And Eve, who must have been traveling with Gunner, had naturally been the gal Gunner intended to take along to Las Américas. She'd just gone on ahead as planned—only without Gunner. Actually, there was no reason she shouldn't have. I was almost positive she and Gunner hadn't known they were being tailed, and as Gunner had been traveling under the name of Robert Cain at Taxco and the reservation was in the name of Brodney, she'd have assumed naturally enough that there'd be no trail between Wallace Parkinson's dead body and one Mrs. Brodney at Las Américas. Only after she'd shot Gunner she'd taken a powder without remembering to remove the reservation slip from his wallet.
I said to Rafael, "What did she say when she picked up the key? How'd she explain being alone?"
He sounded puzzled. "I assumed she was with you. Even—even if she wasn't your real wife, sometimes in Acapulco . . ."
"I understand. It's all right. Thanks." He didn't have anything else to add, so I hung up.
It all fitted perfectly. Only she hadn't known I was there ahead of her and she'd just barged in. No wonder she'd almost dropped her beautiful teeth when she saw me. But she'd been a sharp gal, as any gal of Gunner's would be, and she'd covered up her confusion fast. Torelli sent me . . . you must be Gunner . . . dance? She'd kept my head spinning on a sexy merry-go-round after that so I hadn't even had time to think. Then she'd apparently dropped the key at the desk, and blown.
I grabbed the phone again. I had to find her. I had to find her in a hurry, but I didn't have the faintest idea where she was. At least I had something, more than I'd had five minutes ago.
I yelled, "María!" Then I put in a fast call to Gloria's cottage.
María came running out and I shouted at her, "Get that car started. Hurry it up."
The line was busy. I hung up, made myself wait a few seconds, then tried again. Still busy. I couldn't wait any longer. I was ready to explode. I ran out to the street and headed toward the corner running. Before I reached it the yellow Cad came roaring around the corner and screeched to a stop beside me. María threw open the door, saying, "What's the matter? What happened?"
"Hotel El Encantado. Fast, woman."
She slammed her foot down on the accelerator and we took off. On the way I gave María a quick and sketchy rundown on what was up. Thanks to me, she was getting deeper into this than I'd planned; the least I could do was tell her what was coming off.
She didn't ask questions as I talked, just listened and drove like a jet pilot. As we turned in at El Encantado I said, "Honey, things may pop like firecrackers in a little while. I'm poison, and any gal seen with me is asking for trouble. You already know too much. You'd better check out. Drop me and beat it fast."
"No." Her face was flushed and she was almost smiling. She actually acted as if she were enjoying herself. This María was my kind of woman. A woman.
I pointed out the cottage and she slammed on the brakes, the heavy car skidding to a stop in front of 27. I got ready to jump out and run up, hoping that George wasn't inside. Even if he was, his probable shock at seeing me would give me an edge, and I'd be very happy to kick his teeth in anyway.
The car stopped and I leaped out and ran up to the door. It wasn't locked and I wasn't about to knock. I just slammed it open and charged in.
The living room was empty, but I heard footsteps and in a moment Gloria scurried in. She stopped suddenly, surprise on her face. "Shell! What—"
"You alone?"
"Yes."
"There's an orange-haired girl here in Acapulco. Name of Eve. Big blue eyes, upholstered shape, beautiful legs. Probably in some edge of the rackets. You know her?"
"It sounds like Eve Wilson. But where have you been? I've been trying to call you, Shell. What are you doing here?"
"This Eve Wilson. You know where she is? I've got to find her fast."
"Yes, she's right here."
"Here! In the house?"
"No, here at El Encantado. Cottage Six. I—"
I didn't wait for the rest. I turned around and started to sprint out to the car, and then stopped. Something Gloria had said . . . I turned at the door and asked her, "What did you say about calling me? Why? What about?"
She put her hands on her hips. "I've been trying to tell you. I called your suite at Las Américas half a dozen times, but there wasn't any answer. I didn't expect you to be there, Shell, but you hadn't told me where I could reach you."
I walked up to her and grabbed her arm. "Why'd you call me, Gloria? What's up?"
"Shell, you're hurting me."
"I'm sorry, honey." I let go of her arm. "It's just that things are coming to a head. There's not much time left."
"That's what I tried to phone you about. I'm not sure it's what you wanted to know, but you told me to listen for any rumble about Torelli and his shipment."
She paused. I wanted to shake her, but I let her tell it her own way. She said, "I really don't know what it is, but somebody's talked to Torelli about what Gunner had, and Torelli learned that Gunner is dead. George told me about it. Anyway, whoever it is wants five million dollars for the stuff. Isn't that silly?"
I had to sit down for a minute. My brain was going around like a ballerina and I couldn't get all this at once.
Then it started building up, a little bit more, and then all of it. I saw Eve coming out of the bathroom carrying a little black box that I'd thought might contain cosmetics and whatnot. Cosmetics, hell. It was five million bucks' worth of blackmail papers on my union man; government papers, the recording. I groaned. It had been that close, right in my hands. No, not quite. I remembered Eve's anger and concern when I'd held her mink coat for her and knocked her box to the floor. And then she'd calmly picked it up and walked out.
"Gloria," I said sharply, "when was this? How long ago?"
"I only heard it about half an hour ago. I don't know when Torelli heard. George was there when he got the call."
"You mean Torelli got a phone call about the stuff?"
"Yes. Then George stopped by and said he'd be busy for a while. That's how I happen to know. George said he had some sort of negotiations to make for Torelli. That's an awful lot of money, Shell."
Negotiations. Sure. Torelli was dickering with Eve, beating the price down. Beating it down to nothing. I knew the kind of negotiating Torelli did, and George was just the boy to handle it. That gritty, stupid little Eve, putting the proposition up to Torelli cold: five million and the stuff was his. A couple of things puzzled me, though.
"Gloria, Torelli didn't have the stuff half an hour or so ago?"
"No. But he was—"
"Yeah, thinking it over. You say George came by here? Clear up here to this cottage?"
"Yes."
I stood up and faced her and said, "Gloria, where is that woman? She may be dead by now. Where's her cottage? Quick!"
Her eyes widened but she said immediately, "It's across from here. You can see it from the door."
She stepped past me and pointed out the doorway, telling me which cottage was Eve's and I spotted the place. As soon as I knew which one it was I started running. It would be as quick as taking the car because of the winding road that led around by the cottages, but as I sprinted past the Cad I waved my arm at María to follow me. I didn't wait to see if she understood, but started across the green stretch of lawn toward the cottage a hundred yards from me.
Then it happened. Not much in the way of action, but even from a hundred yards away I didn't have any trouble seeing the man's figure come out of the front door and walk rapidly to the long black Lincoln parked near Cottage 6. He got in and tore down the winding drive, headed in a hurry for somewhere.
I didn't slow down; if anything, I ran faster, but I knew I was already too late.
15
MY LUNGS were hurting by the time I got within fifty feet of the cottage. I was sweating, not only from the exertion of running at top speed, but from the excitement building inside of me and from fear for Eve.
The conviction that I'd find Ev
e Wilson dead was almost like knowledge in my brain; God only knew what Torelli's man would have done to her while she was alive—or had done to her.
I raced the last few feet, jumped across the little porch, and slammed into the door. It burst open and I nearly fell as I stumbled inside. The room was almost identical with Gloria's living room, and it was empty. I glanced quickly around, saw nothing at first. Then, through an open door directly ahead of me, I saw dancing shadows, queerly flickering shadows that leaped and died. I ran toward the room, inside it, and almost stumbled into the flames.
I stopped suddenly, sickened, wanting to turn away and not look at what was there in front of me. On the bed was Eve, and I knew, even without logic or thought, that she must be dead. When I saw the flames, I had thought for a moment that the cottage had been set afire. But now other senses told me that wasn't what the fire had been for; the smell of burned flesh was thick and choking in the room and in my throat. So thick I could taste it.
The flames rose from a ten-gallon pail at the foot of one of the twin beds in front of me, still licking hungrily upward to eat at the blackened feet wired together above them. Eve Wilson lay across the bed, her arms pulled above her and tied to its head, her feet bound together and extending beyond the foot of the bed directly above the pail.
In the first moment after I burst into the room I saw all that, saw Eve's lovely body twisted on the bed, saw the marks of other burns on her white skin, the tangled orange hair, the gag tied into her mouth. I saw every detail of her body with startling clarity even as my flesh crawled and my throat closed up with sickness; I saw the way the gag distorted her mouth, the bright smear of lipstick staining her cheek, livid marks on her wrists where she'd torn the skin straining at her bonds.
I stepped forward and shoved the pail toward the wall with my foot. I knew it was a useless gesture, a sudden reaction to my personal revulsion, but I couldn't stand the sight of that fire searing flesh, even Eve's dead, unfeeling flesh.
And then she moved!
I stared, not even comprehending for a moment, then leaped toward the bed toward her, shock numbing my brain. She moved again, only the merest motion of her head, straining upward. The gag was loose as her torturer must have left it, shoved hurriedly back in between her red lips after she'd talked. And she'd talked, for sure.
I pulled the gag of wadded cloth from her mouth and watched her eyes slowly open. It was like watching the eyes of a mummy quiver and move. The long, curving lashes trembled, the lids fluttered and slid upward until her eyes were wide, staring at me with all the pain and horror in the world caught and captured in them, swimming in their blue depths. And then her lips moved; sounds came out, not words but only moaning, choking noises that were horrible and ugly and pitiful, and that thrust themselves into me like separate knives.
I couldn't move, couldn't even drag my eyes from that anguished face as her lips trembled and twisted as she tried to speak, draining the little life and strength left to her, and there were only those gasping, wretched sounds that were a soft and audible horror in the room. And then the words came out like soft cries, twisted, almost unrecognizable. "Told him . . . he called Torelli. . . knows."
I wanted to pet her, touch her, do anything to take that look out of her eyes. "Don't talk, honey," I said. "Take it easy, sweetheart. Don't even try to talk. I'll get a doctor."
Her eyes widened even more, clung desperately to mine, and she moved her head slightly, agony in the movement and in her gaze. She was trying to speak, willing herself to speak while her eyes forced me to look at her. I brought my face down close to hers as her mouth opened wide and her jaws moved back and forth soundlessly, her lower lip pulled far down below her teeth. Then her mouth nearly closed and she forced the words out, whispering, on one last breath of air. "Gull Islands . . . Gull. . ."
Her features smoothed, the eyes and mouth went slack. Her mouth still hung grotesquely open and her eyes continued to stare, but they stared like all the eyes that look forever into the blackness of eternity. The intricate, wonderful machinery inside her once beautiful body slowed and stopped, and she lay completely still with the perfect, complete stillness that is death.
I stared at her, knowing that she had murdered Gunner, and murdered him for gain, for money; but I couldn't feel any anger or hatred or contempt for her, not then. I just felt pity for her, and a kind of sadness that she would never be alive again. I moved to the foot of the bed and saw the torn, blackened feet, the darkened skin cracked and ugly, and I remembered the same feet tapping to the rhythm of Latin music in my room. I shuddered, and then the revulsion started building up in me. I wanted to get out, out in the clean air and the sunlight, but I made myself stay a moment longer. There was nothing I could do for Eve, but she had told me what I needed to know.
Her murderer had tortured her, learned where the papers were, phoned Torelli from here, then left Eve dying, the flames still . . . I shuddered again. Gull Islands, she had said. I knew there were islands of that name outside the bay, four or five miles from here. Eve's murderer would be racing toward them at this very moment. I thought a minute longer. I knew what I was going to do, but I couldn't let sickness and shock make me forget the plans I'd made, the thoughts I'd had before this moment. I still had to plan and think and scheme, even while my brain rebelled at thinking. I went back to Eve's side, took her limp left hand in mine. The big signet ring I had seen on her finger when she'd been with me at Las Américas was still there. I eased it from her finger, put the ring in my pocket, then left.
Outside I looked for María, but she wasn't waiting there for me. Apparently she hadn't understood my frantic waving when I'd raced by her. I could see the car now over near Gloria's cottage. I started walking rapidly toward it, still seeing Eve's dead face. The need for hurry was growing in me; whoever had been in that long black Lincoln had several minutes' head start. With a little luck I might catch him. And I had to catch him.
I'd been lucky so far in that none of the hoods had spotted me walking downtown, or since I'd been up here, but I had known it couldn't last if I kept walking around in broad daylight. It didn't.
I got to within fifteen yards of the car and María ground the motor into life just as the door of Gloria's cottage opened and the Joker stepped outside. I don't know whether he'd spotted me from inside and come out or just lamped me as he was leaving, but for a moment he squinted at me from twenty yards away, as if trying to convince himself that it was actually me, alive.
I leaped toward the Cadillac shouting, "Move, honey, move, get going!" and that broke the spell for the Joker.
It looked as though he covered eight feet in the first bound toward me, and I saw his hand digging at his shoulder holster. I don't know whether María saw it too, and the gun flashed dully in the sunlight the next instant, or whether it was my shouted words or simply an idea of her own, but she ground the gears and let out the clutch with a jerk. The wheels spun for a part of a second and then took hold, and it wasn't going to be long before she was doing seventy from the looks of things.
I changed course and angled toward a spot ahead of the accelerating car. I shouted at María, "Run, run, honey," not even using the right words but hoping that she'd understand. I wasn't about to jump on the car; I just wanted her to get the hell out of there, away from the Joker and any others of Torelli's men who might be around. There was a bigger fright building in me now than the one I'd had when I first saw Eve dying. It grew with the thought of María tortured like that, dying like that.
I wanted the Joker to think I was trying to get away, so I'd have at least a chance to catch him by surprise when I turned to face him. He was almost on me and I had nearly reached the car. María had slowed down, her frightened face turned toward me. The Joker hadn't fired the gun, maybe because he didn't want the noise to bring others running, but perhaps because he felt he had me anyway. He loomed up at my side, his great hands reaching for me as he came running at an angle toward me, now only a yard away. Not looking a
t him but still lunging toward the car, with my eyes fixed on it, I saw him from the corner of my eye as my right foot hit the ground and I let my left foot slam into the grass as it hit, dug it in, trying to bury it in the earth to stop me suddenly as I braced my leg against my weight and twisted, hurling myself toward the Joker, my body dropping down toward the ground, angling at his burly legs.
My shoulder slammed into one of his driving knees and then I hit the grass, my face grinding over it as I sprawled full length. I rolled over on my back, tried to scramble to my feet. The Joker had gone flying over my body, head over heels, and landed even more heavily than I, the gun squirting from his fist. Now he was on his hands and knees, turned away from me, but as I watched, he swung around toward me with his lips pulled away from his teeth, still down on all fours like a misshapen animal.
María had stopped the car. Damn her, damn the woman. Was she crazy? Didn't she know she had to get out of there? I got to my feet and shouted, "Get out! Go on, honey. For God's sake get out of here!"
Then the Joker was on his feet facing me, his long arms down at his side. He didn't try to pick up the gun a few feet away; he kept his eyes on me, moved toward me. If I ran he'd have plenty of time to get the gun and pick me off. I waited for him. That damn little María still sat in the car, twenty feet away, the motor idling, her face turned toward me.
The Joker moved closer, his arms coming up like hooks held out from his sides. If he ever got those arms around me it would be all over; I knew he had probably twice my strength in those beefy arms. I held my hands up in front of me, open, so I could slash or chop at his face and neck with their edges. I knew how; I knew the tricks and blows of judo, and I had been taught unarmed defense in the Marines, but I had to keep away from him, keep those arms from getting around me.
I stepped back away from the Joker as he reached me, then moved around him to the side, circling, as he paused, turned, then leaped toward me. He was wide open and I slashed my right hand out hard from my chest, trying with its edge for the thin, brittle bridge of his nose, but one of his big hands came up, barely flicking mine, not enough to block it but enough to deflect the blow that would have killed him had it landed.
Darling, It's Death Page 11
