by Lionel White
We arrived at the city prison fifteen minutes after leaving the undertaker’s, and I was ushered into the bleak confines of the jail just after dusk had fallen. Apparently, we were expected.
The sergeant didn’t hesitate as we crossed the lobby and passed the information desk, behind which sat a uniformed officer. A door was opened by a remote-control button, and we entered a long hallway. There were barred cages on each side containing assorted prisoners.
When we came to the end of the hallway, the guard who’d accompanied us opened a second door. The steps led downward. At the bottom of the flight of stairs there were only two cells. One of them was unoccupied.
There was a naked, forty-watt bulb overhead, and in the dim shadows behind the bars of the second cage I could see the form of a man lying on a cot.
Again the guard keyed the door open and the figure didn’t stir. The cell was bare but for the cot on which he lay. In one corner was the usual tin bucket. A second naked bulb, not more than twenty-five watts, illuminated the cell itself.
I stepped inside and the iron-grilled gate was slammed behind me and locked. The guard turned and left, but Sergeant Jose de Garios stood outside the locked door. He turned his back on the cell and lighted another of his slender cigarillos, leaning against the bars in a bored posture.
I took a couple of steps over and sat on the stool beside the cot.
“Angel,” I said.
The man in the cot, his back to me, didn’t stir. He was turned facing the wall. I reached over, put my hand on his shoulder.
“Angel,” I said again. This time I felt a movement under my hand and there was a groan. I sensed that he was trying to move, and as gently as possible, I half lifted him to turn him toward me.
***
He whimpered as I got him on his back. He was naked from the waist up. His feet were bare. I could see his face. He couldn’t see mine, because his eyes were swollen closed.
For the second time that day, I could feel the gore rising in my throat and once again I almost vomited.
In the States, they do it with blackjacks and fists and they go for the kidneys and the groin. They’re careful not to leave marks. It doesn’t look good in court.
In Mexico, they are less delicate. They don’t care whether there are marks or not. They hit anywhere and hit hard.
His nose had been smashed in like a mashed potato. His lips were ribbons of raw flesh, and I could see the stumps of broken teeth behind them. The fingers of his left hand which lay across his chest had been broken, and no one had bothered to set them. No one had bothered to wipe the blood from his broken face and battered body.
He was conscious, but barely conscious, and his breath whistled from his tortured throat. His right hand found my hand and I felt a touch of pressure and I knew that he was sufficiently conscious to recognize me.
“God almighty, what have they done to you!”
Blood and spittle dribbled from his mouth as he struggled to speak, but speech was beyond him. Gently I put his hand across his body and stood up.
“I’ll be back, Angel,” I said. “Ill be back. I’ll try and get you a doctor. A doctor and a lawyer.”
I went to the iron-grilled door.
“Get me out of here, you animal,” I said.
Sergeant Jose de Garios slowly turned and looked at me, his expression blank.
“You wanted to talk to him, senor,” he said.
“Get me out of here,” I said. “This man needs a doctor. What have you done to him?”
“We’ve questioned him, senor, It’s the prerogative of the homicide department to question prisoners.”
Several moments later the jailer returned and again unlocked the door of the cell. I stalked out.
When we reached the street the sergeant opened the car door, waiting for me to enter.
I shook my head. “I’ll call a cab,” I said. I waited until he pulled away and then I walked several blocks until I found a phone booth.
The third doctor that I tried agreed to go to the jail and see what he could do. I asked him to recommend a lawyer. When I reached the man at his home, I made it as brief as possible. I wanted him to do one thing and one thing only, and I was willing to pay a thousand dollars in cash to have him do it. I wanted him to get to the jail as soon as he could and to see to it that Angel had medical attention when the doctor arrived.
He said he would do his best. He would call me later at La Casa Pacifica. His name was Fernando, Rodriques Fernando. He told me that he didn’t practice criminal law, but that he believed he would be able to handle the situation at the city hall. He would recommend a criminal lawyer when I met him the next day.
I then called a cab and returned to La Casa Pacifica. There was one other man I wanted to reach, and reach immediately. There was only one way I knew to do so, and that was through Homer Billings.
It is fortunate that I did not see Captain Hernando Morales that night. Had I done so, I believe I would have put a.45 slug through his guts as he entered my room.
***
As it turned out, however, he didn’t show up until the following morning, by which time I had had a chance to calm down and to regain some semblance of control over my shattered emotions. I had also had a chance to start to put some of the pieces together.
I was sure that Captain Morales was not only behind the murder of Sharon, but was responsible for framing Angel Cortillo for the crime. I couldn’t believe it was anything as simple as his anger at the fact that Sharon had tried to skip out, or because he’d discovered Cortillo was helping her to make an escape. His motives had to be more devious.
The frame-up, and I was sure it was a frame, was almost too perfect. I was not sure that Sergeant Jose de Garios was in on it, but I was sure of one thing. He very obviously had an open and shut case.
Killing Morales would have given me a great deal of satisfaction. But it wouldn’t have helped Angel Cortillo.
Sharon was beyond help.
That night as I lay in bed in my room at La Casa Pacifica, after having asked Billings to get in touch with Morales and request that he see me as soon as possible, I began to review the facts.
Several things immediately struck me as odd. There had been no publicity about the murder or Angel’s arrest. They had wanted to keep it quiet. They had not made a formal charge.
I began to wonder, why the secrecy? I began to wonder just how much Captain Hernando Morales knew about my personal relationship with Angel Cortillo. Had he known that Angel was involved with me in the smuggling of the marijuana? Was that a part of the picture? What was the connection between Captain Morales and that sinister and mysterious man in San Francisco who went by the name of O’Farrell?
Above all, why would Captain Morales jeopardize what would appear to be a lucrative future relationship with me by involving himself in the murder of a girl I lived with. The frame-up of a friend of mine for that murder?
Anger at Sharon because she had run out on him? Jealousy or resentment against Angel, because he was involved in her escape? I doubted it.
Captain Hernando Morales was not a man to permit his emotions to interfere with his finances. He was far too cool a customer for that. There had to be something else behind it.
I could have saved myself a good deal of mental agony had I been willing to wait a few hours, for by noon of the following day I had begun to figure out exactly what was behind it. I had been warned by Bongo that Captain Hernando Morales was a very dangerous man. I should have taken that warning more to heart, for I was soon to find out exactly how dangerous he was.
Bongo had told me in Saigon that this Captain Morales had tried to kill him and had failed. Before the following day was over I deeply regretted that in that particular case he had not been successful. For had he been, I would never have met him, as Bongo would never have been able to give me his name.
By two o’clock in the morning, I still had been unable to find sleep, and I knew that the following day I would need my rest. And
so I opened a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and took approximately half of it in straight shots. Sleep, any kind of sleep, even drunken sleep, was better than no sleep.
I don’t know what time I finally passed out, but the therapy apparently worked, because I didn’t wake up until the knock came on my door some time late the following morning. Half awake, I turned over and looked at the wristwatch on the table beside the bed. It was exactly eleven thirty-five.
I called out, “One minute please,” and I staggered into the bathroom and threw some cold water on my face. I had fallen asleep without undressing. Going to the door, I called out, “Who is it?”
Instead of a reply, there was a second knock.
I wasn’t surprised when I opened the door to find Captain Hernando Morales on the other side. If he was nervous, he didn’t show it. He still wore the same hundred and fifty dollar silk suit, the gold, wire-rimmed glasses, and there was a straw panama tilted to one side of his head. He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t alone either. Behind him were two policemen in uniform. For several moments he just looked at me, and then he spoke in a soft, insinuating voice.
“I have heard of your tragedy, senor,” he said. “I have come to offer my condolences.”
I wanted to choke, but I managed to get the words out. “Come in,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”
He turned then, apparently secure in the Knowledge that I was not going to be violent, and with a nod dismissed his two bodyguards. They wandered down the hall, but I noticed that they didn’t leave the area.
A moment later he was in the room, and I had closed the door. We sat down in the twin chairs next to the window.
“A tragedy,” he said. “I can’t express to you how sad I feel.”
“I am sure you do, captain,” I said. “I feel sad myself.”
“If there’s anything I can do���”
“Sharon is dead,” I said. “As soon as they release her body, I will see that she is properly buried. She has no family, as far as I know.”
“In that case,” he said, “I don’t believe it will be necessary to inform the American consulate, and you can probably make all the proper arrangements here in Ensenada.”
I nodded. “I will make the arrangements. But at the moment, Sharon is not the problem. The problem is a man named Angel Cortillo, who is being held for her murder.”
“Yes, so I understand.”
“Cortillo did not murder the girl, captain,” I said.
He looked at me coldly. “He didn’t?”
“I want him released,” I said.
Captain Morales shrugged. “A large request, senor.”
“I need Angel Cortillo,” I said. “He is important to my plans. May I say, captain, to our plans.”
He hesitated a moment, while I lighted a cigarette, and then looked me straight in the eye.
“You’re wrong, Senor Johns,” he said. “Angel Cortillo is not important to our plans. I think it is time I explained something to you. I was aware of the way you operated. I was aware of the fact that Cortillo transferred the cargo from his vessel to a second vessel, which you were probably on. I can now tell you something that you didn’t know.
“You were observed by one of our patrol planes in Mexican water. I assume it was you. It was a boat that made a rendezvous with Cortillo’s vessel. The government is fully aware of what took place. It was a clever operation, but it wasn’t clever enough. It will not work a second time. As a result, I must inform you that Angel Cortillo is not important to any future operation.”
“He is important to me,” I said.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Senor Johns. And now I will tell you something. He is also important to me.”
“Just what do you mean by that, captain?”
“I will give it to you simply and clearly, Senor Johns. I think you are a very clever man. You conceived of a brilliant plan, but it wasn’t quite brilliant enough. It worked once, but it won’t work a second time. That, however, doesn’t mean that we cannot continue to do business.”
“Perhaps you’d better explain, captain.”
“You came down here to smuggle marijuana into the States,” Captain Morales said. “You’re willing to take certain calculated risks. I admire your audacity, and I even admire the cleverness of your plan, although, as I say, it was doomed from the start to fail eventually. You make one major error, however. You’re taking risks, gigantic risks, for a relatively small margin of profit. Marijuana is something for schoolboys to deal in. Let them move it across the border in their campers, or charter their small planes, or whatever they care to use. Let them make their relatively small profits. There are other commodities that bring much higher profits, and I’m in a position, as I was in the position in our previous deal, to make certain contacts for you, whereby the risks you take will pay off many times better than the ones you took in dealing in marijuana.”
I stared at him for several moments. I was beginning to get the idea. Finally I said, “I gather, captain, that you’re talking about hard drugs: heroin, cocaine, opium.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said.
“Let me make something clear to you, captain,” I said. “On marijuana I was willing to go along. I don’t consider it a particularly dangerous drug, and I was prepared to take certain chances to make a profit. When it comes to the hard stuff, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave me out of it.”
He stood up then, turned his back, and spoke very softly.
“I’m afraid you don’t quite understand me, senor. I. don’t believe you really want to-be left out of it. You see, you have certain stakes here in Mexico.”
“Certain stakes? Perhaps you’d better explain yourself, captain.”
He turned back,and looked me straight in the face.
“You have a friend who’s going to face a charge of first-degree murder. It’s a clear-cut case. Fortunately, up to this point, this friend of yours has not been charged. There’s been no publicity. The public is not aware of the crime. And it may just be possible that he could, as you say in the States, beat the rap.”
“He will beat the rap,” I said. “You know and I know that he is innocent.”
Captain Morales shrugged. “Innocent? What establishes innocence?
“You might be willing to throw your friend Angel Cortillo to the wolves in order to ensure your own safety, but I think there’s something you’re forgetting. You are in Mexico. When I came here I was accompanied by two policemen, who are still outside waiting. The murder of the girl who posed as your wife has not been solved completely. Even with the detention of your friend, Angel Cortillo, I understand the police believe there’s a possibility that you yourself could have been involved in the crime. There are several unusual coincidences that they would like to have explained.
“Why did you happen to leave town when you did, to return to the States? Why didn’t you take the girl with you? How did Angel Cortillo happen to meet her? Is it just remotely possible-and please forgive me, for this is not my own suspicion, I am thinking the way the other officials might thinkis it just possible that you wanted to get rid of this girl? That she was some sort or albatross around your neck, and that your friend, your very good friend from-long ago, was willing to do you a small favor?”
The picture was becoming clear. I began to understand what it was all about.
I looked up at him and I forced a thin smile. “You must find it very difficult enlisting mules, captain,” I said.
“Difficult to enlist runners who have imagination, intelligence, courage, and whom I would have a reason to trust completely. I feel, Senor Johns, in view of the current situation, I can completely trust you. As you say, your friend Angel Cortillo is a man that you have known a long time and that you would like to see free. It is quite possible, if things work out the way I would like them to, that he may not be charged. He will, of course, be held for a certain length of time, but the situation could be made quite comfort
able for him. And in the meantime, you and I might find it profitable to cooperate on further ventures. I want you to think it over. I’m going to leave now and I will be back in a day or two. I. would suggest that you stay here. You have certain things to do, I’m sure, before you might wish to return to the States.”
I stood up then, finding it very hard to keep my hands off him. “Yes,” I said, “I have certain things to do. I have to bury a girl, a girl that some sadistic bastard brutally murdered.”
He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob and turned once again.
“I’ll see to it that your friend is transferred to a more comfortable cell,” he said. “I understand he received some medical attention last night for the injuries he suffered when he resisted arrest. He’ll be taken care of. You may see him again in a day or two, and I think you’ll find him in much better condition. In the meantime, Senor Johns, think over what I’ve talked to you about, and I will be in touch with you very shortly.”
The door slammed behind his back.
I was about to get up and snap the lock after him, but as I reached the door, it again opened. Captain Morales poked his head in and said, “By the way, call off your lawyer. You will be wasting your money. A lawyer can do no good at all in this case and can only cause trouble. If we find we really have to bring a charge against your friend, you may be sure that it will stick. The intercession of an attorney could only mean that we would be forced to move immediately against him. I think you had better plan to talk to Angel Cortillo some time tomorrow. I think if you explain the situation, this man, understanding Mexican police procedures, will be able to give you some very excellent advice. So that you may both speak freely to each other, I will see that arrangements are made for you to see him in complete privacy. Let us say around four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if that will be satisfactory.”
