Pattern for Panic (11 page)

He stared at the note, nibbling on his lip. Finally he said, “It would seem so. But this is crude. Who would believe it? I have everything to live for; no reason to die."

The General was wrong, and if he had been murdered there would never have been an investigation of his death—only I couldn't explain that to him. It wasn't crude at all, but diabolical and clever. The General, present at an erotic party with five other powerful, important men, men whose words would carry great weight with the police, sees a movie of Señora Lopez with another man. The General is shocked, hurt, crushed—and horribly embarrassed by this thing happening in front of those who know him. So he goes home, writes a note to his “Nana” and puts a bullet into his brain. The five others understand, sympathize, shrug their shoulders. Open and shut, case closed.

This, clearly, was not a simple extortion case. I'd thought it strange that the blackmailer hadn't seemed interested in further payments, even of fifty thousand pesos. It looked as though that film was primarily part of a plan to get rid of the General. And, too, if it
had
been shown on Edison Street, and if I hadn't been here playing patty-cake with the General's wife, neither she nor I nor anybody else would have known the suicide note wasn't exactly what it seemed to be. The blackmailer hadn't been interested in further payments
tomorrow,
because tomorrow there'd be nothing for the Countess to hide from the General; tomorrow the General was to be dead.

“General Lopez,” I said, “perhaps it wouldn't be wise to assume automatically that it was a Communist plan. Possibly it was something or someone else entirely—"

He interrupted, shaking his head firmly. “No, Mr. Scott. This time it was the Communist criminals. I am sure. I told you that I saw the man."

That jarred me. “You know him?"

“Indeed. His name is Rafael Belchardo. He is a fanatical Communist. One of the worst of the worst."

“Are you positive?"

“Absolutely. It is well known among those of us who understand the simple truth that a conspiracy is in fact a conspiracy. I know much of him. Belchardo is a graduate of the Lenin School of Moscow. While there, like thousands of others from free countries, he studied the techniques of revolution and civil war—the making of demonstrations and disorder, street fighting, guerrilla warfare, methods of sabotage, ways to make big troubles of little ones. He is an expert with all firearms, and was a member of the Communist Abraham Lincoln Brigade which fought in Spain.” He rubbed his head and said casually, “Not all Communists are professional murderers, though all are of course accessories to murder; but Belchardo is himself skilled in the art. Of course, he is only a tool, a pawn, he thinks with another's mind, like all of them. But his finger pulls the trigger."

While he spoke, my thoughts had jumped from one disturbing conclusion to another. Worry built up in me, and I glanced around for a telephone. There was a dial phone on the General's desk.

He was saying, “So it is not Belchardo, really, it is Señor Culebra, this man who hides behind the name of a serpent. He is the man who tries to kill me, because he is the biggest, most powerful, and the worst of them all in Mexico—and I am his most troublesome enemy."

I shook my head. “Culebra? Who is he?"

The General shrugged. “I do not know, nor even how to learn. But he is the one I have most been after, because he is they leader, the man who thinks. If I could find him...” He paused for a moment, not looking at me, but through me, not seeing me. His face looked almost cruel as he finished: “...I would kill him. Myself I would kill him. Then the little ones beneath him would run around like the toy men you wind up. They would run down like toy men."

He was silent for a moment and finally his eyes focused on me again. “I am sorry. I feel it very strongly. But no one knows him, only of him—of him and his cruelties and his viciousness."

Señora Lopez had been sitting quietly near the desk, and now she got up and walked to him, put her arm around his neck and spoke softly in Spanish. He patted her hand, squeezed it.

I thought a moment more about the suicide angle. If it was true that this had been a Commie plan to knock off the General, then both ends of the deal, the film and the “suicide,” must have been set up before the party started. Since Belchardo had gone through with the murder attempt, he must not have known the film hadn't been shown. It also seemed obvious, following through that line of reasoning, that the film must have been brought to the party by another comrade in on the plan—the guy with the scarred hand. Then one of the six men I had seen there was a Communist. But the most disturbing angle right now was the fact that Belchardo, the Commie who had tried to kill the General, was also the man who had started the beef at Monte Cassino which put me in jail.

I asked the General, “O.K. if I use your phone? I'd like to call downtown."

“Certainly, Mr. Scott."

I dialed the Prado and got Buff's room. While I waited for her to answer, it occurred to me that the police department would be a very handy place to plant a Communist cop. Then I realized the phone had rung a dozen times but there hadn't been any answer. I let the phone ring several times more, then called the doctor's room, and finally the desk, thinking maybe the Doc had shown up and he and Buff might be having a drink, or be down in the lobby. But I had them paged and there wasn't any answer. I hung up, the worry growing in me.

“General,” I said, “there's something I have to do. I'd better leave.” There was a lot more I wanted to learn from him, but I had to get to the Prado.

“I would send you in my car, but the servants are not here at this hour. Would you like a drink—or some coffee—before you leave?"

“No, thanks, General."

He stood up, holding his lapel with his left hand and stuck out his right. “Then good night, Mr. Scott. And thank you."

I shook his hand. I don't know why I hadn't noticed before. On his left hand, running from the knuckles clear up his wrist, was a wide red scar.

Chapter Nine

I stared at the scar for seconds, confused, then said, “I will have that drink, if you don't mind. I—I'll have to wait for a
libre
to get out here."

He nodded and I called a cab, said I'd pay much extra for speed, and hung up thinking about that scar. I knew I'd seen that hand put the film on the projector table. The General's hand.

The Countess went out after I mumbled I'd have a rum and Tehuacan. I couldn't believe that the General, knowing what was on that film, would have taken it to the party. If he had, he was a strange fruit.

Moreover, my most recent brilliant deduction had been that the guy with the scarred hand must be a Communist. I was so confused I actually wondered if I were talking to the real General Lopez.

I hunted for the right words and said slowly, “General, so many people today are indifferent to the danger of Communism—or ignorant of it—that I respect those who don't shrug it off as merely a liberal philosophy or a political party. So naturally I'm—curious about your own opposition to the conspiracy."

“But it is simple. The Communists are raping the world. And my country, my Mexico. Could I stand and watch? Would I not oppose this rape—this subversion and treason—of my country by Mexican Communists pretending to be loyal Mexicans?” He had spoken seriously, leaning forward and looking at me with a directness that was almost unnerving. Then, suddenly, he relaxed and laughed softly.

“But the answer is in your question, Mr. Scott—because the Communist conspiracy is a conspiracy. My wife has told me that you are as I, opposed to the Communists. But even if she had not said this, your words would reveal it. Those who like to pretend the conspiracy is not a conspiracy seldom speak of it
as
a conspiracy.
Verdad?
"

“
Verdad
; true, General."

“As you say, they speak of this evil as a philosophy or, ridiculously, as a way of thinking or a political party. They will agree that a thief is a thief, a blackmailer a blackmailer, a liar a liar, but they strangely will not agree that a Communist—who is all these things and many worse things—is a Communist. I am not concerned with a man's
politics,
they say, or his
political opinions.
It is most peculiar indeed—but do not forget, Mr. Scott, while some are merely fools, many who do this are themselves secretly under Communist discipline.” He scowled. “That, of course, is how the Communist succeeds in transmitting the line from Moscow—by pretending to be non-Communist."

One thing was sure, scar or no scar, he talked like General Lopez. No Communist, not even a concealed member-at-large, would talk as sensibly and bluntly as that. I was convinced; so, for my earlier confusion, there had to be some other explanation.

Suddenly General Lopez smiled. “Forgive” me. I will, as you would say, talk off your ears. Have I answered your question?"

“Completely.” I heard footsteps in the hallway outside and said, “I'd like to talk to you a little longer alone, General, if you don't mind."

He nodded as his wife came in with the drinks, then he spoke to her in Spanish. She left. As the door closed behind her I had a swallow of my highball and said, “General, I think what occurred here tonight might concern ... something else I'm interested in. Something very important. I'm going to need to learn, from you, everything that happened to you tonight."

He frowned. I went on. “I want you to tell me where you were before this happened, what you did, whom you saw."

His frown deepened and he licked his lips. “I do not comprehend what—” He stopped suddenly and jerked a little, looking at me queerly. I had a hunch he was remembering the disturbance on Edison Street earlier this evening. And there was no help for it; pretty quick he was going to have a good idea that I had caused it.

I said, “I realize I sound nosy, but it's damned important to me—and also to you, maybe."

He leaned forward. “All right. I went to a meeting with some friends."

“What kind of meeting?"

“Hm. A business meeting."

“On Calle Edison?"

The General started looking green. He looked at me, thought some more.
"Chihuahua!"
he said softly. The General was now good and green. He glanced at the door through which his wife had gone, then looked at me and swallowed.

“You ... are working for my wife? To protect me, no?"

“Yes. However, I have nothing to report to her, since she already knows what happened here. But, just for my
own
benefit, I'd very much like to know what happened earlier."

He licked his lips again, thought for a minute, then took a deep breath and started talking; he spilled it all. Occasionally the General went to such gatherings—but he loved his wife. He loved her with a madness, he loved her with a passion, he loved her with a desperation. She, too, loved him with all these things. This other was nothing. Finally he told me the party had been arranged by one Villamantes, a wealthy import-export dealer. Also present were a General Fernandez, the president and the vice president of a large union—and the
Jefe de Policía,
the Chief of Police.

He went on through the whole story, including all that I had seen myself.

I said, “So there were movies. Now, were all of these movies the property of the management, or were some brought to the party?” I had my coat unbuttoned so I'd have a chance to shoot him first if he tried to shoot me. I didn't know quite what the hell I was getting into.

He blinked. “Hum. There was one, er, film brought to the party."

“By you?"

“No."

“What was the film?"

“I do not know."

“Was it put with other films near this projector?"

He blinked some more, rapidly. “Hey,” he said, “where the hell were you?"

I couldn't help grinning, but I shook my head.

He said, “I myself put this film on the table. It was given to me after we arrived at this ... place on Edison. I was told this one would be of particular interest to me. Why, I do not know. I was told to watch particularly for it. But it was never seen. This, ah, man, he stole it."

“Who gave it to you, General?"

“Why, my friend Villamantes."

“He isn't your friend. He is a Communist who expected you to be murdered tonight."

I was jumping a little at that one, but if Villamantes had given the film to the General, he undoubtedly knew what was on it. Also, if Communists were behind the attempt to kill the General, it followed that Villamantes was the Communist at the party.

The General was still staring at me. He said, “You must be mistaken. He is my friend."

I wished I could tell the General why I knew damn well that the man who'd given him the film was not his friend. But I couldn't; the relationship between the General and me was shaky enough already. Right now he thought I was working for him, but if he ever learned his wife and I had been working together, against him so to speak—not to protect his life, but for the real reason—the General would cool considerably toward me and I would be back in the clink. Forever. I remembered Captain Emilio. Forever was the right word.

I took another tack. “Who fought in the darkness with ... with this man?"

“Señor Villamantes."

So Villamantes was the chap I'd slugged and kicked in the face, the guy who'd followed me into the Frontón Palace.

“Who shot at the man?"

“Señor Villamantes."

“Who chased him?"

“The
Jefe de Policía
and Señor Villamantes."

It was the way it had to be if Villamantes had given the General the film. He was the only man present who knew its importance; when the lights went out he'd have been the only one to start worrying right away. He'd set up the party, brought the film—might even have been responsible for getting it made in the first place. He'd fought me, shot at me, chased me. He was my boy, all right. He was also the sonofabitch who'd had a ball pinching the pretties. A sadistic character like that would be just the type to enjoy being present when the General got it smack between the eyes.