The Demolishers by Donald Hamilton

Author:Donald Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

19

We never got to see the offices of the Elliot Manufacturing Company. After keeping me on hold for several minutes, a secretary came back on the line and informed me that Mr. Jerome Elliot, Jr., would meet us for lunch at a place called the Chowder Hut. Noon sharp. She didn’t say if he planned to pick up the bill. If he was a real chip off the old block, he probably wouldn’t; those old New England merchants and manufacturers didn’t get rich buying meals for nosy strangers.

From the gas station phone I could see Sandra giving the Porsche tender loving care, filling the tank, cleaning the windshield and rear window, and even opening the engine compartment back there to check the oil. She was wearing a black silk blouse, and her white slacks fit her nicely—no fashionably baggy bloomers for Mrs. Helm, Jr. I told myself I liked tall blondes and to hell with sturdy little females with shorn black hair. I made a second call, to the contact number, and asked to have the rendezvous covered. At this stage of a mission dealing with folks who got their kicks blowing up restaurants it seemed unwise to keep a lunch date without taking a few precautions.

“All set?” Sandra asked as I returned to the car.

“Check. Linda Anson’s dream man is meeting us for lunch. I wonder why.”

Sandra frowned. “What do you mean?”

I said, “We have no official standing that Elliot knows about, and he must be pretty damn tired of people asking him about last spring’s explosive incident. Why should he give us the time of day? Even if he’s a little curious about a fellow victim and wants to see you, why make a lunch of it? He could have had us in his office, answered our questions politely, and got rid of us in ten minutes.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Sandra was very serious. “It’s like a club, a very exclusive club.”

I said, “I’ve seen things go boom a few times myself, ma’am.”

“It’s different for you, it’s your business,” she said. “You play games with… with death all the time. For us peaceful citizens to get that kind of a look into hell is a very significant experience. It changes everything. I think maybe Jerome Elliot wants to talk to somebody who’s been there, too.” Sandra hesitated. “Let me handle him, Matt. I have a hunch, after looking at all those glamour shots at the Ansons’… Let me ask the questions, please.”

“I never argue with anybody’s hunches. Carry on, as they say in the navy.”

We killed a little time sightseeing; then Sandra looked up the restaurant in the guidebook and navigated us to the address given, but we had a hard time finding a place to leave the car—the parking problem is no closer to being solved in Newport than anywhere else. The Chowder Hut turned out to be a self-consciously gloomy saloon-type establishment with a long, old-fashioned bar and butcher-block tables that would have looked more authentic if they hadn’t been sealed in plastic.

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