by Nick Carter
I was coming down through a valley of black mica upthrust where the road had been blasted in a V groove. At the end of it I could see the pavement make a quick sharp right turn.
In the middle of the straightaway I started to brake and felt slippage. I thought I had inadvertently come across a frozen spot in the road, and tried again. But it was not a frozen spot at all.
Once again I applied the brake to get some traction for a downshift, but the brake did not seem to transmit any power to the wheels.
I pushed frantically on the shift stick but I was traveling too fast now to engage, and I could not get down into the lower gear.
I had the brakes down to the floorboard as I went into the graded curve, but it was much too fast a speed. Luckily the curve was very well graded. I made the turn. But immediately I was faced with a quick S-turn to the left, in the opposite direction, and I pushed on the brakes again, hoping that the roadway would give me traction here. But I could feel nothing but soggy ineffectiveness.
Nothing.
I thrust the wheel over hard and made the turn. The roadway straightened, but pitched downward as the highway went into a long flat traverse across the face of a high cliff-like slope. At the end of the traverse I could see a hard-angled switchback with a large highway sign of warning ahead of it.
I pushed down the brakes again, but got no response at all. I shoved on the gear stick, but could not get it down a notch. I began to twist the wheel back and forth, trying to get a snow-plowing type of friction to reduce the speed of the Renault so I could get the damned thing down into a lower gear.
No luck.
I saw Parson's lights behind me, and I wondered if he was watching me in the S and puzzling over my unaccountably bad driving.
I flashed the lights two times as a kind of signal for help.
The curve came closer and closer, and I was doing absolutely no good at controlling the Renault's speed. I thought of going across the inner drainage ditch, but decided that the chance of smashing the axles and tearing the wheels off was too great to risk. Besides that, I might wind up smashed flat against the schist cutbank that rose from the ditch with the steering wheel growing out of my back.
The tires screaming, I thrust the wheel around to the left to take the turn too fast. I smashed into the rising cutbank on my right. The Renault caromed off the cutbank and went directly toward the outer rim of the road, which had about a foot of rock piled below a white-painted wooden guard rail that continued for twenty feet or so.
I slammed sideways into the guard rail, tore off something from the side of the Renault, and then caromed back toward the cutbank. But I pulled hard and straightened out the car again.
Ahead of me the roadway continued to descend rapidly. A hundred yards away I could see the roadway turning sharp right, with another wooden guard rail protecting the turn, and a very large sign in front of the turn.
I could never make that turn.
I heard the thunder of an engine next to my ear and I turned quickly.
It was Parson.
He was gunning the Simca past me, and shooting down the roadway ahead.
I wondered what in hell he was trying to do. I thought of yelling out to him, but did not.
He cut in front of me and I almost screamed at him to get out of my way or be hit.
I was pushing on the stick shift again, trying frantically to get down a notch, but it was useless.
Parson was directly in front of me. I almost closed my eyes, waiting for the crash.
It never came.
Suddenly my front bumper was tapping Parson's back bumper. I saw the red brake lights of Parson s Simca blink on and off and on and off again.
I was slowing up.
It was an old trick, all right — stopping a runaway car by braking the car in front of it to slow down the car behind.
I held the wheel tightly, because I knew that one rock in the wrong place in the roadway would throw the Renault off the Simca bumper, and send me hurtling either to the left or the right, after which I would slide off the slowing car and go either into the cutbank or over the edge of the cliff into thin air.
Parson's brakes kept winking and blinking, and by the time we came to the turn, he had brought me to a stop. I thrust the shift into reverse and sat in the car, shaking.
The door opened and Parson got out of the Simca. He walked back to my side of the car, the snow blowing down around him.
My lights blazed outside, lighting up the back of the Simca, and showing Parson standing there in the night.
"I won't ask what happened," Parson said slowly. "Somebody got to your Renault."
I nodded. "Thanks for the help. It was a good driving trick."
We hit the Bar Esqui on the Prado before I got the car to the garage man. I had three lumumbas and a cup of coffee, and I still did not feel quite right.
Eleven
I had returned to my room after a short stay in the Bar Esquí with Parson. The rum and chocolate in the lumumba helped steady me somewhat, but I was still shaky when I inserted the key in my door and pushed inside.
After snapping the lights on I heard a rustle on the other side of the suite, and then the connecting door burst open and Juana stood there, eyes wide. It seemed as if she had just awakened from a deep sleep.
"Did you meet him?"
"Yes," I said. Quickly I moved to the bureau and picked up a pad of paper there. I scribbled «bug» on it quickly and showed it to her.
She nodded that she understood.
"How did it go?" she asked me.
"Nothing to report. I'll have to see him again." I was busy writing on the pad. "You meet him tomorrow ten o'clock in gondola. Details later."
She nodded.
"Now I'm going to bed and get some rest."
"Okay," she said.
I pointed to the hall door, indicating that I would meet her outside in a moment.
"Good night, George," she said, and went back into her room.
I got out of my clothes, changed into clean ones, and went into the hallway. Juana was standing there smoking a cigarette.
"Are you sure the rooms are bugged?" she asked.
"Positive."
"Did you meet Corelli?"
"Yes. We know him as Barry Parson."
She studied me. "I almost guessed that."
"So did I."
"Can you be sure?"
"How can I be completely sure? But he's meeting you in the cable car where hell give you the material"
"What is it?"
"I'll handle it," she said with confidence.
"Good. I'll cover you from the ski slopes. Corelli wants it that way."
"But how could The Mosquito find out about the meeting between him and you?"
"He's been following us all the time."
"I'll try to keep a lookout for him."
"Don't you bother. I'll take care of that. You just meet Corelli and find out if he's jiving us or not."
She looked at me. "Why didn't he give me the information before?"
"He said he wanted to be sure."
She shrugged. "I suppose that makes sense."
"Get in the cable car with him, and ski down from the Borreguilas. I'll meet you in the bar downstairs after it's all over. Then we'll rush down and have the stuff authenticated."
"Malaga?"
"Granada. AXE has a transmitter there."
"Good."
I went back in the room and went to bed.
* * *
I could see everything along the rocky spine now. The sunlight was pure white. The glare of the snow was blinding, but I was using a filter on the Zeiss 60x glasses.
The cable car moved upward and I could see Juana's yellow sweater clearly. She and Parson were the only ones inside. The gondola usually took four, and I knew Parson had been forced to tip the attendant for a private ride, but I did not worry. He had the money for it.
I swept the field again with the glasses and then I saw him.
&n
bsp; * * *
He was lying flat on his stomach on a ledge of granite about halfway between the Borreguilas and the Prado Llano. He had put on gray clothes so that he blended in exactly with the mica and granite schist. But I could see that he was a man after all, and I could see that he held a long rifle in his arms along the rock. There was a scope sight attached to the rifle.
I could not identify the type of rifle with the glasses.
He was lying there very quietly, waiting. And he was watching the gondola with Juana and Parson in it. How had he known they were taking it? How could he have found out?
Parson? Was Parson a substitute? Was someone setting up Juana? How had the information been leaked again? No one had said a word in our rooms. Nobody but Parson and I knew the time and the place.
And yet there lay the killer, waiting.
Moscato? Quite probably.
I opened my windbreaker and got out the Luger. I checked it and then slid it into my windbreaker pocket. I'd have to traverse the slope and anchor myself on the rock spine to get him. Then I would have to crawl over the rocks and kill him before he was able to make the hit.
There was no other way. If I left Moscato alive, he would try again to get Rico Corelli — try until he succeeded!
Judging from the speed of the cable car and the location of the man on the rocks, I had about a minute and a half to make my move.
I checked my descent slightly to avoid a dangerous mogul and passed just below it. As I hit the lower part of the hump, something happened to the rest of the snow above, and I suddenly found myself buried to the knees in a slide. I pushed and flailed, and the snow flew off me. I was lucky. The big ball of rolling snow continued away from me, and smashed against some rocks nearby.
I had lost precious seconds.
The rocks were ahead of me, but I could not see the man lying below me. I had to get out the glasses and slowly pan across the ridge.
Then I saw him.
I had been thrown off course by about a hundred feet! I was far too high.
Quickly I started down the hill again, traversing back the other way, christening out of that course and traversing back to a point well within reach of the man on the rocks.
I released my clamps and stowed the skis in the rocks so they would not slide away. Then I got out my glasses and peered over the edge of the rocks.
I could see the cable car moving slowly up between the second and third steel poles. And I could see the man with the rifle gripping it hard, and leading the gondola carefully as it moved up along the spidery steel cables.
I aimed the Luger at the man's head and fired.
The slug hit a rock and spun off somewhere. I could hear the singing of the ricochet.
The man turned quickly. I could see the blur of his white face. Quickly he arched his back, twisted, and aimed the rifle at me — scope sight and all.
A slug hit in the snow behind me — too close for comfort.
I fired again. But he had ducked out of sight right after his shot. I could not see him.
Crouching there, I tried vainly to find him.
Another shot broke rock by my hand.
I ducked down.
The gondola was moving slowly up the cable, and I could see Juana's yellow sweater and that was all I paid any attention to.
The rifleman stood and turned away from me, aiming at the gondola. I fired again.
He went down, ducking behind a rock, not hit at all. I saw him steady himself against the crag and aim at the gondola.
I started across the rocks, but knew I could not reach him in time.
Snapping on the cable clamps, I got onto the skis and started down the slope, two poles in one hand, the Luger in the other. It was not the most comfortable skiing position I could imagine.
As I moved along, I realized I could not shoot as I skied, and thus was wasting more valuable time.
I got down to the level at which he was crouched, and jerked out of the bindings and crossed the rocks at a crouch.
There he was!
I fired.
He was aiming at the gondola and he fired just as I fired — or perhaps a split second after I did. Whatever happened, my own shot apparently caused him to misfire, and his charge went harmlessly into the base of the gondola rather than through the window and into Parson's heart.
I hit the rifleman.
He went down, face first in the rocks, and then in a reflex movement, he came around and whirled the rifle until it was pointing right at me.
I jumped back and onto the snow, sliding downhill. The bullets scattered about me, but none hit I climbed onto the rock again, clinging there for purchase.
The rock was slippery, but I crawled over it and when another slug exploded near my ear I lifted up my own head, saw him clearly, and shot him in the neck.
He went down instantly. Blood exploded in the air about him in a red cloud.
Then he was lying in a pool of frozen redness as I came up to him.
It was Alfreddo Moscato.
The Mosquito.
Swat!
* * *
The rifle that had shot at me and that was intended to kill Rico Corelli in the gondola was a Winchester Model 70 Super Grade calibrated for 30–06 Springfield cartridges and mounted with a Bausch & Lomb Balvar variable power Lee dot telescopic sight It was a beautiful rig.
A 30–06 Springfield Hi-Speed bronze point cartridge can deliver a 2960 feet-per-second muzzle velocity and a 2260 feet-per-second velocity at 300 yards, with a hitting power of 2920 foot-pounds muzzle energy and 1700 foot-pounds at 300 yards. The Bausch & Lomb variable power scope is adjustable from 2 1/2 power to 4 power with windage and elevation controllable by only two moving parts.
If anything could do the job of killing a man from a remote firing site, that combination could.
I leaned down over the dead man. He carried a wallet and papers, but they were obviously fraudulent. The name said Natalio Di Caesura, and the papers said he came from Bari, Italy.
He had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and a closely-shaven blue chin and cheeks. His sideburns were lower than ordinary, but did not seem too long.
He was dressed in a good windbreaker and tight-fitting ski pants.
I turned at the sound of sudden footsteps on the rocks. One of the Guardia Civil had skied down to the spot, taken off his skis, and was walking toward me, holding a notebook in his hand. I noticed he had the holster of his gunbelt unbuttoned.
Glancing at me, he said nothing, and then he walked over to the rock where the dead man lay. He bent down, glanced at the body, then studied him carefully and made a few notes.
He touched the corpse's neck and felt for a pulse. I could have told him it would not be there. He reached in and removed the papers, studied them, and then considered the Winchester 70 and the scope sight.
He stood and turned to me.
"Excuse the intrusion, Señor," he said in English.
I smiled. "How did you know I am English?"
"I know you are American," he corrected me with a smile. "By your skis."
They were Austrians, but I had bought them in Sun Valley. And it was stamped on them.
"You were a witness to this — trouble?" he asked, phrasing it delicately but obviously.
I shrugged.
"Perhaps you are more than a witness. Perhaps you were involved in the man's death?"
I said nothing. When was he going to read me my rights? But of course, in Spain they did not read you your rights at all.
I started to unbutton my windbreaker to get out my wallet.
The Guardia's weapon, a.45 Colt American, was instantly in his hand and covering my stomach.
"I very much beg your pardon, Señor, but please do not take anything out of your pockets."
"I merely wish to hand over my identification," I smiled. "I come recommended to you by Señor Mitch Kelly of Malaga."
There was a flicker of recognition on his face. "Ah. So I see. You have his card here. Also
one of your own." He stared at it and slowly put it back in the plastic folder. He handed back the wallet, flipping it shut with a smart smack.
I took it and put it away.
"I beg your pardon, Señor. I do not need you for any questioning at all. If you wish to depart?"
Ah, that wonderful little AXE emblem in the corner of Mitch Kelly's card that everyone in authority seemed to know and love.
I turned and indicated the dead man. "Is he known to you?"
The Guardia shook his head. "I do not think so. But I will soon find out."
"A polite tip," I said. "This man may be wanted for a crime in Malaga, too. A homicide."
"Ah."
"And for the murder of a boy last night right here on the Prado Llano."
The Guardia's eyes narrowed. "You know a great many things, Señor."
"That is my business. Knowing many things. And photographing them," I added with a smile.
He saluted. "Accept my apologies for detaining you. I think it would be well if you were not here when my colleague arrives. He is a bit young and impulsive."
I looked up the slope. Another Guardia was on skis and coming down the run.
"Thank you."
He bowed at the waist and saluted. "I shall tell Señor Kelly that we have met."
I slipped into the clamps, picked up my poles, and went down the rest of the run to the Prado Llano in a quick schuss.
* * *
Within a half hour I was back in the hotel. Juana was waiting for me in the lounge by the big fire.
We were alone.
Her face was glowing with excitement. "I have it," she whispered to me.
I nodded.
"What was all that commotion?" she wondered.
"I flushed out Moscato and killed him."
Her face went pale. "How did he know we were meeting in the cable car?" she asked. "Nobody knew but you and me — and Parson."
"Do you think Parson's really Corelli?" I asked.
She shrugged. "He certainly knows a lot about the drug chain. And he's willing to give it to us on a silver platter. I'm very encouraged."
"Were you ever discouraged?" I asked with amusement.
