Authors: Louis Trimble
I
WONDERED IF
Toby Jessup’s nerves were making her imagine things. She might have had a blowout and jumped to a conclusion.
Then again she might be right. I couldn’t deny the possibility. Not with Turk Thorne’s body in Art Ditmer’s motel room.
I was in a taxi, on my way to take the redhead out for a meal. I had over an hour to kill before I met Toby in Lozano. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time than with the redhead.
The taxi dropped me at the motel. I paid the driver and hiked to the garage. I skirted the Mercedes and climbed the stairs. I opened the door with my key.
I called, “Get your girdle zipped. It’s time for chow.”
My voice echoed emptily back at me. I stared stupidly around the room. The redhead’s suitcase was on one of the twin beds. She had put mine on the other bed. It was open and my robe and slippers were laid out with the kind of mocking touch she had such a knack for.
I snarled at the beds and looked in the bath. It was empty. I went back to the bedroom. I spotted the glass on the nightstand between the two beds. It was empty but I could see traces of rum in the bottom. There was no bottle in sight.
I wondered if she had gone out to eat. I checked her suitcase. No bottle. The used glass made it obvious she had one when she came. I hunted down the wastebaskets. They were empty. So was the dresser.
She hadn’t gone out to eat. Not even the redhead would take her own fifth of rum to a restaurant. But she had gone somewhere with the bottle to keep her company.
I swore at her. Then I felt a cold nudge of worry. Maybe she hadn’t ‘gone’ anywhere. Maybe she had been taken away by someone. After all the Mercedes was still in the garage.
I tried arguing myself out of the idea. I wasn’t very convincing. I thought of all the places the redhead might go, either on foot or in a taxi. The only one that could be a possible answer was the Frontera Motel back in Lozano.
And that made sense only if the redhead thought Art Ditmer might show up.
I felt a surge of excitement. Or if she had learned he was going to be there.
I hurried out and down the stairs. I opened the garage doors and warmed up the Mercedes. I backed it out and drove to the street. I started for the border.
I was leaving Mexican customs when it occurred to me to wonder why she hadn’t taken the Mercedes.
I had no answer for that, and no time to find one. The traffic at this time of night was a maze of taxicabs, tourists, natives coming from the other part of Lozano to gape at the tourists, and pedestrians, few of them sober.
I got stuck and stopped directly opposite the parking lot where I had put the camper. I remembered a back exit to the lot that would take me out of the traffic and put me on a side street closer to the Frontera. I cut the wheel and drove into the lot. I started through.
I hit the brakes. I looked into the slot where I had put the camper. It was empty. I opened the butterfly door of the Mercedes and climbed out. I took a look around. The lot was big but the camper sat up high. I couldn’t have missed it.
Only I did, because it wasn’t there.
I felt in my pocket. I had the key, so the redhead couldn’t have taken it for some rum-inspired project. I climbed back into the Mercedes. I drove out of the lot and cut down a dark street. I made a left turn onto the street where the Frontera Motel was located.
The Mercedes’ headlights chewed great savage holes in the darkness. They lit up the red glass of darkened taillights far up the street. A car was going slowly but steadily away from me, using no lights.
Then I realized it wasn’t a car; it was my camper.
I shifted gears and slammed my foot on the throttle. The surge of acceleration slapped me against the seat. I ate up half the two block distance between the camper and myself before I could lift my foot off the pedal.
I fanned the brakes, slowing down. The camper was still plugging along, running dark. It could be the redhead, I thought. And it could be someone else. Art Ditmer? He had keys to my car and camper just as I had keys to his car.
I felt a surge of excitement. I started to hit the throttle again. I pulled my foot back. I couldn’t be sure, I realized, that it was Art. My best bet was to follow until I was sure.
I cut the lights to parking. I picked up speed until I was a block behind the camper. I held that distance.
The camper was going due east at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. I had little chance of losing it at any speed. There was only the one street. Nothing crossed it but a few narrow alleys. It kept going straight east, through an area of small, square adobe shacks. Finally they disappeared and the barren
sides
of the mountains came down sharply to replace them. The street became a road. It began to kink into the mountains.
I followed the camper over the top of a pass. The flat, irrigated valley I had come through on my way to Lozano stretched below, water from sprayers making silver patterns under the light of a nearly full moon. It was very pretty. Only I was in no mood to enjoy it.
I could see a few cars crawling along Highway 2, some distance to the south. A much shorter distance to the north, the line of trees marked the course of the river. Straight ahead, the irrigated area was cut off by low hills. I remembered that beyond them was the hot, dry desert.
The camper made a sudden right turn and headed north toward the river. I followed. We were in the middle of an irrigated field, driving along a wide, gravel-topped dike. After a mile, the gravel disappeared. I could feel the ground growing soggy under the Mercedes’ wheels. I shifted down a gear.
The camper was almost to the line of trees that marked the river. Suddenly it stopped. Its lights went out. I felt the road sag badly under the weight of the car I was driving. I stopped too. I slipped the car into reverse and eased back until I felt somewhat firmer ground.
I couldn’t drive where the camper could, I knew. It was equipped with special tires for running in sand and over boggy land. From here on I had to walk if I wanted to find out who had borrowed my rig.
I opened the glove compartment and looked for something to use as a weapon. I found a three cell flashlight. I took it and climbed to the road. I started forward, keeping my eyes on the camper.
The road turned softer and boggier, as I got closer to the river. Then it rose a few feet and became firm again. I was within twenty feet of the camper now. I could barely make out someone moving around the door in the side. He was in shadow cast by the willows that lined the riverbank.
I moved closer. I could make out two persons now. One of them looked to be limply drunk. The redhead, I thought. I gripped the flashlight like a club. I took another step forward. I began to run as I saw the person holding up the limp figure turn my way.
I was two yards away when the limp figure came at me. I tried to pull up and swing aside. It struck the ground and rolled. My feet tripped over it. I went down. I lost the flashlight. My knees and the heels of my hands landed hard in the middle of the limp body.
I stared down into the contorted, dead face of Turk Thorne. I gagged and rolled to one side. I was in time to see the redhead heading for me. She ran with one hand pulling her skirt high up over her thighs and her legs churning like a sprinter’s. Her other hand held some kind of metal tool, and she was definitely planning to bash out my brains with it.
I yelled, “Damn it, stop showing off your legs. I’ve seen them before.”
She skidded to a stop. She stared in my direction. She said, “Jojo!” Her voice was gusty with relief.
I got to my feet and located the flashlight. I went up to the redhead. She flung her arms around my neck. I could smell rum on her breath.
“I could have killed you!” she said. She backed away and glared at me. “And all you did was make a crack about my legs!”
I turned the flashlight on and shone it in her face. I turned it off again. She was drunker than I had ever seen her. A slack mouth, moist eyes, one braid hanging down almost to her waist, skirt and blouse wrinkled—these seemed strange in connection with the redhead.
I said, “Shut up and behave yourself. What are you doing here anyway?”
She said, “When you told me Bonita knew who you were, I was afraid she was trying to frame you or Art. I thought if I moved the body, her frame wouldn’t be so likely to work.”
I said, “And what were you going to do with it, for God’s sake?”
“Put him in the river,” she said thickly. “I took the knife out already.” Even in shadow, her face was white with the memory. She added, “It was Art’s hunting knife, Jojo. The one he kept in his car.”
I began to see her reasoning. And I thought she might be right. I didn’t like the idea of playing fast and loose with the law. But I knew how the police operated—and they were no different south of the border, except that they could be tougher and sometimes smarter. Once the body was found in the motel room, they wouldn’t need much time to find their suspects. Especially since someone must have seen the Mercedes beside Unit 7. And it wasn’t a car the custom’s men were going to forget. Nor would they forget the driver.
The redhead said, “Did I do good?”
I said, “It’s beginning to look that way.” I gave her the flashlight and bent down. The body was too heavy for me to carry easily. I compromised by dragging it to the river. I found a little backwash under a drooping willow. I slid Turk in there.
I straightened with a sigh. I wondered where the redhead had found the strength to move him at all. But then fear or rum or a combination of both had probably given her the power she needed.
The redhead had followed me. She said sadly, “Poor Turk. All dead and not even his woman to weep over him.”
“What do you mean, ‘his woman’?” I demanded.
She said, “You’re a hell of a detective, Jojo. Didn’t you see the lipstick on his face? There was a tiny smear under his lower lip, another by the bruise on his jaw, and a good-sized one on his earlobe. And it wasn’t very old, either.”
I was too bushed to do much thinking. I realized I was hungry as well as tired. I started slowly back up the road. I said, “I don’t remember any lipstick on him last night. And I was closer to him then than I was at the motel.”
She said, “My guess is that some woman was nuzzling him when she put the knife in his stomach.” She added philosophically, “There are worse ways to die, I suppose. But that would depend on who the woman was, wouldn’t it?”
I said, “For God’s sake, stop being so gruesome. And from what Bonita said tonight, Turk was working for her.”
“Or with her,” the redhead said. “Or maybe she thought he was working with her and he tried to cross her, so she stabbed him.”
“In Art’s motel room?”
She said petulantly, “Can you think of a better theory?”
I said, “I can’t think at all now. I haven’t eaten in—” I stopped to check my watch so I could tell her how long it had been since I ate.
My watch read five minutes to ten. I forgot about food. I said, “I’ve got a date with Toby Jessup at the Frontera in five or ten minutes. Let’s get moving. Are you in any shape to drive?”
The redhead said, “I drove your bug here. I can get it back. And don’t worry about my shape,” she added darkly. “It’s probably better than Toby Jessup’s.”
I helped her into the camper and gave her an encouraging slap on the fanny. I said, “Put this thing back where you got it and take a taxi back to Ramiera. And stay in the motel.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned away. I heard a cork being pulled. I listened to a gentle gurgling. I hoped she’d get my camper back in one piece.
I started for the Mercedes and stopped. “By the way, how did you get into this rig? I have the keys.”
Her face appeared framed in the window. “I found Art’s keys to it,” she said. “I was hunting through his suitcase for clues—” She broke off and hiccoughed. ”
Chingada!”
she added sadly.
I left her and loped to the Mercedes. I slid behind the wheel and started the motor. I backed around and aimed down the road. I was in a hurry. I finally had an excuse to use a little of that power under the hood.
I used all I dared. I slowed down once, to make the right turn onto the road running into Lozano. The way the Mercedes cornered told me I needn’t have bothered. I opened it up again.
It was eight minutes after ten when I slowed down a block from the motel. I cut the lights. There were no cars parked along the street. I slid to the curb a quarter block from the driveway. I walked up to the motel.
The driveway was empty too. I stopped by a big saguaro cactus at the edge of the drive and looked up toward Unit 7. Its garage was empty.
I decided Toby Jessup was going to be a little late. I crossed the lawn to the door of Unit 7. I opened it and went in. I checked the draperies and then turned on the light. I looked around.
The redhead hadn’t disturbed anything but the body. Her imprint was still on the bedspread. Her rum glass was on the night stand. I took it and washed it. I emptied the ashtrays and the cigarette butts that were in a wastebasket into the toilet and flushed them out of sight. I took a towel and did the job I had told the redhead to do. I wiped everything that might hold a fingerprint.
I stopped as I heard a car motor approach. I went to the front window and pulled the draperies apart slightly. The car was an ancient coupe. It went on past. One taillight showed white where the glass was broken out. I dropped the drapery into place and returned to my house cleaning.
I made a final check and decided there was nothing in here to point to Art or the redhead or me. I put the towel back in the bathroom. I heard another car, this one throatier and more powerful sounding. I trotted to the window and pulled aside the drapery. A pale-colored Thunderbird went by. It slowed down and drifted out of sight. I could hear it backing and filling down the street. Then the motor died. A moment later Toby Jessup appeared, clipping down the sidewalk in a purposeful walk.
She stopped a few feet from the big saguaro cactus. She turned in the direction of the motel. She seemed to be looking for something.