Pattern for Panic

by Richard S. Prather

  I started to flip my gun toward the guy just as the Countess ran up behind me, crashed into me, then let out an enormous scream right in my ear. I shot a hole in the carpet.

  The guy swung around, flipping his automatic toward us and letting go of the General's coat. I had caught my balance and all I had to do was pull the trigger and plug him, but when I saw his face it jarred me enough to freeze my index finger for a moment.

  The General slowly toppled to the floor.

  It was just blind luck—that and the man's obvious shock and fright—that he didn't kill me then. He fired twice, the automatic bucking in his hand, but both bullets smacked into the wall near me. He broke and ran toward wide picture windows only partly open on my left. I snapped one shot at him and missed a yard, then steadied myself as he leaped through the air with his hands in front of his face. I pulled the revolver onto his back and squeezed the trigger just as he burst through the window in a shower of splintered glass fragments. Then he was gone. I might have hit him, but I couldn't be sure.

  “Douse the lights!” I yelled to the Countess, but she either didn't hear me or it didn't mean anything to her. I ran after the guy, shoved the window wide and went through it, making a lovely target with the light behind me, and dropped flat on the ground. I heard him running. I ran toward the sound, but after half a dozen steps a car engine growled nearby and then roared; tires squealed as the car left in a hurry, the sound fading.

  I stopped running. And now that the action was over I wondered about that face I'd recognized, wondered what the hell his being here meant. Because the guy who had just gotten away was also the slob who'd started me on my way to the can—my pal, the Latin Hemingway.

  I didn't get anywhere trying to puzzle out why the guy who'd leered all over Buff at the Monte Cassino would now turn up here holding a gun at the General's head, so I went back to the house to see if General Lopez was alive.

  When I climbed through the window, the General was still sprawled on the floor and the Countess was kneeling over him, mumbling, almost crying. I knelt beside him and felt for his pulse; it was strong. He was breathing heavily.

  “He's O.K.,” I said. I felt for the lump on his head and found it just over the hairline. “Sapped. He'll be good as new in a minute, except for a sore head. A cold rag would help. And anything you've got for a bad headache."

  She left the room, but the General moaned and started coming out of it before she came back. When she brought the cold rag I had her mop him with it while I looked around. There were drapes at the sides of the windows, so I pulled them together, then went back to the desk. It was bare except for a phone and a piece of white paper with pen-and-ink writing on it. I looked the paper over, but it was all in Spanish, so I couldn't read more than a word or two. It looked like a letter with “Nana” as the salutation, and “Toro” as the signature.

  I asked the Countess, “You know anybody named Nana? Or a Toro?"

  She looked up, eyes widening. “Why, Nana is a kind of pet name for me—my name is Natania. My husband calls me Nana. And I often call him Toro.” She paused, flushing slightly. In Spanish, toro means bull. She went on, “It is a pet name, from his name, Torres. You know, a pet name. Why?” She seemed a bit flustered.

  I handed her the paper. “Here's something that was on the desk. Hope it isn't private, but I can't read it anyway. If it's anything that might help, I'd like to hear it, though."

  She looked at it, then frowned, staring at me. “Why, this is silly,” she said. “It ... here, I'll read it to you. ‘Nana—you will know, and understand, why I do this, why I must do this. Forgive me, as I forgive you.’ And it's signed, Toro.’ I don't understand."

  “I don't get it either.” And I didn't for a good five seconds. Then, naturally, I got it. It was a suicide note—and the General sure as hell hadn't been committing suicide when we'd barged in here.

  “Countess—” The General moaned again and I started over—"Señora Lopez, does that look like your husband's handwriting?"

  She frowned at the note. “Why, yes, I'd say it was his."

  “Who knows your pet names for each other besides you and the General himself?"

  “Nobody that I know of. It's—a private thing. What do you mean?"

  “Let's talk to the General.” He was still on the floor, but he'd started blinking his eyes. He mumbled something. In a few more minutes he was O.K., sitting in the chair holding his head. Finally he said in a booming voice, “I am all right now.” He looked at me and then at his wife. “Who is this man?"

  I had a bad minute there, but the Señora explained, rapidly and well, almost as though she'd planned it, that she had been worried about the General because of threats against his life and had without his knowledge hired me—a norteamericano detective—to try to learn who made the threats.

  “What is your name?” the General asked me.

  My stomach turned upside down. Undoubtedly the Countess had found it necessary to tell him the man she'd wanted out of jail was Shell Scott. If I gave him a fake name and he learned who I really was, the fat would be in the fire.

  “Shell Scott,” I said.

  He looked puzzled. “The man from the jail?” He glanced at his wife. My stomach did a hula. I opened my mouth but Señora Lopez kept carrying the ball and said smoothly, “Yes, dear. I wished a detective who is not known down here, one who could more secretly investigate. Your life ... is most precious to me. I did not tell you why I wished Mr. Scott removed from jail because I did not wish you to worry. You have too many worries already. And Mr. Scott has a wondrous reputation in the United States."

  The General smiled. If a smile could look puzzled, this one did. But he said, “That is sweet, my dear.” He seemed a bit perplexed, but he appeared to accept the explanation: he was still groggy.

  I broke in to tell him I'd gotten here just as his attacker had been about to shoot him, added the rest of it, then got his story.

  The color was back in his face now, and except for wincing once in a while when his head throbbed, he seemed normal. His gray hair was mussed, but his dark eyes were clear and steady under the thick brows, his big square jaw firm. A rugged-looking, almost handsome man, he didn't look more than fifty years old.

  He stiffly expressed his gratitude to me, then said, “I had just come in and was seated here, at my desk. Apparently the man came in the window behind me. I thought I heard a noise, and turned. I saw him almost upon me with something in his hand, a clubbing thing."

  “Sap?"

  “I guess that is it. We struggled, then he hit me. That is all I remember.” He shook his big head. “It is fortunate you came."

  I took the note from the Countess and handed it to him. “General, if you don't object to my questions—"

  “No, no,” he said. “Please be assured, I do not. It seems I owe you my life."

  “You owe me nothing. But—this note—why did you write it?"

  He looked it over, blinked, and shook his head. "Chihuahua! What is this? This I did not write. This I have never seen. What is it?"

  “It's a suicide note, General."

  He read the note again, then looked at me. “Fantastic."

  “Who would want to murder you?"

  He shrugged. “Many people. I have received threats against my life often in the last few years—as my wife knows, and must have told you. But nothing like this has happened.” He paused. “Do you know of my work, my public battle with the Communist criminals?"

  “Yes, I do."

  “Then there is your answer. I sincerely believe, Mr. Scott, that there is no man in Mexico the Communists are more determined to destroy. Perhaps that sounds immodest, but I think it is the truth. Tonight they have tried to kill me."

  “Isn't that jumping to a conclusion?"

  “Not at all. There have been others, many others. Accidents, heart attacks—several of those, Mr. Scott.” He smiled oddly. “Among the secret police of the Soviet, there has long been a saying: ‘Any fool can commi
t a murder, but it requires an artist to commit a good natural death.’ And the Soviet apparatus contains some very artistic men.” He paused. “Who is to say why a young man dies suddenly of a heart attack? There have been three men who once worked closely with me, good men, men who loved Mexico as I love her. They are all dead. Salvador, on the road between Mexico and Cuernavaca; his car went from the road where it was steep, and he died. Roberto is dead—of a heart attack, señor; once he had been a Communist, but he grew wise and turned against them. He helped me greatly, but he is dead. He was young, thirty-seven; his heart was as strong as it was brave. And only three months past old Golpez fell from a tall building; he had been much in the newspapers, the Communists had attacked him, his home, and his friends; they smeared his name. It was said he jumped to his death. And there have been many obvious murders and several dead of the snakes."

  I squinted at him, wondering what snakes he was talking about.

  He pursed his lips. “I had begun to think I was too big, too powerful, to be murdered. There would be a great public outcry."

  “You were right to think that,” I said. “You weren't to be murdered.” I pointed to the note still in his hand. “You were going to commit suicide."

  He stared at the note, nibbling on his lip. Finally he said, “It would seem so. But this is crude. Who would believe it? I have everything to live for; no reason to die."

  The General was wrong, and if he had been murdered there would never have been an investigation of his death—only I couldn't explain that to him. It wasn't crude at all, but diabolical and clever. The General, present at an erotic party with five other powerful, important men, men whose words would carry great weight with the police, sees a movie of Señora Lopez with another man. The General is shocked, hurt, crushed—and horribly embarrassed by this thing happening in front of those who know him. So he goes home, writes a note to his “Nana” and puts a bullet into his brain. The five others understand, sympathize, shrug their shoulders. Open and shut, case closed.

  This, clearly, was not a simple extortion case. I'd thought it strange that the blackmailer hadn't seemed interested in further payments, even of fifty thousand pesos. It looked as though that film was primarily part of a plan to get rid of the General. And, too, if it had been shown on Edison Street, and if I hadn't been here playing patty-cake with the General's wife, neither she nor I nor anybody else would have known the suicide note wasn't exactly what it seemed to be. The blackmailer hadn't been interested in further payments tomorrow, because tomorrow there'd be nothing for the Countess to hide from the General; tomorrow the General was to be dead.

  “General Lopez,” I said, “perhaps it wouldn't be wise to assume automatically that it was a Communist plan. Possibly it was something or someone else entirely—"

  He interrupted, shaking his head firmly. “No, Mr. Scott. This time it was the Communist criminals. I am sure. I told you that I saw the man."

  That jarred me. “You know him?"

  “Indeed. His name is Rafael Belchardo. He is a fanatical Communist. One of the worst of the worst."

  “Are you positive?"

  “Absolutely. It is well known among those of us who understand the simple truth that a conspiracy is in fact a conspiracy. I know much of him. Belchardo is a graduate of the Lenin School of Moscow. While there, like thousands of others from free countries, he studied the techniques of revolution and civil war—the making of demonstrations and disorder, street fighting, guerrilla warfare, methods of sabotage, ways to make big troubles of little ones. He is an expert with all firearms, and was a member of the Communist Abraham Lincoln Brigade which fought in Spain.” He rubbed his head and said casually, “Not all Communists are professional murderers, though all are of course accessories to murder; but Belchardo is himself skilled in the art. Of course, he is only a tool, a pawn, he thinks with another's mind, like all of them. But his finger pulls the trigger."

  While he spoke, my thoughts had jumped from one disturbing conclusion to another. Worry built up in me, and I glanced around for a telephone. There was a dial phone on the General's desk.

  He was saying, “So it is not Belchardo, really, it is Señor Culebra, this man who hides behind the name of a serpent. He is the man who tries to kill me, because he is the biggest, most powerful, and the worst of them all in Mexico—and I am his most troublesome enemy."

  I shook my head. “Culebra? Who is he?"

  The General shrugged. “I do not know, nor even how to learn. But he is the one I have most been after, because he is they leader, the man who thinks. If I could find him...” He paused for a moment, not looking at me, but through me, not seeing me. His face looked almost cruel as he finished: “...I would kill him. Myself I would kill him. Then the little ones beneath him would run around like the toy men you wind up. They would run down like toy men."

  He was silent for a moment and finally his eyes focused on me again. “I am sorry. I feel it very strongly. But no one knows him, only of him—of him and his cruelties and his viciousness."

  Señora Lopez had been sitting quietly near the desk, and now she got up and walked to him, put her arm around his neck and spoke softly in Spanish. He patted her hand, squeezed it.

  I thought a moment more about the suicide angle. If it was true that this had been a Commie plan to knock off the General, then both ends of the deal, the film and the “suicide,” must have been set up before the party started. Since Belchardo had gone through with the murder attempt, he must not have known the film hadn't been shown. It also seemed obvious, following through that line of reasoning, that the film must have been brought to the party by another comrade in on the plan—the guy with the scarred hand. Then one of the six men I had seen there was a Communist. But the most disturbing angle right now was the fact that Belchardo, the Commie who had tried to kill the General, was also the man who had started the beef at Monte Cassino which put me in jail.

  I asked the General, “O.K. if I use your phone? I'd like to call downtown."

  “Certainly, Mr. Scott."

  I dialed the Prado and got Buff's room. While I waited for her to answer, it occurred to me that the police department would be a very handy place to plant a Communist cop. Then I realized the phone had rung a dozen times but there hadn't been any answer. I let the phone ring several times more, then called the doctor's room, and finally the desk, thinking maybe the Doc had shown up and he and Buff might be having a drink, or be down in the lobby. But I had them paged and there wasn't any answer. I hung up, the worry growing in me.

  “General,” I said, “there's something I have to do. I'd better leave.” There was a lot more I wanted to learn from him, but I had to get to the Prado.

  “I would send you in my car, but the servants are not here at this hour. Would you like a drink—or some coffee—before you leave?"

  “No, thanks, General."

  He stood up, holding his lapel with his left hand and stuck out his right. “Then good night, Mr. Scott. And thank you."

  I shook his hand. I don't know why I hadn't noticed before. On his left hand, running from the knuckles clear up his wrist, was a wide red scar.

  Chapter Nine

  I stared at the scar for seconds, confused, then said, “I will have that drink, if you don't mind. I—I'll have to wait for a libre to get out here."

  He nodded and I called a cab, said I'd pay much extra for speed, and hung up thinking about that scar. I knew I'd seen that hand put the film on the projector table. The General's hand.

  The Countess went out after I mumbled I'd have a rum and Tehuacan. I couldn't believe that the General, knowing what was on that film, would have taken it to the party. If he had, he was a strange fruit.

  Moreover, my most recent brilliant deduction had been that the guy with the scarred hand must be a Communist. I was so confused I actually wondered if I were talking to the real General Lopez.

  I hunted for the right words and said slowly, “General, so many people today are indifferent to
the danger of Communism—or ignorant of it—that I respect those who don't shrug it off as merely a liberal philosophy or a political party. So naturally I'm—curious about your own opposition to the conspiracy."

  “But it is simple. The Communists are raping the world. And my country, my Mexico. Could I stand and watch? Would I not oppose this rape—this subversion and treason—of my country by Mexican Communists pretending to be loyal Mexicans?” He had spoken seriously, leaning forward and looking at me with a directness that was almost unnerving. Then, suddenly, he relaxed and laughed softly.

  “But the answer is in your question, Mr. Scott—because the Communist conspiracy is a conspiracy. My wife has told me that you are as I, opposed to the Communists. But even if she had not said this, your words would reveal it. Those who like to pretend the conspiracy is not a conspiracy seldom speak of it as a conspiracy. Verdad?"

  “Verdad; true, General."

  “As you say, they speak of this evil as a philosophy or, ridiculously, as a way of thinking or a political party. They will agree that a thief is a thief, a blackmailer a blackmailer, a liar a liar, but they strangely will not agree that a Communist—who is all these things and many worse things—is a Communist. I am not concerned with a man's politics, they say, or his political opinions. It is most peculiar indeed—but do not forget, Mr. Scott, while some are merely fools, many who do this are themselves secretly under Communist discipline.” He scowled. “That, of course, is how the Communist succeeds in transmitting the line from Moscow—by pretending to be non-Communist."

  One thing was sure, scar or no scar, he talked like General Lopez. No Communist, not even a concealed member-at-large, would talk as sensibly and bluntly as that. I was convinced; so, for my earlier confusion, there had to be some other explanation.