The Damsel

by Richard Stark

  “It isn’t all that definite,” she said. “We aren’t married, we aren’t even engaged, not really.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s just been kind of an, an understanding, that’s all. For years, since we were both kids.”

  “Oh,” said Grofield. “The Governor’s son.”

  “Bob Harrison, yes, that’s right.”

  “Got it,” Grofield assured her. “I’ll do it beautifully, you can rely implicitly on me.”

  “I hope so. Not that I’m completely sure in my own mind, it isn’t that at all. Bob’s been away so much, I hardly know him really. But he’s always been sort of a stickler for propriety, so it would be better . . .”

  “Don’t say another word,” Grofield told her. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “But I want you to know,” he said, leaning over to the right and squeezing her knee, “that I will never let the memory fade from my heart, of those few precious moments of bliss—”

  She slapped his hand away and cried, “Don’t be a stinker!” And, laughing, heeled her horse and rode on ahead.

  It was just noon when they came around the last curve and saw Acapulco spread out below them like a travel poster come true. Acapulco is shaped like a huge letter C lying on its back, the letter curving around the placid water of the harbor, broad, pale, sandy beaches all along the shore, big new motels around to the left, smaller older hotels around to the right, and the tropical mumbo-jumbo white and orange calypso town in the center.

  Elly pointed, crying, “That’s his yacht, General Pozos’ yacht! That big one, the white one, see it?”

  He saw it, and as he looked at it he saw a launch move away from the yacht and slice through the water toward shore. “Here comes somebody,” he said.

  “Come on!!”

  They were still a long way off, most of it curving and twisting and backtracking down the southern slope of this final mountain. It was another five minutes before they reached the edge of the city itself, and then there was still a long, winding descent through Acapulco’s native slum, with the brown faces looking up in surprise at the gringos on horseback clattering by.

  They didn’t try to push their mounts faster than a trot, both because of the long four hours they’d already been ridden and because of the harsh city footing underneath.

  The shaking and agitation of traveling on horseback had bothered Grofield more than he’d anticipated, making the area around his wound act up more and more. He’d finally discovered that it helped to ease the strain if he kept his left hand tucked inside his shirt, in a kind of makeshift splint arrangement, and he was riding this way now, holding the reins lightly in his right hand, lifting up and back to the rhythm of the horse’s movements, the suitcase securely tied on behind.

  Five minutes more and they were at the bottom of the slope, the ocean ten or twelve blocks ahead of them. There were more cars on the streets now, they were coming into an area of normal city traffic, so they went single-file down the center of the street, Grofield in the lead.

  “I saw where the launch landed!” Elly called at one point. “It’s to the right, to the right!”

  He nodded and waved his right hand, so she’d know he’d heard her. At the end of this street there was a broad avenue going to left and right, with a grassy center divider, the avenue flanking the beaches and forming the basic C pattern of the city. Grofield turned right on this, and he and Elly rode along through all the traffic, cars and trucks and bright-colored beach buggies, approaching the dock where the launch had landed.

  All at once there was a shouting to the left, and Grofield looked over there to see a bunch of them piling out of a pale blue Chrysler, all of them shouting and pointing at Grofield and Elly. And then not just pointing, but pointing guns. Shouting, “Stop! Stop!”

  Grofield yelled at Elly, “Take off!” and ground his heels into his animal’s rib cage. The horse leaped forward, and Elly stayed beside him, and they galloped down the center of the avenue with the sounds of shouting and shooting behind them. Grofield, twisting around to look back over his bad shoulder, saw them running along back there, saw the Chrysler making a wild U turn, thumping over the divider and heading this way.

  “Yaaaaah! Yaaaaaah!” Grofield yelled into his mount’s ear, lying forward so his head was almost even with the horse’s, so he could see its staring eye and hear its snorting breath. “Yaaaaah! Yaaaaaaah!”

  Ahead and on the left there was a line of limousines, black and pretentious, which Grofield knew had to be the place. He aimed for it, cutting across the traffic, making a beach buggy slam on its brakes with a squeal.

  People were about to get into the limousines, a lot of people in uniforms or formal dress, all now turning their heads this way, staring openmouthed, while behind them men ran and the Chrysler came rushing forward and bullets were sailing through the air.

  Grofield never reined in till he’d reached the first limousine, and then he yanked hard, forcing his mount to pull up short, and leaped to the ground before the animal had fully stopped. He landed off-balance, and his left hand was still stuck inside his shirt and unavailable to help, so he fell heavily, and rolled, and came up against a lot of legs. He staggered to his feet, shouting, “Elly! Elly!” and looked up to see her flying through the air toward him, openmouthed and flailing. They collided, and he went down again, and all at once he seemed to be in the middle of a forest of black-trousered legs, no opening left anywhere, and Elly was lying on top of him like a sack of wheat.

  He managed to say, “Up. Up.” But when she didn’t move, there was nothing he could do about it. He lay there, winded, aching all over now, and gasped for breath.

  The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. The forest of legs disbanded again, there was light, there were individual voices saying surprised things in a variety of languages, and then one voice crying, “Ellen Marie! Ellen Marie!”

  Now she did move, raising herself up off him, and he saw there was a streak of red on the left shoulder of her white blouse. He said, “Hey.”

  But the new voice was more insistent, crying her name over and over, and Grofield could see it was impossible to attract her attention. She was sitting beside him, oblivious, looking around as though hunting for something.

  Grofield sat up, which cost him, and reached out to touch Elly’s shoulder just as the new man finally pushed his way through and dropped to his knees in front of her. He was gray-haired, heavyset, had the look of the well-bred about him; it must be her father. The father put his hands out to touch her face, then all at once pulled back, saying, “You’re hurt.”

  In the sea of sound all around them, they existed in a little oasis of silence. Grofield could sense it, was himself on the fringe of it. He heard distinctly her low voice saying, “Yes.”

  And the father again: “They shot you. They tried to kill you.”

  And the daughter: “That’s what killing is. Don’t you know?”

  And then the silence was total, as they looked at one another. Grofield, on the perimeter, sat cradling his left arm and waited to see what would happen next.

  What would happen next was a new wave of shouting, with a repeated name in the middle of it all: “General Pozos! General Pozos!” And then a young guy stepping into the circle of silence, ignoring it, unaware of it, putting his hand on Elly’s father’s shoulder and saying, “Sir, it’s the General. He’s been shot. Would you look, he’s been shot.”

  The father raised his head as though befuddled, saying, “What? What? Oh, oh, yes, of course. But Ellen Marie, she’s—”

  She said, cold and correct, “It only cut the skin, it isn’t still in me, I’m all right.”

  “If you—”

  “I’m all right!”

  The young guy—an American, in a gray business suit—said, “Sir, if you could hurry—”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  The father got to his feet first, moving clumsily, like a
man who’s recently had a stroke. Elly followed him, favoring her left arm but still getting up with supple grace. Grofield came last, not so gracefully, and would have lost his balance halfway up if a popeyed bystander hadn’t given him a hand.

  He looked around and the little Honners were all gone. The blue Chrysler was gone. The horses, content to be let alone at last after their long run, were still standing where Grofield and Elly had hurriedly left them.

  Several people standing around Grofield were asking him questions, some in Spanish and some in English and some in other languages, but he hardly heard them and didn’t acknowledge them at all. After a few seconds, in which he got himself oriented, and was sure he wouldn’t fall down again, he pushed through them and followed Elly.

  Here was another group, this one silent, standing in a horseshoe shape, with Elly and her father the only ones at the open end. Grofield came up behind them and looked, and a fat man in a blue uniform was lying on his back in there. Fresh blood stained and smeared the chest of the blue uniform. The fat man’s eyes were closed, he was obviously unconscious, but his legs were twitching, like those of a dog who dreams of rabbits.

  Grofield was the only one close enough to hear what Elly said to her father: “Save his life. Save it.”

  “But—” The father looked troubled, confused, almost pained. He made vague motions; at the fat man lying on the ground, at himself, at the world in general. “Luke—” he started, and trailed off.

  She shook her head. “No. This is what you’re for. You’re to save lives.”

  A shudder went through him, and he looked panic-stricken for just an instant, like a sleepwalker awaking suddenly to foreign surroundings, and then, with an obvious effort, he regained control. “Yes,” he said, possibly to Elly, possibly to himself. He turned and went to his knees beside the fat man and reached down to unbutton the jacket of the fancy uniform.

  4

  SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE was knocking on a door. It must be Macbeth, thought Grofield, Macbeth does murder sleep.

  Reluctantly he half-opened his eyes, and saw a room shrouded in semidarkness. In that first instant he had no idea where he was, but then he shifted position and felt a sharp twinge high on the left side of his back, and remembered everything. Of course. The bullet wound, the suitcase full of money in the closet; he was in the hotel room Parker had gotten him in Mexico City.

  He closed his eyes again, remembering. He’d had some sort of a wild dream, girls climbing in his window, horseback riding through mountains . . .

  The room was moving.

  He opened his eyes again, quickly, and it was true, it wasn’t dizziness or anything like that, the room was really moving.

  And the window was a porthole.

  There was that knocking at the door again, but Grofield paid no attention to it. He was staring at the porthole, and loudly he said, “Hey!”

  The door opened. A short steward in a white Eton jacket and black trousers came hesitantly in, saying in heavily accented English, “Good morning, sor. Is nine o’clock, sor.”

  Now Grofield was really awake, and had the recent past sorted out in his mind. Elly, General Pozos, Honner, all the rest of it. And here he was on General Pozos’ yacht.

  He sat up, aware of the fact that he was wearing yellow pajamas he couldn’t remember ever having seen before. They seemed to be made of silk, and in them he felt like Ronald Colman. He said, “It’s what time?”

  “Nine o’clock, sor.”

  “At night?” But there was light outside the porthole.

  “No, sor. In the morning.”

  “Don’t be silly, we didn’t get here till after noon.”

  “Yes, sor.”

  “I’ve taken a nap, I’ve . . .” He rubbed his head, trying to remember. The arrival, sailing off the horses, Elly crashing into him, General Pozos lying on the ground . . . And then the hours without sleep, and the constant activity, and the final letdown at the end, all had combined to make him suddenly sick with exhaustion. He could remember staggering to Elly, muttering something to her about the suitcase, take care of the suitcase, and then someone saying he should be in bed, and walking somewhere, and . . . and that was all.

  The suitcase. He looked around the room, saying, “My—my luggage. Where’s my luggage?”

  “Suitcase here, sor.” The steward was crossing the room to a tall dresser, picking up the suitcase from beside it. “Shall I unpack for you, sor?”

  “No. No. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Miss Fitzgerald say she in dining room, sor. Down corridor . . . that way.”

  “To the right.”

  “Si. Yes, sor. To the right. All the way.” He opened a small door in the opposite wall, saying, “Washroom. If you want something, button here.”

  “Thank you. What time did you say it was?”

  “Nine o’clock, sor.”

  “All right, then, what day is it?”

  “Uhhhh . . . I don’t know, sor, not in English. Day before Sunday.”

  “Saturday?”

  The steward smiled brilliantly. “Si! Saturday!”

  “Ah,” said Grofield. “It’s tomorrow. That explains everything.”

  “Yes, sor.” Still smiling, the steward backed his way out of the room.

  Grofield got out of bed and examined his suitcase, and all the money was still there. Good for Elly, good for her.

  He took a hot shower, which helped work the stiffness out of his left shoulder, then dressed, locked the suitcase again, and went down the corridor to the right. At the end was the dining room, with large side windows through which sunlight poured blindingly. There were half a dozen tables covered with snowy cloths and sparkling plates and gleaming silver. The floor was waxed to high gloss, the metalwork around the windows had been polished till it shone, and the central light fixture in the ceiling was alive with cut glass glittering in all the light. It was something like a restaurant built inside a diamond, and Grofield didn’t care for it at all.

  All the tables were empty save one in the middle of the room, at which Elly sat alone. Grofield pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket, put them on and threaded the tables, sitting down across from Elly, who was laughing at him. He said, “What’s so funny?”

  “You look like a man with a hangover.”

  “I feel like a man with a hangover.”

  “I’m sorry, maybe I should have let you sleep, but I thought twenty hours was enough.”

  “Is that how long it was?”

  “One o’clock yesterday afternoon till nine o’clock this morning.”

  “You always were good at math.”

  She laughed again and said, “You want some orange juice?”

  “God, no. Coffee.”

  “We’ll get you both.” From somewhere she called up a waiter, gave him an order for a complete breakfast, and when he’d gone again, she said to Grofield, “Now, we’ve got to get our stories straight.”

  “We never slept together, we never slept together.”

  “I don’t mean that, I mean everything else.”

  “What everything else?”

  She leaned closer, saying, “Bob Harrison doesn’t know it was his father who caused all this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said firmly, “there’s enough trouble in the world. Bob doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to know.”

  The waiter came with Grofield’s coffee. When they were alone again, and Grofield had drunk half the cup, he said, “All right, it wasn’t Harrison’s father. What about your father? In or out?”

  “Out. It’s simpler that way, and Dad—”

  “He reformed.”

  “Don’t make it sound like that,” she said. “It’s true. When he actually saw bloodshed—”

  “Hot damn,” said Grofield. “I was there, I saw it, I believe it. What I don’t believe is that he would have gone through with Harrison’s plan in the first place.”

  “Oh, yes he would. I know him, and he wo
uld. There wouldn’t have been any shooting, any obvious violence at all. It would have been a medical problem, an intricate medical problem. Dad would have dehumanized it. Isn’t that funny? When all is said and done, violence doesn’t dehumanize us but forces us to recognize the fact of our humanity.”

  “Gee whiz,” said Grofield.

  “Did anybody ever tell you you were a bastard in the morning?”

  “In the morning? I don’t think so. I’ve had people tell me in the afternoon, and at night, but never in the morning.” He finished his coffee, and said, “All right, you’re right and I’m sorry. What’s the drill?”

  “The what?”

  “The new story.”

  “Oh. Well, there were these mysterious people who were plotting to kill General Pozos. They’d heard that Dad was going to become his personal physician, so they thought if they kidnapped me they could force Dad to help them get past the General’s bodyguard.”

  Grofield said, “A little shaky on detail, but what the hell.”

  “Listen, now. They kidnapped me, and they were holding me in Mexico City. You rescued me, because I managed to throw a note out the hotel window and you found it.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Wait, we’ll get to that. Anyway, it was Thursday night when you rescued me. I had no idea how to get in touch with Dad by then, but I knew everyone would be here in Acapulco on Friday, so I asked you to help me get here, and you did. The rest of the story is exactly the way it really happened, except that we left from Mexico City on Thursday night, and never slept anywhere, separately or together.”

  “I’m not sure I’d believe that story, if I were Bob Harrison,” Grofield told her. “On the other hand, I’ve heard your stories before.”

  “Well, Bob believes it.”

  “Good for him. If he’s a man you can deceive, I’m sure you’ll be very happy with him, forever and ever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, darling. Let’s get back to me. Who am I?”

  “I’m not sure. You’re also mysterious. I do know you’ve had a recent bullet wound, and I know you’re in Mexico without papers.”