by Lionel White
I found it hard to resist the temptation to push my foot to the floorboard. But I could take no chances. The car was hot, and so were we. An encounter with a speed cop would be fatal.
“You know,” Angel said, “it might be wise if I were to conceal myself in the trunk for the next few miles, at least until we hit that road going north from Ocitilo. It is possible we will pass an immigration inspection station sometime soon now. It is also possible that my escape will have been discovered, and the alarm will be out. They will be questioning anyone who looks Mexican.”
I swerved over to the side of the road. He was right, of course. While I was taking the key out of the ignition to open the trunk of the car, he spoke again.
“I don’t believe Morales will make bis move until your friends have reached the inn.”
“Why do you think so?” I asked.
“Morales is a greedy man. He will want the narcotics. It will have occurred to him also that the people who are to pick them up at the inn will arrive with the money to pay for them. It is very possible that he will also want the money.”
“I hope you’re right, Angel,” I said. “It will give us those few extra minutes that we may very well need.”
“I will stay in the trunk until we are a few miles up on S2,” he said.
Angel’s hunch had been correct. The immigration check point was at the intersection of Route 98 and Route 8. When I pulled to a stop beside the customs official who was checking all cars heading west, he didn’t even bother to speak. He saw I was alone in the car, that I was American, and he casually waved me through.
The interruption turned out to be fortunate. As I started forward, the engine hesitated and coughed a couple of times and then caught again. Quickly I looked at the dashboard to check the gas gauge. It showed empty.
I was doubly lucky. There was a station less than a quarter of a mile ahead on the right hand side of the road.
The engine again began to cough out as I stopped beside the pumps. The lone attendant finished putting gas into the tank of a decrepit Ford sedan and walked over. I told him to fill it up. He started to lift the hood, and I told him that everything was all right and not to bother with the windshield. I was in a hurry. He came back to the side of the car.
“Your right rear wheel is almost flat, mister,” he said.
“You probably have a slow leak.”
I swore.
“You want me to repair it? I’m alone, but I’m not too busy at this time of night.”
“I’m in a hurry,” I said, “and can’t waste the time. Supposing you just put some air in and bring it up.”
“How about I put your spare on? That’ll only take a minute or two,” he said.
I started to tell him to go ahead and then I remembered Angel concealed in the trunk, which held the spare tire.
Again I shook my head. “No, just fill her up. I’ll just have to take a chance on it,” I said.
He shrugged, and while he was putting air in the tire I took out my wallet. When he came back I asked him if they had flashlights for sale, and he said they did, I told him to get me one and be sure it had batteries in it.
Three minutes later I pulled out of the station to head north on Route S2.
I drove for some fifteen minutes before I pulled over to the side of the road. Angel was glad to get out of the cramped confines of the trunk. While he was stretching and getting the kinks out of his legs, I examined the right rear tire with the flashlight. I took the valve cap off and put a wet finger over the valve. I could see the bubbles of escaping air in the light from the flash.
Again I swore. At the rate the air was escaping, I figured the tire would be down again within minutes. I didn’t want to take any chances of running it completely flat.
We were in luck. There were tire tools and a jack in the trunk, and we took less than twelve minutes to put the spare on. I hated to waste the additional time, but I wanted to take no chances on that twisting and tortuous road up ahead.
Driving north again, I no longer worried about the possibility of being stopped for speeding. There was virtually no traffic on the highway, but my speed was held down by the winding and dangerous road itself. I knew now that I had little chance of catching up with the camper before it reached the inn. I could only hope and pray that it did reach the inn, that Morales’ plan had been not to intercept it before its arrival there.
As I” drove I tried to concentrate on the road and not think of Ann and her sister somewhere up ahead.
“You know, Angel,” I said. “You would have been smart if you’d have gotten out. It’s not too late, in case you don’t want a part of this. I’ve already given you plenty of trouble. When we catch up with them, you realize that Morales will not be alone. Whoever is with him will be armed. And we have nothing but knives.”
“All the more reason I should be with you, my friend,” Angel said. “I have a debt to settle with that son-of-a-bitch. He had no intention of freeing me all along.”
“I only hope that we can get there in time,” I said.
“And what are your plans, if they have arrived at the inn before we get there?”
“We must play it by ear,” I said. “One thing is sure. The only thing in our favor will be surprise. We will be the last people that Morales will expect to see. In case they are there first, we will stop well before we come to the inn. That is one reason I wanted the flashlight. We will have to cut our headlights some distance from the lodge and drive in slowly and quietly. We will case the place and try and find out exactly what is happening. It is possible that Morales may be satisfied with merely getting possession of the camper. It is hard to say what we will encounter until we get there.”
Cortillo lighted a match and checked his wristwatch.
“We have not passed them yet,” he said, “and if your figuring is right, we are not more than a half an hour from the turnoff. If that camper has averaged twenty-five miles an hour or better, they will already be there.”
I didn’t answer him. didn’t like to think about what might be happening some miles up ahead.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and again Angel spoke. “If you are correct, amigo, and Morales has followed the Volkswagen all the way to the end, I think it’s quite possible he will not make his move immediately. I think he will wait until the contact arrives to pick up that package. You say it has a street value of a half a million dollars?”
“That is what I was told,” I said.
“In that case, the purchase price could be in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million in cash. Morales would not be inclined to pass that up. He will want both. The package and the cash. The contact who is to make the exchange will not be expecting trouble. Morales will be able to take him by surprise.”
“My concern right now,” I said, “is not the package containing the narcotics, nor is it the money to pay for it. It is not even Captain Morales. My concern is two girls whom I have put in a very dangerous position. If I could only be sure of their safety, I would be more than willing to let Morales have both the package and the money.”
“I share your concern for your friends,” Angel said, “but I have another concern as well. I have a little matter to settle with Captain Morales.”
We were silent for the next few minutes, and I concentrated on the road. It was a clear night, and there was a slender slice of moon showing, which did little to illuminate the dark and craggy country through which we were passing. My bright lights were on, and I cut my speed. I checked the mileage on the speedometer and saw that we were approaching the spot where I was told I would find the turnoff on the left which led to the Rancho Grande Inn.
We had driven some sixty-four miles, and I was getting a little nervous. That is when I spotted the small billboard on the right hand side of the road. I was doing about thirty miles an hour and I caught the words Rancho Grande in the headlights, just as I passed them.
I put on my brakes and backed up and swung the car, so that my headli
ghts picked up the full sign. It read, Rancho Grande Inn-One Mile. There was a small cardboard notice tacked to the sign, -with a legend I was unable to read. I got out of the car and approached the sign with a flashlight. The smaller sign read Closed Until Further Notice.
I approached closer and examined it carefully. From the rust-encrusted tacks which had been used to attach the weather-beaten notice, I knew that it must have been on the sign for several months at least.
I stood there, baffled. I had been told that the lodge was open. I couldn’t believe Dr. Constantine would have been careless enough not to have been sure when he relayed directions to me. Why had I been told that the inn would be open and they would be expecting us?
I thought about it and once more I had misgivings.
Was it possible that my original hunch had been right? That Morales and Dr. Constantine were working in concert? Had Dr. Constantine known in advance that I was going to be stopped at the border after the camper crossed over?
There was no use speculating; certainly no use in wasting any more valuable time. The only thing to do was to go ahead.
I found the road that led off to the left, some four or five minutes later. I cut over, and as the Cadillac slowly started to wind its way down the dust-laden, narrow private road which was little more than a cowpath, I switched off the high-beam switch.
They had told me the inn would be less than two miles off the main road, and I drove for approximately a mile and stopped the car. This time I cut the lights entirely. I turned to Cortillo.
“Hold the flashlight out,” I said, “and keep it beamed to the right side of the road. I’m going ahead for another quarter of a mile, then we’ll leave the car and go in on foot the rest of the way.”
He nodded.
A few minutes later I again stopped the car, and we both slipped to the ground. There was no sign of life up ahead.
We were in a narrow canyon, with wooded hills rising high on each side. The slivered moon was still high in the sky, but it gave us barely enough light to see without using the flash.
I waited only long enough to beam the light down to the roadbed itself. I was hardly an experienced tracker, but it seemed to me that several cars must have passed over that lonely, deserted lane very recently. I knew that the road led only to the inn, where it ended.
I got back in the Cadillac and carefully turned it around to face the opposite direction and pulled off to one side before removing the keys. And then we started out. I was carrying the flashlight in one hand and the bowie knife in the other. I had given the brass knuckles and the second knife to Angel Cortillo.
My Vietnam experience was standing me in good stead. I was sure that we would be able to approach the lodge unseen, unheard. Angel, following a step or two behind me, apparently needed no such experience. He made not a sound as we moved silently into the night.
18
It was the sudden staccato rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire which froze me in my tracks.
We had been traveling for less than five minutes since leaving the Cadillac.
I felt Angel Cortillo bumping into me from behind as I instinctively dropped to a prone position. The sound had come from somewhere directly ahead, and it was unmistakable. Somebody had let off a round from a submachine gun. There was a thin, shrill cry, followed by a faint scream. It could have come from the throat of either a man or a woman and it horrified me.
I was on my feet then and running. We rounded a bend in the road, and far ahead in the distance I saw the flickering reflection of lights. Once more I became cautious, as we sought the shadows on the side of the road and proceeded forward.
Knives would be of little use against a machine gun. The only real weapon we had would be surprise.
We covered another five or six hundred yards, and gradually I was able to discern the dim outlines of a long, low structure. It would be the Rancho Grande Inn.
We approached cautiously, and I made out the silhouettes of three cars parked in front of the inn. Ann Sherwood’s white Volkswagen camper was unmistakable.
Most of the sprawling lodge was dark, and it had a deserted look, except for the light coming from a pair of windows which faced a wide porch. There was a dead silence. Two hundred yards from the inn, I stopped and held Angel back.
I whispered to him, “Wait here.”
Alone, I crept forward. There was still no sound from the inn. I had reached a spot within twenty yards from the entrance when I saw the man slouched against the fender of a long, dark sedan. I stopped and watched as he took out a pack of matches and lighted a cigarette. In the sudden flair, I saw the submachine gun cradled under one arm.
During the brief moment that he held the light to his cigarette, I could make out his features. He was no one I had ever seen before.
I turned and crept back to where I had left Angel. Again I spoke, my mouth close to his ear.
“One man,” I said, “outside, with a submachine gun, apparently keeping watch. The others must be in the inn. We’ve got to take him and get that gun, and we’ve got to do it without a sound.”
Angel Cortillo was already quickly unlacing his shoes. I shook my head.
“I will do it,” I said.
He took me by the arm. “No, I will do it. I am very good at this sort of thing. Trust me, amigo.”
“We will both���” I began. But he stopped me.
“No, it will be safer with me alone. You may be sure I won’t miss.”
“Be very quiet.”
Crouching, he slowly crept forward, and I waited a brief interval before following him. The man who had been left on guard outside had moved and he was now standing next to the camper, which I could see by the light from his cigarette before I was able to make out his actual outline in the almost-complete darkness. We were less than a dozen yards away when Cortillo suddenly halted, turning to me, a finger to his lips.
I heard the sound of voices and I realized there were two of them. They separated, and the man with the cigarette stood by the camper as the other figure moved out from its shadows. He walked over toward the car parked next to Ann’s Volkswagen and opened the car door. I heard it shut behind him.
Cortillo reached toward me and thrust the brass knuckles into my hands. He kept his voice to the barest whisper.
“You take the one in the car. I’ll take the one with the cigarette.”
He was opening the front door of the car to step to the ground when I rounded the rear fender. He had no warning at all. I didn’t use the brass knuckles. I wanted to make no sound at all. I caught him on the slide of the throat with a karate chop and then struck him two more sharp blows as he slumped. I caught his body before it hit the ground.
Running my hands over him, I found a short-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. I shoved it into my belt and then turned toward the camper.
Angel was leaning over a huddled bundle on the ground at the camper’s side. The light coming from the window of the inn fell on the prone body, and I saw the shaft of the bowie knife, which had been buried between his shoulder blades.
“For God’s sake, Angel,” I whispered. “Did you have to do that?”
“It was the only way, amigo,” Angel whispered. He stood up then, the machine gun cradled in his arms.
There was a long, wide, wooden porch stretching across the front of the inn, and as Angel started for it I took him by the arm, shaking my head. I didn’t want to risk crossing the bare, wooden boards of that porch before we reconnoitered. I wanted to know what might possibly be waiting for us inside.
I indicated that Angel was to wait and I left and began circling the inn, seeking a. side window I might see through. There were side windows, but they were all dark. I took off my shoes.
“Wait,” I said.
I crept up to the porch. A board creaked as I crossed it. I waited breathlessly, but there was still no sound from inside.
I stood at the side of the window, leaning over to press my ear close. I heard the low rumble of voices
.
The window was covered on the inside by a set of Venetian blinds, which had been partially closed. Behind the blinds was a thin curtain, and I leaned forward to peer into what seemed to be the lodge’s large reception room and lounge.
There was no sign of Ann Sherwood or her sister Lynn.
But the room was not empty. There were five men in that room. Four of them were alive, and the fifth one lay on a couch to one side. Someone had thrown a blanket over most of his body. Part of his legs and his feet were exposed. At the side of the couch was a puddle of blood.
Of those four men in the room who were alive, I immediately recognized three.
Captain Hernando Morales came as no surprise. But the two men who were handcuffed together and standing against the wall facing him were a considerable surprise. One of them, the one with the blood running down from the wound on his forehead, was my old friend, Mr. O’Farrell of San Francisco. He was handcuffed to the boy whom I had met previously, on my last trip to San Francisco. The boy who had directed me to the restaurant in Sausalito.
A large rectangular refectory table separated Captain Morales and the man at his side from the other two. His companion’s back was toward me. He was a tall, beefy, youthful-looking man with short, blond hair and large ears. He was wearing khaki pants, a khaki shirt, and there was a gun belt with a holster strapped around his waist. There was a gun in the holster.
If Morales was armed, it didn’t show. My eyes took in the scene in an instant, but then they focused on the table which separated the two groups.
There was an oblong, wooden box lying on the top of the table. The hinged lid had been opened. Brown wrapping-paper was crumpled up next to the box.
I pressed my ears closer to the window and I heard the last few words of a sentence. It was Captain Morales who was speaking.
“��� pure heroin. Very high grade,” he said. “Must have a street value of a million and a half at least.”
I crept back across the porch. I took Angel by the arm and pulled him several feet away before whispering to him.
