Angrily I threw Marcel back on the couch. He lay there slumped against the back. "See, I was right! You're still only a ladies' man. You haven't got the balls to do what you want!" Marcel caught his breath; his voice was quieter now. "Years ago I thought you had it, Dax. But whatever you had is gone now. You've lost it."
I glared at him, my contempt showing plainly.
Marcel laughed. "Don't give me that look. I've seen it before. It means you're feeling quite righteous and holy. Well, don't be; you always took the easy way out. You followed your cock and pretended that what you did not want to see never existed. All your life you've been playing at things but never really doing any of them. You've been kept, Dax—by el Presidente, by your wives, even by me. It's about time you really saw yourself for what you are. You're nothing but a stupid parasite, Dax, a well-dressed gigolo."
Marcel took a deep breath. "You think you found out something in Switzerland? Well, what are you going to do about it? Nothing. Because there's nothing you can do without destroying yourself and all your friends."
I looked at Marcel. For the first time I felt a chill of fear run through me. The man was deranged, mad.
Marcel picked up his drink, and suddenly his voice was calmer. "You think you could stop the guns, Dax? Do you know who else owns a piece of the company? El Presidente. Do you think I could have succeeded without his help? He wanted the money and he was not afraid of a little disturbance. It would help unite the country, he said, only now it's gotten a little bigger than he bargained for. Well, I'm not worrying, Dax. I'm in, no matter which side wins!"
I felt sick because I knew he was speaking the truth. I turned to Dania. "Let's go."
"Wait," Marcel called, "I'm not through with you yet." He fished in his pocket and came out with a key. "Come back after you're through fucking her." He threw the key at me. "We still have things to settle."
I caught the key and put it in my pocket.
"You leave, too!" Marcel suddenly screamed at Beth. "I'm getting sick and tired of you, too!"
Marcel followed us, drink in hand, to the elevator. The last words he said were, "You come back, Dax, and if I'm asleep wait until I wake up!"
Then the elevator came. As the butler let us out into the street I said, "I'll be back." And I meant it. The only way you could look at a man like Marcel was the way a surgeon considered a cancer. Left alone it would destroy everything around it; the only way was to cut it out. My mind was made up. Marcel had to die.
There was no other way.
CHAPTER 25
"I won't need a taxi," Beth said as we came out onto the street. "I only live across the way. Marcel likes to have me close by. Well, good night."
We watched Beth run across the street into the lobby of an apartment house on the other side. A taxi pulled up and I opened the door. Dania got in. She leaned against me, and I could feel the trembling of her body through the mink coat. She began to cry silently. There was no sound at all, only weird racking sobs.
"Take it easy," I said, "you don't ever have to go back."
Dania looked at me. I could not make out the expression in her eyes; it was too dark. "If that were only true."
I stared at her. "Not you too?"
She nodded.
"But what could he do to you?"
"Everything," she said. "The only really big thing I have is my recording contract. Now he owns the record company."
"When did you find that out?"
"Tonight; that's why I was there. Marcel called me just before I went on and told me that he wanted me to come up there and talk about it. He flew into a rage when I said I was too tired. He told me that if I didn't show up right after the performance I'd never cut another record as long as he held my contract."
"How long does it have to run?"
"Long enough," she said. "Seven years."
"But he'd still have to pay you."
"Only the minimum. Most of my money comes from earnings in excess of guarantees. Besides, Marcel could virtually keep me out of every opera house in the world. Even if they wanted to use me they couldn't."
"What has a recording contract to do with your working?"
"A great deal," she said. "Most opera companies help make up their deficits by recording complete opera performances. The sale of such records and the broadcast rights run into a great deal of money. The recording companies who hold our contracts generally agree to it, even when they don't happen to be the company involved. It makes good sense for everyone. But Marcel could withhold such approval, and then what opera company would hire me?"
"Seven years isn't that long a time," I said.
Dania looked at me. "It is for me. I'm not a child any more, I'm over thirty. My voice will be gone by then. And even if it isn't, who would give me a job? There will be younger, newer singers. No one will even remember Dania Farkas."
When the taxi stopped in front of her house she was still shivering. "Would you come up with me, please? I can't bear to be alone."
I looked at her silently for a moment, then paid the driver. At the door to her apartment she turned to me. Her eyes were still red rimmed. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
I nodded.
I walked into the living room, and she went on into the kitchen to make the coffee. Her record player was open and I looked down at the record on the turntable. It was her latest. I read the label: dania farkas sings carmen!
I pushed the button and a moment later that glorious rich voice filled the room. For a moment I closed my eyes. If ever an opera was written for a Latin American this one was, and if ever a singer had been born to sing Carmen she was that singer. For those brief moments of song Dania was Carmen.
She came back into the room carrying a tray. "I hope you won't mind; it's instant coffee."
I shrugged. "So long as it's hot."
"It's hot." Dania put the tray down on a small table. "Help yourself, I'll be right back."
I was on my second cup and the other side of the LP by the time Dania came back. She had changed into a long hostess gown. Silently she poured coffee for herself. She took a long sip and some color seemed to come back into her face.
"Marcel said it had taken him a long time to get control of the company."
I didn't answer.
"Once I cared about Marcel, I really cared. But he doesn't love anybody, only himself. To him we only exist to serve him."
The record came to a finish. I sat there for a moment, the music still echoing in my ears, then got to my feet. "I must go-“
"Are you going back to his house?" I nodded.
Dania got up and came over to me, resting her head against my chest. "Poor Dax," she whispered, "he has you just as he has all of us."
"He has nothing," I answered harshly, "nothing! No one! He'll find that out soon enough."
Dania's eyes searched mine for a moment. I think she intuitively knew what I was planning. "Don't do it, Dax," she said in a low voice, "he's not worth it!"
I didn't answer. I started for the door. As I opened it, Dania stopped me. "I'm not like that, Dax, am I? Like he said, a stick of wood?"
The bastard really knew how to stick it in where it hurt. Unerringly he had discovered Dania's area of greatest doubts. I shook my head and bent to kiss her cheek.
"No, you're not like that at all," I said. "Besides, what would a man like that know about women? If he didn't have all that money he'd be going steady with his fist!"
Fat Cat came into my room as I was loading the small revolver. He blinked his eyes rapidly and the sleep disappeared. "What are you planning to do?"
I snapped the barrel into place and spun the chamber. It clicked softly and rhythmically in my ears. "I'm going to do something I should have done a long time ago." "Campion?" I nodded.
Fat Cat hesitated a moment, then came toward me. "Better let me do it. I have had more experience."
"No," I said, slipping the gun into my jacket pocket. "It will not look good, for you or for Corteguay. There is eno
ugh talk already about Guayanos."
"So there will be more talk," I said. "Besides, I have a better chance of convincing the police it was an accident than you.
Who is there who will doubt it when I say we were examining the gun and it went off?"
Fat Cat looked at me skeptically.
"After all," I said, "I am an ambassador, am I not?"
After a moment, Fat Cat shrugged his shoulders. "Si, excelencia." A faintly mocking glint came into his eyes but I could tell he was satisfied with me. "But, excellency, are you sure you remember how to work that thing?"
"I remember," I said.
"Be careful, then." He opened the door for me. "Don't shoot yourself."
Almost three hours after I had left Marcel's, the taciturn Oriental butler let me in again. It was a few minutes after four in the morning, but he looked as if he never slept.
"I have the key to the elevator," I said.
The butler nodded. "Mr. Campion told me. Don't forget to turn the key again when you get off."
I nodded. The door to Marcel's living room was open. I turned and locked the elevator door behind me and walked in. The lights were still on but the room was empty.
The door to Marcel's bedroom was ajar, so I walked over and looked in, restraining an impulse to shout at him. It made no sense to be polite to a man you had already made up your mind to kill. The room was dark. I switched on the lights. The bed was empty. It had not been slept in. I walked through to the dressing room, and then into the bathroom. Each was empty.
I came back into the living room and tried the door of the guest room. It was locked from the inside. Marcel had either called up another girl and gone in there with her or was asleep and with his usual paranoia had locked the door behind him. Either way, I wasn't about to wait to find out. I knocked loudly on the door and shouted. "Marcel!"
I waited a moment, then repeated my call. There was still no answer. I walked slowly back to the bar and poured myself a drink. At least I was sure he was alone. If anyone had been with him there would have been an answer. Probably he had gone in there and passed out.
I took a sip of my drink and glanced up at the paneling behind the bar. Then I remembered the closed-circuit television. I walked around behind the bar, found the button, and pressed it.
Silently the panel rolled back. It took a moment for the set to warm up. The first place I looked was on the bed. It was empty. Then I saw Marcel. Slowly I let the breath escape from my mouth. Someone had beat me to it; Marcel was already dead.
He was lying on his stomach on the floor beside the bed. His head was arched peculiarly, his eyes protruding from their sockets, his thick swollen tongue sticking out from his mouth. He was in his shirt sleeves, his collar open, and a black silken cord had been wound around his neck, then back to the hands tied behind his back, and from there to his ankles. It was pulled so tightly behind him that it made of his body a taut bow.
I stared at him for a moment, my drink forgotten. It was as viciously simple and neatly executed as anything I had ever seen. Whoever had done it had been a true professional, and there was no doubt in my mind that Marcel had been alive when the murderer left the room. But only for a few moments. Then he had killed himself by struggling to free himself, which only tightened the black silk cord around his miserable neck.
I took another sip of the drink, then reached for the telephone on the bar. I pressed the button marked butler.
"Yes, Mr. Campion?" The Oriental voice had a peculiar sibilance over the telephone.
"This isn't Mr. Campion, it's Mr. Xenos. Did anyone come to see Mr. Campion while I was away?"
There was a slight hesitation. "No, sir, not to my knowledge. I didn't let anyone in the front door since you left with the ladies."
I looked at the television screen. "Then I suggest you call the police. Mr. Campion appears to be dead."
Slowly I put down the telephone and lit a cigarette. I sat there smoking and sipping my drink as I waited for the police to arrive. I remember the words of a bank robber I had once met named Willie Sutton. He had written a book about himself and for a while he was sort of a party pet.
"There isn't a safe, a vault, a bank or a prison made by man that another man could not find a way to break into or out of, if he wanted to badly enough."
I wondered grimly what Marcel would have said had he heard those words. Probably nothing. He thought he was the only one who had everything figured out. I smiled grimly to myself.
I wondered how much good all his money and his schemes were doing him now.
CHAPTER 26
The murder of Marcel had all the classic elements the newspapers love, and they made the most of it. The well-guarded house, the impenetrable apartment, the locked room, and one of the richest, most hated men in the world as the victim. Added too were hints of international financial intrigue, and hundreds of photographs of beautiful women and expensive call girls. It was like Christmas for them every day. They had everything they needed except one thing. The murderer.
A captain of homicide put it very well late one afternoon about a week later in my office. By this time we had begun to feel as if we knew each other quite well. There had not been one day since the murder we had not seen each other. "Mr. Xenos," he said, knocking out his pipe in the ash tray on my desk, "it will take years to complete this investigation. And when we're finished we'll be no closer to who the murderer is than we are right now. It's not because we lack suspects. I could name at least fifty people who had good reason to kill him."
I smiled to myself. This cop was not stupid, just too polite to say that I was included.
"Each time we come back to his apartment. We're checked it thoroughly, over and over, backward and forward. And there is no possible way a murderer could get into the house without being noticed, much less upstairs."
"But one did," I said.
The policeman nodded. "Yes, one did. And it wasn't the servants either. The old joke about the butler won't work this time. They all have airtight alibis."
The captain got to his feet. "Well, I've taken as much of your time as I intend to." He held out his hand, a faint smile on his lips. "I'll be retiring at the end of the year, Mr. Xenos. Here's hoping I won't be seeing you again."
I took his hand, looking at him quizzically.
"I mean at least not under circumstances like these. Twice we've met in the last two months and each time a man had been killed."
Then I remembered. Of course. He had questioned me after the Guayanos killing. I shook his hand and laughed. "Wait a minute, Captain. You're making it sound as if it were dangerous for me to know anyone."
"I didn't mean that," he added hastily. "Oh, you know what I mean."
"Don't explain, Captain," I said, "I understand. By the way, would you do me a favor?"
"If I can."
"I would like to get in touch with the Guayanos girl. Would you know where I could reach her?"
A look of surprise came over his face. "Don't you know?"
I shook my head.
"The day after we released the body she and her uncle took it home for burial."
"To Corteguay?"
The captain nodded. "Yes, that was why I thought you knew. Your embassy cleared the papers."
That explained it; I had been in Europe. "Did a man named Mendoza go with them?"
"I think so. At least he got on the plane with them, but there was one stop in Miami and he may have gotten off there. I can check it if you like."
I shook my head. "No, thanks, Captain. It's not that important."
The captain left the office and I sat brooding about it. Strange that I had heard nothing. There should have been word from Corteguay. Mendoza was not the sort of man Hoyos was likely to overlook. I called for our copies of the daily arrival and departure lists at the Curatu airport for that week.
Beatriz' name was recorded and so was her uncle's, but there was no name resembling Mendoza. I folded the sheets slowly. On the list or not, I wa
s certain Mendoza was in Corteguay. A sense of foreboding came over me. For a moment I thought of sending a cable. But then I decided against it. I was not the secret police. Let Hoyos and Prieto do their own dirty work.
The revolution did not come until almost two months later. The first I heard about the uprising was on Easter Sunday morning, that same day originally planned for the election. I was in Dania's apartment. We were sitting up in bed having breakfast when she picked up the remote-control gadget that operated the television set at the foot of the bed. "Do you mind if I turn on the twelve-o'clock news?"
"Do I have to get dressed for it?" I asked.
Dania laughed, and pressed the button. A moment later the picture came on. As usual it was a soap commercial. Then one of those good-looking nothing types standard to television came on. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, from the CBS newsroom in New York—the news!"
The scene dissolved to the face of a serious man seated behind a desk. His somewhat pudgy face, rather prominent nose, bushy mustache, and slightly protruding eyes induced an immediate sense of confidence. This man knew what he was talking about, even if you were aware that he was reading what others had written for him.
I bit into a piece of toast and watched.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." The big smooth voice flowed out into the room. "This is Walter Johnson, CBS News. Now for the first item.
"We have another bulletin on the fighting in Corteguay."
I just had time to glance at Dania before he continued. There was a wide, startled look in her eyes.
"Battles in the mountains between the government troops and the guerrilleros continued throughout the night. The rebels have captured two more villages and say that they have inflicted heavy casualties upon the government forces. According to their statements, picked up from their own radio station broadcasting in the field, they appear to be but sixty miles from the capital city of Curatu. They are in complete control of all the country to the north.
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