‘Oh, Mark, Mark, please believe me. You musn’t stay. I’m not thinking of myself. I’m thinking of you. You can’t stay. It’s dangerous for you. It’s …’
The words choked off in a sob. He was staggered at her power of recovery. Having lost on ‘sincerity’, she had thrown herself headlong into ‘seduction’. She never knew when she was licked.
She was still clinging to him, her hands moving spasmodically up and down his arms, when a man appeared around a bend in the path from the hotel. Frankie’s back was to the path and she did not seem to hear him. But to Mark, looking over her head, he was in full view. He reached the mouth of the Belvedere and paused. He was a stranger — a middle-aged, rather handsome Mexican in a neat white suit. When he saw the two of them his face registered doubt. He was about to turn towards the hotel when his glance settled on the portable radio lying on the balustrade and, as if reassured, he started towards them.
In a voice with no trace of accent he asked: ‘Excuse me, but am I addressing Mrs Mark Liddon?’
Frankie broke away from Mark, who said: That’s right. This is her. I’m Mark Liddon — her husband.’
Frankie managed another of her magnificent switches. As the stranger surveyed her carefully, she smiled back at him with her cool, model’s smile and held out her hand.
The stranger took it. ‘I’m Frederico Gonzales, Mrs Liddon. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ He turned to Mark, his hand still outstretched. ‘And yours too, Mr Liddon — although I didn’t expect you to be a member of the party.’
Mark tucked the
Harper’s Bazaar
under his arm and looked challengingly at Frankie. She returned his gaze serenely and murmured to Senor Gonzales: ‘Yes, we didn’t expect it, either. My husband just joined me at the last minute.’
Senor Gonzales, face was impassive. ‘Then he is, of course, familiar with the…?’ He finished the sentence with a gesture of his wrist.
‘Sure,’ said Mark. ‘I know everything. I thought my wife could do with a little assistance.’
‘I see.’ Senor Gonzales smiled an amiable smile. ‘It is an excellent idea.’ For a moment he paused in front of Frankie, then leisurely he crossed to the balustrade and picked up the radio, examining it with casual admiration. ‘This is a handsome machine, Mrs Liddon. I hope you registered it with the Customs when you came in. Sometimes, if you don’t, you have difficulty taking them out again.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Frankie. ‘I registered it.’
There was nothing in either of their voices to indicate that the radio was of any other than trivial importance. But Mark was sure by now that it played some vital role in the rendezvous. Gonzales put it under his arm and gave a little formal bow.
‘Well, the chauffeur is waiting with the car, Mrs Liddon. Your husband, of course, will accompany us?’
‘Oh, no,’ put in Frankie quickly. ‘I don’t think so. He’s just flown from the States. He’s terribly tired. He’d better get some sleep.’
‘Listen to the little woman.’ Mark slid his arm around her waist and grinned at Gonzales. ‘I’m fresh as a daisy. Of course I’m coming along.’
Frankie’s eyes were agate hard, but she moved her mouth into a smile of travestied sweetness. ‘Very well, darling. You know best. But you won’t want to tote that tired old fashion magazine, will you?’
She pulled the
Harper’s Bazaar
from under his arm. She crossed with it to the balustrade and tossed it down the precipitous slope. Still smiling, she turned back to Gonzales and looped her hand through his arm.
‘All right, Senor Gonzales,’ she said. Let’s get started.’
A
BLACK
limousine with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel was waiting outside the hotel. Senor Gonzales ushered them both into the back seat and got in after them. Frankie took the radio from Mark and held it on her lap. As the car started, Mark glanced out of the window. Oscar’s green Buick was still parked where it had been. Oscar himself was not visible. He had almost certainly ducked down out of sight when he saw them coming. Mark had no fears about Oscar. So long as the boy’s wallet was in Mark’s pocket he could be depended on to follow him — to Cape Finisterre if necessary.
As the car purred down the hill past the square and along a broad shore highway, Senor Gonzales made polite conversation about the charms of Acapulco. Frankie replied with equally banal politeness, but her leg, pressed against Mark’s, was tense as a ballet dancer’s on her points. He still hadn’t the remotest idea of what he had got into, but he knew Frankie was scared. So long as she was scared that meant he had control of the situation, and that was all that mattered.
During the twenty-five minute drive along the romantic coast, with its drooping palms and wide sandy beaches, Mark did not risk looking back for Oscar. But the road they were taking had no turn-offs. A child of ten could be following them successfully. At length the car climbed a mountain and dropped down its other side. A tiny, brilliantly blue cove stretched below them. On a headland stood a single white villa from whose grounds a wooden pier stretched out to a dock where a gleaming pleasure cruiser was moored.
Senor Gonzales gestured towards it with a modest smile of ownership. ‘There is my little place.’
Just before the car turned through tall iron gates, Mark noticed a track leading off through a shrubbery of large, tangled oleander bushes. That would be the obvious place for Oscar to park unobtrusively. He kept its bearings in his mind as the car passed up a winding drive through orange trees and stopped in front of the villa.
They all got out. Senor Gonzales spoke in Spanish to the chauffeur, who drove the car away. The scarlet-painted front door was opened to them by a young Mexican houseboy in a white jacket. Senor Gonzales led them down a short flight of steps into a long, sunny living-room filled with pre-Columbian art. Grotesque stone statues of men and animals were dramatically distributed around the room. One wall was hung with bizarre masks of tin and feathers. A man in a palm-beach suit was lounging in an easy chair by the window. As they entered, he jumped up and came towards them, beaming.
The moment Mark saw him he recognized him. There was no mistaking the Elkish heartiness, the pink, florid skin and the glaring hand-painted tie. So here was another of Frankie’s lies exposed. Mr Riley, the man who had taken her to the bullfight, had not been just a casual acquaintance. He was part of the conspiracy too.
Mr Riley went straight to Frankie, holding out a large hand. ‘Well, well, Mrs Liddon. Didn’t expect to see me, did you? I thought I rated some sunshine so I snuck away for a couple of days.’
His gaze moved then to Mark. For one very bad moment Mark was afraid he might recognize him, even though there had been nothing about him at the bullfight to make him particularly memorable. But Mr Riley’s moon face registered nothing more suspicious than polite hesitation.
Frankie put down her portable radio on a table and made a cursory gesture. ‘Mr Riley — my husband.’
‘Your husband, eh?’ Mr Riley glanced at Senor Gonzales. ‘Well, well, we certainly didn’t expect him.’
Senor Gonzales explained: ‘He came along at the last minute. I think it’s a good idea, don’t you?’
‘Excellent.’ Mr Riley gave his braying, rather foolish laugh. ‘A swell idea.’
He enveloped Mark’s hand in warm, yielding flesh.
Senor Gonzales said: ‘Well, sit down, everybody, and make yourselves comfortable.’
They all sat down. Mr Riley, drawing up a chair next to Frankie, started to talk to her facetiously about the bullfights. Senor Gonzales moved around, offering cigarettes. Mark didn’t know what he had expected, but he certainly hadn’t expected this absurdly normal sociability. There wasn’t the slightest hint in the bearing of any of them to suggest anything more sinister than a rather dull group of people gathered together for a dull party.
And yet this was what Ellie had been kidnapped for; this was the climax of those long hours of intrigue and danger; this was the moment that had Frankie quaking in her shoes.
After a while Gonzales said: ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll go and see about drinks.’ He left the room and was gone quite a long time. Eventually he returned and soon afterwards the houseboy who had let them in appeared with a silver tray of bottles, glasses and ice. Frankie asked for a Scotch and soda. So did Mark. After Frankie had been served, the house-boy came to Mark with his drink. As he bent over him and offered the g!ass, Mark was astonished to feel a little piece of paper slipped into his palm. The boy went on to take Mr Riley a highball and then moved silently out of the room.
The note couldn’t have come from Frankie. She had had no opportunity either to write it or give it to the boy. Curiosity burned Mark. He waited until he had a chance to comment on the collection of masks and then strolled over as if to admire them at close range. He put his drink down on a table and, pretending to examine one of the masks, opened his palm and smoothed out the note.
To his amazement, he recognized Ellie’s broad, sloping handwriting.
Mark, darling, it’s a trap. There’s terrible danger for you. Please, please get away. Don’t worry about me. They won’t harm me now. But get away quickly.
His astonishment turned to exhilaration. This made no sense. It was the craziest of all the crazy developments. But Ellie was here.
Behind him the rapid cocktail conversation droned on. Slipping the note in his pocket, he moved to examine another mask. Since George and Frankie had brought Ellie here, then Mr Riley and Gonzales must be their allies, not their dupes. The meeting at the Belvedere must have been merely a front. They both knew that Frankie was only posing as Mrs Mark Liddon. They were all three of them in on the deal, keeping up the pretense for some reason.
Why? Was it for his sake? Was it possible that Frankie had fooled him yet again and, by pretending to be afraid of him, had deliberately lured him here? It’s a trap, Ellie had written. Then that must be it. Gonzales and Riley knew as well as Frankie that he was their enemy. He wasn’t fooling anyone.
He was conscious of someone at his side and Gonzales’ smooth voice was saying: ‘So you find my masks interesting, Mr Liddon?’
Mark turned to him. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Then we must examine them together later. Right now I think Mrs Liddon might be amused to take a stroll down to the yacht.’
‘I’d love it,’ said Frankie.
She rose. So did Riley, hurrying ahead of her to open the French windows. Gonzales put his hand on Mark’s elbow and the four of them moved out into the sunshine of the gardens.
As they strolled down a path towards the beach, Mark was thinking furiously. Why was Gonzales proposing this trip to the yacht? It would be a more discreet place than the house itself in which to hold him or to kill him. Yes, that was almost certainly it. So, if he was going to save Ellie, it was now or never.
The pier came into view at the end of the path. Its whiteness dazzled the eye. A scattering of sea-birds, idling over the blue water of the cove, seemed flakes of white paint shaved off its railings. In front, moored to the jetty, was the cruiser. There were no visible signs of life on it. It looked quiet and ominous as if it too were part of the conspiracy.
There was not much he could do except gamble. He turned to Gonzales with an apologetic grin. ‘I’m afraid I’m not used to this tropical sun and I stupidly forgot my hat. D’you suppose I could get the houseboy to find me one?’
Frankie, whose arm was linked in Mr Riley’s, suddenly stopped and turned back to look at him. It seemed to Mark that a quick glance was exchanged between Gonzales and Riley. Then Gonzales smiled his affable host’s smile.
‘Why, of course, Mr Liddon. You shouldn’t be out in this sun without a hat if you’re not used to it. I’ll go back with you and find you something.’
‘Don’t bother. I can ask the boy.’
‘It’s no bother.’ Gonzales’ hand was on his arm again. He glanced over his shoulder to Riley. ‘Perhaps you’d take Mrs Liddon on to the yacht. We’ll join you later.’
Mr Riley and Frankie started down the pier. Mark hadn’t expected his plan to work any better than this. At least he had got rid of two of them. As they moved through the gardens, he played with the idea of knocking Gonzales out, but decided against it. So long as they went on playing it polite he would take his cue from them.
They entered the living-room. Frankie’s pigskin portable radio still stood on the table where she had left it. Gonzales led him through the hall and straight upstairs. They went down a tiled corridor to a room which was obviously Gonzales’ bedroom. Gonzales opened a built-in closet, revealing a number of hats on a shelf.
‘There, Mr Liddon, take your choice.’
Mark’s gaze moved over the large hand-carved bed. On a night table at its side stood a portable radio, bound in pigskin, which appeared to be the exact duplicate of Frankie’s. In view of the fuss Gonzales had made over the other radio, this must surely be more than a coincidence. He selected a hat at random and tried it on.
As he did so, he heard the sound of a car drawing up outside the Villa. Gonzales hurried to the window and, after a second, returned, his face rather flustered.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Liddon. Someone has arrived. A matter of business. I’ll be back in a minute.’
He left the room and Mark crossed to the window. The black limousine which had brought them from the Casa Miranda was parked outside the front door and a tall dark man in a brown gabardine suit was getting out.
Immediately he recognized Victor D’Iorio.
The pattern was fitting together now. Last night, when Frankie had called him from the Hotel Mirador, Victor must have decided the situation was grave enough for him to fly down from New York to straighten it out in person. This also explained the delaying tactics downstairs. Gonzales, Riley and Frankie had been waiting for the boss to arrive before they took action.
But at least his arrival had given Mark his chance. He started for the door and then, playing a hunch, turned back and picked up the radio. He hurried with it out into the corridor. No one was in sight. He moved from door to door, calling softly: