Blow-Down, page 11
“Naturally. And what did I do with the gun? Chuck it in the bay?”
“No. You put it in Roland’s hand. Only you were in a hurry and put it in the wrong hand, so even a hick cop like me could tell it wasn’t a suicide. You used a Luger.”
“That’s a German gun, isn’t it?”
“It is. Too bad we haven’t any fingerprint experts around here, or I might find your prints on the gun. But of course we don’t go in for scientific crime detection in Puerto Musa, because we never have any scientific crimes—just rough-and-tumble stuff. Have another dog’s-nose?”
“After you,” Lane said. “And where did I get the Luger?”
“As a matter of fact,” the Comandante admitted, “the Luger belonged to Roland. I don’t know where he got it, but I’d seen it before and knew he always kept it handy. He was a timid soul, Bill Roland.”
“Did I remember to put purple cabalistic marks on the thumb and two fingers of Roland’s hand, like I did to Stilton?”
“No, you didn’t,” said the Comandante, filling the glasses. “Was that an oversight?”
“I must have been in a hurry,” said Lane. “Do you recall what my motive was for killing the Vice Consul?”
“It’s not quite clear in my mind,” the Comandante said, “but you broke open Roland’s desk with an icepick and the handle of an iron skillet for jimmies. I thought at first that you might have been after Stilton’s personal effects, which were stowed in the desk, but they didn’t seem to be disturbed. There wasn’t much—just a watch, a handkerchief, keys, some loose change and a pocketbook. Stilton’s two valises were on the floor, but you hadn’t opened them.”
“There didn’t happen to be a fountain pen among the effects, did there?”
“No, there wasn’t. As a matter of fact, I think you were after some state documents or something. There were three or four blank passports scattered about on the desk—you know, the emergency passports issued abroad to American citizens who get theirs lost or stolen. What did you want with those passports, Lane? Do you collect ’em, like Bossert?”
“Just a whim,” Lane said. “Who found the body?”
“I did. Doc Janvier came for me. He’d been over to see Roland but couldn’t get in or raise anybody. I knew Bill Roland always locked himself in, but he was a light sleeper and would have at least come to the door to see who it was. So I went back with Doc Janvier, and we broke in, and—”
“What was the doctor doing at the Consulate at this time of night? Was Roland sick?”
“No. The doc said Roland had been after him for some dope about this fellow Bossert who was knocked out by fever a while back. The doc was busy fixing Stilton’s body for the icebox at the time, but Roland was pretty anxious to get his information about Bossert as soon as possible, so Janvier went over as soon as he dug up whatever Roland wanted.”
“What was it that Roland wanted?” Lane asked. He had a sudden uncomfortable feeling that he might be in a way responsible for the Vice Consul’s death.
“Janvier didn’t say,” the Comandante replied.
“This Dr. Janvier, is he French?”
“Well, he’s French and he isn’t,” said the Comandante. “He’s really from Alsace, but his people were French Alsatians—born there before the Franco-Prussian Wat—so they moved to Paris when it was time to put the boy in school. He was just finishing his medical course in Paris when the World War broke out. He opted for France, as was his right as an Alsatian under French law, and joined the French Army. The Germans captured him at Verdun. Under German law, he was a deserter from the German service, but they were short of doctors so they didn’t shoot him. They put him in a field-gray uniform and let him saw off gangrened legs at a base hospital for the rest of the war.”
“And he stayed on in Germany, after the Armistice?” Lane was watching the Comandante intently over the rim of his glass.
“No, he went back to Paris, but he didn’t get a chance to practice. A wounded French prisoner who’d been treated at Janvier’s hospital saw the doc in a German uniform, or what he thought was a German uniform, and reported him as a deserter from the French Army. There was going to be a court-martial, but Janvier came to Central America instead. He practiced in Guatemala for a while, then he came here to run the fruit company hospital about seven years ago.”
“He’s friendly with Adolf von Graulitz, I suppose?”
“Not particularly. Of course Janvier learned German while he was a prisoner, and once in a while he spouts a little Boche with Graulitz. But after all, he’s a company man, and you probably know there’s no love lost between Graulitz and the fruit company.”
“Yes, I know,” said Lane. “How long did Janvier say Bill Roland had been dead when you found him?”
“He didn’t have to say,” the Comandante replied. “I know Roland was alive ten minutes before Janvier knocked at the Consulate because I talked to Roland by telephone.”
“I suppose it’s none of my business what you talked about?”
“On the contrary. It’s very much your business. We talked about you. Have another drink, Lane.”
“Thanks. What did Roland say about me?”
“Well, when I thought I might have to pinch you, I figured to avoid diplomatic complications by finding out whether you were an American agent or not. I asked Roland. He said you weren’t. Never heard of you, he said.”
“Where did you get the idea that I was an American agent?”
“From Graulitz,” said the Comandante, passing a full glass to Lane. “Graulitz warned me against you. He said you were an agent provocateur sent to stir up trouble here so Washington could intervene and maybe land a few marines to take the situation well in hand. The murder of an important American used to turn the trick, all right. He said I’d better get you out of the country somehow, and not have you shot, because—”
“Did Graulitz tell you this after Stilton was murdered?”
“Yes. About an hour ago. He said he’d heard about Stilton and came back from Liberica in case I wanted to question him.”
“In other words, he was in Puerto Musa about the time Roland was killed.”
“Yes, I guess he was. But he didn’t kill Roland.”
“Didn’t he?”
“Well, he could have, but what would he kill Roland for? The guy that killed Roland probably killed Stilton, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. But why didn’t Graulitz kill Stilton?”
“Because he has a perfect alibi. He walked down to the small-boat landing with Stilton. Therefore Stilton was alive, when Graulitz left port in his motorboat.”
“How do you know?”
“A fisherman saw them. He told Perry.”
“Is that the same fisherman who furnished Perry with his own alibi?”
“It is. I talked to him myself. I—What are you grinning at, Lane?”
“Nothing,” said Lane. He was beginning to feel the effects of the spiked beer. Aside from its sudorific action, the drink was proving not at all as poisonous as he had feared. His mind was unusually clear and alert, and he found himself thinking with surprising perspicacity, drawing deductions, making analyses he would not ordinarily have made without hesitation. If only he could ward off the inevitable dulling depression without drinking himself into a state of befuddlement, he was sure he would get somewhere before dawn. He held out his glass.
“How about another nose of the dog, Colonel—or Coronel—which should I call you?”
“Call me Joe,” said the Comandante. He too was showing the effects of the Yorkshire beverage. Two red spots glowed on his cheekbones and his dark eyes were unusually bright. He poured the last of the golden liquid from the pitcher.
“Here’s how,” said Lane. “You know, I think I like you, Joe. And if you ever had to stand up against a firing-squad—on the wrong side, I mean—I think I’d hate it like hell.”
“Haven’t I heard that phrase before?” said the Comandante. “Or is it the echo?”
“They would shoot you, wouldn’t they, Joe—if they caught you stage-managing a coup d’état? I mean if they caught you before the curtain went up?”
The Comandante did not comment at once. He drained his glass, then stared at the cyclonic cloud of insects whirling about the lamp on the floor. At last he said:
“Your language is kind of flowery, Lane. I don’t think I get it.”
“Sure you do,” Lane said. “You’re a smart young officer, with plenty of education and background—too much to spend the rest of your life running a third-rate banana port like this. You belong in the Capital.”
“Maybe I do,” the Comandante admitted.
“As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were sent down here for the very purpose of keeping you away from the Capital—where a young officer is either friendly to the regime, or ambitious. The two terms are mutually exclusive. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a little sore about the whole business.”
“I begin to see your point,” said the Comandante. “But you’re wrong. When I was a kid, the banana companies used to start revolutions when taxes got too high. But those days are over. William Walker and Lee Christmas and Guy Molony are all dead.”
“You’re not dead,” Lane insisted. “And you’d probably make a first-rate Minister of War—you wouldn’t care who was President as long as you gave orders to the government. Of course the new government would have pro-Facist, pro-Nazi leanings, because you’d get co-operation from the totalitarian states in putting over your little putsch.”
“Now listen,” the Comandante said. “I’m going back to the Capital all right, but not the way you think. I’m not going back at the head of a column of men dressed up in fancy shirts, not even if I could round up enough men who would tuck their shirttails in. I was educated in the States, Lane, and I’m pretty much sold on the idea of Democracy and Constitutional Government. I’m no Mussolini.”
“Mussolini was a Socialist before the march on Rome and the Age of Castor Oil. I don’t blame you, Joe. I’d get hot under the collar, too, if I had your setup and watched the punk politicos take all the gravy in the Capital. I might want to side track that hundred thousand dollars, too—for three good reasons: To keep it out of the maw of the present government, to help my overseas friends keep their river open, and to buy a few rounds of ammunition for my own private army. Only I don’t think I should have killed Stilton, Joe. And certainly not Roland.”
“Lane, old man.” The Comandante stood up. He was not very steady on his feet, and his handsome face was quite flushed. “You argue very well, Lane,” he said, “but your premise is fallacious. I didn’t kill Stilton. You did.”
“But I didn’t,” Lane countered.
“You didn’t?”
“No, of course not.”
“That changes everything,” said the Comandante pensively.
“Then how about letting me out of this hoosegow.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“No,” said the Comandante. “I can’t let you out. Perry wouldn’t like that a bit. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Listen, Joe—”
“Good night,” said the Comandante.
The Comandante held out his hand. Lane, grasping it, noticed that his white uniform sleeve had pulled back slightly along the forearm, revealing three parallel scratches on his wrist—deep, angry red scratches that might have been freshly made by a claw.
The Comandante caught Lane’s stare. “I see you’re looking at my wounds,” he said. “My pisote scratched me. Well, good night.”
As the door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock, Lane wondered if he would be able to get out in time to take scrapings from under Bill Roland’s fingernails; and whether Dr. Janvier would let him use the hospital microscope to examine them; and what would happen if the scrapings should show skin fragments that matched the pigmentation and pore pattern of the Comandante’s skin.
Chapter Thirteen
Latin Hangover
Even the morning after payday, life in a banana port begins at sunup—headaches, highwater, and sudden death notwithstanding.
When Dave Perry walked down the fruit company dock, the sun had already burned through the opalescent sea mists, adding a fringe of fire to the green-tasseled cays offshore, fusing plaques of gold leaf upon a strangely mottled Caribbean of turquoise and sapphire and chrysoprase. Reluctant wisps of gray dawn vapors still clung to the jungle-covered headlands beyond the wireless towers, but the Plaza of Puerto Musa was alive with the fresh white drills and crisp linens of the company personnel on their way to or from the mess hall on the water’s edge; it was long past six o’clock and the offices would open in half an hour.
Bareheaded, his bushy hair standing up like a clown’s fright-wig, Perry threaded his way through the heavy guard of the Comandante’s troopers who had taken over the customs enclosure. They were men of the Comandante’s prize platoon—they all wore shoes—and two of them searched Perry as he went up the gangplank of the Bonaca. Evidently the Comandante was in earnest about preventing the missing hundred thousand dollars from leaving port.
The captain of the Bonaca pounced on Perry the moment he set foot on deck.
“I’m grateful to see you, Perry,” the captain said. “I was about to send for you to get that flat-bottomed politico of yours off my ship. I’m sailing in an hour.”
“I’ll do my best,” Perry said. “Is His Excellency up yet?”
“He was up,” the captain replied. “He had his breakfast, then he went back to bed for his siesta.”
“Siesta? At this time of day?”
“You’d need a siesta after breakfast too, if you ate three cantaloupes, half a bushel of corn flakes, a mushroom omelette, pork chops with French fried potatoes, and a double stack of buckwheats. The hot cakes had him puzzled. First he wanted a pot of red beans to wrap ’em around, then he tried to dunk ’em in the syrup the steward brought—”
“Does he know Stilton is dead?”
“Not that I know of.”
“In all the excitement, I forgot to send word to him. Did anybody wake him up to tell him the news?”
The captain made a face. “Don’t look at me when you say that,” he grumbled. “Nobody instructed me to play nursemaid to the little fella. I know the Comandante didn’t say anything to him, because he didn’t even go back to see him. The Comandante didn’t talk to anybody but me. He wanted to know how long after the rest of you Dr. Janvier left the ship. I told him I didn’t notice.”
“Anybody else come aboard?”
“You did,” said the captain.
“Did you tell the Comandante that I came aboard?”
“He didn’t ask-me,” the captain replied.
“Not that it makes any difference,” said Perry quickly. “If he does ask you, you can tell him the truth—that I came to find out if the New Orleans office gave you a list of the numbers of those banknotes.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“I suppose I should have spoken to Señor Manzana when I came aboard, but I was pretty much upset. Señor Manzana didn’t go ashore by any chance?”
“By no chance whatever, what with all those guards on the dock. Nobody can get on or off this ship without an X-ray examination, practically. We did have a little trouble with one of your damn fool overseers, now that I think of it.”
“One of my overseers? Who was it?”
“That old-timer from up the river. What’s his name? Pinky Hind?”
“What was the matter with Hind?”
“For one thing, he was three sheets in the wind and sailing his leeward rail under,” said the captain. “He came climbing up my forward hawser like a blasted monkey—Lord knows how he didn’t cut himself in two on the rat guards—and hoisted himself aboard over the bow.”
“What did he want?”
“Wanted to go back to the States with us, he said. Broke out a wad of banknotes when the quartermaster on watch grabbed him, and said he’d pay a hundred dollars if the quartermaster would let him stow away in the banana bins. Didn’t mind the cold, he said.”
“You put him ashore?”
“Quicker than that,” said the captain. “He was filthy drunk.”
“What time was this?”
“Just before the Comandante marched his soldiers on the dock. Damn it, Perry, this is no business for a sailor. Will you tow that square-sterned politico off my ship, so I can get down to Puerto Temor and pick up my bananas? I should have been there this morning, and they got thirty thousand stems waiting for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Perry said.
He went frowning along the deck to Suite B, knocked, and opened the door simultaneously.
His Excellency the Minister of the Interior was propped up in one of the big brass beds that are the feature of all de luxe suites on the Caribbean Fruit Company’s steamers. A bulging expanse of pale-blue silk undershirt showed above the counterpane. He lifted a pudgy hand to Perry and said, “Días.”
“My respects, Your Excellency,” Perry said in Spanish. “I bring you bad news. Mr. Stilton is dead.”
“Truth?” said His Excellency. He seemed neither greatly surprised nor moved. His expression was somnolently introspective, as though he were preoccupied with a personally pressing problem of gastric distress, and was only vaguely aware of the import of what Perry had told him. He hoisted his massive torso a little higher on his four pillows, opened his mouth, drew his multiple chins close to his chest, was audibly comforted. His eyes brightened a little. “What pity!” he resumed at last. “Was his death natural or political?”
“He was stabbed,” said Perry.
“A revolution?” His Excellency was fully awake now. He raised himself a trifle higher.
“A sordid matter of robbery. Unfortunately, the money stolen was the sum involved in the transaction for which you came down from the Capital.”
“No matter.” His Excellency settled back again against his pillows with a gesture of nonchalance. “There is no hurry. I do not have to return to the Capital for another forty-eight hours. That will give you plenty of time to get more money. In the meantime, I am enjoying this ship. I have never slept in a finer bed. I—”
