“You sure won’t get any press releases about old Bax out of Nueva Brisa,” he agreed. “You might hear about some new hospitals and schools down there, though. Oh, yeah, the newest generation of Los Ricos is more than half civilized. In contrast to their elders. They’ve gone to colleges all over the world, and the times they are a-changin’, baby, and that banana kingdom is finally about to change a little too—”
He kissed her gently again.
“Now you get back to that ladies’ hotel you were living at when I was here before, and I’ll send a friend around to collect your things at the apartment. Nobody will get hurt, but he’ll bring everything that’s yours and you’ll find them at the desk when you get home tomorrow from work. And since I know you weren’t spending that last bill, and somebody else is, here’s something to tide you along.” He fumbled for his wallet, but Scott Dunavan put a hand on his arm.
“I can take care of anything Jennifer needs tonight.”
Bax hesitated, and then said, “Right.” It seemed to Jennifer that he looked at Scott with approval and satisfaction. It was funny in a way, Uncle Bax approving of the respectability in someone else, and commanding his niece to go back to the shelter of the ladies hotel where everything was quite virtuous too.
Poor Mr. Coulter, perhaps thinking of the departure of that Banco de Mexico fortune he had hoarded all these years, began to cry.
“Goodbye, baby. And be good.”
Uncle Bax pushed the two of them toward the outside door.
She was on the train with her head on Scott’s shoulder, a nice firm warm shoulder, eyes shut, lulled by her own exhaustion and the swaying rumble of the car, when she was roused by a stray thought and pushed erect, turning towards him. “I didn’t tell you about Sara.”
“You’re too tired to talk about it now. Too much has happened.”
“No. I want to tell you. When I went out for lunch today—” Was it really just that day, that noon just past, when she and Sara had walked like two mannikins, like jailer and prisoner, into the arcade where death waited?
She told Scott the whole story.
“It didn’t seem like anything. It seemed like a joke which had just played out. And yet what had happened, there behind me, was, she’d been murdered.”
He tried to pull her head back against his shoulder. He wore an air of knowing something, of having figured something out, something he didn’t want to explain. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But … but why? And who? Who?”
He sighed as if knowing that he had to tell what he knew in spite of not wanting to tell it. “Jennifer, this woman, this Sara, represented a horrible threat to you. I think the dog had been trained to kill. He was a guard. Sara took him along as an enforcer. These people were nervous, not only from the bad mess of things they’d made years ago in Nueva Brisa, but probably from all sorts of shady activities since. They protected themselves fiercely, all but poor Mrs. Appleton who seems to have gone into the Nueva Brisa thing with good motives and come out of it a wreck. Getting back to Sara, I think she would have been perfectly capable of turning Baron loose on you if you’d made a break. Bax … well, remember he saved our lives tonight. In spite of involving you with these letters, he’s pretty protective toward you.”
She was stunned. She couldn’t believe what he had implied. “Then you—but you don’t think—”
“I’m afraid I do.”
It couldn’t be true. There had to be some other explanation. “And Mr. Shima? What about him?”
“Remember what Mr. Shima was,” Scott pointed out.
“A blackmailer?” she whispered.
“Completely merciless, I don’t doubt. Not surprised when you handed him his envelope because no doubt he thought it was from a victim, a payment for him. Too smart to ever be caught or arrested or even accused. So Bax sees him sneaking around your apartment building, asking questions, tracing you and spying on you. So what would Bax decide Mr. Shima might be up to?”
“Because of me,” she said miserably.
“Yes. Both times, because of you. Now this is just supposition and of course when I talk to my cop friend tomorrow I won’t mention any of it. Cops don’t want civilian theories or hunches or brainstorms. They want things neat and provable.”
“Yes. You fly in a straight line.”
“A good idea.” He grabbed her firmly, and though two little old ladies across the car looked startled and nervous, as though they were about to witness some depravity and perhaps even the worst one of all, he forced Jennifer’s head back upon his shoulder and held her there.
She was going to have to talk to Tom eventually. Nice that she didn’t have to see him tonight, though. The sudden idea came to her: Tom really wasn’t going to miss her very much. She was a sometime thing in his life; useful, not necessary.
“Now,” Scott said, “this is what comes next. Us. Our affairs. When are you getting your hair done?”
“Well—”
It was hard to think of going to a beauty shop when she wanted to figure out how she’d already known there had been a final break with Tom. Not sleeping with Tom had been the break. And too, she needed to think about Uncle Bax and how he was going to get back to Nueva Brisa with all that money, Mr. Coulter’s cherished hoard, and whether the De la Cruzes would let Bax go once they had their hands on him. After all, he’d been with the De la Cruz daughter when she’d killed herself and they might think he should have watched over her better than that. “Well—”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow?” She wanted to please him.
“If I asked you not to do it, would you listen to me?”
She tried to get off his shoulder and he wouldn’t let her. “But why shouldn’t I—?”
“It’s like this,” he said patiently. “When we fall in love with someone—” And then he went on to explain.
THE END
About the Author
Dolores Hitchens (1907–1973) was a highly prolific mystery author who wrote under multiple pseudonyms and in a range of styles. A large number of her books were published under the moniker D. B. Olsen, and a few under the pseudonyms Noel Burke and Dolan Birkley, but she is perhaps best remembered today for her later novel, Fool’s Gold, published under her own name, which was adapted into the film Bande á part directed by Jean-Luc Godard.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1971 by Dolores Hitchens
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6698-3
This edition published in 2021 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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DOLORES HITCHENS
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The Baxter Letters Page 18
