by Morris West
‘I can open doors, Mr Desmond. I cannot promise what you will find on the other side. I’m sure Mr Harlequin understands that.’
Then, or afterwards, it was the nearest thing to an apology he ever uttered.
When I returned to Harlequin’s room, I found him closeted with a man I had never seen before. He was taller than I, thick as a tree, with a mane of white hair and bushy eyebrows and a face the colour of old wood, seamed and scored by the weather. His dress was old-fashioned but cut by a master tailor. He wore an emerald pin in his cravat and on his finger a large seal-ring of Aztec jade. Put him in morion and breastplate and you could have passed him for a lieutenant to old Cortes himself. Harlequin presented him as Pedro Galvez. We sat down and Galvez continued his interrupted discourse:
‘…As I was saying: forget the police; forget this hired gunman. They will find him or they will not – most probably not. In a city of this size, with so many migrants, so many workless, half the male population lives outside the law. When we talked at luncheon yesterday, I confess I was not confident with you. You have always seemed to me too soft, too civilised! I do not say it is wrong, only that here, in the New World, it is not enough. You do not change a ruffian into an honest man by giving him a collar and tie. So, when you tell me that you will fight and how you will fight, I approve! I back you – here at least, where the name of Galvez means something. Now, you tell me what you need. I will tell you what I think you need.’
‘I want a man brought from Los Angeles to Mexico City.’
‘You want him kidnapped?’
‘I want him enticed across the border to Tijuana and brought to Mexico City. If necessary, I’m prepared to have him arrested the moment he sets foot on Mexican soil and charged with conspiracy to defraud. I’d prefer, however, to talk to him before the police get him.’
‘Let me think about it. Everything is possible. What next?’
‘Our friend, José Luis. You told me he’s been gambling.’
‘Well… that, perhaps, gave the wrong impression. He gambles, yes. He plays the horses and the tables – for high stakes sometimes – but he is not in trouble. His father left him rich. He is still rich. But the way he lives is not appropriate for a man who is trusted with other people’s money. He keeps strange company. You know the types we get here – promoters, speculators, easy-money operators. He entertains them like princes. He introduces them where he should not. Sometimes he uses the name of the bank to do it. You are not that sort of man; neither am I. I don’t approve. I can recommend three men at least who would do much better for you.’
‘I need him,’ said George Harlequin firmly. ‘I need him loyal and happy until I can confront him with Alex Duggan and get a notarised deposition without duress.’
‘Why not take him to California and make the confrontation there?’
‘Because there we have no recourse against Duggan – and no way of forcing him to tell what he knows.’
‘It seems to me, my friend,’ said Pedro Galvez shrewdly, ‘you have as many doubts about José Luis as I have.’
‘Doubts, but no certainties.’
‘Then let me see if I can find some for you. Meantime, I agree: keep him happy and trusting. As for this Alex Duggan…’ His old face creased into a smile of malicious amusement. ‘ …There was a Yanqui once who cheated me of twenty thousand dollars and went back to Florida to enjoy it. We sent him a hundred grams of heroin through the mail. When he opened it for inspection by customs… he aquí! There are more ways of cooking a rabbit than stuffing it with red peppers!’ He turned to me, genial and faintly patronising. ‘You don’t say much, Mr Desmond. All this is fastidious to you, perhaps?’
‘Yes, it does bother me, Mr Galvez.’
‘Why?’
‘Yesterday, José Luis was a gambler. Today he keeps vulgar company. It’s a change, if not a contradiction.’
‘It’s an idiom,’ said George Harlequin, sharply. ‘I understand it.’
‘That’s the answer then. Forgive me, Mr Galvez.’
‘For nothing, Mr Desmond. Each of us is the victim of his own history.’ He stood up, smoothing the furrows of his coat and vest, and addressed himself to George Harlequin. ‘Well then, I shall set to work. I beg you, dear friend, to get some rest. I have telephoned the Cardinal to arrange a novena of masses for your wife’s recovery. You know what they say: “God heals and the doctor takes the fee.” You will hear from me soon.’
He was hardly out of the room when José Luis telephoned from the lobby. Harlequin was rocking on his feet, and for that matter, so was I. Suzy came in, pale but composed. She had telephoned the hospital. Julie was still in the recovery room; given the nature of the case, her condition was fairly satisfactory. We agreed that once we had disposed of José Luis, we should all get some sleep.
He came like a penitent, groaning and scourging himself. If only he had been with us last night; if only he had known the malice in this affair; if only…
Harlequin was in no mood for lamentations. ‘You have the money, José?’
‘It will be delivered this afternoon from the Central Bank.’
‘We shall call for it at nine-thirty in the morning. I have kept my promise: the police know nothing of Maria Guzman. However, I must know the rest of it. This man who called himself Peter Firmin, who came to check the computers, did you meet him yourself?’
‘No. That week I was ill with the grippe. Cristobal Enriques was in charge.’
‘How did he admit a man with a false name and false documents?’
‘The documents were in order. It is in the diary. Cristobal called back to the office of Creative Systems, They confirmed the name, and the number of the document. The photographs matched. We have a copy of the letter of introduction on file.’
‘Did Cristobal ask for a passport?’
‘The security instructions do not specify a passport: only a company card with a photograph and a number, and a letter of introduction.’
‘Thank you, José. Will you now provide me with two notarised statements, one from yourself, one from Cristobal Enriques, setting out those facts? Will you also inquire from Creative Systems how a man whom they identified as Peter Firmin changed to Alex Duggan back in California?’
I interrupted him at that point. ‘I suggest, George, we stay far away from Creative Systems.’
He hesitated a moment and then agreed. ‘Paul’s right, José. Get me just the two statements.’
‘With pleasure. They will be ready in the morning. Please, what can I do for you, for your poor wife…?’
‘Pray, perhaps.’
‘Ay! If one could believe in praying!’
‘José, tell me honestly, who could have done a thing like this?’
‘I do not know, George. For money in the pocket, jewels… Yes! When a man is hungry enough or greedy enough, murder is a simple thing. For vengeance, a dishonour to himself or his woman, yes again! But this… No, no, no! This is gangster business. I think you have to look outside Mexico. What do the police say?’
‘They’re looking for a man with a gun.’
‘A bean in a stewpot! No way to find him.’
‘Do you have friends who could help?’
For a moment he looked puzzled; then, as understanding dawned, he smiled regretfully. ‘Ah! My bad companions! I have a taste for vulgar company. If you had lived in my family perhaps you would have it, too. I play with them. I shock my friends with them. Sometimes, because they are clever and bold, I make money with them, too. But they are not gangsters, George, my friend… Oh, no! Now you must be honest with me. Would you like me to resign? I can do it today or later, when it suits you.’
‘That’s generous of you, José: but I need you; now more than ever.’
‘You pay me a compliment. One day I shall return it. How did you go with Pedro Galvez?’
‘Better than I expected. We have time to breathe.’
‘He’s a strange one: a good friend, a bad enemy. If you need me, I am
at the bank. In the evening, at home.’ He gave a little wry grin. ‘This time, alone. I begin to think I am cured of youth. You should rest now. Please!’
The moment he left the room, Suzanne was in command. There would be no more talk, no visitors until six. If there were calls from the hospital, she would take them. She had sedatives from the pharmacy. Harlequin must take one and sleep until he was called. He agreed, wearily, and took himself off to bed. I looked at my watch. It was half an hour after midday. We had, all of us, been awake for thirty hours.
As we rode down to our own floor, Suzanne began to tremble violently. I hurried her into the apartment, sat her down and poured neat spirit into her. She gagged on the first mouthful, then ran to her room and slammed the door. I went to my own room, got into pyjamas and dressing-gown, poured myself a stiff drink and then went in to see Suzanne. I found her lying on the bed, her hair in disarray, her face drawn and tear-stained. I knew how she felt. The whole thing was a mess, a cruel, bloody shambles of lies and brutality and wasted hopes. Julie was beyond our help; Harlequin had refused it and retreated into the solitude of the fanatic. With all the love in the world, no one could reach him. There was nothing I could say to Suzy, but the simple, crooning words one uses to a child. There was nothing I could do, but gentle her until the pain and the panic subsided. Then I went back to my own room and slept, fitfully, until sundown.
In the evening, Harlequin went alone to visit Julie. He telephoned to say that she was conscious, though very weak and in much pain in spite of the heavy sedation. At the clinic they had offered him a bed for the night, so that he could remain near her. He asked me to send pyjamas, toilet gear and a change of linen. In the morning, I should collect the money from the bank and pick him up at the hospital to keep our appointment with Bogdanovich. Suzanne would keep vigil until we returned. If Julie’s condition deteriorated, I should keep the appointment alone.
A little later, Saul Wells called from Los Angeles. He had located our friend, Alex Duggan, who lived in some style in an apartment block on Olympic, with a pretty wife and one child. There was a vacant apartment in the block; Saul would rent it as a base for himself. He would devote himself to keeping Alex Duggan in good health. He had other news, too. The evening press and the television services had picked up the story from Mexico City. The morning papers would give it big coverage. Leah Klein’s story carried the lead-line, ‘Mergers and Murders’. In Washington, there was talk of a Congressional inquiry into the security of data banks. So far Basil Yanko had refused to comment. On Wall Street, the market was down and brokers were cagey. They were waiting to see what happened on Tuesday… So far, so good. You could hear the thunder, but it hadn’t started to rain yet.
After that, we had the evening to ourselves – and a deep desire to spend it safely. We sat at the bar drinking margaritas and listening to the tourist talk. We dined in a far, quiet comer and talked soberly of George and Juliette and the dubious future that confronted us all.
Suzy summed it up, glumly. ‘Everything’s changed, Paul. None of us will ever be the same again.’
‘If Julie heals, sweetheart, we’ll all get better very quickly.’
‘If she dies?’
‘I’m damned if I’d know how to handle George. Could you?’
‘Once upon a time I dreamed I could.’ The words came slowly, dredged up from a well of sadness. ‘Now I know it’s not possible. I’ve never seen this dark side of him before. Julie knew it. Perhaps that’s what she loved in him, and wanted more than the rest of him… Funny, I was always so sure she was the wrong woman for George. Now I know I am; and yet I still love him. Hell, isn’t it? When this is over, I think I’ll make a change, before it’s too late. Will you give me a good reference, Paul?’
‘I’ll give you a job if you’ll come with me. A better one than you’ve got now.’
‘You’re not thinking of leaving, too?’
‘There’s nothing to leave, sweetheart: one share and a handsome retainer I don’t need. I’m tired of the trade and the bastards who infest it – including me; but I can’t quit until we’ve got George over the stile and into green pastures again…’
‘If you can get him there.’
‘Do you trust me, Suzy?’
‘You know I do. You’ve never hurt me, Paul. You could have, but you didn’t. Why do you ask?’
‘One day – and if it comes, it’ll be soon – I may ask you to back me against George; not for my sake, but for his. Will you do it?’
‘I would have to know why, first.’
‘He may try to kill Basil Yanko.’
She gave no sign of shock or surprise. She was silent for a moment, then she said quietly, ‘That’s what I meant. None of us will ever be the same… Yes, Paul, I’ll do whatever you ask. Now, please, buy me a brandy and let’s change the subject.’
The rest was nonsense-talk: puff-balls and platitudes. We sat late and drank too much and were stone-cold sober at the end of it. When we went upstairs and I held her for a goodnight kiss, she said, simply, ‘Please stay with me, Paul. I couldn’t bear to be alone tonight.’
The sadness was that I wanted to be alone; and that I was too ashamed to tell her. Our loving was warm; she did not see the ghosts that haunted the dark comers of the room. Afterwards she fell asleep on my shoulder; I drew the covers over her and we lay close, all night: two lonely people, huddled like babes in a darkling wood.
7
At nine in the morning, punctual as death, the limousine arrived at the hotel. Suzanne and I drove to the bank and collected a canvas satchel with a quarter of a million dollars in it. At nine-thirty, we arrived at the hospital. George Harlequin was waiting for us at the door. His news was neither good nor bad. Julie was holding her own. There was some post-operative infection. The physicians hoped to hold it in check. The surgeon was not dissatisfied. There was a room where Suzanne could rest and read. If Juliette were awake, she could visit for a few moments. We drove out of the hospital compound, fought our way through a snarl of traffic and headed north along the Avenue of the Insurgents.
Our driver was an elderly, taciturn fellow with a dark Indian face. However, he consented to tell us that our destination was ten miles beyond Tula and that, on the way, we should see most interesting antiquities: the feathered serpents of Tenayuca, the Pyramid of Saint Cecilia and the Procession of the Jaguars. Time was when Harlequin would have insisted on scrambling over every inch of it. Now he sat, blind and mute, in the comer of the seat, asking nothing but a speedy journey and the swiftest possible despatch of our business. I tried to interest him in the scenery. He would have none of it. When I told him of my talk with Saul Wells, he grunted approval and fell silent again. It was only when I asked about Juliette that he showed any animation at all.
‘…She looked so pale and small, like a wax doll. I hardly dared to touch her. They are drip-feeding her, but she complains that her mouth is always dry… She asked for-you, Paul. I told her you would come when she was stronger. She’s worried about the baby, too. I wondered whether we should fly him over with the nurse. The doctor advised against it… The staff are very kind. They come every half-hour. I sat with her most of the night. I felt quite helpless; but when she woke she would grasp my hand… There was a priest who came. Very young. He wanted to bless her. I told him we were born Calvinists. He said it was only men who kept lists and made distinctions… I let him lay hands on her… Very primitive, but afterwards, she seemed to be in less pain… O Christ! Why is life such a blasphemy!’
I wished I could tell him; but I lacked the wit and the words. His face hardened again and he lapsed into a brooding silence.
After Tula, we climbed northwestward along the flank of a saw-toothed ridge and through a precipitous defile which opened into a large circular plain, the crater of a long-dead volcano. In the centre of the plain was a lake, fringed by a reed swamp, from which the land rose to green pastures and terraces of com and food-crops. Against the far lip of the crater was the hacienda,
a long, low building of hewn stone, with lawns and flower-gardens in front and, at either end, the out-buildings and the peasant dwellings and the stables and the pens for sheep and cattle. It looked rich and private and feudal, like an ancient duchy that had survived the revolutions and continued to ignore the democrats.
At the entrance to the house, Aaron Bogdanovich was waiting to meet us. He spoke a few words of salutation to us both and inquired, solicitously, after Julie. Then he led us into a broad chamber, with a tiled floor and a stone fireplace and colourful mats and heavy Spanish colonial furniture. He pointed to a few special pieces of Toltec artifacts and then summoned a manservant to bring us coffee. He explained, vaguely, that the place belonged to friends of diplomatic friends. I noted, as I had done in New York, that he addressed himself to Harlequin with deference and a care to be respected. When the coffee was brought, he stood by the stone mantel and explained the mission of the day.
‘…You are to meet a man who is, in many respects, similar to me. That is to say, he makes a profession of murder. The difference between us is not great. I am better educated. He is an intelligent urchin. I claim to be a patriot. He does not claim to be anything but a mercenary. Now, when you meet him, you will believe he is perfectly lucid. In fact, he is severely disoriented by heavy sedation, by sensory deprivation and suggestive procedures. He cannot yet distinguish between reality and illusion. You, Mr Harlequin, will confirm the illusion. You have come to hire his services to kill a man in New York. You are prepared to double the asking price, but you must first know his full credentials. I will lead the discussion. You will interpolate questions when I signal. You, Mr Desmond, will remain silent, unless I invite you to speak. Questions, Mr Harlequin?’
‘Are we to meet him face to face?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘You must accept my word that it is not.’
‘You spoke of sensory deprivation. Does he know what has happened to him?’
