“I’ve heard her described,” Denver said. “Can you get me photographs of any of these people?”
Cassino shook his head. “Bianca carefully destroyed all photographs of himself and the others before he fled. Why do you think you can find this man, when the best agents of the Ministry for Recovering have failed?”
Denver smiled slightly. “I plan to make him come to me. You gave me the idea just a minute ago.”
“How is that?”
“When you said Bianca aids fugitives of the Batista regime. I’m going to be one. You can earn your cut by intercepting and answering inquiries about me.”
“What sort of inquiries?” Cassino asked.
“I’ll arrange to get myself in the Los Angeles papers. As an ex-Batista man. The L.A. papers probably will cable their Havana correspondents to make a routine check on my background. The correspondents will never have heard of me, because Castro played down the mercenaries in his army. It was supposed to be a people’s uprising. So they’ll come to the Ministry of Information for data. You make sure it’s you who briefs them. All you have to say is that I was a Batista stooge.”
Cassino considered this with a frown. “It is risky,” he objected. “While your name isn’t known to the public, it is known to some of the revolutionary leaders, including both Castros. Someone may ask why I gave the American press a lot of lies about a revolutionary hero.”
“That’s the chance you take,” Denver said philosophically. “I’m not offering a twenty-five percent cut for nothing. All you can do is hope Castro doesn’t read the Los Angeles papers. Or think up a good excuse in case he does.”
The bald man considered again. “How do I know you will not simply walk off with the entire amount and forget me?”
Casey Denver exposed white teeth in a cynical smile. “Because you’re too crooked to cross. You’d simply inform the Ministry for Recovering Stolen Government Property that you have information that I hijacked Bianca. Your government would contact Washington. My government would come looking for me and confiscate the whole boodle until its legal status could be determined. Eventually it undoubtedly would be returned to the Cuban treasury.”
A slow smile formed on Cassino’s face. “You have a Latin’s talent for intrigue, Senor Denver. That is exactly what I would do, of course. I think we have an agreement.” Casey Denver lazily rose to his feet. “Fine, Senor Cassino. Just try to keep your fingers out of the public till until this is over. You won’t be much good to me if you get caught and end up before a firing squad.”
Denver motioned to the silent redhead leaning against the wall. “Come on, Sam. We’re off to Los Angeles.”
Chapter II
Casey Denver and Sam McCabe arrived in Los Angeles by separate planes from Miami on March second. Denver checked in at the Beverly-Hilton in Beverly Hills. McCabe registered at the Beverly-Wilshire a few blocks down Wilshire Boulevard.
At three P.M. on March third Denver was sitting at the bar just off the main lobby of the Hilton. Only one bartender was on duty at that time of day, and there were only two other bar customers. A middle-aged couple sat at one of the tables.
A burly, dark-skinned man with thick black hair and a cherubic expression entered the hotel by the Wilshire Boulevard entrance. With a determined stride, he walked past the desk and through the wide archway into the bar. He halted in the middle of the floor so abruptly that the couple at the table looked at him curiously.
Casey Denver threw the man a casual glance, then stiffened and slipped from his bar stool to face him. The middle-aged woman at the table emitted a mouselike squeak as the dark man drew a gun from his pocket.
“Viente y sies Julio!” the dark man yelled.
Denver dived headlong around the end of the bar as the gun went off twice. Both bullets slammed into the upright part of the bar where Denver had been standing an instant before.
The dark man turned and ran through the lobby, wildly waving his gun. The few guests there, nonplused at such outrageous behavior in the sophisticated atmosphere of the Beverly-Hilton, looked on open-mouthed as he sped through the door.
There was no doorman stationed at the Wilshire Boulevard entrance, as taxicabs always dropped arriving guests at the main entrance facing the parking lot. As no pedestrians happened to be nearby either, no one got a good look at the black Ford illegally parked in the bus stop in front of the hotel. A look wouldn’t have been very helpful anyway. The rear license plate was coated with dried mud, and the small sign ordinarily attached to the license plate announcing that the car was a Hertz rental had been removed.
Slipping behind the wheel, the dark man drove at ordinary speed straight down Wilshire to the Beverly-Wilshire parking lot. Parking, he took a damp cloth from the glove compartment and wiped off the rear plate. With a screw driver, he replaced the Hertz sign. Then, he entered the hotel and took an elevator to the fourth floor.
Letting himself into a room, he locked the door behind him, drew off a dark wig to disclose flaming red hair and stripped to the waist. In the bathroom, he used lots of soap and hot water to scrub the dark stain from his face and hands. When his complexion had returned to its customary pink, he replaced his shirt, necktie and coat.
Ten minutes later, he was having a drink at the hotel bar.
Meantime, some quietly efficient action was taking place at the Beverly-Hilton. Casey Denver had hardly climbed to his feet from behind the end of the bar when an assistant manager appeared. In a calm voice, he assured everyone in the bar, plus the few guests who had strayed after him from the lobby, that the excitement was over and the police were already on the way. Politely, he asked Denver, the middle-aged couple and the two male bar customers if they would mind stepping into the office to await the arrival of the police.
Docilely, they all moved after him. As they disappeared into the office, some of the rubber-neckers from the lobby went to the bar to question the bartender about the shooting. Others drifted back into the lobby. Five minutes after the shooting there was no evidence aside from two bullet holes in the bar that so much as a ripple had disturbed the hotel’s smooth surface.
Inside the office, the assistant manager courteously invited everyone to have seats. Apparently, his sole purpose in bringing them to the office was to get the witnesses to the shooting out of sight, and he intended to let the police delve into the reasons for the disturbance, for the only question he asked was, “Are you all guests of the hotel?”
Denver and the two other bar customers said they were. The middle-aged man, a plump tourist type with a camera slung over his shoulder, said, “We were just taking a walk and stopped for a drink. We’re visiting relatives up the street.”
“The police will want to talk to all of you,” the assistant manager said. “Just routine, of course. They’ll want your descriptions of the madman.”
One of the bar customers, a blond, athletic-looking man, said, “Madman? He wasn’t just shooting for the hell of it. He was gunning for this guy.” He jerked a thumb at Denver.
The assistant manager gave Denver a shocked look. His expression suggested that the hotel normally expected its guests to refrain from being targets. Denver gave him an amiable smile and said nothing.
Two uniformed policemen were the first to arrive. After listening to separate and widely varying versions of what had happened from the two bar customers and the middle-aged couple, they looked inquiringly at Denver.
“I think they all described it rather well,” Denver said with a smile.
The patrolmen decided to leave the matter to abler hands. After taking down the names of everyone concerned, they politely asked them all to remain in the office a few minutes more and went out into the lobby.
Five minutes later one of the patrolmen returned with two men in plain clothes.
“Sergeant Quinby and Officer Doyle will take over now, folks,” he announced.
> Sergeant Quinby, a thick-set man with blunt features and dull gray eyes which didn’t quite hide the sparkle of intelligence deep within them, did the taking over while his partner merely stood and listened. He had the witnesses repeat their versions of what had happened one at a time, starting with Denver.
Denver shrugged. “The guy just walked in and started shooting, Sergeant. I never saw him before.”
The plump tourist said diffidently, “He shouted some Spanish or Mexican name. Then he started shooting at this gentleman here.” He nodded toward Denver, then glanced at his wife. “Did you hear what the man yelled, Martha?” She shook her head. “I was too frightened to notice what he looked like even.”
“He was Spanish-looking,” the blond man said. “About five ten and built like a barrel. Not fat, though. Looked like he was all muscle.” He glanced at the other bar customer. “Right?”
The man nodded. “It wasn’t a name he yelled. I know Spanish. He said, ‘Viente y seis Julio’ Twenty-six July.” Denver was pleased. He had expected to have to translate the phrase himself. It seemed much more natural coming from an innocent bystander.
Sergeant Quinby turned his dull eyes toward Denver. “Twenty-six July. Isn’t that the rallying cry of the Cuban revolutionists?”
“I believe so,” Denver said urbanely.
“You don’t look like a Cuban, mister.”
“I’m not. I’m a native American.”
“Ever been to Cuba?”
“I lived there for a time,” Denver said. “Left early in January.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Just before Castro took over, huh? What were you doing down there?”
“I was in the army.”
“Government or rebel army?”
“I was a major under Batista,” Denver said negligently. The sergeant grunted. Turning to his partner, he said, “Think we better finish this down at headquarters.” Then he said to the uniformed patrolman, “You get out an APB giving the gunman’s description?”
“While we were waiting for you guys,” the policeman said.
“His car too?”
“Nobody saw it.”
Quinby turned back to his partner. “Better phone in a supplemental giving the information that the guy is probably a Castro sympathizer.” He crooked a finger at Denver. “Let’s go, mister.”
In the lobby they stopped to wait for Officer Doyle to make his phone call. A thin, carelessly dressed man with horn-rimmed glasses approached them from the direction of the bar and said, “Ah, there you are, Sarge. What’s the pitch?”
“Hello, Burt,” Sergeant Quinby greeted the man. “Since when does the Examiner send legmen out on simple shootings?”
“What’s simple about a shooting at the Hilton?” the man inquired. He glanced at Denver. “You witness it, sir?”
“You a reporter?” Denver asked.
The man displayed a press card. “Burt Harris of the Examiner.”
Denver shook his head. “No comment.”
With raised eyebrows the reporter glanced inquiringly at Quinby.
The detective said, “He was the target. Casey Denver. Claims he’s a U.S. citizen and that he used to be a major in Batista’s army. The gunman yelled, ‘Twenty-six July,’ in Spanish before he started shooting.”
“Well, well,” the thin man said, examining Denver with interest. “An assassination attempt by some rebel sympathizer, huh? What do they have against you, Mr. Denver? You execute a few rebels?”
“I set Castro’s kid brother’s beard on fire,” Denver told him. “Haven’t you noticed in news pictures that Raul’s beardless?”
Officer Doyle finished his call to headquarters and rejoined them.
“Let’s go,” Sergeant Quinby said. “You can sit in on the questioning down at headquarters, Burt.”
Chapter III
At the Beverly Hills Police Headquarters, Casey Denver underwent intensive questioning. He professed complete ignorance as to why anyone would attempt to kill him. Sergeant Quinby didn’t believe him. He seemed to think Denver could identify the gunman if he wanted to.
“I don’t know the man from Adam,” Denver protested. Reporter Burt Harris, sitting in on the interrogation, said, “He may be telling the truth, Sarge. If the rebel sympathizers have set up some sort of an underground to get Batista-regime fugitives, they wouldn’t use gunmen the victims knew by sight.”
“There haven’t been any other assassination attempts,” Quinby growled. “So far the Cuban government has contented itself with squawking to Washington about returning war criminals to Cuba for trial.”
“The government itself wouldn’t be behind such an organization,” Harris told him. “But you know this country is full of Castro sympathizers. A lot of them U.S. citizens. They’ve held demonstrations all over the country. Anyway, how do you know there haven’t been some killings? If it’s an efficient organization, maybe it doesn’t leave any corpus delicti. Besides, a squawk to Washington wouldn’t work in Denver’s case. He’s an American citizen.”
“So he claims,” the sergeant said. “You got any proof, mister?”
Denver produced a photostat of his birth certificate. After examining it, Sergeant Quinby grunted and handed it to Harris.
“Born in Geneva, New York, eh?” the reporter said, glancing at Denver.
“Uh-huh,” Denver said. He took the paper back and stuffed it into his wallet.
Quinby said, “We’ll get off a wire to Geneva checking on him, but I don’t see how we can hold him if there’s nothing there.”
“And I’ll cable our Havana correspondent to run down his record under Batista,” the reporter said. He looked at Denver. “You could save us both a lot of trouble.”
“You get paid for it, don’t you?” Denver inquired. Sergeant Quinby had Denver booked on an open charge pending a reply from Geneva, New York. Denver had a lonely dinner in his cell. At eight P.M. he was ushered back into the office where he’d originally been interrogated.
Sergeant Quinby had a long telegram on the desk before him. Glancing up as Denver was escorted into the room by a uniformed policeman, he waved the latter out again.
“You seem to be pretty well known in Geneva,” he said glumly.
“It’s my home town,” Denver told him.
“Korea, Israel, Algeria, Cuba and a half-dozen other hot spots. Wherever there’s fighting. A sort of soldier of fortune, huh?”
“That’s the polite term. I call it a mercenary soldier.”
“The Geneva police chief isn’t sure whether you’re a hero or a bum,” Quinby said. “He says most of the town thinks you’re a hero. Which are you?”
“Isn’t everybody some of both?” Denver inquired. “Which are you?”
The sergeant considered. “A hero to my kid,” he admitted. “A bum to my wife. Anyway, Geneva’s got nothing on you, and doesn’t know of anywhere that has. I guess you can go.”
“Fine,” Denver said. “Thanks for the meal.”
“Want police protection for a while?” Quinby asked. Denver exposed white teeth in a grin. “I think the hotel’s assistant manager had the right theory, Sergeant. It was just a madman cutting loose at the first person he saw.”
“It’s your funeral,” Quinby said with a shrug. “If you decide to tell me about it sometime, you know where to find me.”
“Sure,” Denver said. “But don’t hold your breath.” Back at the hotel, he bought an evening paper and checked it for the story of the shooting. It was on an inside page, and was a bare account of the incident. There was no mention of Denver’s claimed Batista-regime background. Apparently, the editor had decided to sit on the story until a reply from Havana to Burt Harris’ cable.
From his room Denver phoned the Beverly-Wilshire and asked for Sam McCabe. When he answered the phone and recognized Denver’s voice, the redh
ead asked, “How’d she go, Casey?”
“Smooth as silk. But by the time the papers break the story tomorrow, I suspect I’ll be politely asked to leave here. The Hilton won’t want to house a walking target. Locate anything yet?”
“Yeah,” McCabe said. “There’s a place on South McCarty Drive only a couple of blocks from here that rents furnished apartments for as short a period as two weeks. I got us one with twin beds for two-fifty a month. We can move in tonight, if you want.”
“Maybe we’d better,” Denver told him. “It’ll save the management here the embarrassment of evicting me tomorrow. What’s the address?”
McCabe told him and said he’d meet him at the place in a half-hour. “Just ask for a key to apartment 204,” he said. “There’s a front desk just like at a hotel.”
Denver packed immediately and moved out, leaving his new address at the desk in case anyone inquired for him. It wasn’t quite nine P.M. when a taxi deposited him in front of a neat-looking two-story apartment building on a quiet side street.
Carrying his bags into the lobby, he found a pallid young man of about eighteen behind a registration desk.
“I’m Casey Denver,” he told the clerk. “May I have a key to 204?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the boy said. “Mr. McCabe just checked in. This way, please.”
Coming from behind the desk, he picked up the bags and led the way down a short hall to a door opening onto a courtyard. The building was a hollow rectangle with the courtyard in its center. They crossed the courtyard, entered another door and climbed one flight.
The door to apartment 204 was open. The desk clerk walked in, went through a neatly furnished living room beyond which Denver could see a small kitchenette, and into a bedroom with twin beds. Sam McCabe was unpacking a suitcase on one of the beds.
The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack Page 33
