Assignment to Disaster (9 page)

Shadow-silent, Durell drifted away from the window, down the balcony, down the steps, and back to his waiting cottage. Miguel was gone. He locked the door, checked out the windows, and sat on the bed in the darkness.

Now he began to shake.

He thought of Deirdre and the giant with the shaved head. He prayed she would talk quickly, before they hurt her too much.

His trembling grew worse.

If she talked, if she broke quickly, she would arrive here escorted by the bullet head. If not…

He found the bottle of bourbon and took another drink. It did nothing for him. He still shook. He told himself that he must not let Deirdre Padgett mean this much to him. He told himself that she was only a small part of the pattern unfolding inexorably before him. The wind whimpered around the cottage, blew through the palms, rustled in the shrubbery. It was already past four o'clock in the morning. He had not had any real sleep except for brief, troubled snatches back in Washington before Lew was killed, and on the plane that brought him here. But he was not tired, nor was he sleepy. He reached for a cigarette.

Another drink was a temptation, but he put it from him. He took a hot shower instead, and then he shaved. The windows were gray with dawn. He watched the daylight come, and he waited.

From the aquamarine tiled pool, he could watch the ornate entrance to the Salamander grounds and the crushed stone driveway that swept up to the lobby door. The desert sun was incredible, a burning weight on his bare chest and shoulders. Durell had bought a pair of swim trunks, adding thirty dollars to his bill, wondering if he would have to pay this himself. Although it was eleven o'clock in the morning, not too many of the guests had appeared yet. Several women in bathing suits that would not have been allowed on public beaches lay on air mattresses, their fine legs and pampered bodies oiled and glistening, little jeweled nose guards and dark glasses protecting what they wanted to protect. They looked at Durell with interest and invitation, but he ignored them. Now and then he watched the Mexican help move quickly and silently to answer a summons for breakfast or a hangover cure from one of the cottages. Quite a few of the breakfasts were solely liquid.

Over everything was the bright sun, the heat, the dry clear air. Twice Durell felt concussions that meant a rocket was being tested twenty or thirty miles away to the south, in the restricted government testing area. Nobody paid any attention.

There were no new arrivals.

Occasionally a station wagon came and went, or a little MG, and once a Rolls departed, carrying the regal personage of an aging Hollywood actress. He wondered how they planned to bring Deirdre here, once she talked;
if
she talked. Probably by private plane, landing somewhere in the desert. No difficulty there. Durell lay on his stomach and sweated. And she did not come.

He saw Miguel carrying a breakfast tray, his thick gray hair shining in the brilliant sunshine. Miguel looked through him and hurried on.

He watched the chambermaids, slim light-footed girls with beautiful carriage and dark olive skins, moving silently from cottage to cottage, doing their work. There were more people at the pool now. A group sat near him, talking too loudly, their accents British and Newport and too .shrill. The women looked anxious and tense and unhappy. The men were bored.

Lying there in the brutal glare of the sun, he felt again that someone was watching him.

He lifted his head and turned, feeling the sweat on his skin pull at the air mattress under him. He saw long, firm, tanned legs, a short striped jacket that gave the illusion that there was no clothing under it. Cora Neville stood with her eyes hidden behind green harlequin glasses, a cigarette in one hand.

"Mr. Durell?"

He started to rise, and she waved him down and sank to the mattress beside him. There came a shriek of laughter from the pool and she looked that way, smiling, before turning to him again. Her movements were graceful, studied, and mechanical. Her blonde hair looked almost white against the dark tan of her face.

"You must forgive me," she said, "for intruding on your solitude. I am Cora Neville. The Salamander is mine. I hope you are comfortable?"

"I'd be a dog if I said I wasn't," Durell replied.

She smiled. It was a stretching and twitching of tiny muscles at the corners of her perfect mouth, nothing more.

"You slept well, then," she said.

"Of course."

"While you are here, you must make use of our facilities. We have saddle horses, games of all kinds, the finest restaurant between New Orleans and San Francisco. If you are lonely, we can even arrange to take care of that." The smile again, meaning nothing. "Do you plan to stay with us long?"

"Perhaps until the Fourth of July," Durell said.

Nothing happened.

There was more shrieking from the big kidney-shaped pool.

Cora Neville smoked, dragging deeply at the cigarette. It was all that betrayed her. She said, "Mr. Durell, I trust you are not from the police."

He pretended surprise. "That's an odd remark to make to a guest."

"I am a busy woman, Mr. Durell. I must be sure. I have made my position plain enough. Will you be equally frank with me?"

"I'm not from the police," Durell said.

"But you are working with them, or for them, in the matter of Cal Padgett. You inquired about Calvin's sister last night when you registered. I should have refused you accommodations then, but I am tired of arguing with Colonel Larabee about it. I have influential friends. I told Larabee so. I can use that influence to have you thrown out of here on a moment's notice, Mr. Durell."

He watched the entrance, not meaning to have his attention distracted if Deirdre arrived. The gateway was empty. Under other circumstances, he would have been enjoying himself. Cora Neville was easily the most beautiful woman he had seen for a long time. Her hip-length jacket was open now, and he saw she was wearing a burgundy bathing suit, remarkably modest in view of what seemed to be the vogue around him. He looked at the gate again.

"She isn't here yet," Cora said bluntly.

"But you expect her?"

"We have her reservation in our files, as you know. Are you well acquainted with Miss Padgett?"

"I've never met her."

She said, too casually, "But you know what she looks like?"

"Tall redhead, beautiful."

"Yes." She seemed relieved. "Calvin spoke of her often. I wish to impress upon you, Mr. Durell, that I will not tolerate a scene here. I cannot afford to divert my guests that way. As for my relations with Calvin, I have already explained them many times to Colonel Larabee. It was nothing. He was a young man I took a temporary liking to, nothing more."

"Was?" Durell asked.

She looked puzzled, then shrugged. "I think of him in the past, because nothing came of it. He thought he was in love with me, but it was a mistake. We had fun for a few weeks, the few times he called for me. Nothing more than that. I know you people are looking for him, but I can't help you. I don't know what he's done or why he seems to be so terribly important to you. I don't know where he is now."

"I believe you," Durell said.

Now she was surprised. She tried to hide it by playing with the cigarette. Durell took it from her fingers and crushed it out in an ash tray at the edge of the pool. A girl swam by, splashed water at him, laughed, and dived away. It was getting quite noisy at the Salamander now as more guests revived. Miguel went by. His eyes looked reptilian for the moment they rested on Cora Neville. The woman did not notice him, any more than she noticed the palm trees, the shrubbery, the discreet cottages, the people in the pool.

"I wish…" she began.

Durell waited.

Her mouth shook.

He glanced in the direction she was looking, and he saw the manager, George West, standing on the wide shallow steps of the lobby entrance, his tanned face alert, hard, dangerous.

"You were going to say something," Durell reminded her.

Cora Neville stood up. "It was nothing."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked.

She looked down at him. "It's so easy to feel safe, when you have everything behind you, when all the money and power and energy have molded you and made you conform. But if you stumble, if you fall out of line, what then, Mr. Durell? Then you are afraid, isn't it so?"

"Are you out of line?" he asked.

"I'm out of my mind," she said, and walked away from him, toward the man who stood on the steps, watching.

The kind of work you do, Durell thought, is like that of an infantryman during a war. There are moments of intense activity, the heart-hammering excitement of an instant's action, and then there is the waiting. You've waited before, waited and watched, and let the hours go by in patience, in the sure knowledge of your business, which is mostly this waiting and watching.

But this waiting is different. Why? You stretch out here in the incredible sun by this pool under a desert sky and idle people around you accept you and step over you and talk about you or ignore you. But your heart lurches, your stomach is knotted, you stretch your fingers and watch them tremble. And you wonder why.

You saw her only briefly, for only a few minutes. At first she hated you and then she tolerated you and at last she trusted you. What makes her different from all the other women you have known? You might as well ask why oxygen and hydrogen make water instead of oil. There is no reason for this. It just exists. It came into being when you first saw her, standing like a doe at bay on that street in Washington. How long ago? Only a day. Or a lifetime. But it is there. When you think that they may have hurt her, or killed her, then you feel a lust to avenge, and this is not the way you have been trained, which was to analyze with a cool mind and a detached heart, so you may judge your moves correctly and live.

Suddenly Durell was sure she was dead, that they had killed her. They would have tortured her, but she would not have spoken. She was not coming. He stood up, and suddenly Miguel was there before him, a drink in his hand. The old Mexican's face was bland, unsmiling.

"Your bourbon, señor."

"I ordered nothing."

"Please take the drink. They are watching. T must have some excuse to talk to you, do you understand?"

"What?" Durell said. Sickness surged in him. And hate. And anger. "What are you saying?"

"She is here, señor. The Senorita Padgett."

Durell looked at the gateway. A dusty, sand-stained station wagon was parked by the lobby steps. A man got out of it and Durell's heart began to hammer. It was the giant with the bullet head. The man who had killed Lew Osbourn.

Then the girl stepped out, her head high, calm and poised. Red hair caught the highlights of the desert sun and glowed with copper. Long legs moved easily up the steps beside the crop-headed giant.

She looked enough like Deirdre Padgett to have been her sister, perhaps, or a camera stand-in.

But she was not Deirdre.

They had rung in a double.

They had killed her.

Now he was cold and deadly calm. Now he knew what had to be done. Nothing was going to stop him. He left the pool and went back to his cottage and dressed with care, checked his gun and cartridges, and rang for service. The telephone in the cottage was a temptation to call Larabee, to dump it in Larabee's lap. But he wanted no one to share this with him. It was something he had to do alone. For Lew and for the girl. The ringer did not interest him. She was merely a decoy, and probably innocent of the meaning of what her role called for. She was only the lure that would make Calvin Padgett expose himself. She could be ignored.

Miguel came in answer to his summons. The little Mexican slipped into the cottage quietly, bobbed his head, and waited.

He spoke in Spanish. "Sit down. Miguel."

"It is not permitted. You wish to order something?"

"I said to sit down."

The old man sat on the edge of the couch. Alarm touched his dark, aged eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"Very wrong. Have you notified Calvin Padgett that his sister has arrived?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

Durell said earnestly, "Miguel, listen to me. There is not much time. A trick has been played upon you and me and upon our mutual friend, the young man I seek."

"A trick?"

"The young woman who arrived here twenty minutes ago, escorted by a murderer, is not Deirdre Padgett."

Miguel lurched to his feet. His face twisted. "You are lying to me, señor."

"I am not lying. Do I look as if I am lying?"

"But if what you say is so…"

"The true sister must be dead," Durell finished for him.

Miguel's face was gray. "They would not do such a thing."

"They would. They have. They have killed my best friend. They have killed the girl. The one who arrived here is an actress, paid to impersonate Deirdre Padgett, so that Calvin will reveal himself. Do you understand now?" Durell heard the sound of his voice, harsh and brazen in the cottage. He spoke more softly. "Have you called Calvin and said that his sister has arrived?"

"Yes, señor," Miguel whispered.

"Then you must take me to him."

"But…"

"At once."

"I promised…"

Durell took out his gun. He pointed it at the old man. "Do you wish to die, Miguel?"

"I am not afraid of death. I am at peace with God."

"Get up," Durell said. "Take me to Padgett."

Miguel arose wearily. His eyes touched the gun, then Durell's face. "You were in love with the sister, señor?"

"I don't know. Yes. Why do you ask?"

"It is in your eyes. I am sorry, señor."

"Let's go," Durell said.