Ralph began to talk in a dreamy voice of how it was on Hall Mountain in the winter, bundled in a turtleneck sweater and sheepskin-lined lumberjacket and scarf, up on the sky chair above the big black mirror which captured a chunk of infinity and held it for a portrait. He made it sound very pretty. He spoke wistfully, as if he never expected to see it again.
We reached Aruba in the middle of the night, almost exactly twenty-four hours from the time Francisco Del Rey had been killed. I said to Hernando, “Three hundred dollars is a lot of money.”
“Si. Pero—“
“But we're fugitives? All right. We already paid you. I only want you to answer a question.”
“Si?”
“We need a man who will fly an airplane and ask no questions. A man who will fly north from a private field and know of another private field where he can land.”
“In Puerto Rico?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Senor, it has happened before. If not from Aruba or Willemstad, then from Margarita or Trinidad. You are “” lucky for I know of such a man on Aruba.” Hernando displayed the palm of his hand and rubbed»his thumb slowly down the length of his index finger several times.
I gave him ten dollars but he laughed softly. In the end, I gave him fifty. “Ivan Andreyev,” Hernando said. “But he's a Russian.”
“I don't care if he's Uncle Joe's ghost.”
“Oh, no, senor. He is an expatriate. He left Russia in the great purge of the thirties. He claims to have known Leon Trotsky.”
Hernando told me how we could find Ivan Andreyev, then turned his back and saw to his cargo as we went down the gangway. A slight breeze came in from the sea, but after what we'd been through it felt like a deep freeze. We found a small hotel two streets up from the water and I remember dragging myself into a small room and only stopping to take my shoes off before plopping down on a bed of dubious quality. I remember, still more dimly, promising myself that we'd be up at dawn to find the Russian expatriate. . . .
When I awoke it was full daylight. My watch said ten after eleven and was still ticking. I felt rested and looked rumpled in the cracked mirror over the dresser. I went down the hall to the Homersons' room, but it was empty.
The senor and senora? said the desk clerk. They had eaten and left. I bought a newspaper at the desk. They sold Venezuelan papers from Maracaibo as well as the small local Dutch sheet. There was plenty about the murder in Hoy, the Maracaibo daily, but I couldn't understand much of it. There was something about the police seeking three Americanos. There was a big two-column picture of Francisco Del Rey, presenting the world with a toothsome smile. A black border framed the picture and the caption spoke of murder and robbery and millions in oil.
I was hungry but only stopped to gulp down a cup of coffee. The Homersons were off—heading for the airport and our boy Ivan probably just to make arrangements if he was having any. They had no reason to leave me to the wolves, if the wolves were coming here to Aruba. But I ran outside and down the block until I found a sleepy-looking driver at the wheel of an ancient taxicab. And I told him in a mixture of Spanish, English and desperation to hurry.
It was a high-winged Beechcraft monoplane of ancient vintage, the only airplane I have ever seen painted chartreuse. And it had turned into the wind and already was revving up its single engine when I reached the airport.
I dropped some money on the front seat of the taxi, leaped out before it came to a stop, and flapped my arms furiously. The Beechcraft swung around a little as the wind-sock atop the airport's one hangar shifted direction a few degrees. I sprinted across the apron to the runway, stumbling and almost falling on the cracked, buckling concrete. The Beechcraft made a noise like a Bronx cheer.
I was about to take out the Magnum and start waving that as well as my arms when Ralph and Lydia Homerson appeared in front of the hangar. They both looked fit and ready to travel and were smiling at me.
“What are you so excited about?” Lydia wanted to know. “We were going to surprise you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “With Ivan already revving up his crate.”
Lydia giggled and poked Ralph with her elbow and smiled at him. “He's only running it through its paces, silly,” she told me, then said to Ralph, “he actually thought we were going to leave him behind. Ralph, if that isn't the craziest thing.”
So I never knew. But Lydia's suitcase was already aboard the Beechcraft and when we reached the plane Ivan Andreyev looked ready to leave. He had hair like newly sheared wool, and the broad flat face of a Slav. He had stripped the interior of the Beechcraft of all but its pilot chair to make room for three passengers. We sat on the floor and Ivan waved to someone we couldn't see, fixed a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, and took the Beechcraft up into the wind. He made it look easy, but we didn't clear the palms at the end of the runway by more than ten feet.
Ivan Andreyev had Spanish, Dutch, Russian and French, but almost no English. Soon after we had leveled off at four thousand feet, Ivan rolled up the sleeve covering his left arm and showed us a tattoo just below the biceps. There was a red hammer and sickle with the name Ivan above the hammer and the name Leon below it. He assured us in Spanish and gestures that the Leon stood for Leon Trotsky, which was why he was hiding down here in the southern Caribbean. If the comrades or their agents found him, they would take an ax to his head, as they had done to poor Leon. . . .
It was over four hundred miles from Aruba to Guayama, a port across Puerto Rico from San Juan. We got there at about three-thirty in the afternoon, and Ivan came in from the west with the sun behind him, as if ferrying fugitives to a United States possession was not the rarest thing in the world to him. The gas marker on Ivan's instrument panel was quivering near the empty mark and had been there many minutes when he finally put the Beechcraft down ungently at a small airport a few miles outside Guayama. He showed us his tattoo once more, swore us to secrecy, and made off in the direction of the dispatcher's office. He looked happy. Lydia soon told me why. Ivan Andreyev had five hundred of her dollars.
We took a taxi into town and washed up at Guayama's railroad station. We had dinner while we waited for the evening train to San Juan, and I have never tasted better food. We traveled second-class from Guayama to San Juan, because by then our money was running low. A woman across the aisle in the crowded coach nursed her baby the whole way across the island and kept on smiling at me as if I were the father.
At San Juan we cajoled our way aboard the midnight flight to Miami, although the Pan Am traffic man had at first assured us that this was the busy season and no reservations were available.
I bid the Homersons good-bye at Miami International Airport, because they were waiting for a flight out west and I was taking the Eastern Airlines Constellation to Washington, D. C. I told myself I would never see them again, and wouldn't regret it.
Impulsively, Lydia stood on tiptoe and kissed me as they announced my flight. Ralph beamed on me, giving the kiss his blessing. We shook hands and they waved as I climbed the flight stairs. Well, I thought, that's it. No more Senator Hartsell and certainly no more Homersons. Trouble coming up with the D.C. and Alexandria police, but it would get straightened out, with Pat Casey's help.
Good-by, Lydia. You're very beautiful, exactly as beautiful as your sister was. But enough is enough.
How wrong I was.
Part III: The Mountain
Chapter Fifteen
THE SOUND THE TRAINS made as they rolled by toward Union Station rattling my windows was lovely to hear. I slept on and off until I became ravenously hungry. By then it was almost five o'clock in the afternoon. I shaved, showered, dressed and walked half a block to the Uline lunch counter. It was raw and cold on the street and everyone looked at me, wondering where I'd got the million-buck suntan. At the lunch counter I had all the ham and eggs I could eat and enough coffee to wash it down. Then I sighed with regret because I knew I would have to call Pat Casey.
An hour later I was downtown at District Homi
cide. Pat, who is a lieutenant, was there with his captain and two other plainclothesmen from Alexandria. Pat smiled weakly and his captain kept a stern impartial face, but the two boys from Alexandria looked as if they wouldn't like me if I gave them half an opportunity.
“Hello, Chet,” Pat said. “This is Captain Levin, in charge of homicide here.”
“Captain,” I said. He didn't offer his hand.
“Lieutenant Delcove and Sergeant Mervis from Alexandria,” Pat said.
Delcove, a short gaunt man with a sour, pasty white face that spoke eloquently of ulcers or some other gastric trouble, nodded and said, “Where the hell were you, Mr. Drum?”
“I was out of the country,” I told him pleasantly. “When I called Lieutenant Casey here because I hadn't seen him in weeks, he said you people wanted to see me on some kind of a routine check. I always like to help the police,” I added, smiling. “We're in kind of the same business.”
“Kind of,” said Mervis drily. He was younger than Delcove, and looked healthier.
“Mr. Drum,” said Delcove, “suppose we get right down to business. You were identified as being in the vicinity of an apartment belonging to a Venezuelan named Francisco Del Rey the afternoon one Alex Lubrano was shot there. Were you?”
“Yeah,” I said. Pat gave me a cigarette. His hands were shaking when he lit it for me.
“On business?” Delcove wanted to know. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“Yeah. On business.”
“Your license doesn't say you can practice in Alexandria,” Delcove said. He turned to Captain Levin and said, “Don't you people tell them that sort of thing?”
Levin studied his fingernails and said, “Of course we do.” He hadn't liked the way Delcove said that. If Delcove didn't watch his step, I thought Captain Levin might come over to my camp. I'd like that fine.
“What were you doing there, Mr. Drum?” Delcove demanded.
“I had sent Lubrano to get some information on Francisco Del Rey for me. A man you probably know because he ought to have a police record a mile long—name of Max Joy—called me up and said they had Lubrano. He gave me Del Rey's address.”
“We know Joy,” said Sergeant Mervis. “You should have called up, Mr. Drum,” Delcove told me. “What the hell do you think we get paid for?”
“I couldn't call you,” I said.
Delcove gave Sergeant Mervis a triumphant look and then spoke to me. He started softly, purring almost, but by the time he finished he was shouting. “So you couldn't. What do you mean you couldn't? They give you people license so you can track down alimony dodgers and arrange divorce cases and do other nice clean all-American things like that, but police work is for police. Aren't you aware of that? How long have you been licensed, Drum? Do you think we want to go around cleaning up the mess after guys like you do your worst all over our goddamn city?”
“I couldn't call you,” I said, “because my first loyalty is to my client. Ask Captain Levin here. Are there any private detectives in Alexandria?”
Two, and one agency,” Mervis said. “Well, go ahead and ask Captain Levin. He knows mere about private dicks than you do. Or ask Lieutenant Casey, because he does too. Sure, sometimes the police have a bellyful of us, but we try to make a living like everybody else. And sure, we set up divorces if we can't make ends meet any other way, but if I had to go around doing things like that I would have burned up my license long ago. Why don't you ask Lieutenant Casey? He knows me.”
They didn't ask Pat anything. Captain Levin was nodding his head slowly.
I went on, “What does a private dick have? As much dirt as you people have, and a worse reputation. If he can't at least maintain his integrity, he might as well join some hick town police force. Probably he'd make more money.”
“That's a dirty crack,” said Delcove.
“I'm not finished, Lieutenant. I haven't told you why I couldn't call the Alexandria police. I don't think you'll understand, but I'm going to tell you anyhow. My first loyalty is to my client—confidential investigation means just that. It's the only integrity we have. If I had called the police, my client's confidence would have been in danger. A client of mine has never yet been faced with that.”
Delcove took this in with a sneer and said, “Get the hell off your high horse, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Because you had to keep your client's business secret, a man was murdered.”
“I'm sorry if you think I'm up on a high horse, Lieutenant. I know a man was murdered. I saw it happen.”
Pat almost dropped his own cigarette. Captain Levin leaned forward, rubbed his chin with a stubby index finger, and stared at me. Sergeant Mervis was, pacing back and forth, not knowing what to say. Delcove said, “You what?”
“I was right there. I saw it. Francisco Del Rey shot Lubrano dead right before my eyes.”
Delcove rubbed his long-fingered hands together. In the bright light they looked wet. He popped a little white mint into his mouth and made a fist and thumped it against his chest until he burped softly. He said, “And you still didn't call the police? Captain Levin, I think we can take this man back with us right now.”
“I haven't finished my story,” I pointed out. “I'd like to finish it right now if you don't mind.”
Pat looked at Captain Levin, who stared at his desk and at the wall behind my head and again at his fingernails, and finally nodded.
I told them about the killing. I told them how I'd gone at gunpoint with Del Rey to Washington International Airport, how I tried to have the traffic man stop his flight. This could, and would, be checked. I took a good long look at Lieutenant Delcove's face and knew I might be in plenty of trouble. So I told them about Jack Morley and diplomatic immunity and why I had not gone to the police. I hoped Jack Morley would look me in the face again, but I couldn't blame him if he didn't. I saw Captain Levin nodding. He liked my story. If he was Alexandria, I had it made. But he was D.C.
“Okay, Drum” Delcove said. “Who was your client?” He stared at me with small close-set eager eyes as if I would reveal a scandal which would set Washington rocking on its heels.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “I guess you didn't understand. I can't tell you.”
Delcove turned his small eyes on Captain Levin. “Can I take him now, Captain?”
“I guess so, if he's finished. As far as I can see, Lieutenant, Mr. Drum is within his rights unless he's asked the same question at a coroner's inquest or by a grand jury.”
Delcove smiled. He said nothing, but gestured for me to go outside. Pat gave me what he thought was an encouraging grin. He looked a little sick.
Outside, it was very cold. An Alexandria squad car was waiting at the curb. “We'll see about that,” Delcove said, as if he was still talking to Captain Levin.
The Alexandria police station was a grim, cheerless place, which wouldn't help the disposition of men like Lieutenant Delcove. Someone had left a Christmas wreath up inside, although Christmas was past. I was booked by a gum-chewing corporal who was acting desk sergeant this evening. Chester Drum, material witness. I didn't like the sound of it. I was told I could contact a lawyer. I was also told anything I said could be used against me. Lieutenant Delcove decided this was worth a brief snicker. Sergeant Mervis led me to a small windowless room. The transom over the door was open, but Mervis closed it with a fire hook after we were inside. There was a desk, a bridge table, two semi-upholstered chairs and one high-backed wooden chair in the room. Off in one corner was three-legged stool. Mervis brought it out into the center of the room and told me to sit down. I sat. A light was focused on my face. The door opened and closed and I didn't have to look to tell it was Lieutenant Delcove. I couldn't see him, because the light was in my eyes.
They sweated me for two hours. It was easy answering the questions, because my story was the truth. The only thing I wouldn't mention was Senator Hartsell's role. With every question, Delcove sounded like he wanted to hit me. He was very good at throwing t
he questions at you, but Sergeant Mervis was very bad.
“All right,” Delcove finally said. “All right, act snotty. See where it will get you.”
“I'm not acting snotty. I'm telling you the truth.”
“Who were you working for?”
“I said I couldn't tell you that.”
“Come on, Drum.”
I said nothing. Delcove lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face. I coughed for his benefit, hoping it would make him feel better.
“You think I like sitting up with you all night?” he said.
“I wouldn't know.”
“Be sensible, Drum. It won't be like a room in the Mayflower, but we'll give you a bed to sleep in when you get sensible.”
That didn't seem to call for an answer. Delcove prodded my shoulder with a bony fist. “I'm asking you for the last time. Who was it?”
“No,” I said.
“You want to know what I think, Drum? I think you can't tell me because your whole story is invented. How do we know it wasn't you who killed Lubrano? You were seen there. Nobody else was. You admitted it. Better wise up, Drum.”
He said nothing for a long time. That was supposed to scare me. I heard him prowling around the room. I heard a water faucet running. Delcove came back after a while and his arm from the elbow down appeared within the circle of light. He was wearing a leather glove. He had let the water run on it and it was gleaming wet. He chucked my chin with it, a little harder than playful and a little softer than hurtful.
“Who were you working for, Drum?”
“God, Drum,” Mervis said. “Don't be a sap.”
Delcove jerked my chin back with the heel of his hand. He used the side of his hand against my trachea. I gagged and found it was suddenly hard to breathe. I clenched my fists and sat there and took it.
The Second Longest Night Page 13
