Darkest Hour (23 page)

“Play ‘Estrellita’!” Angie cried. “I’ll cry. I always cry, but play it anyway.”

Simon watched Vera open her handbag and search for a coin. As the harpist adjusted the strings of his instrument, she deliberately took out a piece of silver and tossed it past the musician so it would roll to Simon’s feet. She watched him pick it up and walk toward her. “You overshot the mark,” he said. “Care to try again?”

“Thank you,” she said. “No harm done.”

She held out her palm to receive the coin and Simon saw something glitter in the sunlight. He placed the quarter in her hand and picked up Wanda’s ring.

“No harm done,” she repeated.

“Right,” Simon said. He pocketed the ring and walked away quickly. He couldn’t ask how she had come to be in this place or how she had recovered the ring, and he could no longer dare to steal a ride in the wagon, but he did know that Jack Keith had kept a bargain. Wanda was safe. Now he could move.

It was still a long walk up the hill to the border-control station, but Simon thought he might not have to make the walk alone. The streets were filling with school-aged children now and what traffic passed through the village was at a standstill. Mexican people love their children. Max Berlin could bribe public officials and maintain a stooge at the hotel, but even he wouldn’t dare endanger a child. They were everywhere. Simon moved in among them and placed his arms about the shoulders of two ten-year-olds as they moved by the observant eyes of the policeman. One false move—one tiny infringement of the law—and he might be jailed incommunicado for days. The boys were his cover.

“I’ll bet you boys can’t tell me whose name is on the bronze plaque in the plaza,” he said.

“How much do you bet?” the first boy asked.

“Fifty cents.”

“Make it a dollar.”

“Okay, a dollar.”

“Then pay me. El Presidente Lopez Morales—that’s whose name is on the plaque in the plaza.”

“That’s right!” cried the second boy. “You pay!”

By this time they were almost a whole block up the hill leaving the policeman and the traffic behind. It might be as easy to leave the village as it had been to leave Max Berlin’s spa.

“You owe me a dollar!” the first boy challenged.

“I’ll pay, I’ll pay!” Simon laughed. He loosened his hold on the boys’ shoulders and stumbled a little as he dug into his coat pocket for his wallet.

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“I hurt it,” Simon said.

“How did you hurt it?”

If he made the injury interesting enough to young ears they might accompany him another block. He held out the dollars for a lure. “I hurt it riding a motorcycle,” he lied.

“What kind of motorcycle do you have?”

“BSA Hornet,” Simon said. It was really Chester’s bike but this was no time to split hairs.

“Dirt track?”

“How do you think I hurt this leg?”

Simon relinquished the dollar and held his audience spellbound to the next intersection. When the boys split he looked back down the hill to see if there was any sign of pursuit. Something was happening in the street opposite the plaza. The blue station wagon had attempted a U turn from the curb and was blocking the progress of another silver beer truck. The driver of the truck was pounding on the horn and the policeman was wading through a sea of children waving both arms and shouting incoherent directives. If Vera Raymond had planned to create a distraction she was successful. Simon took a deep breath, gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg and continued the climb. He didn’t pause to look back again until he had reached the border station. What he saw then was an only slightly less confused situation than previously. The station wagon was proceeding slowly through the crowd and the truck was trying to pass as they approached the hill. Simon turned to the border guard who smiled courteously while processing his credentials. He was free.

He continued to walk. The station wagon would be coming through the reentry station within a few minutes. He wanted the pickup to look casual just in case Berlin’s influence extended this far.

The road widened at the first curve and Simon looked back. What he saw was puzzling. At last view the station wagon had been ahead of the truck and, being much the lighter vehicle, should have been first to arrive at the border. But this wasn’t the case. No station wagon was in sight, but the truck, engine running, idled at the station while the guard studied the driver’s bill of lading. He watched him return the sheet and wave the driver on. The huge cab and trailer roared into gear and raced toward him. Air brakes groaned and the van came to a halt at the curb.

The driver was a young giant with a heavy growth of black hair on his head and sleeveless arms, and a big black cigar clamped between his teeth. He opened the cab door and beckoned. “Hop in,” he called. “You’ve got nothing but hills and curves for the next eight miles.”

This wasn’t the lift Simon wanted. He stared back at the border but no station wagon came into view. If something was amiss and the women were in trouble with the law he could be of more use to them stateside than sharing a provincial jail. “Thanks,” he said, and climbed into the cab. The truck roared forward. The driver hadn’t lied; past the first curve the narrow road began a tortuous climb. In spite of the grade the huge vehicle gained speed. Simon glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the trailer swing out wildly behind the cab—too light to hold the road at such speed. Sudden fear sharpened the senses. There was a reason why the truck was able to pass the station wagon on the hill: it was empty.

“You must have gotten your driver’s license in a Tijuana cab,” Simon muttered.

The driver crouched over the steering wheel, grinning. “Eight miles,” he repeated, never taking the cigar from between his teeth. “Get lost in this place, or stumble into a ravine, and only the buzzards know for sure. Hombre, I think that door next to you didn’t close tight—”

The fear hadn’t come soon enough for Simon to be ready for the next move. The driver leaned across him and slapped the door handle. The big door swung open as he spun the wheel to the right and banked into a sharp turn. Simon’s body lurched toward the gap where the door had been. He grabbed the door frame with both hands and shoved his feet forward to brace against expulsion. They were still climbing at a reckless speed while the tops of the scrub growth nodded at the rim of the canyon. Now the road jackknifed back and the driver swung the cab outward to wipe Simon off on the edge of a solid rock wall. The swinging door saved him, taking the blow first at a momentum that ripped loose the hinges and sent it clattering down the road behind them. Simon, tensed for the next curve, screamed when the hot cigar seared into the flesh of his hand. This was Max Berlin’s brand of good-by. Not a snub—just a bleached skeleton that someone might find someday in the belly of a rocky ravine. The truck hit a dip and gained momentum for the next curve, and this time, Simon knew, he would get a blow from one of those hairy arms to make certain he took the plunge. He shifted his grip on the top of the cab and drew back his legs. He had time for one kick—both feet hard against the steering wheel as it started to spin to the right. Finger bones cracked under his heels and the truck veered toward a rock wall on the opposite side of the road. The driver hit the air brakes and yanked at the wheel. The cab lurched. Simon felt the metal of the door frame ripping at his hands as he pulled his feet away from the steering wheel and swung his body sideways back into the cab. The driver mouthed a curse and brought the silver behemoth to a grinding stop at the base of the dip. Directly ahead the road was blocked by a huge sedan parked sideways across both traffic lanes. A Cadillac. Simon was out of the cab before the driver could react, and Jack Keith, his shotgun pointed at the driver’s head, stepped out of the shelter of a boulder and yelled:

“Come out of that cab with both hands in the sky—like
now!”

He stepped forward and yanked open the door. The driver, the cigar hanging loosely from his mouth, crawled out and raised his arms. “Simon,” Keith called, “get off your rump and open up the trailer. We don’t have time for chitchat.”

The tone was authoritative. Simon scrambled to the rear of the truck and opened the rear doors to the trailer. It was an empty shell that was about to become accommodations for one. Keith’s shotgun prodded the driver to the opening.

“Inside,” he ordered.

“How did you know where to find me?” Simon asked.

“Easy. You rented a plane and flew to La Verde. Your plane never left that field again, but Whitey Sanders’ Bonanza checked out shortly after you left Bonnie Penny at the Gateway. I twisted Whitey’s arm and he admitted loaning it to Max Berlin…. Wait, frisk the driver before he gets in the trailer. What’s he carrying?”

He was carrying a switch-blade knife and a loaded Luger. Simon handed the knife to Keith and held on to the Luger. Max Berlin hadn’t returned Keith’s automatic. It seemed a fair exchange.

“Okay, get him inside and latch the door. We’ve got to get this rig rolling. Berlin has a landing strip about a mile from his spa. By this time the town cop is telephoning the word that the truck driver crossed the border. Within a few minutes we can expect an air escort to make sure everything goes according to plan.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Simon said. “How did you know I was on this road?”

“Look behind you,” Keith answered.

The station wagon had just come into view and stopped a few feet from the three men standing before the open van. Vera Raymond held a small microphone in her hand. She put it down and stepped out of the wagon and Simon got the significance of the tall antennae. Vera was the go-between. She had been in radio contact with Keith all the time. She must have received the ring from him after he arranged Wanda’s release.

Keith waved her back to the car. “Keep moving!” he shouted.

“I can’t until you move the Cadillac,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll move it.” Keith started to turn away but Simon blocked his passage. “You drive the truck,” he said. “I want to borrow the Cadillac.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Keith protested. “You can’t go back to the spa now. You’ll be shot on sight. It’s all over anyway. Berlin got the notebook and formula in exchange for Wanda, and whoever paid him to snatch it has completed the deal. They’ll beat the legitimate drug interests by several months and that’s all they need. The legits won’t squawk because publicity will hurt their Dow Jones. The ball game’s over, Simon. Forget it!”

“Forget it!” The words were Vera’s. Tense and ashen-faced, she walked slowly toward them. The challenge was for Keith; her eyes were on the truck driver. Suddenly, so quickly Simon had barely enough time to pull back his hand, she reached for the Luger. The tension had to explode somewhere. The driver was a substitute for Berlin. “Forget that Sam was murdered?” she cried.

“Vera, no!” Simon said. “This man goes into the truck. The one who killed Sam Goddard is dead.” He had no doubt that she would have shot the driver if she held the gun. The driver had no doubt either. He leaped up into the trailer and Simon slammed the doors shut and fixed the latch. “Go back to the station wagon,” he ordered. “Get away from here fast.” Vera didn’t seem to hear. There was something sick in her eyes that was frightening. “Please!” Simon begged. Slowly, like a sleepwalker, she responded and returned to the wagon. Simon turned to Keith. “One of the men who killed Goddard is dead,” he added, “but the other is still alive, for a few hours at least. It will take Berlin that long to learn what happened here. That’s all the time I need.”

But now Keith had noticed Simon’s leg. Using it on the truck driver had worsened the limp. “You’re hurt!” he said.

“I’ll survive,” Simon retorted. “You drive the truck to wherever you can get transportation home and abandon it. If Berlin wants his assassin back he can send out a posse. And no police on this—not yet. I want to take this man alive and talking. We don’t need Duane Thompson’s heavy hand spoiling the show.”

Simon didn’t wait for an argument. The keys to the truck were in the ignition. He tossed them back to Keith as he passed the cab. The keys to the Cadillac were also in the ignition where they would have to be to insure a quick getaway. Simon limped to the sedan and wrenched open the door. He had the motor running and the big car nosed about in the right-hand lane before Keith could get his jaw limbered up to curse. It was only about five miles to the junction now and he would find another route back into Mexico. Keith had stripped the Cadillac of excess weight and it was over-powered. It wouldn’t go as fast as the XK-E, but it had an even chance of catching the Cougar. An even chance was all anyone could ask.

• • •

Only a small part of a lawyer’s life is spent in a courtroom; the greater part of his energies go into research and public relations, and outguessing Otto meant projecting into his mind and trying to imagine what he would do on a holiday. Otto didn’t seem a complex type. He had told the gatekeeper at the spa that he was going fishing, and that was probably exactly what he meant to do. Simon drove directly toward the fisherman’s wharf. At sundown Ensenada had a mellow, pinkish cast. The sea was choppy and the wind high; the sky clear, the air cool. Day was ending and the sturdy little fishing craft gossiped at anchor like housewives at the market place. It was too early for much business at the hot spots, but it was tethering time at the motels and Simon kept a weather eye out for the green Cougar.

He found it one hour later in the parking area which serviced the Harbor Hotel. It was a motel-type building with all rooms opening on outside balconies. The manager was all too eager to tell Simon that Otto had room 27 and that it was two doors from the second floor. Simon ascended quietly, his fingers gripping the Luger in his right-hand pocket. It was totally dark now, and the cheap drapes drawn at the window of Otto’s room showed a light within. Simon listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he raised his hand to knock, but then the door opened under his pressure. The small room contained a double bed, a soiled arm chair and a dresser. A black slicker hung on one hanger of a clothing rod and a canvas bag, unopened, stood on the floor, but no one was home. Otto had come; Otto had gone. Unaccountably, he had left the door unlocked. Simon turned his attention to the dresser where an empty cigarette package was stuffed into an otherwise unused ashtray. There was also a ballpoint pen and a sheet of ruled tablet paper attached by paper clip to a sheaf of newspaper cuttings. The cuttings were all stories on Eve Potter’s murder, and the tablet paper was covered with an uneven handwriting in German. Simon strained to translate:

“I make this confession to ease my conscience. I can no longer live with the guilt of what I have done …”

Florid, Teutonic and pathetic. Max Berlin must have composed the note himself. Someone had come to Otto’s room and set the scene for the phony suicide, and that meant that somebody else was waiting for Otto’s return. Simon returned to the balcony. Darkness gave more contrast in the parking lot now: more depth to the shadows and more light from the street. He watched the approach for at least five minutes before he saw the huge bulk of Otto come into sight. He carried a small package under one arm and was hungrily devouring a triple-scoop ice-cream cone. As he reached the Cougar a second man, smaller and stealthier, moved in behind him. Otto was unaware of the follower. He unlocked the Cougar, tore open the package and took out two packs of cigarettes, tossing the rest of the carton into the front seat. He started to relock the door.