The Follower, page 13
‘Nothing.’
‘One hundred and forty.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Oscar regarded him patiently. ‘But for nothing I would tell you the wrong address. You would go for miles and miles and then have to come back here with your gun. Think of the time you would lose. One hundred and fifty pesos.’
Mark could imagine Oscar’s ancestors, generations ago, arguing the pants off a conquistador.
‘Okay. One hundred and thirty.’
A faint look of guilt spread across the boy’s face. ‘Perhaps I do morally wrong to tell you. Sometimes it is not easy to know when one does morally wrong. But George wished an apartment for himself too. By chance a very good friend of mine an American gentleman — has gone to New York for a month. He has a pretty apartment and he leaves with me the key because out of friendship he feels I may like to rest there in the afternoons.’
‘So you rented George your friend’s apartment?’
‘Oh, I tell him to be most careful of my friend’s possession.’
‘Where is it?’
Oscar’s brown dainty hand came out. ‘First the money, Mr Liddon.’
Mark took out his wallet. As Oscar accepted the pesos, the man who had been waiting for the call from the lady of the Osiris Club came over to the desk. He had obviously given up.
‘Hey, boy, is there anywhere around here where a guy can have a bit of fun?’
Oscar smiled politely. ‘If it is to dance you wish, sir, there is the Molina Roja. If it is perhaps friendly ladies, I recommend the Esmeralda.’
The man gave Mark a rather embarrassed glance. ‘Where’s this Esmeralda located?’
Oscar looked suddenly vague. The man put a five-peso bill down on the counter. Oscar smiled again and told him an address. The man went away. Oscar’s wallet came out. As he neatly inserted his loot, he glanced doubtfully at Mark.
‘Mr Liddon, you think perhaps it is frivolous to spend my money for clothes? You think perhaps it would be more wise to place it in a bank and save for the little villa in Acapulco?’
‘The address, Oscar.’
‘Oh yes. Bolivar 45. The top apartment. On the roof. But, Mr Liddon, you must remember? I do not tell you from friendship. I tell you only because I am cruelly overpowered with the gun.’
The boy gave a little sigh.
‘I do hope this is morally right. When one has many friends, it is sometimes difficult to keep them all happy.’
18
NUMBER 45 gave the impression of having just been finished in a hurry from a charming blueprint that no one had completely checked. As Mark climbed the broad stairway to the top floor, there was a faint odor of fresh paint, and yet the stucco walls were already cracking. At the landings, smudges of putty still showed on the glass of the pretty picture windows whose large panes bulged inwards slightly as if the tensions had been miscalculated. Someone would soon have to pull it all down and build a new house.
There was a single door on the top floor. A printed card slipped into a socket which had been screwed slightly crooked on to the paneling, said: Harry S. Jameson. That presumably was the name of Oscar’s generous American friend. Mark took the gun out of his pocket and held it so that it was aimed at the stomach of whoever should answer the door. He hoped it would be George. He would like to see George caught unawares on the other end of a gun.
He pressed a buzzer. A faint chime sounded inside the apartment. He waited. Nothing happened. He pressed the buzzer again. At length he heard the clicking of a woman’s heels. The door opened and Frankie was standing there.
She looked straight at him and then down at the gun. Her young face, with the Slavic, almost gaunt cheekbones and the wide blue eyes, was completely calm. She had no sense of crisis. He might have been a man come to check the gas-meter, if they had gas-meters in Mexico. She pushed the fair hair which had fallen forward over one shoulder.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Mr Liddon.’
‘Surprised to see me?’
‘Why should I be? You’re always going in for this where-angels-fear-to-tread routine. I’m getting used to it.’
‘Where’s George?’
She smiled a deliberately mechanical smile. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Liddon. He isn’t here right now. He just stepped out for a minute.’
He kicked the door inwards and started towards her with the gun. It didn’t bother her. She moved backwards, glancing over her shoulder to avoid bumping into anything.
‘I told you to go back to New York, Mr Liddon.’
‘I know you did.’
‘You promised to go.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Now you’ve loused everything up for everybody.’
‘For everybody? Or just you and George — and Victor?’ They had reached the living-room. Oscar’s American friend seemed to be even crazier about the color of quaint Old Mexico than the Hotel Mirador was. There were serapes flung over the couches and hangings on the walls. There was enough pottery to start an export business.
‘Keep moving,’ he said. ‘Into the next room.’
She blinked. ‘Planning on a sublet?’
‘I’m going to find out whether George is here.’
She backed ahead of him towards a door in the right wall. She paused at its threshold. When he joined her, she gestured inside.
‘This is the kitchen. It’s small but cozy and ever so convenient. We often whip up a tasty little dinner for eight jolly friends.’
He looked into the kitchen and nodded. She crossed through the living-room to the only other door.
‘And this is the bedroom. It gets the afternoon sun.’
There was a closet in the far wall. Mark went to it, opened the door and investigated. A French window, with the inevitable putty stains, led to the roof. He stepped outside. A metal glider and a table made a sort of improvised sun porch. Chimneys loomed vaguely in the darkness.
Frankie joined him. The scent of Ellie’s perfume trailed through the night air.
‘In the daylight you can see the mountains,’ she said. ‘And then’ — she gestured — ‘the chimneys. There’s something so appealingly garrety about chimneys Don’t you agree?’
As he started forward, she put her hand on his arm. He whipped around to point the gun at her.
She said: ‘My, but you’re jumpy, Mr Liddon. It must be the altitude. Don’t you want to see the bathroom and check that the toilet flushes?’
They returned to the bedroom. Mark looked into the bathroom and then guided her back into the living room. ‘Satisfied George isn’t here?’ she asked.
‘When’s he coming back?’
She shrugged. ‘I really wouldn’t know.’
He nodded at a studio couch which was covered with a black-and-white serape.
‘Sit down.’
Frankie glanced across the room. He followed her glance. Her scarlet leather handbag lay on a chair by a tin coffee table.
‘Sit down,’ he repeated.
Frankie sat. Mark crossed to her handbag. He turned it upside down and dumped its contents on to the chair. In a confusion of articles as chaotic as Ellie’s, he saw a small revolver. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He poked with his finger at the other objects. There was an envelope with Thomas Cook and Sons printed on it. He opened it. Inside he found a regular travel agent’s receipt for a room reservation at the Hotel Casa Miranda in Acapulco. It was dated December 24th. That was tomorrow. He put it in his pocket too and crossed back towards Frankie, the gun still aimed at her.
He chose a chair from which he could keep both her and the front door covered.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re planning a little trip.’
She had been watching him brightly without the slightest change of expression. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘they tell me Acapulco is delightful at this time of year.’
‘You’re travelling no doubt as Mrs Mark Liddon?’
‘What a quaint thought!’
‘We’ll be a lot quainter before I’m through with you.’ He took out his pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit a cigarette.
She said: ‘Since we’re being quaint, perhaps you’ll quaintly offer me one of those things.’
He tossed her a cigarette. She caught it and put it in her mouth.
‘And a quaint match?’
He tossed her the book of matches. She lit her cigarette, carefully rearranged the book and threw it back.
‘Now,’ she said, lounging easily back against the serape. ‘Bul!y me, Mr Liddon.’
In spite of her pretense at calm she was tense. He was beginning to realize that. She knew he had control of the situation.
‘I’ve found my wife,’ he said.
‘I know you have.’
‘She was under the influence of dope.’
‘Yes, she was indeed.’
‘I’ve got her somewhere safe. You won’t be able to kidnap her again.’
‘No. We probably won’t.’
‘I know now who George is. He’s one of Victor’s barmen. God knows who you are. That’s one of the things you’re going to tell me.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And what else am I going to tell you?’
‘Everything.’
She crossed her long, slim legs. She was wearing a very smart pair of alligator shoes. They were probably Ellie’s shoes.
‘Hasn’t your wife told you everything, Mr Liddon?’
He said bitterly: ‘How do you expect her to tell anything when she’s under dope?’
She lolled back against the cushions of the couch, looking at him through a blue curl of cigarette smoke.
‘You’re crazy about her, aren’t you?’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me. Perhaps it - saddens me.’
‘And why does it sadden you?’
‘I told you I like you. I do like you.’
‘That makes me all warm and cozy inside.’
‘Damn you.’ She suddenly spat the word at him. ‘Damn you for barging in where you don’t belong; damn you for being a big dumb Czech; damn you for having the horns and hide of a water buffalo.’
Her unexpected violence had an odd effect on him. For a moment he was as conscious of her lean young body as if she were in his arms. Her deliberate mechanical smile broke the spell.
‘Excuse me, Mr Liddon. That wasn’t in your script, was it? Where were we? Oh yes. I was going to tell you everything.’
‘First you’re going to tell me how Corey Lathrop got killed.’
‘Corey — what?’
‘Corey Lathrop.’
‘Who’s Corey Lathrop? It sounds like a firm that manufactures deep freeze units.’
The return of her artificial frivolity was exasperating beyond endurance.
He said: ‘You’re going to tell why you kidnapped my wife and why you’re impersonating her.’
She looked patient. ‘But you forget so quickly, Mr Liddon. I’ve already told you why I’m impersonating your wife. I want to get back to the States. I have no papers. I…’
‘Must I listen to all that crap again?’
‘We’ve got to fill in the time somehow.’
‘You seem to forget that I have a gun. George isn’t the only one who’s picked up the gun habit in Mexico.’
She smiled friendlily. ‘But George uses his gun to stop people doing things. You seem to use yours to make people tell things. That’s quite different. If you blew the top of my head off, you wouldn’t find the quote solution to the mystery end of quote, neatly inscribed on my skull, would you?’
She leaned forward. Her face was suddenly frank and sympathetic. It was an expression to which he was used by now. Once it had fooled him. Now it put him even more on his guard.
‘It’s about time that we made at least a dim attempt to understand each other. I am impersonating your wife. I have a very good reason for doing so, and neither George nor I have the slightest intention of telling you what that reason is. If you had trusted me at the beginning, there would have been nothing to worry about. Your wife would have been returned to you in gorgeous Technicolor. Everything would have been ducky. But since you didn’t trust us, you’re on your own. You want to fight us. Okay. Go ahead and try. We’ll fight right back. And, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll give up this two-gun Tony characterization. Stop brandishing guns. That’s something we’re much better at than you. You’ll only end up with blood all over your lovely blond head.’ She put her cigarette down on an ashtray and gazed at him fixedly. ‘Any questions?’
He felt a sudden elation. ‘No questions,’ he said. ‘Just a few statements. Statement number one. Get your coat. It’s kind of chilly outside.’
‘My coat?’ she echoed.
‘You can use guns for stopping people doing things. You can also use them for making people do things. You’re impersonating my wife. Your impersonation involves a trip to Acapulco tomorrow. It’s too bad, but you’re not taking that trip. You’re getting out of here right now with me. And you’re going to sit with me in some particularly uncomfortable place until you’re good and ready to tell me what I want to know. See? I picked up the kidnapping habit in Mexico too.’ He rose and went towards her with the gun. ‘Get up.’
For a moment she continued to sit, looking at him, her wide blue eyes frankly admiring.
‘Why, Mr Liddon, you’re brighter than I gave you credit for.’
‘Maybe in time you’ll learn to love me. Do you want to come like this or do you want your coat?’
‘Oh, the coat definitely.’ She stood up. ‘I can just picture the place where we’re going to sit and look at each other - a cellar full of cobwebs and draughts and empty tequila bottles.’
‘Where’s the coat ?’
‘In the bedroom.’
‘Get it.’
She started towards the bedroom door. He followed her with the gun. They entered the room. They passed the French windows and came to the closet. She tugged open the door and frowningly, surveyed the hanging clothes inside. These must be her own; she probably kept Ellie’s at the Reforma.
‘Now, what would be a good dungeon outfit?’ She took out a grey wool coat and, swinging it around, held it out towards Mark. ‘How about this little number?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Fine.’
With a sudden lunge she threw herself on him, tangling the coat around his head and shoulders. In the first instant, while he struggled to extricate himself from the smothering wool, Frankie gripped his gun arm with both her hands and clung to it with all her strength. In the same confused second, a man’s voice said:
‘All right, Frankie. I’ve got him covered.’
Mark shoved the coat away. It fell to the floor. Frankie was still clutching at his arm. George had come in through the French windows and stood facing him, very pale and eager, a gun directed at him.
‘Drop the gun, Mr Liddon.’
Mark let go of the revolver. Frankie snatched it and stepped away from him. She stood at George’s side, looking back at Mark rather sadly.
‘I told you we could do this sort of thing much better than you, Mr Liddon. Now look what you’ve done. I don’t get kidnapped after all. You’ve ruined my day.’
19
MARK’s first reaction was fury against himself. George had obviously been hiding all the time on the roof behind one of the chimneys. He had let Frankie distract him from a thorough search by the crudest device of clutching his arm and deflecting his attention to herself. Through sheer stupidity he had muffed his big opportunity.
George was very excited. He couldn’t take things calmly like Frankie. His fair hair fell in a nervously disheveled lock over his blue fanatic’s eyes. He looked small and undernourished and immensely determined to be dangerous. He snapped at Frankie.
‘How much does he know?’
‘He says his wife’s still under dope. I don’t think he knows anything. But he has got my gun.’
‘Get it back. And, if he has it on him, get Mrs Liddon’s tourist card too.’
While he kept Mark covered with his revolver, Frankie retrieved her gun from Mark’s pocket and searched until she found Ellie’s tourist card. She tossed it on a table and continued to search. Her hand went into his pants pocket and came out with the key to the room in the Hotel Mirador. For a bad moment Mark thought the hotel’s name might be stamped on the metal tag. But it wasn’t — just the number.
Frankie studied the key thoughtfully and then, throwing it up in the air and catching it again, moved towards George’s side.
George had been watching like a celebrated surgeon waiting for his nurse to complete the preliminaries for an operation. Now he said:
‘How did you find out where your wife was, Mr Liddon? From Oscar?’
Mark could at least keep his bargains. ‘I forced it out of him.’
‘And this address too?’
‘Yes.’
George took a step closer. That was supposed to intimidate him. Mark could see all the wheels going around behind the ‘tough-guy’ characterization. It struck him as odd that this should be the man Victor had chosen to do his dirty work. He seemed far too undisciplined — too nearly the amateur.
‘We warned you to keep out of this, Mr Liddon. You had your chance.’ There it was again, that stuffy, preacher’s tone as if he were scolding an intractable congregation. He took the key from Frankie and held it up. ‘Okay. You’ve taken your wife to a hotel. What hotel?’
Perhaps, if less had happened that day, if his emotional reserves had not been almost exhausted, Mark might have taken the danger more seriously. But it seemed absurd that George should expect an answer to that question. Guns can’t make people tell things. Frankie had said that.
George was breathing quickly now as if he had been running. It was the dictator-whose-patience-is-almost-exhausted pose. But he was genuinely angry too. The best bet was to make him even madder. George was the type to do something foolish when he was in a passion.
