The Python Project

by Victor Canning

  I put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘who have you talked about it to?’

  ‘But senhor—’

  ‘No buts, José—this is a serious matter. You have talked to someone, haven’t you?’

  He drew away from me. ‘No, sir. Not me. I write to Mrs Stankowski and Mr Carver and I say nothing to anyone.’

  For all I knew I could be on a wrong tack, but I had to take a chance on it. Something really was worrying José.

  I said, ‘You ever been in trouble with the police, José?’

  ‘No, sir.’ It was quite definite.

  ‘You might be if you don’t tell me the truth. This is a serious matter. After I’ve finished here I am going to the police. Once they know about it it won’t be good for you if you haven’t told the truth.’ I had him hooked and wriggling. Getting mixed up with the police had his black eyes blinking fast and his birdy head bobbing about with apprehension.

  ‘You have talked to someone, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, sir. Not me. That is . . . well, someone talked to me.’ Then cupidity came in with a rush. ‘If I say, it is still mine, the pesetas?’

  ‘If you say, you might get some more. As much, for instance, as anyone else has promised you.’

  The relief on his face was like sunrise.

  He ran the edge of his tongue round his lips and said, ‘He say that I get five thousand pesetas.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘This man. He comes to the supermarket one evening, two-three days ago and ask me if I find anything in beer bottles. I tell him about the letters. I get five thousand pesetas if I let him know if anyone comes to talk about it. He was here again yesterday to see if I hear something.’

  ‘Who was he? Did he give a name?’

  I could see what had happened. Some time—wherever Wilkins was being held—Thérèse or Paulet had discovered one of her letters in a bottle. She would never have been content with writing two. It was common sense to run a check at the supermarket to see if any previous letters had got through. At the moment, now that they knew about the letters, they could be very worried—maybe even thinking of moving on. The Stankowski one they could discount, but not mine altogether.

  ‘He is a young man called Mimo. Just Mimo. Five thousand pesetas he promised to let him know—’

  ‘How were you to let him know?’ My dislike for José was thickening. He worried too much about pesetas.

  ‘At midday always he is in the Bar Tristan. But any other time, if anyone comes enquiring I let him know by going to his flat or phoning—’

  ‘Where’s the flat? Here, in San Antonio?’

  ‘Yes. I shall show you, no?’

  ‘No—just give me the address and tell me how to get there.’

  He did, explaining that it was only a few minutes walk away. I didn’t think that Duchêne would risk holding Dawson and Wilkins in a town flat. They were probably out in the country somewhere. Mimo would be the anchor man at the town end. I couldn’t wait to have a chat with Mimo and I was glad that I had the 9 mm Browning in my pocket.

  José said, ‘What about the pesetas, senhor?’

  ‘You’ll get them—just so long as you keep your mouth shut. You haven’t seen me. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But you come back with the pesetas. This other man I don’t like. His promises I don’t trust. For that I tell you all this gladly.’

  If it were just a question of money sense, the boy would go far. ‘Somebody will be back,’ I said.

  I turned and went and he was counting the wad of notes before I reached the door.

  The small girl was still crooning over her doll on the stairs. I gave her a friendly pat on the head, happy at the thought of seeing Mimo, hoping that this was the break I wanted to lead me to Dawson and Wilkins. The old man was still sitting on the doorstep, but he didn’t get a pat. After the gloom of the house the sunlight hit me like a photo-flash and I damned nearly tripped over him.

  I went up the street, blinking like an owl. Flat six, Casa Alcina, Mimo. For a while I wondered if I ought to go and get Olaf to help me. Then I decided against it. They might be pulling out fast, at this moment even. They must have had a bad moment when they found out about the letters. Suddenly, the cold thought hit me that they might have done something about Wilkins there and then. I pushed it from my mind.

  Casa Alcina was in a small square on the hill at the north end of the town. The square was like so many squares in booming Mediterranean towns, new apartment blocks were going up and old houses were coming down and the air was gritty with cement and plaster dust. Casa Alcina was an old block, probably due to come down soon. There were a couple of small vans parked outside. The hallway was bare of any furnishing, and there was an ancient self-service lift that creaked upwards, protesting. I got out on a small stone landing which had two doors. One was half open to show a collection of buckets and brooms. The other door was shut. The number ‘6’ was painted on it in white. I took out the Browning and listened against the door. There was no sound from inside. It was getting on for three o’clock. Mimo would not be in the Bar Tristan. He might be having a quiet siesta; though I didn’t see Mimo as the siesta type. I put my fingers on the door handle and tried it gently. The door was unlocked.

  I went in quietly, slipping round the door, gun and shoulder first.

  It was a big room, with wide windows on the far side that opened to a narrow, railed balcony. There was a big settee against one wall, a couple of armchairs, and a low table against another wall with glasses and bottles on it. An open door to the side of the table showed a small corridor with two doors opening off it, probably bedrooms. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and there was another smell, too, familiar to me, mixed up with it. And the reason for the other smell was clear before my eyes.

  I just stood inside the door and stared. It wasn’t the kind of scene you want to walk into more than once in your life. Pelegrina was lying on the settee in his shirt and trousers and his big head was lolling awkwardly towards me. There was a bullet wound just above his right temple. Never again in his life would he try and touch his daughter for money. On the floor, a little way from the settee, was Mimo. He was lying flat on his face and I couldn’t see any mark on him. But blood had seeped on to the polished boards near his right shoulder and from the way he lay I knew that he would never whistle ‘Winchester Cathedral’ happily to himself again.

  Sitting in an armchair by the low table was Freeman. He was wearing a grey linen suit. He had his legs crossed and was resting his arms on them and supporting his head in the pose of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’. He was thinking too. So absorbed was he that he took no notice of me. A cigarette burned in the corner of his mouth and there was an ashtray full of stubs on the arm of the chair. On the floor at his feet lay an automatic pistol fitted with a silencer.

  Keeping him covered I pushed the door shut behind me. The noise made him look round. He stared at me blankly. Then he frowned, ran his hand through his brown hair and shook his head. All the colour had gone from his tanned face and he looked about ten years older.

  I said, ‘Just sit where you are.’

  I crossed the room and picked up the automatic pistol from the floor. It was a .22 Star, made in Spain. Freeman made no move to stir from his chair. But his head followed me round, the brown eyes dull under their shaggy brows. I felt sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for poor old Pelegrina. From the thin black cord round his neck I saw his monocle dangling over the side of the settee. I found a bottle of gin, poured a fat slug into a glass, and took it to Freeman. He took it into his hands but didn’t drink. Clearly he was in a state of shock and had been for some time. He was a dreamer all right, but this time he had dreamed himself into a nightmare. He and Pelegrina, a couple of ambitious incompetents, who between them had dreamed up a lot of trouble for a lot of people. When something went wrong, they went to pieces. Pelegrina had gone for good. I started to try and put Freeman together again.<
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  ‘Is there anyone else in this flat?’

  He shook his head. He raised the glass and drank, shivered against the raw spirit and then fetched a big sigh.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.

  I could see him pulling himself together. He wasn’t alone now. He had company. Even sympathy. Perhaps a shoulder to cry on. In trouble, that’s what his kind always needed.

  ‘When?’ I repeated.

  ‘About an hour ago . . . that bastard . . .’ he broke off, nodding at Mimo.

  I began to take him along gently.

  ‘Is this where you’ve been hiding up all the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are the others, Dawson and Wilkins?’

  He straightened up, stubbed out his cigarette and began to fiddle for another in a crumpled packet.

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere out in the country. Mimo knew, but we didn’t. God, this is a mess. What am I to do?’

  Good form. He was coming back fast enough to start thinking about himself.

  ‘We’ll fix that later. What happened here?’

  He looked at me. ‘You think you can fix something?’

  I held down my anger. Some people! José with his mind only on pesetas. And now Freeman full of pity for himself and wanting an out.

  ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘But what happened?’

  ‘It was all so bloody fast. Leon and I were sitting here. We haven’t been out much . . . not together ever. We were waiting for Mimo to come back.’

  ‘From the Bar Tristan?’

  ‘No, no—from wherever they are. He’s got a little van, takes supplies out. There’d been some talk of our moving on—’

  ‘Just you and Pelegrina?’

  ‘Yes.’ He finished what was left of the gin. I went and sat on the edge of the other armchair. ‘They were fixing us with passports and making all the final credit arrangements for the rest of our money. Then this swine walks in. Grinning, he was. The bastard, grinning. And he let Pelegrina have it without a word, and then he turned on me. I was sitting here. He just stood there and grinned. I couldn’t move and he just grinned and took his time and then he fired. By some damned miracle he missed me. Right by my cheek and that made me jump. I went for him, full length for his legs, and I got the swine. . . . I don’t know what happened then. We were all over the place. . . . I never did get the gun from him but I got my hand on it, over his, and then suddenly it went off and he flopped out . . . like he is now. Hell, what a mess! What a terrible mess!’

  I said, ‘You were both fools ever to think they’d let you off the hook on this kind of deal. The only reason they didn’t finish you off at the Villa La Sunata was that it would have caused publicity and that they don’t want. But now they’re really worried and have to move fast. They don’t want you around any longer.’

  ‘But they paid me some money and let me write to Jane.’

  ‘Of course they did. That was to keep you sweet, suspecting nothing until they were ready to deal with you. Do you think ten thousand pounds meant anything to them? How often did Mimo go out to that place?’

  ‘Every other day. Look, what am I going to do? It’s lucky no one heard the rumpus up here. Poor old Leon . . . God . . . But what am I going to do? I haven’t got a passport or any money and I—’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Find yourself a taxi and go to Ibiza airport. In the bar there you’ll find a big Swede—Olaf. Tell him the score and then do exactly as he says. I’ll be back there later. Is there a woman or anyone who comes in to clean this place?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then leave the door-key. Go on, get moving, the fresh air will do you good.’

  He stood up, took a couple of weak steps as though he had been in bed for a month and then stopped. ‘You really think something can be fixed up for me?’

  I was angry then. ‘Look, you started all this. A lot of nasty things have happened. And a lot more could happen. Pelegrina’s dead. You’re breathing and standing. Just be bloody well content with that for the moment.’

  He went and I didn’t feel sorry for him, but I knew that if I could I would fix something up for him, but the fixing would depend on Sutcliffe and very much on what happened about Dawson and Wilkins. If Wilkins didn’t come out of this walking, then I wouldn’t be caring a damn about fixing anyone up, least of all Freeman.

  I turned Mimo over and went through his clothes. He had nothing on him that helped me . . . just money, cigarettes and a bunch of keys. I went through the three bedrooms. There was nothing there. Nothing anywhere.

  I came back into the room and, although it was the wrong time of day, made myself a stiff drink and I sat in Freeman’s chair and did a Rodin thinking act for myself. Mimo had a van outside, obviously one of the two which I had seen parked there. He made a trip every other day out into the country with supplies. Today he had come back with orders to polish off Freeman and Pelegrina and to abandon the flat. He wasn’t going to go on living here with a couple of bodies. He would have turned the key on them and it might have been a week before they were discovered. It all might have worked, too, if he hadn’t spent just a few seconds too long gloating over the pleasure of having Freeman at his mercy. Gloating had made his hand shake a little.

  I wondered what other orders he had had. To return to the place in the country, or to take off on his own? Maybe even to run a final check on José Bonifaz to see whether anyone had turned up. They weren’t going to risk that lead in to them not being covered. José had been given the promise of five thousand pesetas if the moment anyone turned up he got in touch with Mimo either at the Bar Tristan or the flat or . . . something cut into my thoughts sharply. I stared at the dead Mimo, frowning. What was it? Something was asking to be recognized. José had been told . . . José had to be able to get on to Mimo the moment anyone turned up, either at the Bar Tristan, or at the flat, or . . . what about if he were away on one of his supply visits? Freeman or Pelegrina at the flat would be no help. They probably hadn’t known about the beer-bottle messages. If Mimo were away a lot of valuable time could be lost. . . . Then it came. I saw José standing in front of me, restless dark eyes full of their peseta look . . . I stood up quickly. One should listen carefully to what people say. Certainly in my profession. A quick, impatient interruption could kill valuable information. I should have learned that lesson by now.

  I went back and checked the bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom and then the big room. I didn’t find what I was looking for.

  I went out, locked the flat door and ran down the stairs. It was quicker than the creaking old lift. With me I had Mimo’s bunch of keys. Only one van was standing outside now. It was a little grey Fiat, covered in dust. I slipped into the driving seat and tried Mimo’s keys. The car ignition key on the ring fitted. I glanced in the back. It was empty. There was nothing in the dash pockets either.

  I started the motor, fiddled with the gear, stalled the engine first time, and then got away. I was full of impatience and went down a one-way street against the traffic to a chorus of horns and shouts. A few minutes later I pulled up outside the butcher’s shop in the Paseo Maritimo.

  The old man was still sitting on the doorstep of No. 7, but he had slid two feet to the right to catch the moving shade. The little girl had gone from the top of the stairs. I hoped that José had not gone from his room. Chasing José around San Antonio at this moment would send up my blood pressure.

  José was still there, knees up, reading on the bed. The can of peaches, now empty, lay on its side by the bed. As I shut the door, he sat up quickly and gave me a big, hungry smile.

  ‘You bring the other pesetas, sir?’

  ‘They’re coming,’ I said, ‘in a special gift wallet, red morocco leather with gold edges. Just repeat to me the instructions this man Mimo gave you.’

  ‘But I tell you, senhor, already.’

  ‘Tell me again. The moment
anyone came here about the letters, what were you to do?’

  ‘I was to let this man know. Either to find him at midday in the Bar Tristan, or other time at his flat.’

  ‘But you said something about telephoning. I’m sure you did.’

  ‘Yes, sir. This he told me yesterday. If he’s not at flat I am to telephone.’

  ‘Since there’s no telephone in the flat, it must be somewhere else you had to telephone.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I not think about it much. Just he gives me the number.’

  ‘Fish it out.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Let’s have it, the number.’

  He stood up and went to the book-crowded table by the window and came back with a piece of paper. On it was written San José 21.

  ‘Where’s San José?’

  ‘It’s a little town, village . . . about six miles from here, sir.’

  ‘José,’ I said, ‘you get dressed and come down to the Post Office with me. I want the address that belongs to that telephone number. It’ll be a farm or a villa of some kind. You get that, and then show me on the map where it is and we’ll make it five thousand five hundred pesetas.’

  He was at the wardrobe for his clothes almost before I had finished speaking.

  I waited impatiently. But at the same time I was dead against impatience. I had almost missed this vital piece of information in my earlier impatience to get to Mimo’s telephoneless flat.

  *

  I must say that, with the firm promise of pesetas behind him, José was a quick worker. I dropped him at the Post Office parked the car and went for a beer in a cafe a few doors down. Before I had finished it he was back. But before he was back I had done some hard worrying about Mimo and the telephone number. He hadn’t given it to José until yesterday. That could have meant that up till then it was a number which Duchêne would not have wanted José to have, but would want him to have to cover a minimum period of emergency. Once they knew the letters had gone off I was certain they would take no risks, certain that they would immediately set about changing their hiding place. It was my guess that now, with all arrangements poised for a move, with Mimo coming back this day to tidy up the Freeman-Pelegrina embarrassment, that the number had been given to José so that he could send a direct warning to them even while they were on the brink of a move. Wilkins getting the letters out had really put them in a spot. And now I was in a spot because the last thing I wanted was for them to move until I could get Manston and company on to them.