The Big Bite (7 page)

Leaving Adele Fisher, Knox went off to change into clothing suitable for the casino. The night air, warm as it was, cleared his head a little. He decided that a cup of coffee might also be useful and he turned into the main building.

He took a seat in the lounge near where Señor Gomez and his companion were sipping brandy. Chuco came up and Knox ordered coffee. When Chuco served it, he bent so far over that his fierce mustache tickled Knox’s ear.

“Forrest is in with the boss.”

Knox barely moved his lips. “Come to my cabin.” He took up his coffee and sipped at it.

While he drank, Knox had a good look at the diplomat. He seemed in the half-doze of the semi-invalid he was supposed to be and scarcely stirred except to take an occasional sniff at his brandy. His companion was silently attentive, as if waiting for an order. The diplomat, Knox decided, was not as old as he appeared. He was thin—smallish and wiry—with the razor-edged features typical of a certain class of Spaniard. His skin was stretched taut over sharply ridged bones, but it was smooth. If it had not been for the white hair worn brushed back in a loose crest, the man would not have looked over forty.

Suddenly the eyes of Señor Gomez came fully open and stared straight at Knox. They were dark and very alert, very alive for the instant. He smiled at Knox, a quick, pleasant smile, and then the eyelids drooped and the smile went. He seemed to have lost all interest.

Knox finished his coffee and walked to his cabin. He found Chuco inside, drinking a beer.

“They must be cooking on the island,” Chuco said. “First, that Forrest waylaid me, like I told you earlier. Now he’s in with the boss and there’s telephoning going through a direct line.”

Knox had too much Irish in him to be able to give the information the attention it deserved. “Look, I have a date. How about bringing in my breakfast tomorrow so we can talk? And keep your eye on Forrest.”

“Can do.” Chuco set down his empty beer bottle and was gone.

Knox sat by the curtained window and smoked a cigarette and tried to consider things in the proper perspective. Forrest obviously suspected something. He wondered if the man had any way of following: up Nat’s leave-taking. Probably not; he would not have considered it worth the effort. Still, in Forrest’s position, he would have followed up the lead. Knox was glad he had taken the precaution of sending that letter to San Francisco.

He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. Lifting the phone, he called Adele Fisher’s cabin. He said when she answered, “Paul Knox. Still want to go to the casino?”

The academic voice was slightly slurred but sufficiently distinct. “You betcha.”

She let him in, a glass in her hand. The bottle sat where he had left it but with no more than a single healthy drink showing.

“I like a man in a white dinner jacket,” she observed, surveying him. “Especially if he’s tanned.”

She finished her drink, took three perfectly straight steps to the divan, picked up a light, short cape and draped it over her shoulders. Tucking an evening purse in her left hand, she said, “Let’s go break the bank and then celebrate by going down to the beach and singing dirty songs. I know dozens of ‘em.”

Knox held the door for her and, when she was outside, saw that the door was locked and the key in her purse. Then, with one hand under her elbow, he steered her to the Viewhouse.

• • •

Forrest was drinking gin and tonic and smoking the manager’s imported cigarettes. Señor Portales was tall and lean, with a face that looked as if he washed it daily with vinegar. Forrest was not enlivening his expression.

“Did you call as I told you?”

“Certainly. I do as I’m ordered.”

“I hope you did better than I getting him to hurry.”

The telephone rang. Portales almost smiled. “You see.” He answered the ring. It was Mexico City. He handed over the phone. “Cuchino.”

Forrest said with no preamble, “Go ahead.” He listened, frowned, then smiled. It was an unpleasant smile. “Curtis, eh! Good! Now get onto the other matter.” He hung up.

Portales was looking expectant. “Well?”

“The dame who spent the night in Knox’s cabin flew from Vera Cruz. Cuchino is sure it’s the same woman who got off the plane and went to the Del Prado.”

“A tart who could not afford to pay Marengo at the Del Prado?”

“Exactly.”

“So?”

“She registered and Cuchino found her room, but she disappeared from it. At the same time, another guest of the hotel asked that a charter service be provided for her to here—tomorrow.”

“Ah, the reservation I received this evening. A Madame LeGage, French.”

“We’ll see,” Forrest murmured.

Portales shrugged. Forrest rose. “As for Curtis, let’s say we were wise to act as we did. Very wise. That’s all you need to know for now. If Cuchino reports, inform me at once.”

“Naturally.”

Forrest hesitated at the door. “These fishermen …?”

“Just that, no more.”

“Make sure,” he ordered. “And that woman—the one with the tape recorder and the knickers?”

“What she claims. Must all my guests be suspect?”

Forrest grunted but did not answer. As he turned to go, his expression was thoughtful. Portales, of course, might not be in a position to know about the woman; he did not hold a very responsible post. Still …

He saw Chuco, and his thoughts turned that way. The damned fool, always coming over to chase Manuelita. He would have to ask Portales about him. He returned to the room abruptly.

“This Chuco?”

“Him? A good worker. Hot-blooded, but a boy who likes the peso and so curbs himself.”

“He has eyes and ears and he’s always at the island.”

“So would I be if I could get close to Manuelita. Don’t worry. If he should think anything, he would ask me. He is a bold one. And if he should ask, I shall show him money.”

“Be sure it’s
our
money he likes.”

He went out and up the stairs to the casino. The stolid-faced Indian was running the chuck-a-luck cage. Forrest, who had a mild passion for the game, turned away and went toward the roulette wheel. There was something about the man that bothered him, although Portales swore that he was no more than a waiter. But there was that look in his eyes …

Forrest was annoyed. The roulette wheel was surrounded by noisy fishermen. Slot machines did not interest him, and he turned to go out. He did not want to return to the island because there he would only be tortured by Natalie’s aloofness. There was a little girl in town, Manuela’s cousin, who worked at the cantina and should be coming off shift about now.

He was going down the stairs when he met Knox coming up. Beside Knox, looking superb as she held up the edge of her long skirt to negotiate the stairs, was Adele Fisher. Forrest stopped before he caught himself.

“Good evening.” He took two more steps and then turned sideways to let them pass, his eyes measuring Adele Fisher.

“Any luck?” Knox asked pleasantly.

“Too crowded,” Forrest said.

Adele Fisher said with the grave speech of the pleasantly drunk, “Phoo. We’ll break the bank anyway.” She nodded pleasantly at Forrest. “Then we’re going to the beach to sing dirty songs. Can you sing dirty songs?”

“I’m in poor voice tonight,” Forrest said, and went on.

• • •

Doctor Adele Fisher was beating the huaraches off the house at roulette. Knox played along with her, riding her luck with small bets. The fishermen had stopped some time before; now they formed a semicircle behind her and Knox to watch the battle.

Knox turned and saw the diplomat with his small aide by his side. The razor-sharp face was impassive, but the eyes were very much awake now. Behind him, looking as if he had drunk his ration of vinegar, was Portales.

“Whee!” Adele cried. “I’m bareback and heading for home!”

Knox didn’t quite know what that was supposed to mean, but no matter what she did or said, she could not lose. An investment of twenty dollars had grown to well over a thousand. Before Portales managed to comprehend what was happening and to maneuver himself close enough to stop the play, she had run her winnings to almost three thousand dollars.

“Please,” Portales said, “the wheel must close.” He looked appealingly at the crowd. “This is yet a small enterprise. So new, so few customers …”

Adele Fisher was trying to gather all her chips into her arms. “Sure,” she said. “It bores me anyway.” She tried to give the chips to Knox and only succeeded in scattering them on the table and the floor. “Cash them for me, will you, my little Seattle seagull. I have to comb my hair.”

Knox looked after her, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he began to gather the chips together. “In your office, Señor Portales?”

“If you please.”

They counted the chips and then went to Portales’ office. He turned to his safe slowly. Knox said, “I hope you have dollars enough.”

“Of course.” He handed Knox a thick sheaf of bills.

Knox folded them and put them into his pocket. “She was very lucky,” he commented.

Portales groaned.

“Maybe you’ll win it back,” Knox said.

“In two weeks, this is the first time she has played.” Knox shrugged. “Maybe you’ll win it from Gomez then.”

“Him? He has too bad the heart to play.”

That interested Knox. Could a man with heart trouble have manhandled Adele Fisher as she claimed she had been manhandled? Knox said, “Those on the island appear rich. They may come to play.”

There was a moment’s silence. Portales seemed to have lost interest. “Perhaps, señor.”

Knox found Adele standing drinks for everyone. A glass of Irish was thrust into his hand as he stepped to her side. “Here’s your money.”

“Wow! I did it, didn’t I? I really broke the bank.”

“Busted,” he agreed. “Want this in the safe?”

She seemed almost sober as she answered in a low tone, “No, keep it for me. I want it where I can get at it. Let’s get out of here.”

They got, leaving enough money on the bar to keep the fishermen and their wives happy for another hour. Knox escorted Adele, who had a tendency to wobble on her spike heels, down the path to the beach behind the small pier that belonged to the Viewhouse. The air was heavy, the sky overcast. There was a motionless, silent brooding against which the soft lapping of the small waves seemed to be muffled as though striking against velvet. Knox was sweating slightly by the time they reached the beach.

Looking back, he thought the lights of the Viewhouse rather friendly. So were those glowing on the island. The night itself was ugly and thick tonight. Knox did not like it at all.

Adele Fisher did not seem to notice. Holding to Knox’s hand, she drew him almost to the edge of the water. There, her feet planted firmly in the sand, she threw back her head and in a rich and true contralto rendered the uncensored version of
The Bastard King of England
.

“Fine,” Knox said when she stopped for breath. “Now shall we go back?”

“Paul, darling, I’ve just begun.”

The way she addressed him reminded him of another remark of hers. “By the way, why did you call me a Seattle seagull?”

“Because you’re from Seattle.”

“Did I tell you that?” He couldn’t remember.

“Heavens, no. You didn’t have to. I’m a linguist, remember. I can tell by the way you pronounce some of your words and the way you say your vowels.”

He wondered if he could believe her. This woman worried him; she was a series of contradictions; she was also something he was not sure he could handle.

She began to sing a drinking song in the original German. Knox looked about, wondering if anyone could be listening to this incredible performance. Leaving her singing with her head thrown back, he moved quietly along the beach to where a thick driftwood log lay just at the edge of the tide line. He sat on the log and lit a cigarette.

She seemed indefatigable. Between the second and third songs, she did no more than take a few deep breaths. Knox used the moments of silence to try to listen to the thick night—but there was nothing to hear.

The third song was very rhythmic, sung in exceedingly profane French. She began to dance to the tune.

Kicking off her shoes, she danced faster and faster. Once she almost fell as her full skirt tried to trip her. Continuing to sing but slowing her dance, she unhooked the dress, gave a wriggle and sent the dress after the shoes. Now she was dancing in very brief, very sheer underwear.

Turning, she ran into the water. Knox was on his feet. “Adele!”

She was laughing, spinning, her hair flying. Sharks, he thought, forgetting that people did swim in this water and that sharks were quite rare. He ran toward her.

“Adele, stop it …!”

She turned, waist-deep now in the dark, lapping water. “Come on in. It’s lovely.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“I’m sweaty and I need a bath,” she said bluntly. She promptly sat down. The water rose to her neck, splashed up and settled back.

She bounced up and sat down again. It was that, Knox decided later, that saved her life. He heard the spat of the gun, the ugly ominous puffing spat of a silenced weapon not far off. He saw her twist in the water, throw up one arm and slide sideways out of sight.

He took one swift glance around, but there was no one, nothing—only the dark, only night. He ran into the water, letting it spray from under his shoes and splash against his trouser legs. He reached where she had been and she wasn’t there. He jerked off his coat, wadded his shoes and trousers and shirt into it, and threw everything at the beach. The clothes struck the dry sand and fell apart and lay with the white coat gleaming. Knox turned and dived, seeking her with his hands.

He came up in water to his neck. The current tugged at his legs. Something whined over his head and spat in the water just beyond him. He didn’t know whether it was at Adele or at him that the shooter was aiming. He went under.

He let the current pull him. When he surfaced, he saw that he was being drawn toward sharp rock that jutted a dozen feet into the air not twenty yards from shore. He went down again and kicked out to make a circle around the rock and come up behind it. When he broke water, he was at the edge of the rock; moving a few feet put it between him and the beach. Reaching up, he felt for a grip. He found it and hung on.