Blow-Down, page 13
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that somebody planted two of the stolen banknotes in your raincoat. I found your slicker in my room last night and hung it away. This morning the bills were in the inside pocket—two hundred of the missing hundred thousand.”
“You’re sure they were stolen bills?”
“Positive. The money New Orleans sent down was in hundred-dollar bills. There aren’t any big bills like that in circulation down here normally, and the notes in your raincoat were hundreds. Luckily, I was the one to find them, Walt, but whoever planted them isn’t going to stop there.” The girl grasped the rumpled lapels of Lane’s once-white coat with tight, desperate fingers. “You will go, Walt, if I fix things?”
Lane covered the small, white fists with his grimy paws. Something swelled in his throat.
“You know what you’re getting into?” he asked. “You know what might happen to both of us if there was a hitch in your arrangements?”
“Yes, Walt, I’ve thought of that.”
“And you still want to help me get away?”
“I must.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why, Walt, unless—Well, I guess it’s because it seems the thing to do—so you won’t think I sold you out last night—and because I want to do it, that’s all—”
She stopped. A wistful smile quivered on her lips, but her eyes looked straight into Lane’s, very bright and earnest and unafraid.
Lane blinked. The contours of her upturned face were suddenly indistinct. “Do you know,” he said, “that I’m very much afraid that I’m going to fall in love with you?”
Muriel caught her breath with a queer, small sound that was neither a sigh nor a laugh.
“I’m terribly glad,” she said. She moved nearer to him.
The door creaked open.
“Five minutes are up,” said the Comandante.
“Good-by, darling.”
“Good-by, darling.”
“I’ll send your breakfast right in,” said the Comandante.
The door closed.
Lane wondered how long the Comandante had been standing in the dingy corridor outside and how much he had been able to hear through the panels.
Chapter Fifteen
Blanco Has a Hunch
Except on the fruit company’s golf course, the lurid subject of murder had been temporarily eclipsed by the workaday shadow of mid-morning activity at Puerto Musa. On the putting greens the death of Stilton and Roland was still being discussed in awed tones by company wives, relaxing from their arduous labor of wrangling over menus, in very bad Spanish, with stolid, unimaginative Indian cooks. In the company offices, however, the thousand routine details that must be accomplished before a golden bunch of bananas might hang in the corner grocery at Waverly, Kansas, gave a sense of disturbing unreality to the macabre events of the night before.
Muriel Monroe wished, as she handed a sheaf of papers across the desk to frowning Dave Perry, that they might be even more unreal.
“Requisitions to go north by the next boat,” she said. “Will you okay them?”
She handled the papers automatically, and she could not keep her eyes off the stain that still darkened the floor behind the division manager’s desk.
“Replacement supplies for the medical department,” she said. “Quinine, snake-bite serum, kerosene spray for the mosquito squads—”
She shifted her gaze—and saw the safe. She had a feeling of cold inside, as she tried desperately to remember whether or not she had left the safe unlocked….
“Dynamite for the superintendent of agriculture, for blasting ceiba stumps in the new lands at the end of the line—”
And there, on that newly scrubbed spot on the floor, had been Walter Lane’s red footprints….
“New screening for the superintendency at Agua Negra—that new gasoline motor is for Campo Marino—the electric range for the company mess hall—”
She wished she could be sure she had done the right thing in going to see Walter Lane in jail. She wished she could talk to Cecil Holliday. She wished it were already eleven o’clock—time for lunch and the daily siesta….
“Tell Henry Alcott to come in,” said Perry, tossing the papers back across the desk.
Alcott came at once, very austere behind his spectacles, and very pale. He was always a little pale about the gills, but today he looked as though he had just been exhumed by order of the coroner. At that, he didn’t look any worse than most of the company personnel this morning. There hadn’t been much sleep in Puerto Musa last night.
“I hear that you—that Mrs. Stilton isn’t coming down after all,” said Alcott.
“News travels fast,” Perry said.
“I’m glad for your sake, Dave,” Alcott continued. “What made her change her mind, I wonder?”
“I did,” Muriel volunteered. “I sent her a radio. I told her she ought to be ashamed to show her face down here. I—”
“You!” snorted Alcott. He took off his glasses and gave Muriel a queer look as he wiped the perspiration from the lenses. “Is there anything you don’t meddle in down here?”
“To get down to business,” Perry interrupted. “I suppose you know that Binsworth is coming down tomorrow.”
“The third vice-president himself?”
“Yes. He’s due in Belize on the Pan-American plane tomorrow, and expects to charter a ship there for the hop to Puerto Musa. I suppose he’ll be in some time tomorrow night. I thought you knew, since you knew about Geraldine.”
“The Comandante told me about her,” Alcott said, replacing his glasses. “What’s Binsworth coming down for?”
“I can’t quite make out,” Perry replied. “I radioed the home office about last night’s mess, of course, and pointed out that regardless of what happened, we’d better hurry and conclude our deal with the Minister of the Interior. I said that I would carry on the negotiations with Manzana, since I was pretty much in touch with what Stilton had done about the river-mouth options. I suggested that they send down another hundred thousand dollars so we can settle our official status without waiting for the missing cash to turn up. Of course it will only be a question of time before we do turn it up.”
“And is Binsworth bringing down the money?”
“That’s what I can’t make out,” Perry said. “You’ve got the radiogram there, Muriel. Read it.”
Muriel shuffled through her papers until she found the message. She read aloud:
New Orleans office not sending further cash stop hold negotiations abeyance pending arrival Charles Binsworth who will conduct investigation stop Binsworth flying Belize Pan-American tomorrow continuing chartered plane.
“Maybe Binsworth is bringing another hundred thousand himself,” Alcott said.
“I can’t understand why they’re sending Binsworth in the first place,” Perry exclaimed. “Binsworth, of all people. Almost any of the other vice-presidents could handle this job better than Binsworth—as long as the home office doesn’t trust me. Why, Binsworth is nothing but a—glorified—”
“Glorified accountant?” volunteered Alcott, with an unamused smile.
“I was going to say ‘glorified auditor,’ ” Perry resumed. “Meaning no offense to you, Hank. You yourself could pull this off a thousand percent more efficiently than Binsworth. At least you know your tropics, your Spanish, and your Latin-Americans. But Binsworth doesn’t know the language or the people; he’s never been in the tropics except for a winter cruise now and then. He’s the only one of the big executives that didn’t graduate from the banana plantations. He’s strictly an inside-office man. So why in hell they send him down—”
“That’s big business logic,” Alcott broke in. “If there’s money missing, call the auditors before the detectives. New Orleans probably suspects that I’ve written off the hundred thousand as postage and telegrams.”
“I’m the one they suspect!” Perry’s face darkened. He stared at Alcott without seeing him. His eyes were empty, brooding. “They don’t trust me, for some reason. Ever since Stilton and I have been in the same division again, the home office—” He stopped. His shoulders moved as though he were shrugging off some unwelcome touch. His eyes focused again. He tried to smile. “What I wanted to say, Hank,” he said in the voice of one just roused from a deep sleep, “was this. New Orleans doesn’t say anything about sending more money, but if Graulitz wrecks this deal for us, and sets himself up more solidly in the Capital at the expense of our influence—and maybe our hundred thousand—New Orleans is going to blame me for it. So I’ve got to keep His Excellency Señor Manzana happy and amused as long as I can. I’ve got to stall him until Binsworth gets here and maybe longer. He likes to eat, so I’m going to have him put his feet in the feed-trough as much and as often as I can. Will Mrs. Alcott give a dinner for him tonight?”
“Another banquet? Don’t we even observe a decent period of mourning, Dave?”
“Don’t talk like my left foot, Hank. You’ve been in the tropics long enough to know that sentiment is reserved for the survivors in the north. We haven’t got time to mourn down here. Things grow too fast. A hermetically sealed casket is all the funeral a man gets in Puerto Musa. The flowers and speeches and organ music have to wait until they pack him off the boat—if there’s anybody in the States still interested in his soul. Will Mrs. Alcott be hostess for tonight?”
“The little woman hasn’t been in very good humor these days,” Alcott said. “In fact, I’m in the doghouse. If you want to ask her yourself—”
“Why not let Dr. Janvier entertain him?” Muriel suggested. “Mrs. Janvier serves the best food in port, according to all reports.”
“The wives won’t go to Janvier’s—you know that,” Perry replied. “And I want women around to flatter Manzana. Besides I’ve arranged for him to have lunch with Janvier this noon.”
“I guess I can fix it with the missus,” said Alcott reluctantly.
“Good.” Perry stood up. “Order whatever food and liquor you need from the commissary. The company pays, of course.”
“Sure. I can guarantee quantity, if not quality.” Alcott reached for the door, which opened abruptly just as his hand touched the knob. The Comandante was on the threshold.
“Morning, Coronel,” Perry said.
The Comandante nodded. He stood in the open doorway, his polished leather puttees apart at a jaunty angle, his riding-crop under one arm.
“Find the hundred thousand yet, Coronel?” Alcott asked.
The Comandante shook his head. “I’ll let you know when I do,” he said. “I’ll send you a postcard—from Guatemala.”
He came into the office, touched Alcott on the shoulder with his riding-crop, and indicated the door.
“I want to talk to Mr. Perry alone,” he said.
“I was just leaving,” Alcott said.
“The girl, too,” the Comandante added.
“Miss Monroe can stay,” Perry said. “She has my complete—”
“No,” said the Comandante.
Muriel picked up her notebook and went out.
When the door closed, the Comandante sat down opposite Perry, crossed his khaki legs. He took two long, slim, native cigars from the pocket of his blouse, extended them across the desk.
“Have a puro?” he asked.
“Thanks,” said Perry.
The Comandante took an inordinately long time to remove the revenue stamp from across the end of his cigar. He was very deliberate in rolling it between his thin, well-manicured fingers before he leaned across the desk toward the match Perry had lighted. He blew several casual rings in silence, apparently unaware of the expression of uneasiness developing on Perry’s face. At last he said:
“About this fellow Lane. I think he’s all right, Perry.”
“What do you call ‘all right,’ Coronel?” Perry asked.
The Comandante blew another ring. “I had quite a talk with him last night,” he said. “I sent off a few wires and got a few answers. I think maybe Lane is a State Department man after all.”
“Has he asked to communicate with the Legation?”
“No. But the Legation has been raising hell with our Foreign Ministry already about Roland getting shot. It’s bad enough that I haven’t caught the murderer of the Vice Consul. And if on top of that I keep a State Department agent in jail, I don’t make many friends for José Blanco in Washington. Dammit, Perry, I may want to be president of this country some day, and I’d rather stay on the good side of our good neighbors.”
“Better hold Lane awhile longer, Coronel,” Perry said. “Hold him until Binsworth gets here tomorrow night. I think you’ve got your murderer all right, Coronel, and I think I can prove it by tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think I can hold him that long,” said the Comandante, leaning back to watch a smoke ring hover over his head like a sinuous blue halo.
“Why can’t you hold him, Coronel?”
“Because I think he’s going to escape.”
“Escape?” Perry’s elbows cracked on the desk as he leaned forward suddenly. “You’re joking.”
“No,” said the Comandante. “You know yourself that my jail is pretty leaky, ever since my predecessor took the bars off the windows and sold them for scrap iron. Of course it’s still all right to hold a bunch of scared mozos, but Lane isn’t a mozo and he isn’t scared. And he is smart. If a small boat came into that inlet back of the Comandancia tonight, and drifted under the window of his cell, Lane could drop into the thwarts as easy as falling off the water-wagon. I’ve got a hunch that’s just what’s going to happen.”
“Just a hunch, Coronel?” Perry was still leaning tensely across the desk.
“Mostly a hunch. I thought I overheard Lane talking to—ah—one of my guards this morning, offering him a bribe if he’d bring a boat into the inlet tonight, but everybody denies it. So I guess it is just a hunch.”
“You’re going to move his cell, of course.”
“Well, I don’t think so, Perry. The other cells are hot and filthy and lousy, particularly after last night’s quota of drunks. The cell he’s in is the only one fit for a North American—even if he is a murderer.”
“How are you going to stop him, then?”
“That’s what bothers me, Perry, I could shoot him of course—the ley de fuga, and all that sort of thing. But if he should turn out to be a State Department agent, and I shoot him, I’ll have the United States marines on my neck.”
Perry laughed dryly. He leaned back in his chair.
“Now I know you’re joking,” he said. “Washington wouldn’t send any marines to this country unless you strike oil down here. The present administration isn’t much interested in bananas. What are you going to do, Coronel?”
“I guess I’ll have to let him escape,” said the Comandante. As he reached over to grind out his cigar in an ash tray, there was a malicious twinkle in his small, black eyes. Perry’s puzzled frown deepened.
The Comandante stood up.
“I don’t believe you,” Perry said. “I’m sure you’re joking.”
The Comandante chuckled. “Maybe I am,” he said. “But I’ll tell you another thing that’s not a joke; I think Lane knows who killed Stilton. In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.”
“If he did it himself, he ought to know,” Perry said.
“I told you I don’t think he did it—and I’ve got more than a hunch that he knows who did. The way he talked last night—little hints he dropped—”
“Interesting,” Perry said. He shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.
The door opened. Nita Fenwick came in.
“Mr. Bannister wants to know if he can see you now, Mr. Perry,” drawled the dark-haired secretary of the Port Superintendent.
Perry looked inquiringly at the Comandante, who gestured with his riding-crop to indicate that he was going.
“Send him in, Nita,” said Perry. In spite of himself, his gaze followed the languid swing of Nita’s provocative hips as she went out.
Chapter Sixteen
Missing Guest of Honor
Adolf von Graulitz had spent what was left of the night beneath the warm, hospitable, corrugated-iron roof of Miguel Hernando Wong—hotelier, tailor, money changer, general merchant, and dean of Puerto Musa’s Chinese colony. He had spent most of the day drinking beer leisurely in the Musa Club, for the banana planters’ club at Puerto Musa and the coffee planters’ club at Liberica still exchanged social courtesies, despite the antagonism of their commercial interests. Every hour or so he walked to the Comandancia, in case his further testimony was desired. He also called three times at the division offices of the fruit company and was three times denied an audience. Late in the afternoon he called at the palm-bowered cottage of Henry Alcott, company accountant.
Alcott had not yet come home, and Mrs. Alcott was busy with her final preparations for the entertainment of His Excellency the Minister of the Interior. When Mrs. Alcott sent word that she couldn’t possibly see Herr von Graulitz today, he installed himself on the veranda and sent the houseboy back with the message that he was in no hurry and would wait, and that he would greatly appreciate a small bottle of beer in the meantime. Whereupon Mrs. Alcott came out immediately.
Von Graulitz arose with military precision, bowed stiffly, kissed the tips of Mrs. Alcott’s bony fingers.
“You look particularly charming today, Madam,” he said, solemnly, just as though he were not aware of the enormity of his gallant exaggeration. For a woman who must have once been pretty, Mrs. Alcott was singularly unattractive. Obviously she lacked the flair for salvaging the prettiness of her youth. Her features which had once been pert, perhaps saucy, had grown sharp and shrewish. Her neck was scrawny where it had been slim and graceful. Her limbs were angular and her body bulged slightly in the wrong places. She seemed to have a peculiar genius for reversing the stylish arts of concealment and accentuation, for her clothes either clung where they shouldn’t, or merely hung. And she had no genius whatever for coping with the unruly ends of her graying hair. Yet she blushed, just as if she accepted the German’s compliment at its face value.
