The Second Longest Night

by Stephen Marlowe

  “Did you decide you would like to see my collection after all” Del Rey asked.

  “Paco,” I said, “it's been a long day. There's nothing I'd rather do than hit the sack and stay there for about ten hours.”

  “No? I don't understand.” Del Rey finished his swift assembly job on the Luger, pulled the magazine out of the butt, loaded it. “A gift from a former SS man, now an expatriate in Buenos Aires,” he said “You were saying?”

  “If it was anybody but you, I wouldn't ask this question. Paco, are you going to try to kill me again tonight?” That was straight. You wouldn't ask that question of anyone but a Francisco Del Rey.

  He didn't bat an eyelash. He said, “To tell you the truth, I haven't given it much thought. It's still early, amigo. Watch the magazine,” he said, holding the Luger on the palm of his hand and slipping the loaded magazine into the butt. “It makes very little noise. It is in good shape. This Luger will probably outlive me if I take care of it the way I have been doing. What makes you think I will try to kill you tonight?”

  “You tried the night before last. Last night at the hotel you didn't have a chance to try.”

  “Drink?” he said. I nodded. He took two large snifter glasses from the bar and sloshed an ounce of Spanish cognac from a green bottle into each one. He brought them over one at a time, because he was still holding the Luger in his right hand. The cognac was sweeter than good French brandy and not as strong.

  “You think Alex Lubrano told me something,” I said. “Whatever it is, you think I'm too dangerous to you alive.”

  “But no, amigo.”

  “But yes. Listen to me, you dumb bastard. All Lubrano had a chance to tell me was that you're a Communist. Then you shot him. If that's a good enough reason for you, start shooting. You've got a gun in your hand right now. But don't forget you won't have diplomatic immunity in Venezuela the way you did in Alexandria.”

  “You walked in here to ask me to shoot you?”

  “I wanted to know where things stood. I figured I had a better chance this way than sleeping, that's all.”

  “Whatever Alex Lubrano told you is no longer of importance. Don't you understand that?”

  “I just got finished saying he told me nothing except that you're a Communist.”

  “At Devil Mountain, Senor Drum, when I expect Mrs. Homerson and her husband, I find you there in his place. I think to myself, why has this man come over two thousand miles to Venezuela? To see me? Surely, to see me. But why? Does he harbor some silly notion of vendetta in his head over a weak, foolish little man who was of no more consequence to the world alive than dead? If that is the case, I must be protected. I am of course patently unable to go to the authorities and tell them that merely because I killed a worthless individual in Alexandria, Virginia, this norte-americano has come to kill me. I am of a very respected family. You see the embarrassing position it would put me in. The best way to protect myself. I would think in such a case, is to kill him before he can kill me. Wouldn't I?”

  I finished my cognac without saying anything. “It occurred to me, though, that there was another very good reason why you may have come to Venezuela. You were married to Deirdre Hartsell. Your late ex-wife was to receive ten per cent of King Oil.”

  “Is that so?” I said, trying to sound very surprised so I could hear Del Rey's version of Ralph Homerson's story.

  “Oh, come now, Drum. Surely you know.”

  “No. Deirdre never told me.”

  “Well, she was to receive ten per cent. It was my stock, but a gift from her father. He changed his mind in favor of Lydia, however, after Deirdre married you. Drum, I won't believe you were not aware of that.” Their stories ran like railroad tracks across Kansas. Either nobody was lying or they were lying back to back. “Pal,” I said, “I wasn't aware.”

  Del Rey laughed. “First I am a dumb bastard. Now I am a pal. That is very American, the way you change your mind. Well, you may have thought that if Deirdre were to receive the stock and if she died suddenly, perhaps the transfer had not been made. You were not Deirdre's husband at the time—but perhaps you had something in writing concerning King Oil. Did you?”

  “I told you Deirdre never said a word about it.” Del Rey clucked his tongue and gave me a very Latin look, his eyes half shut. “I am disappointed, Drum. Does it means vendetta then?” Del Rey placed the Luger in my hand.

  “You're crazy,” I said. “How do you know I won't—”

  “You won't. This is vendetta in its simplest form. You enter my room. You take a loaded weapon from me. You shoot me. Where, Drum? Above the eye and in the cheek, like Lubrano? The servants hear the noise and find you here. They call the police. The police come. The newspaper La Esfera in Caracas, where my family is known and loved, says this is a hideous crime. The death penalty is demanded. At the trial you hardly know what happens because you have no Spanish. They sentence you to death and all the readers of La Esfera are very happy. There is your vendetta, Senor Drum.” He-folded his arms complacently and looked at me. He said, “Well, are you going to shoot?”

  I thumbed the safety catch of the Luger and tucked it in the waistband of my trousers. “Not now,” I said. “But thanks. Maybe I won't feel so bad about going to sleep now.”

  Del Rey seemed alarmed. “The weapon has certain sentimental value to me,” he said. “Let me give you another.”

  “Not unless you have a .45 or a Magnum,” I told him. I like a gun with muscles. In my business I don't get a chance to fire them as often as they do in the shamus books, but when the need arises it's nice to know that whatever you hit will stay hit.

  Del Rey produced a Magnum and loaded it before my eyes with the .357 shells. They're smaller than what the Luger carries, but the muzzle velocity is greater. Never, never stand in front of a Magnum if you can help it. We swapped weapons.

  As I headed for the door, Del Rey said, “About tonight?”

  “What about tonight?”

  “I haven't made up my mind yet.” I closed the door softly behind me. It had been hot in Del Rey's room. It was even hotter in the hallway. I felt damp and scratchy. I needed another shower. “Hello there,” Lydia said.

  I could barely see her in the dim hallway. I thought she was wearing a white dress. That girl always wore white.

  “Hello there yourself,” I said. “I was just going for a shower.”

  “So was I,” Lydia said. “My, but it's hot.”

  “Well,” I said. “Shall we shower together?”

  “If you mean in separate stalls, why not? I don't like the idea of going down there alone at night, anyway.”

  “I mean in separate stalls only if you insist on separate stalls.”

  “Chet, please. Please don't joke like that. You know how I feel. You know what almost happened.”

  “Yeah. Did you ever think if the man didn't joke about it he might start gnashing his teeth?”

  “Oh. Then maybe we better not go down there together.”

  “Lady,” I said, “you started it. Come on.”

  “But—”

  “Don't worry. My name isn't Paco.” We made our way downstairs through an awkward silence. “You were there this afternoon?” she finally said when we reached the lobby of the guest house and went around back in the direction of the boardwalk leading to the shower stalls.

  “I was there.”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “The works,” I said.

  “I wish you hadn't. Not because of Paco. I can take care of myself where Paco is concerned. Because of Ralph.”

  “Why because of Ralph?”

  “He made a fool of himself, don't you think?”

  I didn't answer her. We crossed the boardwalk and could see the line of shower stalls silhouetted faintly against the moonlight.

  “Adjacent stalls?” I said. “Or you way down at that end and me over here. Or some combination I haven't thought of.”

  “Adjacent stalls, so if we want to talk we don't have to sho
ut. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “It isn't much of a moon. I can hardly see you. I'm going into this stall.” Her voice lost a little volume as the corrugated tin wall separated us. I went into the next stall and began to strip. I had barely got my shoes and socks off when I heard the water go on in Lydia's stall.

  “It didn't take you very long,” I said.

  “All I was wearing was a dress.”

  I took off the rest of my clothing and draped it over the wall of the stall. I padded outside the stall with Del Rey's Magnum and put it down on the boardwalk. I could see right into Lydia's stall because she hadn't bothered closing the door. All I could see, though, was darkness with a brighter darkness, the water, falling on an intermediary darkness, Lydia. She had left the door open to show she trusted me, I thought. I went back into my own stall and had a cold shower. I went outside to stand on the boardwalk running alongside the stalls to let the hot night wind dry me. Lydia had the same idea. I suddenly realized we were standing very close, as close as you can without touching.

  “God damn you, Chester Drum,” she said.

  I didn't move. I wouldn't touch her unless she touched me first. I wasn't sure what I would do if she did. My eyes were growing used to the darkness.

  “Please keep away from me,” Lydia moaned softly. “If you touch me you can have me. You know that, don't you?”

  It was the second time she had jockeyed us into something like this. Some people like to hurt themselves, especially when it comes to sex. But I had broken it up the first time, she hadn't. What did she really want me to do now? I wondered.

  While I was wondering and standing there a couple of millimeters from her, the back door of the guest house opened. Shower clogs clomped along the boardwalk toward us. Shower clogs would be Ralph. The bright red eye of a cigarette bounced up and down as he walked. That was all we could see of him so far. As yet he could see nothing of us.

  “Lydia?” he said. “Lydia, are you out here? When you weren't in bed, I thought you might be taking a shower.”

  Lydia whispered in my ear. She said, “After what happened with Paco this afternoon, you better get out of here fast.”

  “Me? I haven't done anything.”

  “That doesn't matter. I don't want Ralph to tell you how much he adores me, like he told Paco. I don't want Ralph to say he's going to kill you like he said he was going to kill Paco. Get out of here.”

  “Is that you, Lydia?”

  “Yes, Ralph dear. It's me.”

  His footsteps came toward us. Up and down went the bright red cigarette ember.

  “Who were you talking to?” Ralph asked. “I thought I heard someone talking.”

  I was about to open my mouth and say it was me. This had gone far enough. Pretty soon I'd begin to think I had done something wrong, like scrubbing Lydia's bare beautiful back in the shower. Before I could speak, though, Lydia said:

  “Paco was taking a shower too.”

  The cigarette stopped. Ralph's voice, louder, said, “Oh, so Paco was taking a shower too, was he?” Ralph sounded if not pie-eyed then well on his way.

  If I had said anything, it would have been a few well chosen four-letter words in front of Lydia's name. Now she had done it. Because if Ralph found out who I really was, he'd start thinking Lydia was going to bed, or trying her hardest to do so, with everyone but her lawful spouse. Why call me Paco? To protect me, of course. He already knew about Paco. I had the choice of getting out of there in a hurry or waiting around and letting Ralph poke me in the teeth. I took my clothing down from the wall of the shower stall and padded on down the boardwalk, which led through a garden to the lake.

  Ralph's clogs made faster clomp-clompings. There was the dull sound of a collision and the louder sound of something heavy falling. “It's me,” Lydia said. “You're hurting me.”

  “I'll get that son of a bitch,” Ralph swore. “I knew it was you. I knew I was hurting you. I had to hurt somebody.”

  “Ralph, what's the matter with you? Can't he take a shower at the same time I take a shower without you thinking something like what you're thinking?”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, in the middle of the night. Right before I came in here, Chet was showering. Then Paco came in. Now you came in. All of us, in the middle of the night. It's a hot night, Ralph.” She was very good at it. “Why shouldn't he want to take a shower just like the rest of us?”

  “Yes? Then why did he run away?”

  “Because of the way you've been behaving. He didn't want to have to hit you again.”

  “If you were taking a shower,” Ralph said, “why are you all dry?”

  I finished showering a while ago.”

  “You're still undressed.” I was drying in the wind.”

  “What was Paco doing?” I don't know what Paco was doing.”

  “There wasn't any shower running.”

  “No. He was probably drying out in the wind too.”

  “Without any clothing too?”

  “How should I know without any clothing? It was too dark to see him. It's still too dark. I have no idea what you're wearing except clogs. I can hear the clogs when you walk.”

  “The both of you were standing here naked, but not doing anything?”

  “I don't know if he was naked or not.”

  “You said he was drying out in the wind.”

  “I thought he was drying in the wind.” Lydia sighed. “Ralph, if you're going to keep on that way, it's no use whatever I say.”

  “Was he making love to you, Lydia?”

  It was almost as if someone had shut the radio off, except they'd never allow talk like that on the radio. As such silences go, it was long. It was broken by a sharp loud cracking sound. That would be Lydia's hand against Ralph's cheek.

  “No,” Lydia said. “He didn't even touch me. When he tried to touch me this afternoon, that was his idea, not mine. I'm going to bed. I can't make you believe me. Are you going to stay out here with the mosquitoes or what?”

  “I'm going to take a shower,” Ralph said.

  Lydia's bare feet went padding across the boardwalk. Ralph must have thought Paco had gone through the garden and followed the lake trail around to the front of the guest house. But Paco-Chester wasn't going anywhere until Ralph finished his shower; he had suddenly remembered a .357 Magnum which in his haste he had left on the boardwalk. He would sleep much better tonight with that in his possession.

  Ralph probably did a lot of thinking in that shower. I think best with a little too much rum inside me, but some men like showers. Ralph was in there a long time, thinking up a storm. Hurricane Lydia, probably.

  At last he came out. I listened to the small sounds he made dressing. Then he clomped away on his shower clogs. I walked back along the boardwalk, carrying my clothing. I went to where I had left the Magnum .357. I dressed slowly because if' I was in a hurry about it I would begin to sweat.

  When I reached down for the Magnum, it wasn't there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I LIT A CIGARETTE AND went exploring around the boardwalk and the dark shower stalls. Water was still dripping where Ralph had done his ablutions. I couldn't find the gun.

  I went back in through the rear door of the guest house and felt my way across the dark lobby. It was so hot and damp in there, King Oil could have opened a Turkish bath without importing any steam. Upstairs, it was even hotter. An oblong of yellow light was visible under Del Rey's door, but the Homerson room was dark. I could hear someone pacing back and forth in there, though. Five steps toward me, the fifth on a creaking floorboard, then pivot, then five steps back, the first on a creaking floorboard.

  The light was not the only thing coming from Del Rey's room. There were voices. I tried to get over there like the poet's fog which came on little cat feet, but I weigh almost two hundred pounds. Probably because they were too busy talking they didn't hear me.

  Everything they said was not clear, but Lydia
sounded friendly and, I thought, mildly seductive. Del Rey's voice was a mixture of arrogance and indifference.

  Lydia's half of the conversation contained, “I didn't expect. . . . Well, you just startled me, that's all. . . . Oh, really, Paco. I ought to know my own husband. He makes a lot of noise about it, but I can twist him around my little finger. Can't I? Look at me, Paco. . . . I—I like it when you look at me like that.”

  Well, that's what she said. It just didn't sound like the same Lydia I heard in the shower stalls this afternoon. Del Rey's portion of the conversation included, . . a woman's prerogative to be like the weather. . . . Indeed, do you know him? Your own husband? .... This afternoon you did not like it. This afternoon. . . .”

  It hardly sounded as if anyone was going to kill anyone, but I wasn't so sure about Ralph. I toyed with the idea of knocking on his door and asking him for the gun. It was a cinch I couldn't just plop down on my own bed and get some sleep. Del Rey had said he still hadn't made up his mind about tonight. But if I stood out here in the dim hallway and Ralph decided to come barging across it to find out what besides the gun collection his wife found so attractive in Del Rey's room, people would start stuffing figurative keyholes whenever I showed up, and that doesn't make a private detective's work any easier.

  In the end, I decided in favor of making my way downstairs as quietly as I could, parking myself on one of the sofas in the lobby, and waiting. This I did, and the Maracaibo heat finally got to me. I felt limp and weak and began to wish Senator Hartsell's oil interests were in some sensible place like the Gulf of Mexico, which is hot but not this hot. I blinked my eyes, which smarted from the sweat trickling down into them. I lay back on the sofa, and my head was damp against the cushion.

  Upstairs, the sluice gates were about to open. Downstairs, Chester Drum drifted off to sleep. I dreamed about sweating Maracaibo Indians slowly cranking a spit over a glowing fire pit. I was skewered on the spit. Venezuela's version of Pocahontas was standing nearby, imploring with the local chieftains. She had a familiar face—she looked like Lydia. When a few turns of the spit had been accomplished, Pocahontas-Lydia beat her small fists on the chest of the nearest chieftain and began to scream.