Blow-Down, page 14
“Thank you, Mr. Von Graulitz,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have come here today. I’m entertaining.”
“Yes, I have heard. You are receiving His Excellency.” Graulitz paused to smile with the very ends of his thin lips, to intimate that he had his own ideas on the abstract subject of excellence. “I am not invited, of course,” he went on, “although I have never been embarrassed by the lack of an invitation.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t stay. You can’t possibly stay. Mr. Perry would be simply furious.”
“I am quite indifferent to Mr. Perry’s fury, Madam,” said Graulitz, “although I should hate to cause you any undue embarrassment. Therefore I shall go away quietly—if you will do what I ask of you.”
Mrs. Alcott blushed again. “Please, Mr. Graulitz,” she began.
“What I ask will be quite simple. I have made repeated efforts today to see Mr. Perry and your husband, Mrs. Alcott. Neither of them would talk to me. I have given up Mr. Perry as hopeless, so I am determined to have an interview with Mr. Alcott—tonight, and alone.”
Mrs. Alcott blanched. “No,” she faltered. “Please, Mr. Graulitz—”
“It is imperative.”
Mrs. Alcott clenched her thin hands and sat down on the wicker settee. “You had an interview with Mr. Stilton last night,” she said in a tight voice, “and Mr. Stilton never came back.”
Adolf von Graulitz sat down next to Mrs. Alcott. His eyes smiled coldly at her along the bridge of his nose.
“You will tell Mr. Alcott that I shall be at Miguel Wong’s hotel tonight until midnight. Tell him that I will expect him to bring Miss Monroe to me there. I will wait until midnight. You will send him.”
“No,” said Mrs. Alcott.
Graulitz flipped open a gold cigarette case, passed it to Mrs. Alcott. She didn’t look at it. Her eyes were fixed on the German’s face in a kind of fascinated horror.
Graulitz took a cigarette, tapped it on his wrist, replaced the case, and struck a match before he said, “You love your husband, Mrs. Alcott?”
“Very, very much.”
“Of course. Much more than he loves you, in fact.”
“That’s unkind, Mr. Graulitz.”
“I am a blunt, outspoken man, Mrs. Alcott. Do you know where your husband was between one and one-thirty o’clock this morning?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Alcott promptly. “He was home—in bed.”
“He was not home,” said Graulitz. “And if he were, you would not be able to prove it, because you and Mr. Alcott have separate rooms.”
Mrs. Alcott winced. Adolf von Graulitz allowed smoke to trickle from his nostrils, veiling his triumphant smile.
“You see,” he said. “I am well informed. Now. Your husband was abroad in the port at the hour at which Mr. Roland was killed. So—”
“You’re not accusing my husband of killing Bill Roland!” exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Alcott.
“No, of course not. I would not dream of such a thing,” said Graulitz. “But the fact remains that he will not be able to prove that he did not murder the Vice Consul.”
“But he will! I’m certain he will. Since he is innocent, he can prove it. Why, he came home from the Comandancia only a short time before, and—”
“He will not offer an alibi,” said Graulitz, “because he is a gentleman.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything. A gentleman does not jeopardize the reputation of a lady who has placed her confidence in him. Mr. Alcott cannot furnish an alibi for the time of the Consul’s murder—unless he betrays a lady’s good name.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know very well what I mean.”
Mrs. Alcott stared at the German for a long moment of dazed, hurt silence. Then she bristled defensively.
“If you mean that Henry is unfaithful to me,” she said, “you—why, it’s ridiculous. You know there’s no such thing as a clandestine affair possible in Puerto Musa. We all live in a goldfish bowl. We’re such a small colony, all living in each other’s laps, practically, that—” Mrs. Alcott stopped suddenly. Her lips were white. “Who is the woman?” she demanded.
“That is a matter between you and your husband,” said Graulitz. “My point is this: I know that your husband was not home when Roland was killed last night. I know that he cannot very well furnish an alibi. I have kept silent so far, because I have nothing against Alcott. But I swear I will keep silent no longer if he does not come to me at Miguel Wong’s albergo by midnight tonight. You will send him, Mrs. Alcott?”
“Suppose he does not want to come?”
“He will come if you send him.”
“I—I’ll do my best,” said Mrs. Alcott weakly.
Adolf von Graulitz arose like an automaton. He bent to kiss Mrs. Alcott’s hand.
“You are a sensible woman, as well as a charming one, Mrs. Alcott,” he said. “I trust that your husband will appreciate it in time. Auf wiedersehn, Mrs. Alcott.”
The screen door slammed as Graulitz went down the veranda steps.
Mrs. Alcott sat numbly looking after him. When he had passed the hibiscus hedge and strode off majestically in the direction of the railway station, she still sat, as though overcome with great, physical weariness. Then she got up in a state of near-panic. She rushed into her kitchen and with nervous, bird-like movements resumed direction of final preparations for her dinner party. She found herself screaming at the cook and shouting at the houseboy. The houseboy—a lithe Indian youth whose long dark eyelashes curled, and who wore a hair net over his straight, glossy black locks—dropped a plate of canapes and shouted back. Whereupon Mrs. Alcott hurried to her room and burst into tears.
By the time her husband came home, she had regained her composure, but she said nothing to him of Adolf von Graulitz’s visit. She would wait until later. Perhaps the evening would bring its own counsel. Or the cocktails—
When the dinner guests began to arrive, Mrs. Alcott was freshly powdered and smiling automatically. No one noticed that her smile was forced, probably, because the air of artificial gaiety was so general that it seemed almost natural as soon as the frost began to disappear from the cocktail shaker. The first guests accepted with resignation the tiny dead fish which emerged on crackers from Mrs. Alcott’s kitchen, but they attacked the cocktails with unwonted enthusiasm. This was unusual because fruit company people always considered Mrs. Alcott’s martinis to be one of the hardships of life in the tropics. They could never understand why Mrs. Alcott invariably served martinis, when there were so many pleasant things that could be done with native rum, gomme syrup, and green limes from her own backyard. Neither could they understand why Mrs. Alcott’s martinis invariably had such a rich, pharmaceutical aftertaste which would have been more appropriate in a specific for inadequate peristalsis. Today, however, the early arrivals were undeterred by possible medicinal qualities and did away with three shakers of martinis before Dave Perry came up the veranda steps to say that the guest of honor had been detained.
“Señor Manzana was taking a late siesta, and apparently overslept,” Perry announced. “He was still in bed when I knocked at his door. I imagine he’ll be here as soon as he’s had time to dress.”
So there were three more rounds of Mrs. Alcott’s martinis.
The houseboy was just coming in with a fourth shakerful when Perry said to Alcott, “I think I’d better step over to my place and see what’s keeping His Nibs.”
Perry’s bungalow was only a two-minute walk from the Alcotts’ place, but it was fifteen minutes before he came back. A light rain had begun to fall, and his bushy hair was beaded with moisture. An expectant silence greeted his entrance—alone. He crossed the room directly to the Comandante, who was thoughtfully twisting the stem of a cocktail glass between his fingers, as he watched Perry.
“He’s not there!” Perry announced. “He’s disappeared, Comandante.”
“Marvelous!” said the Comandante lightly. He put down his glass on an unpainted mahogany guéridon. “Disappeared, did he? How did he do it?”
“This is serious, Coronel. He’s gone.”
“Then he’s probably somewhere else,” the Comandante smiled.
“I’ve looked in all likely places,” Perry said. “He’s not at the club or in any of the offices. I’ve made practically the whole town, from the Plaza to Bannister’s house.”
“He’s probably gone for a walk to wake up completely from his siesta,” the Comandante suggested. “I’m sure he’ll turn up shortly.”
“The dinner will be ruined,” wailed Mrs. Alcott.
“But we’ll have time for another of those delicious cocktails, Mrs. Alcott,” said the Comandante, picking up his glass.
At 8:30, when His Excellency had still not made his appearance, Perry began systematically calling every number on the fruit company’s telephone exchange. No one had seen Señor Manzana.
At nine o’clock the Comandante himself suggested that a search for the missing Minister of the Interior might be in order, after all.
“You’re a single man, Perry, so you might make the rounds of the cantinas,” he said. “I’ll send a squad of my men to have a look through the upstairs galleries. The rest of you can divide up the town however you like. You’ll find me at the Comandancia, if you need me.”
Mrs. Alcott caught Dave Perry’s arm as he was going out. “What about the dinner, Dave?” she asked.
“I’m sorry about that. Maybe—if nothing serious—maybe we can make a midnight supper of it.”
Mrs. Alcott moved her lips close to Perry’s ear. “Look in Miguel Wong’s albergo, Dave,” she whispered.
Perry turned his startled gaze full upon her.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Adolf von Graulitz is at Wong’s,” Mrs. Alcott murmured. “And you’ll come back and tell me, won’t you, Dave?”
“If there’s anything to tell.”
“Come back anyhow, Dave. I want to talk to you—”
“Coming, Perry?” the Comandante called from the darkness of the street.
“Right with you,” said Perry.
Chapter Seventeen
Brief Liberty
At 9:30 Coronel Blanco came into Lane’s cell at the rear of the Comandancia.
“Have a good day’s sleep, big boy?” asked the Comandante pleasantly.
“Ravishing,” Lane replied.
“Now that you’ve caught up on your sleep,” said the Comandante, “you won’t have much to do tonight. How about a little two-handed poker, with a tencentavo limit?”
“Thanks, Joe,” said Lane, looking at his watch, “but that was last night’s sleep I made up. I’ve still got tonight’s to rip off. I want to be fresh and rested in case I have to get up at dawn tomorrow. Is it tomorrow that you’re going to shoot me, Joe?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” said the Comandante. “You know, Lane, Señor Manzana, the Minister of the Interior, did you a good turn tonight.”
“I never met Señor Manzana,” said Lane. “What did he do?”
“He disappeared,” said the Comandante. “Now poor Dave Perry’s theories are all upset. Perry can’t figure out how you managed to do away with Señor Manzana while you were still behind the bars. Or still in jail, anyhow. That reminds me, I must get a new set of bars for that rear window—”
“And has Señor Manzana been done away with tonight?”
The Comandante winked broadly. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s too hot to think,” said Lane.
“Mrs. Alcott’s dinner party was ruined anyhow,” said the Comandante. “By the way, I didn’t see your little pal at Mrs. Alcott’s tonight.”
“My pal?”
“Sure. The little Monroe girl who came to see you this morning. I thought maybe she’d dropped in to cheer you up again this evening, but my teniente says you didn’t have any visitors. Where do you suppose she’s keeping herself tonight?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lane said.
The Comandante sauntered to the window and looked down at the water. He stood for several minutes without speaking, staring out at the inlet. Lane looked at his watch again.
At last the Comandante turned back. He said, “She’s a neat little package, that Monroe girl. I have a hunch she likes you. Think I ought to invite her to the execution, Lane?”
“She’d probably find it amusing, if it’s not too early in the morning, Joe,” Lane said. “I wouldn’t want to get her out of bed at dawn just to see me shot. Why don’t you have it after breakfast, Joe?”
“That’s an idea,” said the Comandante. “Well, I’ve got to go and see if His Excellency has turned up yet. Don’t mind if I take this lantern, do you, Lane? Just occurred to me that I oughtn’t to leave a lighted lantern in a prisoner’s cell. You might burn the jail down. Good night, Lane.”
“Good night, Joe. See you at the old adobe wall.”
Lane breathed a long sigh of relief when he heard the key turn in the lock. It was nearly ten o’clock, and Muriel would be there at ten. Or would she? All day long he had told himself she wouldn’t. It was a crazy thing to try, and risky, too. Yet down inside of him he felt sure she would come. Probably just wishful thinking.
He went to the window and peered into the darkness. He could see nothing except the black fringe of mangrove beyond the dull gleam of the inlet. The moon was hidden behind an overcast sky—that was a break. But there was a stiff breeze blowing from offshore—that wasn’t so good. Still, he supposed she knew how to handle a skiff in choppy water.
Lane thought he heard a sound at the door. He turned, walked silently across the room, listened. He hadn’t yet decided what lay behind the Comandante’s jocular manner. Coronel Blanco was up to something, that was certain. Too smart a man to waste his time merely wisecracking with a prisoner over a pitcher of dog’s-nose. Whether he was friend or foe, however, Lane couldn’t make out. He stooped, peered through the keyhole. He could see nothing.
Ten minutes later—ten minutes that were each a year long—he heard the dip of an oar in the darkness, the liquid murmur of water purling under the gunwales of a small boat. He saw a shadow moving on the water, gliding below the window. In an instant Lane was crouched on the sill. He heard a faint tapping against the weatherboards of the building, as though a boat hook was groping for a hold. He braced himself to jump—then paused. Suppose this were a trap?
He looked down, saw a small blur of a face turned upward, heard a voice that he knew whisper, “Walt!”
He climbed out, swung his legs over, lowered himself until he hung by his straining fingertips. He felt the girl’s steadying hands guiding his ankles, heard her say, “Now.”
He dropped. As his feet struck the bottom boards, the boat skidded out from under him, rocking crazily. He sprawled headlong along the thwarts, knocking his head against the gunwales. The girl’s arms were around him, helping him sit up, moving him to the center to steady the boat.
“Hurt, darling?” she whispered.
“No, but I made enough racket to bring out the horse guards.”
The boat was drifting away from the Comandancia, stern first. The girl looked up at the receding silhouette of the building.
“I don’t think anyone heard us, darling,” she breathed. She was kneeling on the thwart beside Lane, still clinging to his shoulders. She was wearing his own raincoat over her light dress. A fragrant wisp of her hair blew against his eyes, and her cheek brushed his. He wanted to kiss her, but she moved away, crawling into the stern. She was all efficiency now. She handed him an oar.
“We’ll have to paddle until we get out of the inlet,” she whispered. “The oarlocks creak.”
She was already swinging the skiff around, heading it away from shore with long, sure strokes.
Lane leaned back and put a restraining hand on her arm. “Just nose over to the right,” he said, “and drop me in the mangroves.”
“I’m taking you to the cays,” she said.
“No, you’re not. How will you get back?”
“I’ll row back. It’s not very far. I’ve done it dozens of times, fishing with Dave.”
“And if a squall comes up?”
“I’ll wait it out.”
“Suppose they find out I’m gone, and catch you coming in?”
“Suppose they do?”
“Then they’ll think for sure you were in cahoots with me to loot the safe.”
“I don’t care what they think—now.”
Lane dipped his oar into the water, paddle-wise. He took six powerful strokes before he spoke again. The skiff slid smoothly toward the mouth of the inlet.
“We’ll head down the coast toward Manaca Point,” he said. “I’ll go ashore near the wireless station. I—” He stopped abruptly, lifting his paddle from the water. “Look!” he said.
A black fragment of shadow had detached itself from the low wall of mangrove, was floating into the entrance of the inlet less than a hundred yards ahead.
Lane heard the girl catch her breath. The faint dripping sound of water running off the end of her poised paddle was magnified by the silence.
The dark apparition ahead assumed the dim outlines of a small boat as it glided toward them.
“Head for the shore,” Lane said, as loudly as he dared. “We can hide in the mangrove till they pass. It’s probably some fisherman coming in.”
“Fishermen never come in here,” the girl murmured.
The phantom craft loomed larger. It was drifting, probably. Lane heard no sound of oars. There was open water for about fifty yards on either side of it. With luck and a strong right arm, there was a chance of running past and getting out of the inlet.
“Let’s make a break for it,” Lane said. “Give ’er ten. Now!”
He dug his oar into the water, leaned on it.
At the same moment a dazzling blaze of brilliance burst into being behind him. He saw his shadow leap ahead of him to the surface of the water as the beam of a searchlight swept the inlet. A motor roared into action like the staccato tattoo of a machine gun.
