Chapter 3
Choco Medina awakened Garson at seven the next morning, rapping lightly on the door. “You in there?”
Garson came instantly awake, his first feeling one of surprise that he had actually slept. He could feel the hard lump of the revolver under his pillow. It brought back the full memory of the previous night.
Could it really have been an accident? he wondered.
Again the rapping sounded on his door.
“Hssst! Are you all right?”
Garson recognized Medina’s gravelly voice, said, “Yes. I’m just getting up.”
“They start serving breakfast out here in fifteen minutes.”
“Be right with you.”
Garson went first to the hotel desk where an older, white-haired man with a face like wrinkled leather and eyes of veiled caution stood in Villazana’s place.
The old man informed Garson that no one had called for him during the night.
Medina, a thoughtful expression on his ugly face, sat at a table near the arcade, his back to the wall. Garson joined him.
“Choco, how do I get out to the Hacienda Cual?”
Medina put a finger to his long mustache, said, “Are you aching to get draped over a fence in a dead condition?”
“Nuts! I’ve a story to do. The best way is to go right in the front door.”
“And out the…”
A hotel maid bent over the table, interrupting Medina. “Dispense, Choco,” she said. “El llave?”
Garson recognized the word for “key,” saw a key pass from Medina to the maid. She crossed the lobby, opened a padlocked door with the key, exposed steps leading upward.
Medina said, “I don’t like any part of…”
“Just a minute, Choco!” Garson studied him a moment, looked in the door the maid had opened. She reappeared with a light pallet and a roll of blankets.
“I thought so,” said Garson. “You stayed on the roof last night, Choco.”
Medina shrugged. “So I made love to the maid.”
“Hah!”
“Maybe I was protecting some poor Mexican from an American citizen with a gun. How do you know?”
“I appreciate it all the same,” said Garson.
Medina coughed, cleared his throat.
Garson felt deeply moved, a sense of warmth and kinship with this evil-visaged Mexican. He said, “Maybe I’ll get a chance to…”
A horn blared in the street.
Both men turned.
The long black limousine of the railroad station stood in the street, the same queenly beauty in the rear seat. A string of pack burros loaded with sacked charcoal blocked the street.
Again the horn blared. Garson’s attention went to the driver, noted that it was not Eduardo Gomez but the man who’d sat beside Gomez holding a rifle.
Medina said, “Do you know who that is?”
“Luac’s daughter. What’s her name, Choco?”
“Anita Carmen Maria.”
“How do you know her full name?”
“It’s on her baptismal record.”
And Garson thought: Anita Luac—Anita Peabody. Another link in the chain. He filed Medina’s familiarity with the woman’s name for future investigation, pushed himself away from the table.
“Where’re you going?”
“Out to meet the…”
The limousine found an opening beside the burros, sped off down the avenue.
“It would be safer to go out and tangle with the fence riders at the hacienda,” said Medina. “That was José Gomez driving. He’s known as El Grillo: the cricket. That’s because he can shoot crickets on the wing with his rifle.”
“Gomez,” said Garson. “Is he related to a man named Eduardo Gomez?”
“Eduardo is his nephew. Why?”
“I’d like to find Eduardo Gomez and talk to him. Do you have any idea where the car may be going?”
“Quién sabe? Sometimes they go to the doctor, sometimes to a store, sometimes to the market.”
“Choco, see if you can find out where they’re going now.”
“Look, why don’t you stop asking for a casket! This is…”
“Stop this menacing Mexico routine for five minutes,” said Garson. “This is a straightaway love story—romantic runaways, all the trimmings. That exquisite creature in the car is the love child to top it off!”
Medina shook his head. “You may not respect your skin, but I have the greatest re…”
“Then I’ll go find them myself!”
“No!” Medina jerked to his feet. “If it must be, it must be! But you’re asking for big trouble!”
“This is just a simple little story of…”
“Nothing is really simple,” said Medina. “Wait here for me. I’ll do what I can.” He went out into the arcade, strode around the corner to the right.
Garson ordered breakfast, ate in a mood of deep thoughtfulness.
Something about Medina doesn’t fit, he thought. Is someone paying him to sidetrack me and frighten me off? And if so—why?
A familiar horn sounded from the other side of the garden plaza. The limousine came around the corner, stopped diagonally across from Garson beneath a sign that identified the telegraph office. The woman got out, entered the office.
Garson saw no sign of Medina.
He stood up, went to the corner, crossed in front of the limousine. The driver, a dried-up gnome of a man with a pinched face of undersized features, studied Garson with pale eyes that seemed to measure everything they saw.
Anita Luac was inside the office, bent over a counter, writing on a telegraph blank.
Garson slipped in the open door, glanced over the woman’s shoulder at what she was writing, caught his breath. Her left hand covered the name of the person to whom she was addressing the telegram, but the words beneath were in a neat block printing, easy to read:
“H. Garson here. One attempt made and failed. Please advise where…”
She sensed his presence, turned, folding back the telegraph blank to conceal it.
Garson stared down into a face so beautiful that sight of it momentarily drove all other thoughts from his mind. Her wide brown eyes were like those of a trapped fawn, full of the awareness that he had seen the telegram. A soft flush stole across the pale cream skin. Her full red lips were slightly parted. A sharply indrawn breath pressed her breasts against her dark blouse.
“You saw!” she said.
Garson felt that her statement was the most terrible accusation. He said, “I, uh…” Then he recalled the words he’d read on her telegram, and a bitter anger filled him.
One attempt made and failed!
“I’m Hal Garson, Miss Luac. Would you like to make another attempt now?”
“This is hardly the…” She broke off, stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your assassins missed with that chunk of concrete the other night.” He looked up to the cracked plaster of the telegraph office ceiling. “Maybe there’s something around here you could have dropped on me.”
She glanced at the telegram in her hand, back to Garson. “Oh, but…” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. This isn’t…” Again she blushed.
“Maybe you’d better explain then,” said Garson.
Her lips thinned. “I don’t have to explain anything, Mr. Garson!” She crumpled the telegram, turned to leave.
“Miss Luac!” said Garson.
She stopped, spoke without turning. “The name is Cual.”
“I have a piece of manuscript that I believe was written recently by a man named Antone Luac,” said Garson. “Have you ever heard of him?”
She kept her face averted, stared out at the street. Garson saw the gnome-like driver looking in at her, a question in his eyes. She shook her head at him, and he turned away.
“Have you ever heard of him?” repeated Garson.
“That was a mistake, Mr. Garson,” she said.
“I think your father is Antone Luac,” said Garson. “I’d like to go out and talk to him.”
“My father is old and tired, and desires nothing but peace,” she said. “He is not receiving visitors.”
“Is your father Antone Luac?”
“I must be going, Mr. Garson.”
“But you haven’t sent your telegram.”
“That, too, was a mistake.”
“Tell your father that I’ll be out to see him this afternoon.”
Her body shook with suppressed emotion. She turned, and her voice came out soft and pleading. “Please, Mr. Garson. This has all been a terrible mistake. Please go away and forget you ever heard of us or of that piece of manuscript.”
Garson stared down at her, realizing that she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.
She held out her right hand. “Please give me that piece of manuscript.”
With an odd twisting emotion, Garson knew that he would have been compelled to give her the piece of manuscript if he’d had it with him. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Luac.”
Her face contorted as though she were about to cry, and her voice came out little more than a sob. “Oh, please go away!”
Garson fought to regain his self-control. “Miss Luac, famous people don’t have the right to privacy.”
She stamped her foot. “That’s stupid!”
“I’m truly sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
She took a deep quavering breath, spoke slowly. “You will not be permitted to see my father. For your own sake as well as ours, please do not try.”
Abruptly, she turned away, slipped out to the limousine.
As quickly as she moved, the gnome-like driver was quicker. He was out of the car and the rear door open before she reached the car.
By the time Garson had recovered his senses, the limousine was pulling away. He stood in the doorway, stared after the retreating car.
A deep voice intruded from his left. “Well, now you’ve met the Señorita.”
Garson whirled.
Choco Medina leaned against the wall beside the door. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its coal dangerously near his drooping mustache. A black sedan was pointed into the curb in front of him. Medina pushed himself away from the wall, nodded toward the car. “Shall we go for a ride?”
“Where?”
Medina shrugged.
“How about taking me out to the Hacienda Cual?”
Medina’s lids dropped. He spat out the cigarette, stepped on it. “Do you have an invitation?”
“All the invitation I need.”
“I will give you odds against it.”
“Do you take me, or do I hire a cab?”
“You’ve already hired me, Mr. Garson. Remember?”
Garson nodded, wondering at Medina’s withdrawn attitude. He said, “Did you get a chance to talk to this El Grillo?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s his nephew, Eduardo Gomez?”
“What nephew? He has no nephew by that name.”
“But you said…”
“I am quoting him, Mr. Garson.”
“What?”
“He suddenly doesn’t know anything about a nephew named Eduardo Gomez.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s go ask him.”
They got into the car.
Garson said, “Stop at the hotel a minute.”
“Why?”
“Just stop at the hotel.”
“You’re the boss.”
Gabriél Villazana was on duty behind the desk. Garson pressed a twenty peso note into his hand, “Gabriél, I am going out to the Hacienda Cual with Choco Medina. If I’m not back by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please notify the American Consulate in Mexico City.”
Villazana took the money, his hand shaking.
“Will you do it?” asked Garson.
“Sí, Señor. But please do not do this. That Choco is a bad man! He will…”
“Just do as I ask.”
Garson turned away from him, went to his room. His bed had been made, the room swept. He reached under his pillow and found the gun neatly centered there. A smile touched his lips as he wondered how common a thing it was for the maid to replace a man’s revolver when she made the bed. He slipped the gun into his belt, returned to the car and Choco Medina.
“Let’s go.”
The cobbled street ended at the edge of town, became a dusty, rutted track bounded by rickety fences of twisted limbs. The road wound through fields of sugar cane and corn. Dust thrown up by the limousine ahead of them hung over the ruts.
As the sun climbed, Garson began to feel the heat of the day.
The road angled upward, turning and twisting, bounded now by cacti overgrown with bougainvillea, tall grey-barked trees with shiny green leaves.
Still there was no sign of the limousine except the settling carpet of dust on the road. They came to a fork. The dust trail went left.
“They are going to the upper gate,” said Medina. “I don’t like that.”
“Why?”
He steered the car into the left fork, said, “It is more secluded there.”
The turns became tighter, steeper. They rounded a hairpin corner. Medina turned off the road between two stone pillars, braked to a jolting stop as the pinch-faced driver of the limousine stepped into their path, pointed a rifle at them.
The limousine stood parked about one hundred yards ahead beneath one of the grey barked trees.
“Some invitation!” muttered Medina.
“That’s El Grillo, isn’t it?” asked Garson.
“Yes.”
“Maybe I can talk to him.” Garson moved to open his door.
Medina gripped his arm. “Stay where you are!”
El Grillo took his left hand from the rifle stock, pointed back toward the city.
“Don’t get out of the car for any reason,” said Medina. “Just wait right here.” He opened his door, got out, walked up to El Grillo.
The rifle remained pointed at the car.
Medina murmured something to El Grillo. The little rifleman glanced back at the limousine, returned his attention to Garson, shook his head.
Again Medina spoke.
El Grillo grinned, looked up for the first time at Medina, shrugged. The rifleman wet his lips with his tongue, said, “Raul?” as though it were a question.
Medina said something too low for Garson to hear.
El Grillo nodded.
Medina returned to the car, slid behind the wheel.
“What the hell was all that?” demanded Garson.
Medina ignored the question, backed the car through the gate, headed toward the city. They rounded the hairpin curve. Medina braked to a stop.
Garson became conscious of the crickets rasping in the dry grass beside the road. They reminded him that the rifleman at the gate was known as “The Cricket.” He said, “Okay, Choco. What gives?”
“Are you up to a little hike?”
“To the hacienda?”
“Yes.”
“What about El Grillo?”
“He’ll take you across the lake after dark for fifty pesos. That’s what I was talking about.”
“Lake? What lake?”
“You have to cross a lake to get to the hacienda.”
Garson took a deep breath. The feeling that there was something deeply wrong with this situation filled him. “How far would I have to walk?”
“About two or three miles.”
“Why walk?”
“The riders would hear a car. If you’re on foot, you can hide in the brush beside the road when a horseman comes past.”
“Am I likely to meet a guard?”
“No. El Grillo said he was the only one on this side right now. He’ll meet you where they park the car.”
“What’ll you be doing?”
“I can’t leave the car here.”
Garson nodded. “All right. So that’s how I get in. How’ll I get out?”
“You’re awfully cautious all of a sudden.”
“I didn’t like the looks of that El Grillo.”
“He has a price, Mr. Garson. Remember that.”
Garson opened his door, got out. “Do I just follow that road we were on?”
“Yes. You can’t miss it. Be careful that El Grillo or his Indian woman are the only ones to see you when you get to the barrio at the lake.” Medina looked suddenly thoughtful. His evil features drew down into a deep scowl. “There’s one other thing.”
Again Garson was filled with a sense of danger. “Yes?”
“Whatever you do, don’t give away my part in this.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No matter what happens, don’t let on that I’m working for you.”
“Okay, Choco.” Garson lifted his hand in salute.
Medina put the car in gear, pulled away in a choking cloud of dust.
Garson turned, headed back up the road. He felt the weight of the pistol in his belt, brought it out and checked it, stopped in frozen shock. There were no cartridges in it.
Who took them? The maid? Were there shells in it when Medina gave it to me?
He replaced the revolver in his belt, was suddenly thankful that he had made the arrangement with Gabriél Villazana to call the American Consulate.
An acute sense of loneliness swept over Garson. He slapped at a mosquito on his neck, wondered: Now, what the devil have I gotten myself into?
The air held a rich smell of earth: moldy, verdant. Gnats and flies buzzed around him. He slipped off his coat, loosened his tie, wished for his hat.
The stone pillars loomed up beside the road. Garson approached them cautiously. No sign of El Grillo. He turned onto the private road, noted that it was little more than a cart track. The limousine was gone.
A flight of yellow and green finches swept past ahead of him, dipped low over the road. Garson quickened his pace, seeking shade. The cart road narrowed, became a wide trail crowded by jungle growth—now shady, now baked in sun glare. A vulture flapped into the air as he approached, settled behind him, waddled off the road. Garson sniffed at the smell of carrion, slapped at the gnats buzzing around his moist neck. He stopped, listened for the limousine, for the sound of danger. Nothing but insect noises.
Loneliness crowded in upon him. He stared into the underbrush.
The vultures would pick a body clean in a day. No one would ever find it. Is Choco pushing me into a trap?
Garson paused, looked back the way he had come, then again up the road.
But then—Antone Luac—and my name on the story!
He shifted his coat to his left arm to conceal the pistol at his belt, continued up the road, moving more slowly, oppressed by the heat, wishing for a breath of wind. Now and again he paused, listening. Only insect sounds.
The road topped a rise, angled downward. It dipped into a heavily wooded area lush with a hothouse smell. He forded a small stream still muddy with the tracks of the limousine, glimpsed an expanse of water through the trees ahead.
The lake?
He rounded a corner, came full into a yucca-walled barrio with the lake beyond. The limousine was parked under an open shed. There was no sign of Anita Luac or El Grillo.
Two hollow-flanked dogs came yapping out at him. A skinny Indian woman in a brown skirt and heavy red blouse ran out of a mud hut in the barrio, kicked the dogs aside, cursed at them.
Garson walked up to her, said, “El Grillo?”
She spoke in a burst of Spanish too fast for Garson to follow.
Running footsteps sounded from Garson’s right. El Grillo trotted around a corner of the barrio, slowed to a walk when he saw Garson, nodded. “Buenas tardes, Señor.”
Garson glanced up, noted that the sun was past the meridian. He said, “Buenas tardes.” He was struck by the gaunt look of El Grillo. The man wore a white shirt, rope-belted white trousers with ragged cuffs, open huaraches on heavily calloused feet. His face was shaded under a wide-brimmed straw sombrero.
The Indian woman spoke to El Grillo in a high whine.
He cursed at her in Spanish, kicked one of the snuffling dogs, smiled at Garson, and spoke in English with only the slightest trace of an accent. “You made good time.”
“I didn’t have any reason to loiter.” Garson looked at the lake, saw buildings on a point of land across the water. “Is that the hacienda?”
El Grillo spoke without turning. “Sí, Señor.”
Garson looked down at El Grillo. “You’re the uncle of Eduardo Gomez, aren’t you?”
El Grillo blinked. Garson had the feeling that the man tensed.
“There is no one by the name of Eduardo Gomez around here, Señor.” He shook his head. “There is no such person.”
Garson recalled his premonition at the hotel.
“I go with God.”
He said, “What happened to Eduardo? Did somebody drop something on him?”
“You ask too many questions, Señor Garson.” El Grillo turned to the Indian woman, spoke in a harsh voice. She went into the hut.
“Is anybody likely to see me here?” asked Garson.
“You must wait until dark,” said El Grillo. “The hacienda, as you can see, is on a little peninsula. There is a dangerous swamp behind it. We will go in a canoe.”
The sound of a galloping horse came from beyond the barrio. El Grillo took Garson’s arm, hurried him into the hut past the Indian woman working at a charcoal fire. They entered a dark sleeping room. The place smelled heavily of perspiration, urine, charcoal smoke, rotting things. A narrow, glassless window opened on thick green leaves. Beneath it was an ancient iron bedstead covered by grimy serapes. Two reed chairs stood against the wall beside the bed.
“You must wait quietly until dark, Señor,” said El Grillo. He went out the single door, draped a serape in place over it. Garson heard him speak to the Indian woman. Presently, there came the sound of El Grillo talking to a man outside. A horse clop-clopped away.
The stink of the room clung to Garson’s nostrils. Flies buzzed around his head. He sat down on one of the reed chairs, brought the empty revolver from his belt, wrapped it in his coat and tossed both onto the bed.
I’m trusting myself to people with hidden motives, he thought. El Grillo isn’t doing this just for fifty pesos. Choco Medina isn’t helping because I hired him to do it. He glanced at his coat on the bed, thought of the revolver. Who took the bullets out of that thing?
Garson stared around the room, wondered if there could be bullets hidden here. He inspected the tops of the rafters, peered under the bed, found nothing.
Late in the afternoon, the Indian woman came silently past the serape of the door, handed Garson a plate containing four tortillas wrapped around beans.
He ate in sudden hunger, surprised at the savor of the food.
Afterward, he returned to the chair, turned it so that he could watch the march of the shadow across the muddy ledge of the window. He tried to doze, but couldn’t. Several times he stood up, walked to the blanket at the door, hesitated, returned to the window, tried to peer out into the jungle. He decided against stretching out on the bed, reflecting that he would probably share it with too many things that crawled and bit.
And throughout the afternoon, uncertainty nagged at him—a feeling of menace that rode on the insect sounds, the stirring of the Indian woman in the other room, the occasional noises of horsemen in the barrio.
There are too many unanswered questions here, he thought.
Only the promise of breaking the Antone Luac story gave him the courage to stick it out.
El Grillo came at dusk.
“The fifty pesos, Señor.”
Garson gave him the money.
El Grillo pocketed it. “Now, we go.”
Garson took his folded coat from the bed, felt the weight of the revolver in it, followed El Grillo outside.
Why am I hanging onto an empty gun? he wondered. But the knowledge of it reduced his sense of uncertainty.
It was warm in the dusk outside, with a clinging dampness to the air. Flying insects seemed to be everywhere.
The Indian woman appeared beside El Grillo, screamed at him. He aimed a kick at her. She dodged, continued to scream. Garson heard the name, Raul.
“She is afraid Raul will see us and shoot,” said El Grillo. He chuckled. “Raul will not see.”
“Who’s Raul?”
El Grillo remained silent. A breeze stirred around them, carrying the heavy odor of jasmine.
Then: “Raul is a man of much anger, Señor. When he is angry, he is dangerous.”
El Grillo turned, a ghostly white figure in the gloom, led the way around the barrio and onto a narrow footpath. The trail let out onto the lake—a muddy shore, root clusters dimly visible in the fading light. Swarms of mosquitoes arose from the water. Garson could distinguish the dark shadow of a dock to the right along the shore, the flickering of an open fire among the trees.
“You must be very quiet,” whispered El Grillo. “The guards at the dock must not hear.” He dropped down to a dark platform, pulled a dugout from the shadows.
Garson scrambled down beside him, found himself on a log raft that gurgled faintly and tipped with his weight.
“You must sit very gently,” said El Grillo. He rocked the canoe with a fingertip to demonstrate its delicate balance. “The lake is full of caribe. If we go into the water we will die.”
“Caribe?”
“Little fish, Señor. When the caribe dine, a man loses his identity.”
Caribe? wondered Garson. He looked at the luminous afterglow on the lake, put the thought of dangerous fish from his mind. “Won’t we be sitting ducks out there?”
“We will follow the shore. No one will see.” He steadied the dugout, motioned for Garson to enter.
Garson took a deep breath, stepped into the canoe, scrambled to the front and sat down in dampness, his jacket and the empty revolver in his lap.
Caribe, he thought. Could he mean piranha? But they don’t have piranha in Mexico. Only in South America.
The canoe tipped and righted as El Grillo took his position in the stern. The dugout moved out into the lake, turned left along the shore. Garson felt rather than heard the rhythm of the paddle.
Presently, he saw the amber glow of lights ahead. They drew closer. The dugout nosed into a mudbank with bushes bending down overhead.
El Grillo came forward, leaned over Garson’s shoulder.
“There is a trail directly ahead of you, Señor. Follow that trail. It leads to a wall with a gate. The gate will not be locked. I will leave you now.”
“How can I signal if I want you to come and get me?” asked Garson.
El Grillo remained silent a moment, then: “Tie white cloth to those bushes above you there. I will come after dark.”
“Will I find your nephew in there?” asked Garson.
“I have no nephew, Señor.” The hand pressed his shoulder. “Now, go with God.”
Garson felt a sudden aversion to that phrase. He tucked his bundled coat under his left arm, stood up, reached for the limbs overhead to steady himself. There appeared to be a log beside the canoe. Garson stepped to it, slipped. The limbs in his hand bent down. He found himself flat on his back in a foot of surprisingly cold water. With much splashing and floundering, he scrambled onto a mudbank, still clutching his coat, turned.
There was no sign of the dugout. Then he saw a faint movement of white along the shore to his right. It disappeared.
His clothes clung to him with a refreshing coolness. He turned, slipped and scrambled to higher ground, located the trail, paused there while he looked at the lights ahead. They appeared to be windows and some lanterns hung in trees. The weight of the gun and his wet coat pulled at his arm.
Abruptly, Garson slipped the revolver from the coat, found a rotten log beside the trail, pushed the gun under the log, kicked leaves over the area to hide it.
Then he strode toward the lights, his senses alert to every sound.
A low wall loomed ahead, broken by an arched double gate. A gas lantern in a fog of insects hung from a limb just inside the gate. He could see another gas lantern in a screened enclosure beyond the gate.
Almost as though they were lighting my path, thought Garson.
Now, he could make out a high-backed rattan chair in the screened enclosure, a table beside the chair covered with papers.
He stopped at the gate, looked inside the walled area. It was a garden, thick with palms, papaya, mimosa. He could smell jasmine. A brick walkway led from the gate to the screened enclosure, thence to the adobe wall of a house at the other side of the garden.
Garson lifted the latch of the gate, stepped into the garden. Now, he could see a double door in the wall of the house. He stepped out along the walk, froze as a voice came from the high-backed chair in the screened area. It was a man’s voice, deep and with a touch of querulousness.
“Is that you, Raul?”
Garson cleared his throat, felt suddenly weak-kneed with the realization that he was at the moment of discovery.
“What’s the matter with you, Raul?”
The back of a grey head arose above the chair followed by wide shoulders in a white suit. A gnarled hand fumbled for a cane beside the chair, found it. The man turned.
Garson had seen a hundred photographs of this face: the wide forehead, bulging brows, the thin nose and large dark eyes. Only the goatee was new. It gave him the look of a grey-haired Mephistopheles. There would be no mistake.
This was Antone Luac.
“Oh, so it’s you,” said Luac.
Garson’s voice failed him. He had been prepared for almost any other reaction: for outrage, for bitterness—even for violence—but not for casual acceptance.
“Well, say something,” said Luac. “Say, ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume!’ or some other damn foolishness.”
Garson stammered, “I… I, uh… I’m Hal Garson.”
“Who else?” asked Luac. “Well, don’t just stand there! Come in out of the bugs.”
Only then did Garson realize that many of the insects had deserted the lights to concentrate on his flesh. He saw the door to the screened enclosure on his left, slipped through it. By the time he faced Luac across the table, Garson had regained some of his composure.
Luac sank back into his chair, racked his cane on the arm, indicated a similar chair across from him.
Garson sat down. His wet clothes squished.
“The goatee doesn’t change your appearance much,” said Garson. “I’d have known you anywhere.”
“How did you get so wet?”
A smile touched Garson’s lips. “Maybe I swam.”
“As the Pharaoh said to his daughter when she explained about the baby Moses: ‘Possible but not probable.’ Now, while you’re busy composing suitable epigrams to record this historic moment, I believe I’ll…”
“Antone!” It was a man’s voice calling from the house.
Luac frowned, said, “There you are, Raul. Come here. We have a visitor.”
A thin, dark man moved catlike around the bushes that hid the house, stopped outside the screened area. His face was oval and with an even regularity of features that was almost feminine. The eyes were wide, limpid with a look of softness. His black hair was combed straight back and with two symmetrical curls, one at each temple.
“Raul, this is the American journalist, Mr. Hal Garson. Mr. Garson, may I present Raul Separdo?”
“How do you do?” asked Garson.
“How did he get here?” asked Separdo.
“He says he swam.”
Separdo smiled, displaying even teeth.
Garson had a feeling that the symmetry of this man was a mask to conceal something dangerously out of balance.
“We had best dispose of him immediately,” said Separdo.
“Do not be a complete ass!” said Luac.
“Antone! You are playing with something that…”
“I play with nothing, Raul! Until we are certain of exactly what he is, we keep him in good condition!”
Garson experienced the chilling realization that he was listening to a discussion of his own life and death.
“Where did he come from?” demanded Separdo.
“That is one of the things I have not yet determined,” said Luac. “Until I…”
“Did El Grillo bring him—or one of the others?”
Luac looked at Garson. “Who brought you, Mr. Garson?”
“The stork!” barked Garson. He felt the anger dangerously close to the surface of his mind.
Luac chuckled.
“A wit!” said Separdo. “What a pity that the world must lose this!” He moved around the screened enclosure, entered, took a position beside Luac’s chair.
“He does present some problems,” said Luac.
“Could he be a member of the American secret service?” asked Separdo.
Garson stared at him.
“One of the thoughts I have considered,” said Luac.
“Why would I be a member of the secret service?” asked Garson. And he felt that he had been suddenly immersed in a cloak-and-dagger situation that somehow lacked reality.
Separdo’s hand went to his belt, came up with a Luger. “Has he been searched, Antone?”
“Of course not! He just arrived.”
“Where’s Choco?”
Garson stiffened. Choco?
“Inside somewhere,” said Luac. “I heard Nita ask him to play a game of cards earlier.”
“I don’t like keeping this man around,” said Separdo.
“But you do not give the orders, Raul. You’re just the watchdog. So be careful with that weapon. It…”
“Don’t bait me, Antone.”
“I would hate to have to turn in a bad report on you, Raul. Olaf is subject to such sudden anger.”
The hand holding the Luger trembled.
Garson looked from one to the other, spoke through dry lips. “Look here! The American Consulate will know by eight o’clock tomorrow morning exactly where I am! If you two think you can…”
“How will they know?” demanded Raul.
“They’ll…” Garson stopped, realized that he could be signing Villazana’s death warrant. “I sent them a letter.”
“The mail is not delivered at eight o’clock,” said Luac.
“He’s bluffing,” said Raul Separdo.
“You expose your foolishness more and more,” said Luac. “Garson spoke of the time with a certainty. He is merely concealing his messenger.”
Separdo turned toward the house, still keeping his eyes and the gun trained on Garson. “Choco!”
Presently, they heard the outside door slam. Choco Medina appeared outside the screened enclosure, the pockmarks of his evil face like harsh black spots under the gas lantern’s glare. He touched his mustache with a forefinger, nodded to Garson.
Garson glared at him. “You…”
“You know each other?” asked Separdo.
Luac spoke quickly. “I’ve had Choco keeping watch on Mr. Garson.” He looked at Garson with an odd attitude of suspense.
Garson had the feeling that the situation had taken a peculiar turning.
Separdo looked from Luac to Garson. “Do you recognize Choco, Mr. Garson?”
“He looks like my Great Aunt Nellie on my mother’s side!”
“What a calamity!”
“She was hung for treason!” said Garson.
“Every family has its secret shame,” said Separdo. He raised his voice: “Choco! Come in and search Mr. Garson.”
Medina entered the enclosure, came up behind Garson, bent over the chair and patted him with professional thoroughness.
“Where is the gun you were carrying earlier, Mr. Garson?”
“I lost it in the lake.” He bit the words off, suppressing his anger, trying to see through the cross-purposes here. And abruptly he recalled Medina’s warning at the car to conceal their relationship.
Could Medina still be with me?
“He’s clean,” said Medina.
“You have been watching him, Choco?”
“Yes.”
“He says the American Consulate will know where he is by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea how that could be?”
“Maybe he sent a telegram.”
“Did you send a telegram, Mr. Garson?”
“Several of them.”
“Why did you come here, Mr. Garson?”
“To find Antone Luac.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. He’s copy.”
“What led you to believe you could find him?”
The threat of the Luger, the flat questions, the puzzle of this situation became too much for Garson. His anger boiled over.
“None of your damned business!”
Luac stiffened, put a hand on Separdo’s gun arm. “Put away the weapon, Raul.”
Separdo’s eyes had lost their softness, had taken on a wild light.
Garson suddenly recalled El Grillo’s comment on a man named Raul, and on Raul’s anger.
“Put the gun away, I said!” repeated Luac.
“He will not talk to me that way!” said Separdo.
“Olaf will not like this when I tell him,” said Luac.
Again the gun trembled.
“What led you to believe that Antone Luac was here?” asked Separdo. His eyes seemed to bore into Garson.
Luac said, “That would be the piece of manuscript Nita mentioned.” He pressed down on Separdo’s arm. “Now put away the gun.”
Slowly, as though moving against pressure, Separdo lowered the gun, returned it to his belt.
“But where did he get the piece of manuscript?”
“Perhaps Eduardo,” said Luac.
Separdo nodded. “Of course.” He laughed, a brittle, chilling sound.
Garson swallowed, realized that he had been closer to death than ever before in his life, that Raul Separdo’s symmetry of features concealed madness.
“We’ll lock him in the end room under guard for now,” said Luac.
“Perhaps in the morning we should let him swim back across the lake,” said Separdo. He bent forward, staring at Garson, who was reminded of a jungle cat watching its prey.
“Take him, Choco,” said Luac.
Medina touched Garson’s shoulder. Garson arose, surprised at the trembling in his knees. He felt wrung out, without emotion. And his mind went back to Luac’s words: “Perhaps Eduardo.” Eduardo Gomez? Again he was touched by a sick premonition about the little Mexican.
Garson’s prison was a square room of high ceiling, whitewashed beams. Tall windows looked out on the night. He could see light reflected from exterior bars. A heavy wooden bed jutted from the wall opposite the windows, a low nightstand on one side, a leather chair on the other side. Across the bed lay a red serape with a black eagle design worked in its center. A single yellow light dangling from a cord above the bed illuminated the room.
Raul Separdo followed them to the room, waited in the doorway. He stared from Garson to Medina with a look of questioning suspicion.
Medina crossed to a second door in the corner, opened it. “This is the bathroom,” he said. And while his face was concealed from Separdo by the door, he winked.
Garson nodded, longed for a moment alone with the evil visaged Medina to unravel this mystery.
“That’s enough, Choco,” said Separdo. “Let’s go.”
They left the room. Garson heard the click of a key in the lock. He crossed to the dangling light, turned it off, checked the windows: heavy frames cemented into adobe. The bars outside looked even more secure. He crossed to the bathroom: no window, only a vent above the shower.
He paused, thought: Am I trying to escape? Damn! Wild horses couldn’t get me out of here before I’ve solved the mystery of this place!
And he wondered then where they had secreted the queenly daughter, and if she knew of the hacienda’s prisoner.
Garson slipped off his wet clothes in the dark, draped them across the chair and the foot of the bed. It was a soft bed, and he felt deep fatigue, but he could not sleep. He stared at the faint moonglow on the ceiling.
They don’t dare kill me! But that Separdo’s crazy! What game are Luac and Medina playing? Does Separdo have some hold on them? Who’s this Olaf that Separdo fears?
He clasped his hands under his head, coughed, heard the cough echoed by someone outside his door.
Medina? Separdo? Medina would make himself known. He knows I’m popping with questions!
The warmth of the night was oppressive. Garson threw the serape off his bed. He recalled his agent’s telegram.
Anita Peabody was involved with a Communist front. Does this really have something to do with the Reds?
Somehow, that idea didn’t fit with Antone Luac’s personality.
And where is Anita Peabody? There’s something more here than a desire to remain hidden. Why would they think I’m with the secret service? What’s Luac’s secret—and why would they kill to keep it?
He saw the flare of a match through the crack beneath the door, again heard someone cough.
Garson stared at the ceiling, his thoughts clogged with questions.
The sleep of exhaustion overcame him. He slipped down into a dream peopled by a succession of Raul Separdos. The dream people appeared like stick figures parading past his eyes. A voice out of an echo box kept repeating: “To kill or not to kill? That is the question.”