Darling, It's Death

by Richard S. Prather

  "In my bedroom?"

  "María, I know of no better place for solving difficult problems."

  "OK. I'll catch some sun."

  I went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. María came in after me and undressed and then put on her swimsuit. I closed my eyes; I did want to think. I closed my eyes after she'd gone, though.

  When María went out into the sun I relaxed and tried to put some pieces together, going back over part of the last few days in the light of what I now knew. I knew a lot more than I'd known when I'd started, but I wasn't any closer yet to getting my hands on the blackmail file.

  Those papers, the recording, the document, all of them were, I felt sure, here in Acapulco or close. I also felt sure that whoever had them didn't realize their actual significance; the importance of that one document, for example, to the people of the United States. The person who had that blackmail file now—the person who had undoubtedly taken it after murdering Gunner—was almost surely looking upon it as important only to Vincente Torelli. And, of course, to Joe himself. Torelli probably wanted that stuff as much as any other man in the world, because it was the lever with which he could pry into Joe's union with its 800,000 members. From Torelli's point of view, there would be hardly any price too high to pay for the papers.

  I had to consider the possibility that whoever had the papers might have headed for China, Red China, but it was a hundred to one that their possessor was now in Acapulco getting ready to bargain with Torelli. Or bargaining. And I had a hunch that person was a woman.

  I went back over it. Gunner was a highly intelligent man; he'd had a fortune in his possession, a fortune he'd worked hard to get. He'd have taken damn good care of it. Yet he'd been killed and the papers stolen. He might very well have been traveling with a woman; the registration at Las Américas was in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Brodney, not just Mr. Brodney. A woman could have got next to him. In bed, say. He'd been in bed when he was killed.

  I had also considered the idea that Gunner's killer—whether a man or a woman—might well have known of Gunner's reservation at Las Américas and headed for it. That was one of my big reasons for taking the room in the first place. Unfortunately, it didn't seem a healthy spot for me to stay in right now. I had checked with the desk clerk before going out to the pool yesterday, and he'd told me nobody had been asking about the reservation except me. I'd half expected to get something there, and I intended to check that angle today.

  I mentally listed the things I had to start doing: check with the desk clerk again, get in touch with Gloria, find out if I was supposed to be alive or dead and learn if Gloria had heard of any big deals cooking or concluded. It might be that the papers were already in Torelli's manicured hands. If so, I'd play hell getting them. But, until I knew for sure where the blackmail file was, if I ever did, I had to go ahead under the assumption that I would get the papers; and I'd have to plan in advance what I'd do then. I hoped what I had in mind was good enough. It had to be good enough, well enough planned, because once I got that blackmail file, the combined forces of the Mafia and the syndicate would have me marked for murder. For that matter, so would any Commies who might be after that document and recording. But, I thought, Joe would certainly have done his best to keep even his Communist pals from knowing he'd had that vital paper in his hands and lost it. Or rather, especially his Communist pals, who might consider that slip enough reason for Joe's liquidation.

  So my real worry, if I got the papers, would be the killers, the gangsters, the Mafia. It looked as though my only hope of coming out on top, and alive at the same time, was to get the papers without letting anybody know I had the things. Of course, Torelli might already be reading them and chortling.

  I was anxious now to get started, find out what the score was, but I spent another twenty minutes making myself carefully cover every angle I could think of.

  I went into the living room, crossed to the phone on the table, and dialed the Hotel de las Américas. I asked for the desk clerk, Rafael. When he came on I said, "This is the guy who gave you a hundred U.S. bucks day before yesterday. Remember?"

  "What? Why, yes. But I thought . . ."

  "You thought what? And keep your voice down."

  "Well, I heard—that is, I thought you might be drowned. Weren't you—"

  I cut him off. "Yeah. I went for a swim. What's the score on that?"

  "They've had men out there searching the ocean underneath El Peñasco."

  That was good enough; it was one thing I'd wanted to know. The hoods must not know for sure whether I was alive or dead. And they wouldn't know until somebody saw me.

  I said to Rafael, "Thanks. Something else. Has anybody been asking about me or Suite One-o-three?"

  "A big ugly guy did yesterday. I told him about the—uh, cancellation, like you said."

  "Good." That had been when Torelli sent a man down to check my story. "The guy give you any trouble, Rafael?"

  "No, just asked me who was in One-o-three, and I told him the story."

  "Thanks, pal. And listen, forget you heard from me. As far as you're concerned, I'm in the drink. That's the way I'd like it to stay. See?"

  "Well—"

  I knew why he was hesitating. Same old story. I said, "And I'll drop off at the desk before long with another hundred dollars. The same as last time. Now can you remember to forget?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Nobody else but that guy yesterday came around? Nobody inquired today? Not just about me, Rafael, but about the suite I took. Nobody at all?"

  "No, just him."

  "OK. Keep your eyes and ears open, will you? I'll check back with you later. Maybe later tonight. And if I don't bring the hundred myself, I'll send it around. You never heard from me."

  He said he understood and I hung up, then dialed the Hotel Encantado and Cottage 27. If a man answered I was going to forget about talking to Gloria. But it was her soft voice that said, "Hello?"

  "Gloria? Don't jump out the window. This is the cliffhanger, the guy who flies."

  "Oh!" She was quiet for a moment, then she said, "I was afraid—"

  "Skip it. You alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Beat it down to the main lobby and wait. I'll call you there on a house phone I know is good. OK?"

  "Five minutes." She hung up.

  I waited, impatiently, for four minutes, then called the desk, had Gloria Madison paged and sent to a house phone. When she answered I said, "All clear?"

  "Uh-huh. It is you, isn't it, Shell?"

  "It's me." We got the glad-you're-alives and other preliminary exchanges out of the way in a hurry and then I asked her, "Gloria, has there been any rumble yet? You hear anything about that shipment Torelli was expecting from Gunner?"

  "No, Shell. And I'm sure I'd have heard. George is like putty around me now, and he'd have told me if there'd been anything."

  "Even after last night?"

  She laughed. "Even. I got pretty mad, but when I calmed down I told George it was just because he'd be sure to get in trouble with Torelli over it. I was right, too. So is that other one, that Joker."

  "Good. Gloria, you sure there's nothing about that shipment? No big deal cooking, no nothing?"

  "Nothing yet, Shell. George tells me Torelli is on pins and needles himself. The thing must be pretty important, whatever it is."

  "Yeah, it must be."

  I couldn't understand why those papers hadn't shown up yet, and then I thought a minute about Torelli on pins and needles, as Gloria had put it, getting more anxious, more eager for the dope. And maybe that explained it. The smart play for whoever had the papers—if the idea was to boost the price—would be to get Torelli anxious and worried. It was also a good way for whoever had the papers to get killed, but it was the only explanation I could think of to account for their not being offered to Torelli in the two days since Gunner had been shot. Whoever blew Gunner's brains out didn't do it just for fun.

  Right then a peculiar thought struck
me and I automatically put it into words. "Hey, Gloria, you and George are married, aren't you?"

  "What? Why, what a silly thing to say! Of course we are. We were married in Los Angeles. What—"

  I interrupted. "Sorry, I was just talking. Forget it." Hell, I was grabbing at straws. I knew she was living with George, and I could check the marriage if I wanted to, but I also know it wasn't necessary. No, Gloria was on my side; there wasn't any doubt about that. So, by completely eliminating the lovely Gloria as any part of my opposition, I had one less person to worry about. Something flicked in my mind, tried to get through, and went away. I tried to get it back, but lost it. I had that funny, frustrated feeling you get for a moment when you think you've forgotten something important.

  Finally I said, "OK, honey, thanks. Keep listening for that rumble. I've got some things to do now, but I'll call you later. You expect George home?"

  "He's with Torelli and the rest at Las Américas now. I think he'll be there all afternoon."

  "OK. I'll call you later. I've got a feeling things can't stay this quiet."

  "Shell, be careful."

  "You can count on it. Bye, Gloria." I hung up, then called a taxi, arranged for the driver to wait at an intersection three blocks from María's house, then hung up again, went to the window, stuck my head out, and yelled at María. She came running, and it was a very pretty thing to watch. She trotted in the front door and plopped onto one of the divans.

  She said, with a saucy inflection that made her double meaning obvious, "You want me?"

  I grinned at her. "Yeah, but I'm made of steel. I've got to leave."

  She frowned a little. "Already?"

  "There's a lot I've got to do. And it's time I started. Don't even have time for a shower."

  She didn't smile. "Anything I can help you do?"

  "No, but thanks, María. You might get into a pile of trouble; there's plenty around. I used your phone, but there's not a chance anybody knows I came here with you last night, so you'll be OK as long as you forget you ever saw me except at El Peñasco before I took my dive. I'm serious. Otherwise you might get yourself badly hurt or—killed."

  She kept frowning. "Forget . . . But you'll see me again, won't you?"

  That was a laugh. I might be gone a long time, at that. I said, "María, as long as I've got one leg left I'll hop back. But now I've got to get to work; do what I came down here for. Try, anyway."

  I walked to the door and looked out at the bright sunlight. I was scared to walk out there, but I still wasn't as sharp as I'd have to be before this case got much older. And I didn't look very sharp; I needed a shave, and though María had pressed my wrinkled clothes, the pants had shrunk and appeared to have been made for a man five feet tall, not six-two. But at least they were pants, and the only ones I had.

  María Carmen touched me on the shoulder and I turned around. She didn't say anything, just slipped her arms over my shoulders, raised up on tiptoes, and kissed me on the mouth. Then she stepped away from me and said, "That's to remember me by. We fellow acrobats have to stick together. And . . . if you've got two legs, you run back."

  I looked down at her, liking her, not wanting to leave her. Actually all I was going to do for the next hour or so was go downtown to the Del Mar, check and see if Joe had come through yet with the stuff I'd sent for. The only reason I didn't want María around was that there was bound to be a lot of trouble sooner or later, and I didn't want her mixed up in it. Funny how fond you can get of a peppy little gal in just a few hours.

  I said, "I'll be back, don't worry. I don't want you hanging around me for a while. You might get hurt. I think I'm going to see some nasty characters before the day's over."

  She said saucily, but with her eyes serious, "What if I don't mind taking a chance? Maybe I could help you. I've got lots of talents."

  I grinned at her. "I know you have. But can you shoot a gun?"

  "I'm not sure." She frowned. "But I can drive a car. I'll be your chauffeur."

  "You're off your trolley, honey. I've called a cab."

  "A taxi? When I've got a Cadillac? Let me go with you, Shell."

  I hesitated, and she noticed it. But then I said lightly, "No soap. You'd bore me. I don't want to get tired of you."

  Then I told her good-bye, turned, and walked out of the house. I walked down the sidewalk alongside Miguel Alemán Boulevard in the bright sun, headed toward the taxi that should be waiting three blocks away. The sea sparkled on my left and the air was perfumed with the scent of flowers. It was a beautiful day, a day for water skiing, for lying in the sun, for drinking coco fizzes under the thatched roof at the Club Copacabana and looking at the lovely women. It was a very bad day for dying.

  14

  I COULD SEE the Club Copacabana up ahead, the palm fronds, the thatched roof, cool and exotic-looking. I wished I had nothing else to do except sit under that thatched roof curling my toes in the sand, having a drink. A block beyond the Copacabana I could see the taxi waiting. I wasn't thinking about much of anything except maybe the pleasant appearance of the club ahead, when I heard a car slide to a stop alongside me.

  I swung round suddenly, automatically, the blood leaping in my veins at the thought that somebody had spotted me, and I was almost ready to drop down on the pavement when I saw the bright splash of color that was María Carmen's Cadillac. She was leaning out the window with her mouth open, staring at me.

  Sudden anger flared in me. "What the hell you trying to do? Scare the—" I stopped. No sense in bawling her out because I felt silly. I walked over to the car.

  "I'm sorry, Shell," she said. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you, but I just made up my mind all of a sudden. I thought maybe I could take you wherever you're going. I just wanted to be with you."

  She sounded so sweet and repentant that I felt like a heel for shouting at her. She opened the door and I got in beside her. "Is it all right?" she asked.

  I gave up. "I guess so. I'm just going downtown."

  She turned on a half-smile. "And I'm your chauffeur?"

  "Chauff away. You asked for it." Hell, I thought, it's nice having her around; before anything rough comes up I can get rid of her.

  She made a U-turn and headed downtown. I gave her directions to the Del Mar, but told her to park away from the place, even though her car, so far, couldn't be identified with me. She might as well know my hideout; she knew nearly everything else about me.

  "And this place," I said, "is not the Reforma-Casablanca. This is part of the end of the world. This is where gangrene has set in. You still want to go?"

  "Sure."

  We went. She wrinkled up her nose as we passed through the little lobby. Inside Room 10 I locked the door and waved María to a chair. To the chair.

  She said, "Locking the door, huh? Expecting visitors?"

  "That's to foil the bigger cockroaches. They go frantic at the smell of people."

  "Shell! How can you talk like that?"

  "I told you it'd be rough. This was your idea." I started, walking back and forth in the small room. Ordinarily I'm not a pacer, but something was bothering me. I'd got that itch in my convolutions again. It often happens on a case; when it does I know I've either forgotten something or added two and two for a five. The blackmail file, I thought. It's around, but there's been no noise about it. Somebody's got the damned thing. I went back to the woman angle again. That much was logical enough, but how was I supposed to pick out the one woman, if it was a woman, from the flock in Acapulco? With few exceptions, each of the underworld boys had his wife or "wife" along. The only women I'd had any contact with were Gloria and María. Hardly be Gloria; she could have kissed me a little harder last night and got rid of me. And María was out; none of it fitted her. She had seemed damned anxious to tag along, though. I frowned, thinking about that, then felt like batting my head. I was really getting silly now. But those were the only two . . . . No, they weren't. That wild tomato, Eve. Eve, the beauty who'd strolled out of my john. What the hell
had she been doing in there? Well, I thought, that's a stupid question. But I thought about her a little longer.

  "Shell."

  "Huh?" I'd been hot on an idea there and I'd almost forgotten María.

  "What's the matter? You looked funny."

  "Just a minute, María. I was thinking about something." I went back to it, tried to pick up where I'd left off. I took the key out of my pocket, went to the door, and unlocked it. I walked slowly across the lobby and sat down in the chair before the phone, thinking some more, remembering what it was I'd almost had when I'd called Gloria earlier. I thought back to finding Gunner dead and alone, then checking into the hotel, the rest of it.

  I grabbed the phone and called Rafael again at Las Américas.

  He said, "Bueno?" and I told him, "The hundred-buck man again. Anybody asking about my suite?"

  "No. No change."

  I said slowly, "Think carefully, Rafael. How about yesterday? Yesterday afternoon?"

  "No, just as I told you."

  "Nobody at all except me?" I could feel a little of the excitement draining out of me.

  "Well," Rafael said, "of course there was your wife. But I—"

  "You idiot. You lousy—" I stopped yelling. I was more angry with myself for not seeing it sooner than with Rafael. "I'm sorry. Describe her. What did she look like?"

  "Describe your wife?"

  "You silly ass, she wasn't my wife! Describe her!"

  Two fast sentences and I knew who it was. It was Eve, all right. Little Orange Hair. Mrs. Jacob Brodney. That was what had been swirling in my brain, but now the whole thing hit me so hard it almost hurt my head. It was simple now, but it was like predicting the score when the game is over.

  I'd checked into Las Américas and slept, got up and asked about inquiries at the desk, then gone out to the pool. A little while before I left the pool Eve must have come into the hotel from wherever she'd been, stopped at the desk, and said she was Mrs. Jacob Brodney. The clerk wouldn't have had any reason to question her or stop her; the reservation was in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Brodney, and I'd presented the reservation slip with that name on it. I'd signed the card Shell Scott, but I might just as easily have signed it Joe Blow or Stalin; the clerk thought I was Brodney.