He slept at last.
He woke up before she did. He didn’t remember that there was a girl in his room until, with great pain and care, he removed the sheet and got creakily out of bed. All his aches had come back in the night. He was stiff and awkward. Each breath was torture.
Then he saw Carla, and his breath caught. She had slipped sideward in the arm chair, as though burying herself, her face against the palm of her hand. Her robe had opened, and Rourke saw the curve of her breast.
The thin package was beside her, thrust between the cushion and the side of the chair—he had forgotten to ask her about that. She slept peacefully, trustingly. She had handed all her fears and worries along to Rourke, and somehow it seemed that he had given her confidence that he would get her away safely. At that moment he was sure that he could do it, and sure that he would have the strength of character to say good-bye to her as soon as the plane touched down in Miami.
Then a thought struck him. He couldn’t send her on at once. The News would want pictures.
He tugged the bedspread free and covered her breast.
“Carla,” he said softly.
Her eyes opened and she looked up. She frowned, then snatched up the bedspread in alarm. As recollection came back she smiled.
“Good morning, Tim.”
She yawned nicely and massaged her neck, shaking out her hair. It had been Rourke’s experience that even very pretty girls didn’t look their best the first thing in the morning. This one was an exception.
“We’d better get into action,” he said. “The first thing is the maid who wears your size.”
Carla’s face became serious. “I only hope it isn’t her day off.”
“We’ll think of something else if it is. What’s her name?”
Her forehead wrinkled. For a moment she couldn’t remember this important point. Then her face cleared.
“Consuela. Let’s see, how should we do it? Tim, you call the housekeeper, and then give me the phone before she answers. Consuela is a very attractive girl, and I don’t think the housekeeper would send her to a man’s room.”
Rourke placed the call. Carla spoke to the housekeeper in quick rushing Spanish, and after a moment she put the phone back in place.
“I said I wanted her to help fix my hair. But she can’t get away for half an hour. Tim, is there going to be time?”
“Plenty of time. If we miss this plane we’ll get another. Now don’t worry.”
“I’m not really worrying,” she told him. “I don’t know why, but ever since you opened the door and let me in, it hasn’t seemed quite so serious. I have to keep reminding myself that there are two very tough individuals in my room, waiting for me.”
“Let’s have breakfast,” Rourke said cheerfully. “Then you can button some buttons for me.”
He ordered a huge breakfast, for one—bacon and eggs, toast, pancakes, fresh fruit and plenty of coffee. Carla picked up the room, slipping into the bathroom when the waiter’s light knock came at the door. The waiter laid out the meal, glancing without comment at Rourke’s emaciated frame, clearly wondering where the reporter would put it all.
Rourke and Carla divided the breakfast. In spite of the peril and uncertainty, they ate with a good appetite. They were sharing their last cup of coffee, passing the cup back and forth, when the maid arrived.
Rourke made sure she was alone before he opened the door more than a crack. She glanced from Rourke in his pajama bottoms to Carla in the blue dressing gown, and showed by a quirk of her eyebrows that she thought she understood the situation. She was pretty and dark, about Carla’s height, but she was slighter in build. Rourke wasn’t sure that Carla would fit into her clothes.
Carla flushed under the maid’s understanding glance. Rourke made no effort to follow the rapid flow of Spanish as she undertook to explain. At first the maid was amused, and giggled, but then Carla said something that made her serious. She nodded gravely. Then it seemed to Rourke that she was making objections.
“I’ll pay her,” he put in. “Whatever you think would be fair.”
“That’s not the problem,” Carla answered. “She’s with us politically, and we’d insult her by offering her money. I’ll be leaving this robe, which is a good enough exchange. She has another uniform she can give me, and she can borrow a pair of shoes. But that’s not all a girl wears, in case you haven’t ever been told. And you can stop grinning, Mr. Rourke. This is a serious matter.”
“It’ll be even more serious if you don’t get on that plane,” he reminded her.
“I’m aware of that, God knows.”
The two girls finally reached an agreement. The maid nodded and left.
Carla, preoccupied with her own problems, gave Rourke the help he needed getting dressed. His clean clothes had come back from the valet. Packing was no problem; all he had was one suitcase and the typewriter.
Suddenly Carla exclaimed, “Tim! There’s something important I forgot about.”
She picked up the thin package. “I can’t decide what to do with this. I’d better tell you what it is. I’ve always tried to be prepared for a visit from the police, and I’m quite sure they didn’t find anything incriminating in my room. But yesterday I was given this package by one of my contacts.”
“What’s in it?” Rourke said.
“I’m not sure. It’s for Professor Quesada and the Committee. We send them copies of our leaflets and manifestoes, but it may be more important than that. I was supposed to pass it on tomorrow. Now what can I do with it? I can’t just drop it in the incinerator, because they probably comb through the rubbish before it’s burned, and it could be something really vital.”
“Open it up and find out,” Rourke suggested.
“I could do that, but I’d rather not. We use an intricate system of markings—I have no idea what it is—so the person on the receiving end can tell immediately if a package has been tampered with. You can imagine what would happen if one of these dispatch parcels ever fell into the hands of the police. They could substitute fake orders, and capture the whole underground leadership, in one swoop.”
She turned the package over. It was carefully wrapped in heavy kraft paper, sealed with overlapping strips of scotch tape.
“I feel as though I’m juggling a package of dynamite,” she said. “I had an idea last night, but Tim, you’ve already been so wonderful about letting me stay, and getting my ticket—”
“It’s not a bad idea,” he said. “They wouldn’t have any reason to search my luggage. Hell, stick it in my suitcase. If they find it they’ll confiscate it, but that’s the worst that can happen. If they tried to give me a hard time, the Embassy would have to go to bat for me, or the paper would raise all kinds of hell.”
“Tim, you’re so sweet! I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this. But if I could only take this package to Professor Quesada and get it to him with my own hands, I don’t think I’d wish for another thing for the rest of my life.”
“Is it too big for the typewriter?” Rourke asked.
He tried it inside the lid of the typewriter case, which had enough clearance to hold a substantial sheaf of copy paper or manuscript. The parcel fitted snugly. He closed the lid and snapped the catch.
“Tim, you’re just so absolutely—”
Rourke’s determination to put her on the northbound plane in Miami was weakened further by the way she was looking at him. And, of course, if she had a parcel to deliver, that was another reason why she couldn’t go on at once.
She came up on her toes, and Rourke kissed her, pulling her hard against him with his right arm. A sharp pain shot through his chest.
Her face clouded with disappointment as the maid knocked three times. Rourke smiled.
“Saved by the bell,” he said, and went to admit Consuela.
He waited in the bathroom while Carla changed. They called him in, and Carla watched him anxiously, to see his reaction.
“Tell me honestly, Tim. Is it all right?”<
br />
“It’s wonderful,” Rourke said.
She seemed tall and grown up in the high heels. The maid’s uniform was gray, with a white collar and cuffs, and as Rourke had expected, it was a little tight in spots. He looked her over critically, his lips pursed as though about to whistle.
“I know,” she said. “It’s just terrible. I can’t go out in public like this.”
“Not very far,” Rourke said. “You’d tangle traffic.”
“You see?” Carla demanded of the maid.
“No, it’s all right,” Rourke said. “Just don’t take any deep breaths.”
She burst into laughter, and the maid laughed with her.
“I’ll have to take a chance,” Carla said. “You go ahead, Tim, and check out. Get a taxi. I’ll give you fifteen minutes, and come down the service elevator. There’s a delivery entrance in back. I’ve used it before.”
Rourke looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“No, make it twenty. I want to be sure you’re there first. If you can’t park near the door, have the driver go around the block and come back.”
She kissed the maid and told her good-bye. Rourke persuaded Consuela to take enough money to cover the cost of the uniform and the shoes. He called down for a bellboy, who took his suitcase and the typewriter. He checked out, cashing enough traveler’s checks to pay for Carla’s plane ticket and have enough left for emergencies.
He timed himself carefully. His taxi was passing the alley just as a hotel maid came out the back door.
“Hold it,” he said to the driver, and he called out to Carla, “Baby! Did they give you time off to say goodbye?”
He held the door open for her. The driver swivelled all the way around in his seat to look at Carla as she got in. Rourke told him sharply to move along.
Carla sank back with a relieved sigh. “I feel like Lady Godiva, Tim. The man who runs the freight elevator is about ninety years old, but just the same—Luckily there were two other girls with me, of I don’t think I’d have got out right away.”
Rourke laughed at her and took her hand. Everything was going smoothly, and it gave him confidence to face the difficult moments at the airport.
CHAPTER 5
Carla said, “I made a list of the things I’ll have to have. I know it’s a terrible imposition, Tim, making you do my shopping for me, but I couldn’t walk into a store like this without getting arrested.”
She gave him a list of articles of clothing, and sizes. “Keep track of what it all costs, and I’ll pay you back.”
His eye ran down the list. “Yeh, I’d better not put this on the expense account.”
He stopped the cab in front of a department store, and as he got out she called after him, “One thing I forgot. A lipstick.”
First he bought a black suit with a brief jacket and silk facing on the lapels. He tried to imagine Carla in it, and succeeded. The other items she had told him to buy were more difficult. He worked his way stolidly down the list, ignoring the amused looks of the sales-girls.
Back in the cab, he thrust the packages at Carla and told the driver savagely, “The airport, and snap it up, will you?”
“Si, si, Señor,” the driver said hastily.
Carla put her hand on his. “Poor Tim.”
“What you have to go through for the revolution.”
She hushed him with a tightening of the hand. “We’d better look ahead, Tim. You didn’t get us seats together, did you?”
“No. They might have somebody out there to be sure I make the plane.”
She squeezed his hand again, frowning at the back of the driver’s head. Looking up, Rourke caught the driver’s eye in the mirror.
“You’d better kiss me,” Carla said.
“Delighted.”
Her face lifted. She kissed him gently, and then pulled his head down and whispered, “All the drivers who work the tourist hotels report to the police. Put your arm around me.”
Rourke was glad to oblige. “This is the kind of political activity I enjoy.”
“But don’t be too realistic.”
She gave him a comradely kiss, and went on, in the same low caressing whisper, “He may notify them that he took a maid from the Presidente to the airport, along with an American with a broken arm. I don’t want to get Consuela in trouble.”
“Why not keep the cab until just before plane time?” Rourke suggested. “Then he can’t do any phoning. If we’re going to be saying good-bye, this is a better place than the public lounge at the terminal.”
“You’re a natural-born conspirator,” she said, laughing, and told the driver in Spanish to go past the airport and drive at a moderate speed along the bluffs overlooking the sea, a favorite spot for lovers.
She came back into Rourke’s embrace. “Good-bye, darling,” she whispered. “Will you write me?”
“Every day,” he assured her. “The next time I’m down here on business, I’ll look you up and we can go shopping together.”
After that they said good-bye for half an hour, while the driver cruised slowly along the scenic road. There was no sound except the motor’s low hum and the ticking of the meter. In spite of Rourke’s apprehension, and although he knew she was only putting on an act for the driver, it was a pleasant half hour.
At last Carla consulted Rourke’s watch and told the driver to turn back.
“Tim,” she said seriously, her lips back close to his ear. “We still haven’t made any plans about what we’ll do in Miami. We have to think of a place to meet.”
“Why? You’ll be safe enough once we’re on the plane.”
He felt her shake her head. “No, Tim. Marshal Gonzalez is recognized by the United States, and we aren’t supposed to give assistance to his enemies. If they suspect I’m not really Ellen Porter, they can charge me with entering the country illegally, and you’d be an accessory. I don’t want that. It would be bad publicity for you, if nothing worse. Let’s pretend we don’t know each other till the formalities are out of the way. Then if anything happens you won’t be involved. Won’t you have to report in at your office?”
“I haven’t been thinking that far ahead,” the reporter said, “but I guess I ought to let them know I’m back. They’ll want a story on the beating.”
“Then look. Why don’t I simply go to your place and wait?”
Rourke’s pulse gave a perceptible leap. If she was waiting for him at his apartment, he couldn’t simply give her the parcel, bundle her out and dump her into a taxi. He would have to offer her a drink.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe we could have dinner? I have some friends I’d like to have you meet. Mike Shayne and his secretary.”
“Who?”
“Shayne. He’s one of the best private detectives in the country.”
It was always a pleasure for Rourke to tell people about Michael Shayne, and he did so, with enthusiasm. They were nearing the airport when he gave Carla his key, the address of his apartment and enough money for her ticket and other expenses. As they drew up in front of the terminal, she kissed him for the last time, very hard.
“Good luck, baby,” he said gently. “It’s going to be a breeze.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip. Without looking at him again, she got out with the suitbox and other packages, and disappeared into the terminal. Rourke paid the reading on the meter.
“I want you to wait here,” he told the driver, speaking slowly and emphasizing his words with emphatic gestures. “Take the young lady back to the hotel.”
“Hotel Presidente? Si, si.”
Rourke paid the return fare to be sure the driver would wait, and added a large tip.
“Understand?” he said again. “Wait right here.”
The driver assured him that he understood.
Rourke paid for his own plane ticket and checked his bag, keeping his typewriter. He stopped briefly at another counter to cable Mike Shayne that he was on his way. He bought insurance. The public address outlets were an
nouncing, in English and Spanish, that the Miami flight was loading at Gate 4.
A porter offered to carry the typewriter, but Rourke brushed him aside. At the gate, an official checked his tourist card, filled in the exit date, and urged him to visit them again, and perhaps stay longer. Meanwhile, a muscular gentleman in plain clothes was giving the reporter a hard and unfriendly scrutiny.
The official returned Rourke’s card with a half-salute. Rourke went out onto the field and boarded the waiting DC-7C.
The stewardess showed him to a seat by the window. He watched the gate. Passengers were coming through steadily, and slowly the plane filled up.
The minute hand on the big clock over the gate jerked up to the scheduled time of departure. The public address announced for the last time that the Miami flight was leaving at once from Gate 4.
“Miss Porter!” the voice called. The mechanical distortion, added to the strong Spanish accent, made the name hard to recognize. “Miss Ellen Porter, Flight 101 to Miami, at Gate 4.”
One of the engines gave a roar, and uniformed attendants ran out to wheel away the steps.
Then the official at the gate signalled the pilot to hold up. A girl had come out of the terminal, dressed in a smart black suit. She seemed to be in no particular hurry.
Rourke watched, his stomach tightening. The official was taking longer than necessary. The man in plainclothes, obviously a cop, moved ponderously to a wall phone.
A long moment followed. While waiting for his party, he rocked idly on his heels. After a brief exchange, he came over to confer with the uniformed official, and they consulted a list.
Carla ignored them. All the engines were roaring now.
The official handed Carla her card. The only difference from his usual procedure was that he omitted his half-salute, and didn’t urge her to come back again.
She walked over to the plane, still without hurrying. Her seat was behind Rourke’s, to the rear of the tourist cabin. She didn’t look at him as she passed. She was cool and poised, apparently entirely unconcerned, but Rourke, who was a novice at this business, could feel the cold sweat running down his sides.
The plane rumbled down the runway at increasing speed, and at last to Rourke’s immense relief, lifted into the air. He settled back with a grunt, fumbling out a cigarette.
Fit to Kill Page 4
