A soft voice said: "Take it easy, chico."
8
His first impulse was to strike out backward against the gun. But it was held too firmly against his spine, the metal painful through his wet shirt. It would have been suicide. He forced himself to stand still in the darkness.
"You are armed, chico?" asked the man behind him.
"No," Sam said.
"I shall take your word for it. Perhaps we should not remain here too long. Let us understand one another at once. I am a friend, senor. I will help you."
"But you're a cop?"
"No, senor. That is-no."
Sam turned slowly around to look at the other. He had never seen this man before. He wore a white seersucker suit, misshapen by the rain and a sodden Panama hat, a dark shirt and white shoes. He didn't look like a police officer. He had a dark, bony face, sharp and alert and a small black mustache and even white teeth that gleamed in the darkness when Sam looked at him. The gun was a small automatic that seemed oddly small in the man's long hand.
"Where did you come from?" Sam asked.
"I have been watching and waiting for you for some time."
"While I was with Lundy back there?"
"Si."
Sam said suddenly: "You're from Havana?"
"Correct, amigo. It would be best if we discussed this elsewhere, don't you think. You may call me Luis."
"Luis what?"
"De Silva."
"Let's go," Sam said. "And thanks."
"De nada."
They walked quickly up the dark, storm lashed street. A siren wailed nearby and another police car flashed across the intersection as they approached it. The prowl car did not stop. Water overflowed the curbs and rippled over the sidewalks and they splashed through it unheeding. Behind them, the center of excitement seemed to reach out after them in waves. They gained one block, then another, walking south and parallel to Simonton Street. A second police car went by. Luis De Silva put away his little gun. He was whistling softly as they went.
"Now we can walk more slowly, chico. To a place of safety for you, first. If you wonder why I help you, let me say it is a matter of self-interest. All will be explained to you very shortly."
"Maybe we should part company right here."
"That would be foolish. I assure you-"
Sam had a sudden thought. "Did Benny Suarez send you?"
"I have talked to Benny."
"Where is he?"
"At the home of a friend of yours. Miss Ellen Terhune."
"Now? At this hour?"
"They wait for us."
"I don't think it's safe to go there. The police know about her. They'll be around to question her pretty soon, too."
"We shall not linger there for long. Come."
Sam halted. "Suppose I refuse?"
The tall, dark man shrugged expressively. "I would not stop you. The use of my gun was merely to be certain that you did not turn on me in your alarm. It was a very close thing back there. It would have been unpleasant if the police had captured you, amigo."
"Unpleasant is putting it mildly."
"Then come along," said De Silva. "Be assured I know what I am doing by helping you. It is nothing."
"All right," Sam said. "Let's go."
A siren wailed directly behind them. It grew louder, overtaking them, but De Silva did not turn around. He strode on through the rain, splashing ankle-deep through water at the intersections and Sam followed. The police car turned aside a block to the rear.
De Silva spoke only once more as they walked south across the town toward Ellen's apartment.
"Senor Cortez," he said. "You must tell me one thing, truthfully. About Bill Somerset."
"He was my friend," Sam said.
"Did you kill him?"
"No," Sam said. "How did you know he was dead?"
De Silva laughed softly. "It is my business to know."
"And what business is that?"
"You will learn about it soon enough."
"Tell me now," Sam said stubbornly.
"Miss Terhune will tell you. It will be better then."
Sam said again: "How did you know Bill Somerset was dead?"
"Chico, I was there."
"When he was killed?"
"When Lundy almost trapped you in the bungalow."
"You're the man who was with Lundy?"
"Of course."
Ellen Terhune lived in a small apartment over her art shop, near the south beaches. Nearby was an area of luxury motels and seasonal apartment houses, wrapped in the rain-wet night. The neat frame house was dark and the windows of the art shop made a shimmering reflection of their figures as Sam and De Silva walked past the door. Ellen's car was parked in the sand driveway under a royal poinciana tree and behind it was a small, battered sedan that Sam recognized as belonging to Benny Suarez. There was no sign of the police here, but there would be no safety in this locality for long, Sam decided.
De Silva knocked on the side door with an easy familiarity and it was opened almost immediately by Benny Suarez. The small shrimp fisherman looked tense and frightened.
"Come in. Quick. It's good you got here."
Sam went inside ahead of De Silva. He saw that De Silva's gun made no bulge at all in the man's white seersucker coat Ellen's apartment was small and cozy, furnished in bright, clean-cut hues like the girl herself. She was fully dressed, he saw, when she came out of the kitchen with a silver pot of coffee on a tray. Estella Suarez, Benny's wife, fluttered out of the kitchen after her. Estella was a Cuban woman with a fine, delicate face, pale now with fear. Rain tapped on the windows and from the nearby beach came the sullen sound of the surf.
Ellen's hair was golden in the lamplight. She nodded to De Silva as if she knew him and put the coffee down on a small leather-topped table. De Silva seated himself in a big fan-shaped wicker chair and Ellen turned to Sam. Her smile was small and strained.
"Relax, darling. You're safe here."
"Not for long," he told her. "The police will come to question you. Maybe in an hour. They might not wait until morning."
"I know," she said. "It's all right."
"Who is our amigo?" Sam asked indicating De Silva.
The man poured himself coffee from the shining silver pot and smiled. His thick mustache lifted to show his very white, gleaming teeth. "My credentials, senor."
He handed Sam several cards from his wallet. Sam glanced at them quickly. Some of it began to make a little sense as he read the Spanish printing on the cards in their isinglass cases. The documents stated that Luis De Silva was an employee of the Havana Import Insurance Company, Ltd. He looked sharply at the thin Latin-American. De Silva laughed.
"Insurance companies, chico, are like dogs worrying a bone. They never rest. No matter how long the time, no matter how hopeless the quest, they seek forever to recoup a loss they may have sustained."
"That's why you're over here?" Sam asked.
"Certainly. When Senor Gabrilan's bones were identified, I was dispatched to investigate."
"You think the embezzled money can be recovered?"
"The chance must not be neglected," De Silva shrugged.
Ellen poured coffee and touched Sam's arm. "Sit down, darling. Please. Drink this."
He would have preferred rum, but he took the coffee gratefully. It was a Cuban blend, thick and strong and hot. The liquid felt good in his stomach. He took a chair near the door and saw that Ellen had left a pair of wet boots on the floor. A little, puddle of sand and water had collected under them. Ellen followed his eyes.
"I was out walking in the rain, Sam. Then Benny came over with Estella. They'd been visiting friends and a police friend told them about the murder and how the police were looking for you."
"All right," Sam said.
"I just don't want you to think anything wrong," she said coolly.
Estella Suarez watched him with big, dark eyes. Benny looked more worried than before.
Sam said: "Listen, I can't stay here. I'll
only get you all in trouble if I do. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I can't let you get involved in this mess because of me."
Benny said: "Sam, we are your friends. We want to help. If the police take you-if Frye, especially, takes you-you can accomplish nothing."
"It was worse luck for Bill Somerset," he said.
Ellen was grave. "Haven't you any idea what happened out there?"
"The guy is dead, that's all. In my bungalow."
"But why should Bill have been killed at all?"
Benny said: "And who did it? His uncle? It is not conceivable. His wife? Perhaps, but-"
"No," Sam said bluntly. "Because Mona had nothing to do with what happened three years ago at that house. I don't believe Bill's death is a coincidence. It's tied in with the recovery of Gabrilan's body and the revival of all the talk about Charley. It goes back to what happened to Charley and Mona wasn't married to Bill or at Isla Honda then. Mona didn't do it."
Ellen said: "In that case, you probably suspect me-or all of us, because I was engaged to Charley then and Benny worked for your brother, too. I have no alibi. I was walking the beach in the rain. Benny and Estella were with friends, but I haven't ventured to ask them about the time they spent there and I don't intend to. Neither should you."
"I don't suspect anybody yet," Sam said.
"Then don't talk that way."
Benny said doubtfully: "I think of the money. It is a lot of money, Sam. Perhaps if someone has a hint as to where it is-"
"It's at the bottom of the sea," Sam said, annoyed. "No other place. I'll find it."
"If Frye does not find it first."
"The money caused death before," Benny insisted. "It could be the reason for Bill Somerset's death, as you say."
Sam nodded. "That's why Mona has to be counted out. She was an heiress when she married Bill and money like that wouldn't interest her."
"But if it was not his wife, or Ashton, then who did it?"
"I don't know," Sam said to Benny. "Do you?"
Estella murmured in protest and Ellen looked angry. "Sam, I asked you not to talk like that. We're only interested in helping you."
Sam grinned. "I know. I'm sorry, Benny."
Estella said: "My man is good. You talk crazy, Sam."
Benny said: "It's all right. I understand, Sam."
Luis De Silva said quietly: "But I do not."
Sam looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You understand, amigo, this murder has complicated things for me. It would be difficult for me to explain about my activities tonight if the authorities should question why I helped you. I expect cooperation from you in return for the risk I take.
"I am interested only in recovering the stolen money for my company, if it still exists," De Silva said. "You are interested in redeeming your brother's reputation. The fact that your brother committed suicide speaks harshly against your hopes in that direction, but we may overlook that for the moment. You have been placed in a desperate position by Bill Somerset's death, chico. It is almost as if you have been deliberately maneuvered out of the game. Perhaps history repeats itself and your fate is destined to be that of your brother."
Sam nodded. "Go on."
"There must be a reason for this attempt to involve you with the police. Bill Somerset had some knowledge of your brother's death and Bill was your friend. Perhaps you are being shunted aside because of something Bill knew or remembered.
"John Ashton knows the truth of what happened that night, also. Moreso than anyone else, perhaps. But he cannot be made to tell it. And he is afraid that you know more than you do. There can be no doubt that he is here in the hope of recovering and keeping the money Gabrilan and Jaquin got away with."
"I agree," Sam aid.
"The rest is up to you. To tell us the truth about the information Bill gave you."
Sam said: "Maybe he knew something and maybe he didn't. He wasn't the same guy I used to know. Something had happened to him inside and he drank a lot more than was good for him. He hinted he had something to tell me, but he never got around to it."
"A pity."
Sam stood up. He felt haunted. The branches of the poinciana tree outside tapped against the window behind him. A sense of urgency filled him, a feeling that this pause here was dangerous. He didn't want Ellen to share his trouble nor Benny Suarez. He looked at Estella and saw that the woman was frightened. Of them all, only Luis De Silva seemed at ease and Sam reserved judgment about the Cuban. He could trust no one. He looked at his watch and saw it was after one o'clock in the morning.
Perhaps he ought to give himself up to the city police, he thought. He was playing into Ashton's hand by running away, by branding himself as guilty through headlong flight. But he knew the authorities would only turn him over to the county and then to Frye. He would get no help from the deputy sheriff. Suddenly he felt certain that Frye was mixed up in this, too. Time was repeating itself and Frye, who had investigated Charley's death, was on hand again now that Bill Somerset was killed. It was not a coincidence.
Ellen had left the room. She came back with a raincoat on her arm and smiled at Sam.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked her.
"With you. I called Cap'n Joe Tydings. He said he saw you this afternoon. He says you can stay there tonight or as long as necessary."
"Cap'n Joe? Does he know the cops are after me?"
"I told him that, too. We can trust him."
For how long, Sam wondered. He didn't know whom to trust. He thought that Ellen was being unduly optimistic and then he knew that she was pretending to be that way in order to encourage him. He felt a sudden surge of gratitude toward her, a warmth and kinship that was almost a revival of their earlier days together before the war, before she decided on Charley. Mingled with this feeling was a pang of guilt that he had behaved so bluntly toward her.
"I'll drive," Ellen announced. "Benny, you and Estella'd better go home. The police are probably there waiting to question you."
"I shall tell them we have been visiting relatives," said Benny. "Do not worry about us."
Sam said: "And you, De Silva?"
"I shall see you in the morning," the Cuban said. "Take care of yourself, chico. You are fortunate to have friends like these, who believe in you so blindly; but you also have some dangerous enemies."
Ellen said: "Sam didn't kill Bill Somerset. Nobody could convince us of that."
"Of course, senorita. It is understood."
9
The room felt damp and mildewed by the rain. It was a simply furnished cubicle with a metal cot, two wooden chairs and a metal bureau painted to look like wood. The floor was concrete and the straw throw rug on it had deteriorated badly with the salt air and the heat. Light came through the window facing Cap'n Joe Tydings' restaurant, which was still open, although there had been no patrons present when Ellen parked her car nearby and led the way to the little cabin by the beach.
He seemed to be seeing Ellen with a new perspective that had been denied him in the past. There was a calm competence about her, an inner unity that made her whole and clean-cut and lovely. She was as unlike Mona Somerset, he thought, as two women could be. He felt disturbed by the comparison and wished he hadn't thought of Mona with Ellen here beside him. He couldn't imagine Mona helping him this way.
Ellen turned back to him with a smile. "All right, Sam?"
"Fine," he said. "I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to. I wanted to help you. I know you're in trouble and some of it you walked into deliberately, looking for it. But maybe you were right all along and I was wrong about your going back to Isla Honda."
"I'm not sure," he said. "Not if I'm responsible for what happened to Bill. Maybe if I hadn't gone back, nothing like this would have happened and he'd still be alive."
"You can't blame yourself for that," she said quickly. "Don't think like that. It won't do any good."
She came toward him in the dimness o
f the little room. Through the dark, he could smell the perfume she wore. The surf beat against the nearby beach and its rhythm found an echo in his pulse. Her face in the half-light reflected her distress for him. She was lovely, he thought, and he wondered why he hadn't seen her like this when he first returned. He wanted to touch her and put his arms around her, but he didn't dare. He knew she would have resented it. She knew he had been with Mona earlier and it must have hurt her cruelly, he thought. He remembered what Benny had implied, that Ellen after all was in love with him. He wondered if it were true.
As if she sense his thoughts, she said quietly: "You and I have never talked about Charley. About Charley and me, I mean."
"I never thought it was necessary."
"Perhaps it is. Perhaps we should have had it out when you first came back. I know how I must have hurt you, Sam, when I wrote you I was getting engaged to Charley. He loved me, Sam. He always did. He didn't want to tell me so, because he knew about you and me, but he couldn't help himself. It came out bit by bit. He finally asked me to marry him. You never did, Sam. When you went away, I wondered if you would ever come back to me. I was lonely and upset and stupid and you know how wonderful Charley was."
"Don't," Sam said.
"But I made a mistake. I didn't really know it until you came back, Sam. It's true that I can't get Charley out of my mind. I think about him every day-about the way he was, how fond he was of you, about the deal that he was making just before he died. I don't know what it was about any more than you do, Sam. And then, the day before it happened, he was very upset and he wouldn't tell me why. He never talked about business to me, although I wanted him to. I wish I had been with him that night at Isla Honda. I wish I had known how much trouble he was in."
She stood still, facing him. Her face was in the shadows. "I wish right now that I could stay here with you, Sam. I wish I didn't have to go back."
He felt unsure of his voice. "It would be better."
"I know. The police will want to question me, too. But I'd rather stay with you. It seems safer, somehow."
He smiled wryly. "That doesn't sound logical."
"I know it isn't logical. But I don't want to leave you."
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