Authors: Louis Trimble
T
HE BIG
Mercedes rolled across the dark sweep of desert toward the harsh, barren mountains hiding Lozano. We had already crossed a range of low hills and then the irrigated flat where the redhead had hauled Turk’s body. Now only the mountains lay between us and the possibility of the Mexican police waiting patiently in the hot darkness.
The redhead was in a scratchy mood. I had taken the rum bottle away after she had drunk a pint by five o’clock. After that she just sat in the river and sulked. Now she was working off nervous energy by yakking at me.
She said, “I don’t like this crazy idea of going to the motel.”
I said, “I needed some place to get a telephone call. And it just might be that Art is holed up there waiting to make the meeting.”
“I don’t think Art’s holed up anywhere,” the redhead said savagely. She took the first of the flat, hard mountain curves without braking. The Mercedes didn’t even quiver. “I don’t even think he’s alive.”
I said, “We’ll know soon enough. It’s almost nine now.”
She managed to pick up speed on the straight stretches between the curves. She had to brake as we hit a wild hairpin curve near the crest of the grade. The moon picked that minute to come out. It was almost full and it turned the river three hundred feet down on my right into a shimmering strip of silver.
We went over the hump. I looked down at the lights of Lozano in the distance. I wondered which of them burned in Carlotta’s
casa de asignación
. I wondered if Art Ditmer was somewhere hiding from them. And I wondered if a murderer was waiting patiently for him to move out into them and become a target.
I said, “Hurry it up, can’t you?”
“Bonita won’t call until nine, so keep your pants on,” the redhead snarled.
I said, “What are you making jealous noises about? It was too hot out there to do anything but sit in the river.”
“Jealous, hell!” she exploded. “I don’t trust a woman with a voice like hers. I’m just afraid she’s made a sucker out of you—and maybe out of Art too.”
I said, “I can answer that one better after she phones.”
The redhead gunned the Mercedes viciously down the gravel road. She slowed down as we reached the dark edge of the town limits. In a few blocks we came into the street that ran in front of the motel.
I said, “Find a dark hole to hide this crate in. We’ve been lucky so far. But once Farley figures we crossed the border, the whole area will be swarming with Mexican cops.”
A block and a half from the motel the redhead made a sudden right turn and then a sharp left. She slid the Mercedes into a narrow slot between a crumbling adobe wall and the side of a low concrete building. Thick, hot darkness swallowed us. It would take more than a cop’s eyes to spot the magenta monster in here.
The redhead relented enough to slip her hand in mine as we hiked toward the motel. I couldn’t see a sign of anyone about. Nothing that looked like a police car was parked on the street.
I paused by the cactus with the two bullet gouges in it. Only a few of the motel windows showed light. Number 7 was totally dark. Its carport was empty.
I stopped. “Give me the door key,” I whispered.
Her hand jittered as she dug in her purse. She put the key in my hand. I pushed her behind me and started forward again. I tried the doorknob first. It wouldn’t turn. I slipped the key in the lock and snapped the tumblers back. The knob turned now. I pushed the door open softly.
Cool air gushed out at us. The redhead stopped in the doorway and sniffed sharply. “Smoke,” she said worriedly. “Expensive cigar smoke.”
Art Ditmer smoked cigars, but not expensive ones. I whispered into the blackness, “Art?”
My voice echoed tightly back. I drew the redhead into the room and kicked the door shut. My hand scraped along the wall, found the light switch.
The overheads came on blindingly. The redhead had a hand on my arm. Her nails dug convulsively into my skin. Her voice choked in her throat. “Jojo!”
I saw him too—Rod Gorman, lying on the couch, sprawled on his back. He was bare to the waist. The ornate handle of a carving knife stuck out of his stomach just above his belt-line.
I moved to the couch and stared down at the body. The redhead clung to me and came reluctantly along. “Love me and die,” she whispered. “That makes two of Bonita’s lovers to die a violent death, Jojo. Or three if you can count her husband.”
I didn’t say anything. Her fingers convulsed her nails into my arm again. “Jojo, this afternoon—did you and she—”
“I wouldn’t answer that question even if you had a right to ask it,” I interrupted angrily.
She walked quietly away. I stared down at Gorman’s face. He knew he was going to die, I thought. He couldn’t have lived long after the knife went into him, but he had lived long enough to feel the pain.
The redhead said suddenly, “Cover him, Jojo, please. I can’t stand to stay here and look at another corpse.”
I pulled the spread off the bed and started to drape it over Gorman’s body. My eyes lingered on the handle of the knife. A circuit in my memory bank made connections. Rich cigar smoke and the ornately carved knife handle came together meaningfully.
I pulled the spread over Gorman’s face. I said, “Healy smokes cigars that smell like this smoke.”
The redhead was sitting on the bed, looking at her shoetips. She lifted her head as I walked toward her. She said in a low, miserable tone, “I’m sorry, Jojo. I’m not jealous. I’m just jittery. And maybe a little superstitious,” she said with a feeble attempt to smile.
I sat beside her and stroked her back. Nothing moved for a long time but my fingertips.
By nine-thirty I began to think Bonita wasn’t going to call. Then the telephone rang shrilly, making us both start. I leaned over and picked up the receiver. Bonita said, “Is it all right? Can you talk?”
I said, “Did something go wrong? It’s nine-thirty.”
She said bitterly, “Chester and Rod and Toby had their dinners sent in so they could work late. They didn’t leave until eight o’clock. I had to go with them to make it look good. I didn’t get back until nearly nine. I’ve been searching ever since.
I said, “You found what I expected?”
Her voice sounded as if someone had slapped her. “I found the bug, just as you said. The mike was behind a watercolor on my wall. But the receiver wasn’t where you said it would be. It wasn’t in Rod’s office at all. It was in Chester’s. It was bolted up under the top of his desk inside the center drawer.”
I said, “Your office had to be bugged. There was no other way to explain other people knowing your plans for the original meeting with Art Ditmer. Or knowing you sent Turk to Tucson to check for Art’s report.” I added bitterly, “Or hearing Turk identify Art Ditmer to you as a detective.”
I moved my head a little. The redhead was leaning against me so she could hear too. Her braid tickled my cheek. I was reminded of something.
I said, “One more question. When Turk called you from Tucson, did he mention having checked Miss Lucas’ office?”
“He couldn’t have,” she said. “I remember when he called from Tucson that I told him to check her office. I had been thinking about an insurance investigation—guilty conscience, I suppose.”
I said, “Has Farley bothered you?”
She said, “He tried, but I played innocent. He went away mad.”
I said, “Just make sure he doesn’t tail you to Carlotta’s.”
She said huskily, “Gate four at ten. Good-bye, Joe.”
The phone clicked down. The redhead said with mock throatiness, “Good-bye, Joe. My God, I never heard so much bedroom in so few words.”
I ignored that. I had something else on my mind. I said, “Why hasn’t the murderer tipped off the cops that we’re here? Or that it’s Art’s cabin? It would be a perfect way to really frame us.”
The redhead just looked at me. I said, “I think he is going to tip the cops. But he’s going to wait until just before ten. That way, everything will be over at Carlotta’s before we could talk the law into going there.”
The redhead looked at her watch. “It’s eighteen to ten now,” she said.
I said, “And time to leave before the cops walk in and find us sitting up with a corpse.”
I
DROVE
the Mercedes through dark side streets. The redhead took a map of Lozano from the glove compartment. She studied it under the dashlight and located Número 13, Avenida Río Seco. She told me which direction to go.
I said, “I’ve got some ideas jelling. See if you can tear them apart.”
I turned a corner and drifted down a narrow, rough street. I said, “Bonita laid herself open by getting into financial hot water. A close examination of Healy’s other set of books will probably show that he decided at that time that he was going to take over.”
I took the ledger sheets I had lifted from Healy’s drawer and handed them to her. She bent forward, holding them under the dashlight.
I said, “When Bonita dropped Gorman and took up with Thorne, Healy saw his chance to take control and blame it on someone else. He checked out Bonita’s financial shenanigans and then hired that Box 8 address in Tucson so he could mail threats to her. And he set up Carlotta’s as a place to receive forwarded mail. Don’t forget that she’s a close friend of his. So who would be suspicious?”
The redhead said without looking up, “How does that fit in with Art’s disappearing and then calling Bonita?”
I said, “I think Healy heard Thorne identify Art to Bonita. So he set his trap and sprung it. He wanted Art so he could find out just how much Art had learned. You know what kind of a fight Art would put up. My guess is he’s been too badly hurt to get loose until today.”
She said, “Healy’s guilt still doesn’t explain why Toby came to you the other night.”
I turned another corner and worked closer to Carlotta’s. I said, “I think she found out what her uncle was up to and went ahead on her own to protect him. Remember, she hated Bonita and Gorman, and she went to a lot of sweat to make me believe they were together in the deal.”
The redhead started on the second ledger sheet. “I still don’t see why Healy had to commit murder.”
I said, “I think Healy followed Turk to Tucson after he learned through the bug why Turk was going there.” I stopped and did some more thinking. A quick, nervous fist clamped down on my stomach. I shrugged it away. There was too much evidence against Healy for me to reject my theory now.
I said, “Healy is the one who messed up my office and doped my liquor. He followed Thorne back here. Thorne had gotten Art’s cover name and Lozano address from the taped report in your office. He came here to talk to Art. Healy made Thorne tell what he had heard from the tape, then he killed him.”
I took another corner. “It was a perfect chance to protect himself, scare Bonita, and explain Art’s disappearance if anyone wondered about it.”
The redhead looked at the third ledger sheet. I said, “Tonight I think Gorman put the heat on Healy. He may have found the bug or learned some other way. He saw a chance to revenge himself on Bonita and make a little on the side. He offered to let Healy go—for a price. And got himself killed.”
She handed back the ledger sheets. “These fit right in with your theory. They show some of the juggling Healy’s been doing with company reserve and sinking funds. He’s used the money to buy back Bonita’s stock and the notes on her equipment. Now he owns everything she hocked.”
I said, “That’s it then. Let’s go spring his own trap back on him.”
I turned out the lights before swinging onto the Avenida Río Seco. Street numbers told me Carlotta’s place was in the next block. I turned left at the nearest corner. I pulled the Mercedes up to the curb with its nose at the edge of gaping blackness between two high adobe walls.
I said, “Here’s the alley. Sit tight until I signal you.” I leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. My watch read three minutes to ten. “For luck,” I told her.
She said, “You’ll need more luck than you’ll get from a peck like that.” She reached for me. Her mouth found mine in the darkness. The violence of her kiss startled me.
“Vaya con díos,”
she whispered and pushed me roughly away.
I left the car and started up the alley. Bonita had said the fourth gate in the adobe wall. I couldn’t see any gates. I could only feel them. No moonlight filtered down into the hot, still darkness. I had to feel the change from adobe to wood by running my fingers along the rough wall.
Dust squirted up under my feet and deadened my footsteps. The hot air grew thicker and more oppressive. A small animal scurried ahead of me. I counted three gates and stopped.
I squinted forward. I thought I could see a car’s dark bulk. I started walking again.
I had seen a car. I slapped against its rear bumper. It was Bonita’s Caddy. The convertible top was up.
I walked to the driver’s door. The front seat was empty, but I could make out dark bulk in the back. I whispered softly, “Bonita?”
A soft muffled voice floated back, “Hurry. Get in.”
Someone grunted. The dark bulk heaved and split apart. A shrill voice swore briefly and bitterly in sharp pain. Art Ditmer’s normally bull-like voice gasped weakly out of the darkness at me: “Watch it, Joe! It’s a trap!”
I had a hand on the handle of the rear door. I let loose and tried to turn. A gun poked without gentleness into my back. A man said, ”
Manos arriba!”
I put my
manos arriba
. The sleeve of my jacket slipped down my upraised wrist. I could see the luminous hands of my watch. They stood straight on ten.
Healy had sprung his trap here after all, I thought bitterly. And right on time.
I stood with my hands grabbing hunks of the dark night. The man behind me breathed gustily, nervously. An almost silent struggle was going on inside the car. I heard soft grunts. Once the woman’s voice swore in shrill pain again.
Suddenly the larger dark bulk reared up and fell forward over the top of the front seat. A hand slapped at the wheel, reaching for the horn ring. I heard the ugly, soggy thud of metal biting into a skull. The reaching hand hit the horn ring. The Caddy blasted up a beautiful, raucous symphony.
Headlights blossomed through the dark, cutting it to ribbons. I heard the Mercedes snarling up the alley.
The horn kept blasting. The gun jittered against my back. The women who had been swearing sobbed in angry frustration. The far door of the Caddy slammed. I heard someone go through a gate and kick it shut.
It was time to make my move. The gunman was losing his nerve. I swung an elbow and pivoted. The man was an amateur. He stood too close to me. I swept his wrist aside with my arm. I brought my other fist up and hit him in the mouth.
The Mercedes was almost even with the back of the Caddy now. I hit the gunman with both fists. I drove him savagely into the path of the roaring monster. I flattened myself against the side of the Caddy.
The redhead couldn’t have hit the brakes fast enough if she had wanted to. Her front end picked up the short body and sailed it into the night. It landed spurting dust, and then rolled against the far wall of the alley to lie face up.
Bright headlights bounced off a round, pain-twisted face, shone on curly black hair. It wasn’t Healy at all. It was Lerdo.