Milo March #17

One

One

Up to a point it was like every other morning. I went to my office on Madison Avenue in New York City and opened the mail. It was mostly bills, but somebody did want me to give money to a worthy cause and somebody else wanted me to subscribe to the Wall Street Journal. I made out checks for the bills and threw the other things into the wastebasket.

There wasn’t anything else for me to do at the moment, so I went to the file cabinet and got out a bottle of V.O., poured myself a small drink, and sipped it, wishing the phone would ring. That was my first mistake.

I’m March. Milo March. I have a couple of pieces of paper that say I’m a private detective, but I work as an insurance investigator. At least that’s the way I make my living. Most of my work comes from a single company, although I occasionally work for one of the others.

The phone rang. I thought it might mean a job. I snatched up the receiver and said hello.

“March?” a voice asked.

“Yes,” I said. That was my second mistake.

“I’m calling for your Uncle Bobby,” the man said. “You are to be in the bar of the Holson Hotel on Madison Avenue at eight o’clock tonight.” He hung up.

I replaced the receiver and cursed. I poured myself another drink and stared moodily at it. The phone call meant nothing but trouble.

Once upon a time I had spent several years in the United States Army. I had been assigned to the OSS and then, later, to the CIA. I was still in the Reserves, with the rank of Major, and had been recalled several times to do a special job for the agency. Usually they just recalled me and then ordered me on to a job. They were using a different tactic this time. “Uncle Bobby” was the code name for General Sam Roberts, an important man in the CIA.

As far as I was concerned, the day was shot anyway, so I locked the office and left. I went downtown to my favorite restaurant, the Blue Mill, and worked over some martinis and talked to Alcino until it was lunchtime.

After lunch I went home, which was only a few blocks away, on Perry Street. I checked with my answering service, but there hadn’t been any more calls. So I said to hell with it and took a nap. I’d been up late the night before.

I walked into the bar at the Holson Hotel at exactly eight o’clock. There were only a few people in the bar, and General Roberts was not one of them. I didn’t expect him to be there. He was usually trickier than that. I took a stool at some distance from the other drinkers and ordered a martini. A few minutes later another man entered and sat on the second stool away from me. I glanced at him. He looked like any eager young executive, and he wasn’t paying any attention to me.

I was watching the mirror in back of the bar. I could see behind me through the entrance to the lobby; I figured the General or one of his trained seals might come from that direction. I didn’t see the General, but I did see somebody else who caught my attention. She was tall and blond and beautiful. She walked through the lobby with a swing that must have caused tremors in every earthquake center in the country.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” a voice asked. It was the man who had taken a stool near me.

“I guess so,” I said shortly. I turned back to my martini.

“Merry Sanders,” he said conversationally. “Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six.

Calls herself a model. Price: one hundred dollars a night and, I’m told, worth every cent of it.”

This time I really looked at him, and began to revise my opinion. “Really?” I asked. “Are you her pimp?”

He didn’t like that, but his only reaction was a slight tightening of the muscles around his mouth. “No. Besides, it’s not necessary. She’s already booked for the night.”

“That’s nice. What are you selling? Peeping privileges through the keyhole in the adjoining suite?” I was deliberately being as insulting as I could.

The muscles tightened a little more. “No, but you might be interested to know where she’s going.”

“All right,” I said wearily, “I’ll play your little game. Where is she going?”

“To a suite on the fifth floor,” he said. He was still not looking at me, paying strict attention to his drink and speaking very softly.

“The suite was rented by you three days ago. You asked for the girl for tonight through her regular answering service. She is probably in the bedroom by now, getting ready for you.”

“And it’s not even Christmas,” I said. “Is there an explanation for this, or are you just talking?”

“The girl is in the bedroom waiting for you. Uncle Bobby is in the living room waiting for you. And there are people in and around the hotel who are watching you and have been since you arrived at eight o’clock.”

“I must be getting old,” I said, sighing. “I should have smelled you when you first came in. Any other tasty little bits of information for me?”

“You rented the suite under the name of Peter Miloff three days ago. I believe there is some mail for you at the desk. You won’t need a key to get in. The door to the suite is unlocked. That’s all.”

“Not quite. You didn’t tell me the number of the suite.”

He flushed. “Five twelve.” He turned slightly away from me.

I smiled to myself and finished my martini. Then I walked into the lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

I found the suite without any trouble. I had known the General for a long time and was familiar with the way he liked to set up little traps for his men, just to be sure they were on their toes. I took my g*n from its shoulder holster and gently tried the doorknob. As soon as I knew it would open, I moved into the room fast.

General Roberts was sitting in a chair, a drink in his left hand and a g*n in his right. But the g*n was pointed in the wrong direction. He started to lift it, then realized he was too late.

I shut the door behind me. “Just wanted to see if you were on your toes, sir,” I said.

He reddened. “I see that time has not made you any more respectful,” he growled. “All right. Put it away. And you’d better go tell the young lady in the next room that you have some business to take care of before you can see her. She’s liable to get curious hearing voices in here.”

I put the g*n away and went to what was obviously the bedroom door. I tapped on it gently and then opened it. She had already changed into something soft and transparent. I had to admit that she was quite a vision.

“Hi, honey,” I said.

“Hi,” she said. “You mean you’re my customer?”

“It looks like it.”

“You mean I get lucky for once.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “I have to talk some business in the next room for a few minutes. Make yourself at home. If you want anything from room service, order it and sign my name.”

“Champagne?” she asked hopefully.

“Anything you want, baby. But if you get it, you’d better throw on a robe so the waiter doesn’t have a heart attack.”

She laughed, and I went back to the other room.

The General looked at me sourly and waved to a small bar. “We ordered the things that you seem to like.”

“How kind of you,” I said. I went over and looked. There was gin and vermouth and V.O. I mixed myself a martini and went back to sit across from him.

“Things have certainly changed,” I said. “It used to be that I was ordered back into uniform when you wanted something and then given orders. Now, suddenly, I have a hotel suite, a lot of free booze, and a hundred-dollar w***e. What would the taxpayers say?”

He cleared his throat nervously. “This is a special situation,” he said. “I feel that it is safer for you if you are not back in uniform for this assignment. I am therefore asking you to volunteer. If you refuse, I will then have no choice but to have you recalled to active duty.”

“Let’s hear about it,” I said. “I gather that was your trained seal down in the bar?”

“He is one of my men, yes.”

“He said something about me being watched since I arrived at the hotel. Who’s doing the watching?”

“Soviet personnel.”

“Why?”

“It is slightly complicated,” he said. “A few months ago an important Russian trade official came to America. Among other things, he attended a trade showing of coin vending machines. The show was held in Chicago. During it, he had several meetings with one of the officers of a firm known as the Brotherhood Coin Vending Company. He was very interested in all types of vending machines. Sometime after he returned to the Soviet Union, he requested the Brotherhood company to recommend a vending machine specialist who might be hired by the Russian government for a period of six months, subject to the approval of the State Department here.”

“Who owns the vending machine company in Chicago?”

“The Syndicate.”

“I thought maybe that’s what that ‘brotherhood’ jazz meant. So what did they do about it?”

“They recommended a specialist. His name is Peter Miloff.”

I started to ask a question, then stopped. I suddenly remembered what the man downstairs had said. He’d mentioned that I had rented this suite three days ago, and that it was rented in the name of Peter Miloff.

“As if I didn’t know,” I said casually, “who is Peter Miloff?”

He gave me what passed for a smile in the upper ranks. “You are, my dear Milo.”

“Isn’t that sweet? Does the Syndicate know who Peter Miloff is?”

“Only that he is someone that we want sent to Russia.”

“And they agreed just like that? Since when did you get so chummy with the Syndicate?”

“It’s really very simple. First, they like to think of themselves as patriotic Americans when it comes to international politics. It’s very silly, although they did make one important contribution to the invasion of Europe during the last war.”

I gave a simple, four-letter word summation of my opinion of that.

“Secondly,” he continued, “we are in a position to put certain pressures on an individual group such as this that could not be used by the regular law enforcement agencies. The Syndicate notified another Federal agency when they were first approached by the Russians. This information was passed along to us through channels.”

“How else?”

He flushed. “We talked to them, and they were glad to suggest you as the specialist. As it now stands, you’ve been working for them for slightly more than two years at a very good salary. Their records will bear this out. There are also records proving that you have lived in one apartment in Chicago for the same period of time. We have provided you with complete identification and a history covering your entire life. You will find all of it in a file in the dresser drawer. I suggest that you memorize it.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble without knowing whether I’ll do the job for you or not.”

“You’ll do it,” he said grimly, “one way or the other.”

“Charm was always one of your weak spots, General,” I told him. “Where did you dig up this name Peter Miloff for me?”

“Well, Miloff is close enough to your real first name, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble responding to it from the beginning. And according to your records, you are a third-generation American of Russian ancestry. This will help explain your familiarity with the language.”

“What happens if the Russians don’t go for this after you’ve spent so much time on it?”

“They already have gone for it. They have made their request to the State Department, and I have good reason to believe that one of your two letters down at the desk is also from the Russians. It was delivered this afternoon by hand by a Russian. The other letter contains your paycheck from the Brotherhood company.”

“What do I do with that?”

“Spend it. We’ve given them the money. They’re not that patriotic.”

“Well,” I said, “it seems to leave only one small question. I realize that it’s unimportant, but I do feel compelled to ask it.”

“What?”

“What do we do about the fact that the only thing I know about a coin vending machine is that you put coins into it, then push buttons or pull levers, and something comes out of it or two lemons show up and you shrug. I doubt if that will satisfy even the most backward Russian.”

“That’s no problem,” he said airily. “A Mr. Benotti is the owner of the Brotherhood company. You might call him wealthy. He owns what he calls a camp on a lake in Upstate New York, but I understand it has all the comforts of home. It is also remote and boasts a very large collection of vending machines. You are going to spend a two-week vacation there before going on your Russian trip.”

“That’s a nice touch,” I said. “The trusted and valuable associate who gets the use of the family castle. Do I get a well-deserved rest on this vacation?”

“You do not. You will go through a crash program on the subject of vending machines. By the end of the two weeks you should be able to give the Russians sound advice on how to build and operate machines which will dispense food, hot tea, and various small articles that the citizens might wish to purchase without lining up in front of a store.”

“What about a nice cup of vodka?”

He ignored me. “You will also be briefed on your assignment in Russia. The Russians will probably follow you to the camp and maintain a watch on it while you are there. Mr. Benotti’s chauffeur will be in residence for your convenience and lives in an apartment over the garage. He is also the expert who will instruct you about vending machines. He has been carefully checked out. Some of our personnel will already be in the house when you arrive, and will, naturally, stay out of sight while you are there.”

“And when do I take this vacation?”

“In four or five days, depending somewhat on the results of your meeting with the Russian officials. You will tell them that you came here on business for the company and that your vacation was already planned. You intend to take it before going on to anything else. You’ll go to your apartment in Chicago from here, then from there back to New York to the camp. You will undoubtedly be followed.”

“Won’t they check on the Chicago apartment?”

“I’m sure they will, but it will check out. Mr. Benotti also owns that building.”

“Strange bedfellows,” I murmured. “Do the Russians know who they’re dealing with?”

“I’m sure they do. But they’re practical fellows, and when they want help, they want the best.”

“And does your Mr. Benotti know who this Peter Miloff is?”

“You mean does he know you’re Milo March? No.”

“General,” I said, “you always manage to put me in such interesting situations. My erstwhile employer belongs to a group who would love to get Milo March. They are loaning me out to a group of people who would love to get Milo March.”

“My boy, I have confidence in you.”

“I’ll try to remember that when they shoot me,” I said. “What do I do, now that I’m going to be followed, about getting any of my clothes out of my real apartment?”

“No problem. We naturally know your size and your taste in clothes. You will find quite a bit of clothing here and two fine pieces of luggage. You will find more in the apartment in Chicago.” He squinted at me. “I see you’re carrying a g*n. I suggest that you give it to me to keep until you return from Russia. You’ll find a very good g*n in the dresser. It’s registered to Peter Miloff in Chicago and there’s a permit for it. I also suggest that you give me all of your personal papers and substitute the ones that are here.”

I took out the g*n and gave it to him. Then I removed everything that identified me as Milo March and handed these over. I felt as if I were walking n***d on the street. He put everything away in a briefcase.

“I guess,” he said, “that’s about it for now. We’ll give you the rest at the camp. As soon as you know when you will go to the camp, phone the special number. Benotti’s man will pick you up at the apartment. In the left-hand drawer of the dresser you will find the key to this suite and the key to your Chicago apartment, plus the address of that apartment, which is on your identification papers. If you want anything from your own place, tell us when you call the special number, and we’ll see that those things are transferred to your Chicago apartment while you’re at the camp.”

“I haven’t agreed to do it yet,” I said.

His eyebrows went up. “You mean I have to have you recalled to active duty, Major?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, “but I just don’t like to be taken for granted. I may be a floozy, but I’m my own floozy. Let us keep that clearly in mind, General.”

He cleared his throat. “Just wanted the issue to be clear. Well, I’d better be going.”

“Just one more thing, General,” I said gently. “You haven’t told me what you expect me to do in Russia, besides telling them how to build a machine that will spit out a doughnut if someone deposits a kopeck.”

“Only two things,” he said heavily. “One of our agents, James Hartwell, vanished in Russia a little more than two months ago. We want you to find out if he’s alive and where he is. You don’t have to rescue him. With the new relationship between the two countries, we can take the necessary steps once we know where he is.”

“And?”

“Do you remember the name of Richard Sorge?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was the head of the Russian Fourth Bureau during World War II. He was arrested in Japan and executed there.”

He nodded. “We have reason to believe that he was never executed, but that he’s still alive and still the head of the Fourth Bureau. If so, he is the most dangerous man in the country, even though he would now be in his seventies. Since we know quite a bit about him, it would be a big help if we knew he was still alive and operating. We want you to check this out.”

I looked at him. “If he is still alive, are you aware that he will be hidden somewhere in the Kremlin? That he will be so carefully concealed that it would take a hundred super-bloodhounds to sniff him out? And that it will be practically impossible for an industrial consultant to get within shouting distance of him?”

“Are you quite finished, Major?”

“Then,” he said, “I can only tell you that checking out Sorge has top priority. It is an assignment.”