The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “No, colonel, I am not that foolish.”

  “I have your word, señor?”

  “You have my word. I will see you at eight o’clock for breakfast.”

  “Then good night, señor.” He bowed to Hope. “Good night, señorita.”

  When Colonel Ortega had gone, Jim asked Juan what he could give him to eat.

  “There is always chile, señor,” Juan said. “I can also cook ham and eggs.”

  Jim looked at Hope.

  “Ham and eggs,” she said.

  “Sí, señorita,” Juan said, and hurried off.

  “You get a good enough break,” Jim said to Hope. “You satisfy your boss by leaving the money here. And they won’t hold you at Ensenada. Johnson doesn’t want you—except, perhaps, as a witness at my trial a month from now.”

  She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she heard what he said. She looked as if she were thinking about something else. He could see how tired she was. He knew how tired he was. They’d had three or four hours’ sleep on the beach of Todos Santos Bay before dawn. They’d been going ever since. All the glow had gone out of her. Even her blonde curls had lost their life.

  “You don’t seem happy about it,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You want to see him. You’re fond of him.”

  “No,” she said. “Not in the way I suppose you mean.”

  “Are you going to tell me what he said in that letter you burned up?”

  She drew her shoulders together as if she were cold. “Please put wood on the fire,” she said.

  He took wood from the pile beside the fireplace and got the fire going and sat down again at the table beside her.

  “He said he was going hunting and he’d be back here in a couple of days.”

  “So I lose by two days.”

  Hope took her mirror and her lipstick out of her purse. When she had repaired her makeup she got up and stood with her back to the fire and ran her fingers through those blonde curls of hers until her head was a halo of curls.

  “You look marvelous,” Jim said, “except for the alkali dust.”

  She looked down at her slacks. They were gray with alkali.

  Juan came back with ham and eggs and homemade American bread and coffee.

  They sat down before the fire and ate. They ate all the ham and eggs and all the bread and butter.

  “Jim,” she said, “I’ve been thinking.”

  He waited, watching her. Some of the glow had come back into her. She had lowered her eyes until the lashes almost touched her cheek. Now she looked up at him.

  “About those bonds I took to the bank,” she said. “They were in an envelope marked Parmenter. And Parmenter had been Fitz Jordan’s partner in several things. I didn’t worry about it at the time. Fitz Jordan was always honest. It never occurred to me to question his instructions. But now—after what you’ve said—I can’t help wondering.”

  “You’re beginning to believe me.”

  She looked at him gravely. “Yes,” she said. “I believe you.”

  “That means a lot to me,” Jim said.

  “In the morning I’m going to tell Colonel Ortega that he’s making a mistake. I’m going to remind him that you found two of the bad bills on your way down here. I’m going to tell him I won’t leave the money here for Fitz Jordan, because I’m afraid it’s stolen money.”

  “Do you think it will do any good?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid it won’t. His pride has been hurt. He’s bound to put Johnson in his place, and the only way he can think of is to get you to Ensenada before lunch.”

  “I know,” Jim said. “I wish I’d had sense enough to tell him last night what I was coming down here for. He offered to help me, and if I’d told him the whole truth I think he would have.”

  “You were a perfect fool,” Hope said.

  “I know it. I should have let Johnson take me in that night he came to arrest me. I had a good record. I could have persuaded them to go after Fitz.”

  “You wanted to do it all yourself.”

  “I couldn’t stand the idea that I’d been made a fool of.”

  She smiled. “You and Colonel Ortega.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I still can’t believe Fitz Jordan is a crook,” she said.

  “I couldn’t either, until I had to.”

  “He was such a free, happy, open-handed sort of guy,” Hope said.

  “If he’d had five thousand dollars in real money he’d never have been tempted by counterfeit money. Not if he’d had five hundred. He had turned a shoestring into a bank roll often enough. He must have been worse than broke. He must have taken things he couldn’t make good, before the Parmenter bonds.”

  She shook her head. “I just don’t know,” she said. “I never saw anything wrong in his office.”

  They finished their coffee and walked down the room. Juan was asleep, his head in his arms on the counter. And then they both stopped suddenly.

  “What was that?” Hope asked.

  “A car coming into the patio.”

  Jim went to the door and listened. The car had stopped. He couldn’t hear anything at all. And then the door opened and El Tigre stuck his head in.

  “He’s here,” El Tigre said to somebody behind him, and lunged forward.

  Jim caught him with a straight left on the nose. El Tigre shook his head and rushed, throwing punches with both hands. Jim gave ground to get more room. He ducked a right swing and got in close. El Tigre grabbed his arms and Jim broke away. El Tigre rushed again. Jim stabbed him with a left. But El Tigre came on. Jim backed into a table with chairs around it and almost fell and caught himself. He saw the heavy figure of Solid Man Johnson circling with a gun in his hand. Juan was awake and yelling. And then Jim saw Hope behind Johnson. She had something in her hand.

  El Tigre caught him with a right high on his head that staggered him. He crouched and went in. He ducked El Tigre’s left and drove his right into the middle. El Tigre staggered back, and then something landed on his forehead and he was down. He rolled over and got his elbow under him, and there was Colonel Ortega in white pajamas with his pistol poised. And then Jim had to wipe the blood out of his eyes.

  “This will be all,” Colonel Ortega said.

  Jim saw that Johnson was down too. He was holding his head as if it hurt. Colonel Ortega turned and called out, “Gomez! Bring your rifle!” The sergeant came running. He was only half dressed, but he had his rifle. “Fix your bayonet,” Colonel Ortega said.

  The sound of metal on metal was clear and sharp as the sergeant fixed his bayonet.

  “Señor Johnson,” Colonel Ortega said, “what does this mean? Why is Señor Howard bleeding?”

  “He was resisting arrest, colonel,” Johnson said.

  “Ah!” Colonel Ortega said. “And who are you to arrest a man on Mexican soil? By what right do you appear here, in a country of which you are not a citizen, in which you have no standing, except what I give you as a courtesy, seeking to arrest a man who is a prisoner of mine?”

  “Colonel,” Johnson protested, “I didn’t know you were here. I thought—”

  “I know what you thought, Señor Johnson. I have heard what you think of Mexicans. I remember what you said over the telephone. ‘You know how Mexicans are.’ You thought I was careless of my duties and you would do them for me.” Colonel Ortega turned to his sergeant. “Disarm this fool.”

  The sergeant advanced on Johnson and took his gun.

  “Colonel,” Johnson protested, “I brought one of your men with me.”

  Colonel Ortega turned on El Tigre.

  “You,” he said. “You dared to show this gringo the way here.”

  “Mi coronel,” El Tigre said, “I did not know you were here. And this Johnson asked me—�
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  “If you ever were a policeman, you are one no longer,” Colonel Ortega said….“Gomez, see if this Johnson has handcuffs.”

  The sergeant bent over Johnson and came up with a pair of handcuffs.

  “Good,” Colonel Ortega said. “Handcuff El Tigre and Señor Johnson together.”

  “Colonel,” Johnson said, “this is not the treatment the United States expects from Mexico.”

  Colonel Ortega walked slowly over to Johnson. “And what treatment do you think Mexico expects from the United States, señor? What do you think your superiors will say when I report your conduct?”

  Johnson got to his feet. He was a tough egg, short and powerful, with a big jaw, a big nose, and a grim mouth. But he was licked, and he knew it.

  “Colonel,” he said, and Jim could see him swallow hard, “I—I made a mistake.”

  “It seems so, señor,” Colonel Ortega said. “Where did you get that lump on your head?”

  “That girl hit me with something.”

  “Señorita, is it true that you struck this man down?”

  Hope pointed to a cast-iron disk with a sort of handle that lay on the floor. “I hit him with the paperweight,” she said.

  Colonel Ortega bowed to her and turned to Johnson. “In view of your great wounds, Señor Johnson, I will forget the handcuffs and permit you to go to bed. In the morning you will write an apology to my government….Gomez, find a room for Señor Johnson and El Tigre out of here—anywhere.” Colonel Ortega bent over Jim. “You have a bad cut over your eyes, señor. It needs attention.”

  “I have a bandage and adhesive tape,” Hope said. “I’ll fix him up.”

  Jim got to his feet. The sergeant was marching Johnson and El Tigre out, the point of his bayonet close to El Tigre’s back.

  “Juan, show the way,” Colonel Ortega said. “If the señorita wants warm water, get it for her.”

  Jim followed Juan down a corridor with rooms on both sides. Juan opened a door and lit an oil lamp on a table beside a bed.

  “Your room is across the hall, señorita,” Juan said. “I will light the lamp.”

  “Lie down,” Hope said to Jim.

  Jim lay down on the bed. He was so tired he almost went off to sleep while Hope washed the blood off his face and brought the edges of the cut together with adhesive tape.

  “What hit me?” he asked.

  “Johnson hit you with the barrel of his gun,” she said. “I was too late with the paperweight.”

  She finished the job. She stood poised in the doorway.

  “Good night, Jim,” she said.

  “Good night, Hope,” he said. He wanted to say a lot more, but he couldn’t say it then.

  * * *

  —

  He was drifting off to sleep when he caught himself. He swung his feet out of bed and found a cigarette to keep himself awake. He couldn’t sleep. He had to get Fitz. No matter how long the chance was, he had to take it. He had till eight o’clock and no longer. He meant to keep his promise to Colonel Ortega.

  He remembered that Fitz Jordan had left in the middle of the afternoon. He’d left word for Hope that he’d gone hunting and he’d be back in a couple of days. He couldn’t have gone far in one afternoon if he was hunting. He’d want to camp before dark.

  Jim got up and went to the window. His room was on the patio. All the lights were out, but the moonlight was still bright. He opened the window carefully and stepped out. If he kept in the shadow and moved slowly, no one would see him. He crept along the wall until he found the gate.

  At the main road he turned south. The moon was fading fast. He guessed it was nearly daylight.

  He came, after half a mile, to a trail that led along a stream bed toward the Sierra. He stood there thinking it out. Fitz wouldn’t have taken the road south. He would have headed for the Sierra. And this was the only trail there was. He looked at his watch and guessed that he could do nearly four miles in an hour. He had nearly three hours before breakfast.

  He found the fresh tracks of a shod horse and went on faster. Then he remembered that Fitz would have gone to sleep at dark. That meant he’d be awake at sunrise. He’d build a fire to make coffee, and there’d be smoke. He’d have to watch for smoke.

  He guessed he’d done about four miles when he saw a pool of water. He stopped to drink and wash his face and arms in the cool water. He saw trees ahead as he went on. Fitz would camp where there were trees and water and grass, if he could. He stopped and watched, and saw a faint gray wisp rising almost straight up in the windless air. Someone had a cooking fire.

  He turned into the brush and went on, trying to keep his eye on the smoke.

  He heard a thud and stopped, every muscle tense. He heard it again. It could be only one sound in the world—the sound of a horse stamping.

  He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the chaparral. He wondered if the horse would smell him and whinny. He didn’t know whether horses whinnied only when they smelled other horses. Presently he saw the horse grazing at the end of a picket line. The horse raised his head and cocked his ears forward as he looked in Jim’s direction. But presently he began to graze again, as if he’d decided everything was all right.

  Jim wriggled on. He raised his head to get a better look ahead, and saw a man fifty yards away, sitting on his blankets, drinking coffee. His broad back was turned so Jim couldn’t see his face. Jim stood up, and as he did so the man turned his head, and Jim saw that he was Fitz Jordan. And then he remembered that if he could see Fitz, Fitz could see him. He squatted on his heels and studied the ground.

  He saw Fitz’s saddle to one side of his fire, with a duffel bag thrown across it and a shotgun leaning on it. Jim saw that he had a revolver in a holster on his belt. Jim guessed that meant he was afraid. Quail hunters didn’t burden themselves with heavy revolvers. Jim figured his only chance was to rush Fitz. He’d have to get his hands on Fitz before he could pull that revolver or reach the shotgun. He waited until Fitz sat down again. He was pouring something out of a bottle into his coffee cup.

  Jim started slowly toward Fitz, all set to run the moment Fitz saw him. He was within thirty yards when Fitz turned his head. Jim ran at him.

  Fitz was on his feet and yanking at the gun in his holster. He got it out when Jim was still ten feet away, and fired. Something burned Jim’s side, and then he dived at Fitz like a football player making a tackle, and they went down together.

  Jim grabbed for the cylinder of Fitz’s gun, the way he’d learned to do. The hammer came down and the pin bit through the web between his thumb and forefinger. But the pin was cushioned by flesh, so it failed to fire.

  Fitz smashed his left into Jim’s face as they rolled over. Jim got Fitz’s wrist in his right hand and tried to use his body against Fitz for leverage. But Fitz was bigger than he was. He got his left arm around Jim’s neck, shutting off his wind. Jim threw himself desperately and they rolled over again and his weight came down on Fitz’s elbow. Fitz screamed with pain. The hand that held the revolver relaxed, and then the arm around Jim’s neck.

  Jim got up and pulled the hammer out of the web of his left hand. Fitz lay there, holding his broken arm. Jim held the revolver on him while he backed toward the saddle. He got the shotgun, found that it was loaded, and put the revolver in his pocket.

  “You lie there, Fitz,” he said. “If you move, I’ll blow your head off.”

  He held the shotgun poised with one hand while he reached into the duffel bag with the other. He brought out a packet of the kind he remembered. The counterfeit bills had been put up in packages of ten thousand dollars each. He found another packet, and another, and another. He counted nine packets and there was one more broken one.

  He stood watching Fitz and figuring how he’d get him to Carmichael’s.

  “Sit up,” he said.

  Fitz ro
lled into a sitting position.

  “Can you get on a horse by yourself?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fitz said.

  “Then you’ll walk to Carmichael’s.”

  “It’s four miles—maybe five. I couldn’t make it.”

  “All right, Fitz,” Jim said. “You sit there.”

  He picked up the lariat and pulled the picket pin and brought the horse up beside the saddle. He laid the shotgun down at his feet while he got the bridle on. He didn’t know whether Fitz was pretending to be worse off than he was. But he couldn’t do much with a broken right arm. Jim got the saddle on the horse. He put the packets of counterfeit money in the duffel bag and tied the drawstring and lashed the bag to the cantle of the saddle.

  “You’re going to Carmichael’s,” he said to Fitz. “Do you ride or do you walk?”

  “I’ll try to get on the horse,” Fitz said.

  Fitz put a foot in a stirrup and caught the pommel of the stock saddle with his left hand and pulled himself up. He gasped with pain as he got himself in the saddle.

  “All right,” he said. “Give me the reins.”

  “I’m going to lead the horse,” Jim said. “But I’d like to get your tarp and blankets.”

  “Forget them,” Fitz said. “Somebody’ll come and get them. All I want is what’s left of that bottle of tequila.”

  “If I knew something to do about your arm, I would,” Jim said.

  “There isn’t anything but the tequila,” Fitz said.

  Jim gave him the bottle and Fitz drank.

  “It wasn’t that I had it in for you, Jim,” Fitz said. “I thought I had to frame somebody and there wasn’t anybody else.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “You don’t know how I got the stuff?”

  “No,” Jim said.

  “I used to live in the apartment you’ve got,” Fitz said. “I still have the key for it. They never bothered to change the locks. I came in late and was stopping to see you and have a drink, and when I stopped at the door I heard you and somebody else talking about the raid, so I waited.”