It was Richard Bollow, standing there, smiling.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, and exchanged another of those expressive glances with his wife: Take Libby and get out of here.
Susan’s glance in return was: I don’t want to leave you alone.
His turning back to Richard Bollow signified: Do it anyway.
Jack had barely time to reflect what a marvelous method of communication this new marriage of his allowed. It might not have been actual telepathy, but it was close, and it was much better than bickering and insults.
As Richard Bollow came forward a few feet closer, Jack said, “We went to your office this morning.”
“I wasn’t there,” said the lawyer, if indeed that was what he was. “I have—” Three small boys knocked against him and for a second he was pressed against the railing. When he had recovered himself, he didn’t bother finishing his sentence. “Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “I’m sorry to say that the Havana police have uncovered some very distressing evidence concerning the death of your wife’s uncle.”
Jack glanced behind himself on pretense of pulling Woolf away from a cardboard carton of discarded popcorn boxes. He noted with satisfaction that Susan and Libby were already down on the parking field. Jack fervently hoped Libby did have the keys to that automobile.
“They found the boy who did it?” Jack asked.
Mr. Bollow shook his head sadly. He was now only a foot away from Jack, even leaning forward a little. Perhaps so that Jack could hear him better; perhaps for some other reason.
“No,” said Mr. Bollow. “What they found was an eyewitness to the crime. He is a young man—son of a municipal judge—who ought to have been in convent school that morning, but wasn’t. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Beaumont, for despite our short acquaintance I’ve really grown quite fond of you and your lovely wife—in short, the truant boy saw you slash James Bright’s throat and throw the knife in the water. Mr. Beaumont, I’m afraid that you and your wife are both in a great deal of trouble. And considering what I know of the Havana police and the Cuban court system, you’re not likely to be out of trouble for some time to come.”
Jack had a simple plan. That was to deliver a knockout punch to the jaw of Mr. Bollow. Then, before the police arrived, he would hurry down the stairs and through the maze of cars to where Susan and Libby were waiting for him—with the engine running, Jack fervently hoped.
Despite the plan’s simplicity, it was weak on three counts. First, Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d delivered a knockout punch to anybody, and he was almost certain that with a cast on one arm, and a dog leash wrapped around the other, he was going to have some trouble. The second reason the plan might fail was that when he looked over the lawyer’s shoulder, he could see the five policemen already standing in the VIP box, looking this way and that. It wouldn’t be long before they caught sight of him, or before Bollow gave some signal. And the third reason that his plan was likely to fail was that concealed behind a bag of candy in his hand, Richard Bollow was holding a pistol pointed directly at Jack’s stomach.
Now Woolf at last showed courage, acumen, and sheer physical prowess. Either sensing the danger to his master, or else lusting in his doggy heart after the bag of candy, Woolf lunged at the man and savagely bit his hand.
Woolf came away with the bag of candy, but not before Bollow had gotten off a shot.
Jack instinctively dived to the left, and was saved from a nasty tumble by plunging not down the stairs, but into the ample stomach of a man who was seated on the very lowest tier of seats, peacefully munching hot corn and paying attention neither to the race nor to the confrontation that was taking place only a couple of feet in front of him.
Bollow’s pistol shot had gone wide, plunging with a little geyser of dust into the earth of the parking field. But a moment later, Bollow had recovered himself. Now with no attempt to disguise the pistol, he turned it on Jack with a smile.
“Sic him!” cried Jack desperately, still in the fat man’s lap.
Woolf lifted his nose from the bag of candy he’d torn open, glanced at Jack, and returned to his business, thereby answering the question of why he leaped at Bollow.
Bollow smiled, and squeezed the trigger.
At that moment the fat man on whom Jack had fallen pushed Jack off his lap—and then looked very surprised indeed when the bullet from the lawyer’s gun embedded itself deep into his stomach.
He screamed once, and then slumped heavily over on his side.
For a moment there was a look of bewilderment on Bollow’s face when he saw that he’d shot the wrong man, and he looked at Jack as if to say, See what you made me do?
But Jack was already setting off down the stairs, his progress impeded substantially by the fact that Woolf did not want to go with him. “I’m leaving you,” he called warningly to the dog.
Bollow positioned himself at the head of the stairs and pointed the barrel of the gun down at Jack—but he didn’t get the chance to squeeze the trigger again. Events had caught up with Mr. Bollow. Events in the form of a gang of some seventy-five panicked and angry spectators who had watched one man get shot and now saw the man with the gun about to shoot someone else.
While half these excited spectators were fleeing in a direction that was generally away from the source of the danger, the other half were fleeing toward Bollow and Bollow’s weapon.
Bollow, before he correctly realized what had happened, had been flipped over the protective railing, and dropped down onto the dirt track.
Most of the racing cars were on the far side of the track, and the two or three that were in the lead were able to avoid the crumpled, dazed obstruction that was Richard Bollow.
Jack, taking advantage of the small melee, hurried down the stairs, Woolf loping after him.
Jack paused halfway down and scanned the parking field. There, not far from the guard rail to the racetrack, was Susan waving to him frantically.
Thank God, he sighed.
And then Jack heard a squeal of brakes, a great crash, and a shout of anguish and horror from the crowd in the stands behind him. He looked over his shoulder at the raceway.
One of the racing cars, in an effort to avoid hitting the spectator who had wandered, apparently dazed, into the middle of the track, had veered, sideswiping another vehicle. Somehow they’d been locked together and the two drivers were now fighting to gain control of their vehicles as they swung into the turn at the end of the straightaway. Despite the drivers’ efforts, the two cars moved as one drunken vehicle.
And, as Jack watched nervously, the two cars bumped a third as it was trying to maneuver its way around the two stricken racers.
The third car managed not to become entangled with the others. Instead, the driver lost complete control of it, and it flipped sideways, up, and into the air. Knocking over posts, it flipped—with almost comical slowness—over and over in the air, but no more than six or eight feet from the ground.
In another second it crashed. Jack saw it smash down onto the roof of a green car, and then burst into flames and oily black smoke.
His head jerked back with the noise of the blast, and then he realized that he could no longer see Susan, who had been standing next to a car with a green roof.
“Susan!” he yelled, and rushed down the stairs.
“Susan!” he called frantically again, and tripped on Woolf’s leash.
He would have fallen but that a Havana policeman caught him, and helped him to his feet with a smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RELUCTANTLY LEAVING JACK alone to deal with Richard Bollow, Susan—more or less pulling Libby along—dashed across the parking field. Libby did, fortunately, have a set of keys to the car. But now that they were down on the field, she had lost sight of the automobile again.
Susan clambered up onto the bed of a truck that looked as if it had been abandoned in this field for months. She looked all around.
“What are you doing?” said Lib
by.
“I’m looking for your car.”
“You don’t know what it looks like.”
“Then you climb up here and look.”
Susan gave Libby a hand up, and after a few moments, Libby found it. “It’s over there.”
Susan glanced back toward the grandstand.
“Do you see Jack?” Libby asked. “Will he be all right?”
“Jack does seem to get into trouble easily,” said Susan, climbing down from the back of the truck. “But I’m not certain that he always gets out of it so quickly.”
They made their way in the direction of Libby’s dark green Cadillac.
“Rodolfo bought it the first day we got here, and I got an extra set of keys, but I haven’t driven it yet. Rodolfo and I—”
“Libby,” Susan asked suddenly, “why on earth did you marry Rodolfo?”
Libby stopped stock-still to consider the question.
“No,” said Susan, realizing that this was hardly the moment for this discussion, “we don’t have time right now. Tell me later.”
“This is it,” said Libby, stopping before a dark green Cadillac. It was an enormous car, and looked quite new despite a dent in the right front fender, a smashed light in the left tailfin, a loose length of chrome on a rear door, and splashes of yellow paint on two of the tires.
“Try the key,” said Susan.
Libby climbed into the driver’s seat, murmuring, “I hope I remember how to drive.” She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine fired instantly.
“Thank God,” said Susan, and began waving, hoping Jack would see her. She stood on the frame of the automobile inside the open front door, and waved higher and harder.
It was at that moment she heard a tremendous crash and squeal of brakes. She looked toward the racecourse and saw two cars locked together, traveling at a tremendous speed. The two machines hit a third, and to Susan’s astonishment the third car took off like a rocket.
Except rockets don’t fly so low to the ground, they don’t go sideways, and to the best of her knowledge, they don’t perform slow flips.
She could see the driver inside, braced against the back of his seat.
He’s putting on the brakes, she thought.
Except friction brakes don’t work for airborne vehicles.
Susan ducked, and the race car did a slow flip right above her head, and with a deafening roar, smashed onto the roof of an old green Ford only about twenty feet away.
In another moment there was an explosion, and a rain of glass and pieces of hot metal poured down over Susan’s back as she crouched beside Libby’s car. In one place her dress caught fire, but Libby, thinking quicker than usual, got out of the car and beat out the flames with her purse.
“Oh, God,” cried Libby, even in the midst of her efforts, “what else is going to happen this month?” They were both choking from the acrid black smoke that was roiling up out of the mass of twisted burning metal nearby.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Susan, standing up and making sure she was all in one piece and none of her clothing was still on fire. “We have to get Jack. Libby, you’d better let me drive.”
She jumped into the car, and Libby ran around to get in the other side. But suddenly she stopped directly in front of the Cadillac, pointed, and screamed.
“What is it!” cried Susan.
“Rodolfo!” she cried. “He’s coming—and the police are with him. Oh, God!”
Susan saw it was impossible to flee in the Cadillac. Even under the best of conditions, getting out of this field of vehicles parked helter-skelter would take careful maneuvering, and the best of conditions did not include a nearby conflagration of smoke and burning gasoline or a frantic heiress jumping up and down on the parched grass.
Susan’s only thought was that she had to get out of there, and fast. On foot was impossible as well—the police could certainly run faster than she, not to mention that they doubtless had guns.
“Hide in the trunk!” cried Libby.
It was a stupid idea, but Susan knew she didn’t have time to think of one that made more sense.
“Hide in the trunk,” said Libby again, “and I’ll get you out of here.”
Susan pulled the keys from the ignition, pushed open the car door, and stayed low to the ground so as not to be seen by Rodolfo and the approaching Havana police. Libby took the keys and opened the trunk. Susan pushed aside two small, heavy boxes and climbed inside with misgiving and hesitation.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” cried Libby. “They’re coming.”
“Remember I’m in here, will you,” said Susan, as the lid was slammed shut and she was left in darkness.
An ambulance siren was blaring feebly from somewhere on the other side of the field, and from the racetrack came all the noise of the race. The race still continued, despite everything that had happened.
At the base of the wooden steps, Jack pleaded in English with the policeman to let him pass. The police either did not understand or pretended not to understand. But it hardly mattered, for the next thing Jack knew the policeman had snapped a cuff of steel around his right wrist.
This was accomplished with a smiling politeness, but then the officer faced the problem of how to attach the other cuff to Jack’s left wrist, for it was completely covered by the cast.
Before the policeman had found a solution, however, the first wave of a vast crowd of people surged down the stairway on its way to gawk, wonder, and generally impede rescue efforts of the hapless race driver.
Woolf, frightened by the crowd, all of a sudden threw himself against Jack’s back in an effort to escape. This propelled Jack forward onto the policeman, and the policeman in turn fell to the ground beneath Jack.
The policeman’s head struck a little uneven outcrop-ping of cement on one of the pillars that supported the stadium. He was stunned. Jack saw his opportunity and pulled himself out of the policeman’s grasp, then quickly melted—as best he could despite his height—into the crowd that was headed for the site of the accident.
The crowd gathered around the wrecked racing car, which was perched neatly and upside down atop a decrepit Ford. Both cars burned sullenly, creating a column of black smoke. The driver of the racing car had miraculously dragged himself out through the window of his vehicle, and now was sitting on the ground, alternately coughing and spitting up shards of broken teeth.
Jack did not see any corpses lying about, which was a good sign. But he saw neither his wife nor Libby, and that was a bad sign.
The ambulance was snaking its way across the field toward the wreck as Jack backed away, keeping a lookout for the two women.
He began to circle the crowd, peering toward the wreck, but also peering under other vehicles, in case they were actually hiding.
Suddenly right before him was a slowly moving vehicle—a dark green Cadillac with a smashed red light in its left tailfin. He caught a glimpse of the person in the front passenger seat. It was Libby!
He ran alongside, and his shadow falling across her face alerted her. She turned, and her eyes went wide with fear. She shook her head vehemently, and mouthed the words Go away! through the closed window.
“Where’s Susan?” he mouthed.
Even though the Cadillac was not going very fast, it was hard to run alongside it. Jack was also keeping an eye out for policemen, at the same time trying to keep Woolf away from the wheels of the car. He also had to avoid running into the fenders, bumpers, and other sharp corners of parked vehicles.
But he did manage to lean down and peer across Libby’s ample bosom at the driver of the Cadillac. It was Rodolfo! And Rodolfo, having sensed some strange motion outside the car, turned his head.
Jack dropped to the ground out of sight, flinging out his bad arm so that he would not fall atop it. Nevertheless, it jarred nastily against the earth and cracked the plaster.
Jack looked up at the Cadillac as it sailed on toward the exit of the field. Just then a scrap of paper fluttered o
ut of the window on the passenger side. After the car had disappeared, Jack sneaked between the crazily parked vehicles and retrieved it.
The paper was the foil from the inside of a pack of cigarettes. It had peculiar scratchings on it, and when Jack held it up, and turned it this way and that in the sunlight, he could make out the nearly illegible words:
SUSAN TRUNK FOLLOW.
Susan was in the trunk of the car, and Jack should follow them.
So much was clear.
What was also clear to Jack was that the Cadillac had not gone toward Havana, but turned toward the south—and Jack didn’t have a car.
Keeping low, and doing a kind of duck-walk between the vehicles, Jack looked for a car or a truck with the keys left in the ignition. This search was hampered by Jack’s height, his broken arm, and Woolf’s conviction that his master had devised some new sort of man–dog game.
When Jack finally found a vehicle with keys inside, after examining a couple of dozen, he discovered why the owner had been so careless. The engine wouldn’t start.
He might have spent the rest of the afternoon in this fruitless search, so he decided he’d have to take his chances. He stood up straight, walked out to the road, and got into the back of the first taxi waiting in line.
In a quarter of an hour he was back at the Internacional, having reflected on the way that if he survived this, and ever divorced Susan, and fell in love and married again, he would not spend his second honeymoon in the Pearl of the Antilles.
As he entered the lobby of the Internacional, he tried to appear inconspicuous and nonchalant. This was difficult, for not only were his clothes filthy, but he was holding his broken cast together with his good hand—the hand he also needed to hold on to Woolf’s leash—and there was the dangling handcuff, still attached to his wrist, jangling loudly beneath the sleeve of his shirt.
He tipped the porter two pesos to hold the dog for fifteen minutes. He instructed the man at the desk to find him a car with an automatic shift, and to find it quickly and without regard to cost. He went upstairs, changed shirts, improvised a sling by ripping apart a pillowcase, gathered up all his and Susan’s money and whatever jewelry they had that looked as if it might be possible to convert into money, and then walked out again. He went down the stairs, for he could easily imagine that if he waited for the elevator, the doors would open on half a dozen police with drawn weapons.
Jack and Susan in 1953 Page 18
