Blow-Down, page 22
“But the gun was gone. Therefore it seemed reasonable to suppose that whoever took the gun also took whatever made the purple mark. And it also seemed logical to believe that whoever killed Roland and broke open the desk in the Consulate did so to get something among Stilton’s personal effects, which were locked in the desk—something which would incriminate the murderer. A leaky fountain pen containing purple ink would do the trick, particularly if it had not belonged to Stilton but to the murderer. Then I got a mental picture of Gerald Stilton borrowing Alcott’s fountain pen to write his own death warrant—doubtless the accusing figures that Mr. Binsworth quoted to Perry last night.
“But here’s the Comandante. He probably has the whole story.”
The Comandante emerged from Mrs. Alcott’s room carrying a .38 revolver, a fountain pen, and a bulky sheaf of paper covered with neat, closely written script in purple ink.
“Read it, Joe,” Lane said.
The Comandante cleared his throat, began in a monotone:
To whoever finds my body:—It seems odd, now that the end has come, that I should take the time and trouble to reveal in writing the very facts which I have gone to such lengths to conceal for so many months. But the approach of death has given me back my sense of moral values, and the revelation of the utter worthlessness of the woman for whom I sold my soul has made me resolve that no innocent man should suffer further for her sins and mine.
Mr. Binsworth of course has at last discovered the method by which I had been robbing the company for the past seven months. When the stake was big enough, Nita and I were going to run away together. Mr. Binsworth probably does not know the panic I was in when Adolf von Graulitz discovered that the fruit company options had lapsed on the lands in the Liberica region, and was seeking control of them himself. I went to Graulitz, trying to make a deal with him, offering him money if he would avoid specific mention of the lands on which I was developing my hypothetical banana plantations, and which were outside the waterfront zone anyhow. Graulitz agreed to a bargain, but instead of money, he insisted that I should set up apparatus in Puerto Musa which would interfere systemically with American short-wave radio programs, making the European propaganda broadcasts the only programs which could be properly received on this coast and as far inland as the Capital. There was no alternative but to agree.
We made the installation the week-end of the annual interdivision baseball game with Playa Honda, when practically the entire personnel of Puerto Musa left on the Fonseca and did not return until late Sunday night. I remained behind, pleading illness. Graulitz brought over his technician, and we made the installation at dark, laying a cable to the guy wires of Bannisters aerial. The apparatus was extremely compact and easy to operate. It was contained in a suitcase which I kept under the bed in my study, and I had only to plug it in the lighting circuit, and turn a few nobs at stated hours.
Then this man Bossert turned up at Puerto Musa. Graulitz discovered that he was an American agent, and told me I had better get rid of him, or my game would be up. By this time I was completely infatuated with Nita and could envisage nothing which would wreck my plans to run away with her. With a powder that Graulitz had given me, I poisoned Bossert. I gave it to him in a cocktail, knowing that nothing short of carbolic acid could alter the strange taste of the terrible martinis my wife makes, bless her heart.
When Bossert died, I was terrified by the thought that I had become a murderer. I went to Graulitz and tried to call the whole thing off. He threatened to denounce me, so I did nothing—until Walter Lane came to Puerto Musa.
Graulitz discovered that Lane was also an American agent, and informed me that I had better lose no time in getting rid of him, too. I tried, twice. Ten days ago, when I rode out to Rio Sangre with Muriel Monroe, I found Barnaby Hind’s house empty, so I took Hind’s rifle and followed Muriel, knowing that she was out looking for Lane. I shot at him from a distance—and missed. There was only one shot in the chamber of Hind’s rifle, and I had been unable to find where he kept his spare ammunition. I managed to replace the rifle without being discovered.
The Comandante paused for breath. “Could any of you gents mix me up a pitcher of dog’s-nose?” he inquired. “This reading is very hard on a dry throat.”
“I’ll go on from there,” Lane volunteered. He took the remaining pages and continued reading:
By this time I realized that matters were rapidly coming to a head and I resolved to run away with Nita as soon as possible. When we heard that a hundred thousand dollars was coming down for Stilton, we decided to take it and run. I took the money from Perry’s safe—I knew the combination, of course—while Perry was off meeting Stilton at the train. I wrapped it in two paper bundles, which Nita took home with some purchases she had made that afternoon at the commissary.
That night I was going to the American Consulate to steal two blank emergency passports. Graulitz suggested the idea, and said that if I would get the passports to establish false identities for Nita and me, he would see that we got away on a coffee ship. He even helped me take the impression of the lock on the back door of the Consulate. I know now that he did not intend helping us escape. I don’t know what he intended doing to me, but he certainly had an armed ambush waiting at the back door of the Consulate, into which Lane walked by error.
I had already destroyed the radio apparatus Graulitz gave me, and that night, as soon as it was dark, I pulled off the connections to Bannister’s antenna. I still had the screwdriver in my pocket when I went to dinner aboard the Bonaca.
I knew Graulitz had sold me out when I saw Stilton after the banquet. Stilton accosted me in the Plaza, where I had walked with Holliday (as the bartender and Holliday testified), and he walked back with me to Perry’s office. Graulitz had told Stilton that I was the only cause for disagreement between Liberica and Puerto Musa. The German knew that Stilton had him licked and that his whole coffee consortium was facing ruin unless he could make terms with Stilton. He told Stilton that he would strike a bargain—that he would tell Stilton of an expensive leak that was costing the fruit company many thousands of dollars, if Stilton would call a truce. Stilton, apparently, agreed.
Stilton confronted me with the facts as Graulitz had told them to him. I denied them, naturally. Stilton then asked to borrow my fountain pen, wrote some figures on the back of an envelope, replaced the pen in his own pocket as he leered at me in triumph and passed me the figures. They were accurate and undeniable. Stilton said if I still persisted in denying my guilt, he would send to New Orleans for the paysheets. I knew then that I was lost. I was a murderer and a thief, and I would lose Nita. That thought drove the last vestige of sanity from my head. The only way to save myself and keep Nita would be to silence Stilton. I stabbed him with the screwdriver I had in my pocket, and ran. I reached the steps of the club just before Perry came back.
“Pardon me for just a minute,” the Comandante interrupted. “I must telephone to the Comandancia.”
It was not until later, when I returned with Perry and the others, that I noticed the purple stains on Stilton’s fingers and remembered my fountain pen, Lane read. I knew I would have to get it back before, they thought of tracing it to me. I heard Roland say that Stilton’s effects were at the Consulate, and thought I would try to get the pen while Roland was still talking to the Comandante.
I let myself into the Consulate with my duplicate key. I had no more thought of the blank passports, but knew I must find the pen. It took me some time to break open the lock on the desk, as I was afraid to switch on the light. It was Roland, coming back sooner than I expected, who turned on the light. He had heard me, and held a gun in his hand.
I sprang at him, and we fought for the gun. In the struggle, I shot him. I still had to break open the desk. When I finally succeeded in finding the pen, the telephone rang. It was the Comandante. I imitated Roland’s voice the best I could, then hung up. But I was so unnerved by this time that I even forgot to destroy the leaky fountain pen which I had killed a man to get!
I found Nita and told her what I had done. I suggested that she get rid of the money. She said she would take care of it, although she has never told me what she did with it. I should have suspected her loyalty then, but I didn’t, particularly as next day she repeated a conversation she had overheard between Perry and the Comandante, in which the Comandante said he thought Lane knew the whole story, and that Lane was planning to escape.
Graulitz sent for me that night, but I did not go. I was through with him, determined to play my hand alone, and to get out as quickly as possible. I made an effort to intercept Lane in the inlet that night, but the Comandante’s launch drove me off.
That night Nita came to my study. I still think she may have loved me in her own shallow way, but she loved herself more. She was not going to tie herself to a triple murderer, not when she had a hundred thousand dollars. She raised her voice deliberately, so my wife would hear. She knew Edith would make Perry send her north, and she knew I could not object without incriminating myself.
The rest you know.
I have been a fool, and I have come to the end of my fool’s paradise. Of those who remain behind, I ask forgiveness. To the men I have killed, I shall have, to answer myself—if there is a hereafter. Of my wife, I can ask nothing, for there is nothing in her heritage of shame which can let her know how contrite I am. I can only hope that there may be some forgiveness in her heart. Good-by, dear Edith.
HENRY ALCOTT.
There was a long silence. The third vice-president stirred uneasily. Then he said, “Too bad. He writes well, doesn’t he, Perry?”
“My dear Lane,” said the Comandante, “you must be dry as Kansas after all that reading. Luckily I phoned for some dog’s-nose. Here it is.”
Two barefoot soldiers walked up the veranda steps, bearing foaming, sweating, amber pitchers.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The New Monroe Doctrine
Lane, had gone to Perry’s house to take a shower and shave. He was getting into a clean suit of whites when the Comandante came in and pounded him on the back.
“You were right, Lane,” he said. “The Comandante at Piedra Grande says Holliday’s motor boy admits that Nita Fenwick gave him fifty dollars to take her up the line the night Stilton was killed, and another fifty to go home and keep his mouth shut for a few weeks. That’s a lot of money to a motor boy.”
“What about the hundred thousand?” Lane asked.
“It was in the bag, all right,” said the Comandante. “Perry got a wire from the skipper of the Fonseca. They found the cash in the hold with the bananas. Now the third vice-president is trying to make up his mind what to do about Nita.”
“How about the Minister of the Interior—will his patience last until the company gets more money down here?”
“I don’t know about his patience,” the Comandante replied, “but I don’t think he’ll be leaving for a day or two. Doc Janvier’s got him in bed with a case of indigestion. Anyhow, I don’t think Señor Manzana wants to be Minister of the Interior any more. Since he’s sampled the French cooking at the Janviers’, he’s seriously considering putting in for an appointment as Ambassador to Paris. He’s convinced that the art of eating, in Latin America, is in its infancy.”
“What about his possible successor?” Lane asked.
“I don’t think there’ll be any trouble for the company,” the Comandante replied. “I’m thinking of taking the portfolio myself. Anyhow, Graulitz concedes defeat.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He went aboard that German coffee boat as soon as she dropped hook off Liberica this morning. I can try to get him off, if you want, but I doubt if it’ll work. Those German skippers have a way of demanding all sorts of impossible warrants, and then denying that the man you want is aboard. We might try it, anyhow, and charge him with inciting to murder.”
“Let him go,” said Lane. “Is Pinky Hind aboard, too?”
“I should say not. Pinky Hind is staying right here in Puerto Musa. He’s going into business here. He may not remember it when he wakes up, but he bought the Bar of the Two Owls last night—with his lottery winnings.”
Lane was putting the finishing touches on tying his cravat. “Pinky’ll have to lower the bar about eight inches,” he said. “Otherwise the customers won’t be able to see him when he stands behind it.”
“You dressed now, Lane?”
“Yes. Why?”
“There’s a young lady waiting to see you,” said the Comandante. He turned to call, “Señorita!”
Muriel came in without further ceremony. She walked slowly, and there was an expression of apprehension in her blue eyes.
“Well, it’s happened,” she said. “There’s a radiogram for you. I brought it myself, because I’m afraid I can guess what it is.”
“What is it, my love?”
“You’re going to leave right away.”
He took the envelope from her, ripped it open. He smiled and passed her the message, which read:
Walter Lane Caribfruit Puerto Musa—Congratulations stop arrange take earliest plane for Panama awaiting orders through usual channels Canal Zone—Haliaetus.
Muriel flung the paper at him. “I suppose you’ll take the next train for the Capital to make your plane connections,” she said.
“I suppose so.”
“Well, good-by, Walt. It’s been nice knowing you.”
“What’s the matter, darling? Don’t you like Panama?”
“Nobody asked me if I liked it.”
“I’m asking you,” said Lane. “How long does it take you to pack?”
“Oh, Walt, darling, if you really meant that!”
“Of course I mean it.”
“But I can’t go with you, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re to do, or where you’ll be. Anyhow you can’t be lugging a girl around all over the place. Suppose you have to spend six months catching albacore with the Japanese fishing fleet?”
“I never thought of that,” Lane said. “But they can’t make a fisherman of me for six months. I’ve got leave due me in two. Come on with me and take a chance.”
“I can’t, darling. I can’t leave Dave like this without notice. There’s so much work, cleaning up after the blow-down. He’ll need me.”
“Nonsense,” Lane said. “The whole division will be clean in a few weeks. After that there won’t be a thing to do for the next eight months, except wait for the new suckers to get big enough to bear fruit. You can break in a new secretary in a month. Tell you what. I’ll give you five weeks. Meet me in Panama in five weeks.”
“But where, darling? How will I find you? You don’t know yourself where you’ll be. Wait until you get your leave, darling. Then send me a cable and—”
“Five weeks from today,” Lane interrupted, “at six o’clock in the evening, I’ll be sitting on the veranda of that big hotel on Ancon Hill, drinking a small rumgomme-and-lime. I’ll be expecting you. You know, I’m pretty crazy about you, Muriel Monroe.”
“I adore you, darling.”
“Make a note of that somewhere,” Lane said. “Because from now on that’s going to be the new Monroe Doctrine.”
She didn’t laugh. She couldn’t, because he was kissing her.
About the Author
Lawrence G. Blochman (1900–1975) was an Edgar Award–winning author of mystery novels, a prominent translator of international crime fiction, and served as the fourth president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died in New York City.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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Copyright © 1953 by Lawrence G. Blochman
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-8578-6
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