He started the car again and turned toward the open shed. As he drove closer he saw a car parked in one corner, gray with alkali dust. He drove in behind it and put his ignition keys in his pocket, but left the lights on. He got out to look at that car and make sure. It was the long low black coupé that Fitz Jordan drove. It had his initials in small gold letters on the door. Jim put his car in gear and turned out the lights and locked the doors.
Fitz Jordan couldn’t get his car out of there—not unless he broke a hole in the adobe wall of the shed big enough to drive through.
Hope was a dim figure in the moonlight, standing beside their luggage. He walked toward her, and as he did so he made sure the belly gun was easy in its holster. If Fitz Jordan was in this place, he’d come across or die.
Jim picked up Hope’s bags and his own and they walked toward the lighted windows. She opened the door for him and they went into a large low ceiled room, lighted with oil lamps. A plump young Mexican in a white jacket sat behind a counter in an alcove near the door, intent on the colored comic section of an American Sunday newspaper.
“I’m Miss Graham,” Hope said.
“Sí, señorita,” the young Mexican said. “We expect you. Your room is waiting for you.”
“Is Mr. Jordan here?”
“No, señorita. Señor Jordan rode into the Sierra this afternoon. But he left a letter for you.”
He reached under the counter and found the letter. Hope tore it open, read it in one long look, and crumpled it in her hand. Jim heard someone coming down the corridor and his hand moved closer to the belly gun, as he turned. He faced Colonel Ortega. A sergeant with a .45 automatic pistol on his hip was right behind the colonel.
“Señor Howard,” Colonel Ortega said, “you have let me down. You have presumed on my friendship and abused my confidence. Consider yourself under arrest.” He turned to Hope Graham. “And you also, señorita. You both go back to Ensenada with me on my plane tomorrow.”
“But, Colonel Ortega,” Jim said, “let me tell you—”
Colonel Ortega turned to his sergeant and spoke in Spanish. “Take this man’s gun and the key to his car.”
Jim could only hand over the belly gun and the key.
“Colonel Ortega,” Jim said, “can’t we sit down and talk about this?”
“What good will it do?” Colonel Ortega asked. “You are under arrest.”
“I don’t mind being arrested. I will gladly go back to Ensenada with you if only you will let me do something else first. Can’t I talk to you alone?”
“No,” Colonel Ortega said. “Not alone. Bring the señorita.”
He led the way to a table near a big fireplace and held a chair for Hope Graham. As she sat down, she tossed the crumpled letter she had in her hand on a red ember in the fireplace. It flared up quickly and turned into a pale blue-gray wisp and floated up the chimney.
“Señorita,” Colonel Ortega said, “you are making trouble for yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was nothing.”
Jim took a chair facing the door, so he could see anyone who came in. The sergeant had taken his place near the door. The Mexican in the white jacket came quickly.
“Juan,” Colonel Ortega said, “bring us some of the Kentucky whisky we make in Juárez. I think we all need it.”
“I’m sorry you feel this way, colonel,” Jim said when Juan had gone.
“How else could I feel? First you told me that you were a United States detective named Johnson, looking for a counterfeiter named Howard. You wanted to go south to hunt for him. I warned you of the difficulties. But you still wanted to go. I liked you. I discovered that you were an old Harkness boy. That was enough for me. I gave you permission. Then I learned that you were not Johnson, but Howard. You didn’t deny it. I let it pass. You were still an old Harkness boy. I told you I would see you in the morning.”
“I didn’t understand that,” Jim said.
“I said, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ What else could I mean? You and the señorita were occupied with each other. Who am I to stand between an old Harkness boy and a pretty girl?”
“Really, Colonel Ortega,” Hope said, “you assume a great deal.”
“I assumed that Señor Howard and I understood each other. Naturally, I told my men not to let him go south. But I didn’t think he would try it. I thought he was more interested in you than in going south. I expected him to call on me in the morning.”
“I didn’t get it,” Jim said.
Colonel Ortega turned to Hope.
“Señorita, you yourself told me that you had known Mr. Johnson for years; that you went to high school with him.”
“You didn’t believe it,” Hope said.
“I knew it wasn’t true.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But the nature of your acquaintance did not concern me. It seemed to be progressing when I saw you at the Fiore di Alpini. And why not? I am a policeman and not a censor of morals.”
Juan came back to their table with the whisky and a siphon.
Colonel Ortega raised his glass to Hope and then to Jim. “If I take the trouble to explain to you, señor, it is only because you are an old Harkness boy. I hope I shall never have to arrest another from my alma mater.”
“Here’s to Harkness,” Jim said.
Colonel Ortega shook his head. “I think our alma mater would prefer to forget you.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you,” Jim said. “I thought we were friends.”
“What did you think when my men told you to go back to Ensenada?”
“I thought that was your official act. But if I could get around it—well, we were friends.”
“That is what I thought—that we were friends. I began to learn this morning. The real Johnson arrived in Ensenada. He is not an amiable man, this Johnson. He told me that you were a fugitive from justice, escaping with large sums of counterfeit money. I stuck my neck out, as we used to say at Harkness. I told him you were an old Harkness boy, who did not look like a criminal to me. He laughed at me. He said you had made a sucker of me. I do not like being made a sucker.
“Señor Johnson insisted on searching Ensenada for you, señor. I told him that if any searching was necessary, my men would do it. He could go along if he wished to identify you. Even so, this Johnson made trouble. When he found a bad ten-dollar bill at the Fiore di Alpini, he demanded it. I had again to remind him that he was not in the United States, but in Mexico. If he wanted the bad bill he could give a good one in return.
“Of course, señor, we did not find you in this searching. I knew we would not. My men had already reported to me that you had got away along the beach behind the hotel and through the tules. Señor Johnson demanded the privilege of going south to arrest you. I explained to him that he could remain in Ensenada until you were brought there to await extradition.”
Colonel Ortega finished his whisky and nodded to the sergeant at the door. The sergeant came to the table with his pistol in his hand.
“Sergeant Gomez,” Colonel Ortega said, “go look through the señor’s car and report to me.”
The sergeant marched off.
“Colonel Ortega,” Jim said, “would you listen to my story?”
“Why not? I have listened to several of your stories. Perhaps the newest one will be interesting.”
“All right,” Jim said, “I’ll tell you the whole story. I am an official of the Treasury Department. I live in a small flat in Los Angeles. Late one night Johnson came to see me. He and several other detectives had raided a counterfeiter’s hideaway. Johnson made his report to me and left with me a package a foot square of counterfeit bills—a hundred thousand dollars—that he had picked up in the raid. When I woke up the next morning the package was gone. I reported that to the department. I thought some member of the gang who hadn’t been caught in the raid had followe
d Johnson to my place and robbed me. The department agreed with me and reprimanded me and Johnson for not taking the package to a safer place. That night I had dinner with a friend of mine in a Hollywood restaurant. I paid the check with a ten-dollar bill. Somebody must have reported to the department that my bill was one of the counterfeits. My bill was good. But the café had one of the bad ones.”
Colonel Ortega raised his eyebrows.
“How could that be?”
“Sleight of hand, perhaps,” Jim said. “I knew nothing about it until late that night. Johnson woke me up. He searched the place. He found four thousand dollars in bad ten-dollar bills under my living-room rug. He said he’d have to take me in. I wanted time to think. He agreed to wait till morning. When he went to sleep, I left.”
“With his shield and papers,” Colonel Ortega said.
“Yes,” Jim said.
“What you tell me is not so different from what Johnson told me,” Colonel Ortega said.
“The evidence against me is strong,” Jim said.
Colonel Ortega nodded. “Conclusive.”
“So strong that my only chance was to find the man who has the rest of the bad bills, and find him quickly. When Johnson came to arrest me I had no idea who had robbed me. I didn’t know about the bad bills under the rug. I didn’t even know about the bad bill in the café. I had no suspicion of anybody. But when I began to put two and two together, I knew the man I wanted. I drove to his ranch in the hills. He was gone. I got a break in Ensenada—I learned he had gone south. This noon I found one of the bills I was looking for at the grocery store kept by the Indian woman at Santo Tomás. Later I met a peddler. He also had one of the bad bills. He told me he got it here at Carmichael’s when he sold gasoline.”
Jim took the bad bills out of his pocket, and the magnifying glass. “If you know what to look for, you will find it.”
Colonel Ortega took one of the bills and the magnifying glass.
“Look at the olive branch,” Jim said. “You will see there is a gap where one branch joins the other.”
Colonel Ortega nodded. “It is the same as the one Johnson found at the Fiore di Alpini. Who is this man you are hunting?”
Jim saw that Hope was excited, leaning forward, her lips slightly parted, her breath coming fast.
“His name,” Jim said, watching Hope, “is Fitz Jordan.”
Hope half rose out of her chair. “It isn’t true,” she said. “Colonel Ortega, I have been Fitz Jordan’s private secretary for four years. I know all about his business. He is one of the finest men I ever knew. It’s inconceivable that he would have anything to do with counterfeit money.”
“I know him by reputation,” Colonel Ortega said. “He is a man of standing.”
“Of course,” Hope said.
“Señor,” Colonel Ortega said to Jim, “I do not believe your story.”
“But, Colonel Ortega,” Jim said, “how could I have found that bad bill there on the table at Santo Tomás if it hadn’t been there before I left Ensenada?”
“I have only your story that you did find it in Santo Tomás,” Colonel Ortega said.
“Hope,” Jim said, “you know where I got that bill.”
“I will question the señorita,” Colonel Ortega said. “I am curious about her part in all this.” He turned to Hope. “Señorita, what are you doing here?”
“I told you yesterday why I wanted to go south,” Hope said.
Sergeant Gomez appeared in the doorway. Colonel Ortega nodded to him. He came forward and saluted.
“Mi coronel, there is nothing in the señor’s car but a camp outfit, food in tins, and two cans of gasoline.”
“Very well, sergeant; search the lady’s bags and the señor’s suitcase.”
Colonel Ortega turned to Hope.
“You said yesterday that you had papers for Fitz Jordan which he had asked you to deliver in person. I offered to have them delivered for you. But no, that would not do. What do you say now?”
“Just what I said then.” Her voice was steady, but Jim could see that she was scared.
“Let’s see the papers you are delivering to Mr. Jordan.”
“Colonel Ortega,” Hope said, “you are asking me for the private papers of an American businessman.”
“Yes, señorita, I am. I don’t expect to be kept waiting.”
Hope slowly pushed her purse across the table to him.
Colonel Ortega opened it and dumped the contents on the table. Jim expected the automatic pistol to come bouncing out, but it didn’t. Colonel Ortega pushed aside the lipstick and the rouge and a toothbrush in a transparent case and picked up a thick envelope of heavy paper with a patent string fastening. He opened the envelope and took out two packets of bills, each wrapped with a strip of gummed paper such as banks use. Jim saw that one packet was of hundred dollar bills and the other of twenty-dollar bills. He guessed there was five thousand dollars in the two packets.
Colonel Ortega looked up from the bills at Hope Graham. “So, señorita, you do not tell the truth either.”
Hope said nothing.
“Where did you get all this money?” Colonel Ortega asked.
Hope pointed to a small envelope with the address of a San Diego hotel in the corner.
“By following the instructions in that letter,” she said.
Colonel Ortega took the letter out of the envelope and read it.
“I see nothing wrong about this,” he said. “Mr. Jordan instructs you to take bonds out of his safe and use them as security for a loan at his bank and bring the money to him at Carmichael’s.”
“Then why should you arrest me?” Hope asked.
“The company you keep is bad, señorita. You go to Ensenada with me in the morning.”
Hope Graham began to put things back into her purse. “You are going to prevent Mr. Jordan from getting his money?” she said.
Colonel Ortega smiled. “Not at all. The proprietor of Carmichael’s is a responsible man. You may leave the money for Mr. Jordan in his care.”
Jim saw that Hope wasn’t too pleased with this answer, though he couldn’t guess why. He had his own trouble. He had to make Colonel Ortega see what he was doing.
“Colonel Ortega, do you know what will happen to me if you take me to Ensenada tomorrow morning to await extradition?”
“I am afraid that you will go to jail, señor,” Colonel Ortega said.
“Although innocent,” Jim said.
Colonel Ortega shrugged his shoulders. “That is not for me to decide.”
“But you are deciding it, colonel. I am absolutely certain that Fitz Jordan robbed me and framed me. He had an apartment in the same building with me. He used it when he had to stay late in town. That’s how I happened to know him. He was the man I went to dinner with. No one else had a chance to slip the waiter a bad bill in place of the one I gave him.”
“Señor,” Colonel Ortega said, “your only evidence against this man is in your own mind.”
“I have no evidence until I find him with the bad bills,” Jim said. “That is what I am asking you to give me, colonel—a little time.”
Colonel Ortega shook his head.
“You can tell your story to the authorities in the United States, señor, when you have been extradited. It is not my affair.”
“And while I am trying to persuade them to go after Fitz Jordan, he will have come here and got his five thousand dollars in good money. He will cross the Sierra to the gulf and hire a fisherman to take him to La Paz or Mazatlan. Six months from now the department will hear of bad bills in Mexico City or Havana or Buenos Aires. In ordinary times, with ordinary luck, the department would catch up with him in six months or a year. But these are not ordinary times. Half the world is at war. We may be in it ourselves in a few weeks. The department may never catch up with him if yo
u persist in giving him a head start. And I will be in Atlanta serving a sentence of ten or twenty years.”
“Where is this Fitz Jordan?” Colonel Ortega asked.
“He was here today, colonel. He has been gone only a few hours. He can’t be far away.”
“Baja is a haystack and he is a needle,” Colonel Ortega said. “It might take weeks to find him. I cannot wait.”
The sergeant came back to report to Colonel Ortega.
“Mi coronel,” he said, “I find nothing but clothes in the luggage, except this.”
He handed Colonel Ortega a small cotton bag. The Colonel opened the bag and poured out a dozen revolver cartridges.
“Señor,” he said to Jim, “I see you like a heavy gun. These are forty-four caliber. And the bullets are the man-stopping kind.”
“I am an officer of the law,” Jim said.
Colonel Ortega handed the cartridges back to the sergeant and told him to put them with Jim’s gun.
“You were an officer of the law, señor,” he said to Jim. “I received word over the telephone this morning from your superiors that you are now under suspension, pending trial.”
“Colonel,” Jim said, “why not give me a day—just one day—in which to find Fitz Jordan? One day can make no difference to you.”
Colonel Ortega stood up, looking very much the soldier in his uniform.
“You made a monkey of me once, señor. You will not do it again. You made it possible for this Johnson to say over the telephone to his office in Los Angeles, ‘You know how these Mexicans are—always tomorrow.’ I am going to show him how we Mexicans are. It is long after midnight. I am going to bed. Breakfast will be at eight o’clock. The plane leaves at nine. You will be in my office at Ensenada at ten—before this Johnson knows that I have gone south.”
“Colonel Ortega,” Hope said, “we have had nothing to eat since this afternoon. May we—”
“I beg your pardon, señorita,” Colonel Ortega said. He snapped his fingers and Juan came running. “Give these people anything they want,” he said. “When they have eaten, show them to their rooms.” He turned to Jim. “I trust to your good sense, señor. You are not foolish enough to try to get away on foot, without a gun.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 145
