of his head from an angle-the same angle from which I had once viewed the head of a man with black hair through the smoky air of the Club Chihuahua while a girl in a yellow satin dress came teasingly along the edge of the stage.

Then he was gone. I suppose it was my duty to tell Peyton, who was watching the white-haired figure of Dr. Re

"I said, "That was Henry Naldi, wasn't it? The black haired guy?"

Peyton wheeled to face me. "That was Doctor Alexander Naldi-" He checked himself abruptly.

I gri

He snatched the notebook from me. It was too bad. He'd put his hand on me once, but I was willing to overlook that, reluctantly. But he wasn't acting at all like a man who wanted help with his little problems, and his problems weren't my problems… Having my notebook, he took me by the arm. Considering the cultivated way he was dressed, he had a very rude way of dealing with people. It was too bad.

"This way, you," he said grimly. "I have some questions for you… Bronkovic, take a look through that vehicle."

"Yes, sir," the big man said. "What about the lady?"

"The lady?"

It must have been a blow to Gail; she wasn't used to being overlooked. That he hadn't even noticed her face at the cab window showed the dedicated nature of Mr. Peyton; he'd been too busy glowering at the rest of us. He looked now and wasn't particularly impressed. His expression said no pretty face would ever deflect him from his duty by a fraction of a degree.

He started to speak. Then he hesitated, and looked again, and something changed in his pale eyes. He surveyed the truck briefly, as if he hadn't really seen it before. He glanced at the California license plate. He glanced at me. After a moment, he cleared his throat and released my arm.

"On second thought," he said, "on second thought, maybe I've been a little hasty."

For him, that was like an ordinary person's confessing to killing his mother with a stolen axe. I tried not to look surprised, but succeeded only fairly well.

"Yes," Peyton said thoughtfully, "a little hasty. As Mr. McKe

He paused, surveyed us briefly as if committing us to memory, made a gesture towards raising his snappy little hat to Gail and stalked away. Bronkovic, looking puzzled, followed. I walked around the truck and got in and drove away, not fast, but as fast as I could without looking too much like a man with a guilty conscience.

"Well!" Gail said. "What was that? Why did he let us go?"