Only I checked, and there wasn't any record of such a call. I phoned the American British Cowdray Hospital, and they'd never heard of Susan Buffington or Dr. Buffington—and they hadn't sent an ambulance to the Prado; nobody at the Hotel del Prado ever got sick. And that did it. I didn't have any idea where to turn or what to do. All I knew was that Buff was gone—taken, undoubtedly, by whoever had snatched the Doc.
I ran around like a nut for another half hour, trying to pull a thread out of the air, a thread I could follow to trace Buff and the Doc, but it was like wishing a needle out of a haystack. I even phoned the police station, tried to talk to Captain Emilio, because if he was there I was going to take the rest of his teeth out one by one until he spilled what connection, if any, he had with Belchardo, possibly a connection that could help. But he wasn't there and nobody would give me his address.
I even phoned the General and got him out of bed in an attempt to find out where I could reach Villamantes, thinking maybe, somehow, I could connect him with Belchardo or the cop, grabbing at straws. But the General didn't know where Villamantes lived. He seemed surprised that he didn't know his home address. Nor did he have any idea how I could get in touch with Villamantes at this hour of the night—though he tried phoning his other friends who had been at the party, with no luck.
So I was banging my head against a blank wall. It was one-thirty in the morning and I was tired. I'd had probably a dozen highballs during the course of the evening and they were wearing me down now, making me logy. I went into the Montenegro Bar and had a double. It warmed my stomach, mixed with the rest of the rum down there, and perked me up a bit. It also was apparently the “one too many.” Either that or my weariness, combined with my anger and frustration, ganged up on me with the liquor. I thought of Buff's gray eyes filled with reproach as she'd said, “Shell, I want you to stay ... I'm scared ... Please.” I tried to tell myself that I couldn't have done anything, that I'd had to follow up on the job for the Countess, that I couldn't possibly have known all this would happen—but it didn't help.
I had another double. Go ahead, slop it down. That's highly ingenious of you, Scott. Drink doubles and you can solve any problem; you can stop the world. I was having a helluva time stopping the world; it was going around faster. I steadied the bar, and right then I thought of something that damn near sobered me.
Monique! How had I forgotten Monique? I'd been so busy charging around since returning to the hotel that I hadn't even thought something might have happened to her, too. Maybe they'd got Monique, whoever they were. I left my glass on the bar, aimed out, and made it to the elevator. I went to four, then down to Monique's room and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, tried the door. Locked. The door wobbled slightly in front of me. I felt horrible. Everybody gone, everybody kidnapped, maybe everybody dead.
A bellhop got out of the elevator and started to walk by me. Two minutes and fifty pesos later he had unlocked the door for me and left. I went inside. The room was dark, but light showed under a door on my left. I could hear water running.
I stood in the darkness, looking at the crack of light and listening to the water running in the bathroom. The room wobbled a little. Poor Monique. Everybody gone and dead. She was in there, I knew. In there dead. Lying in the tub with her hot green eyes staring and the sensual red lips slack. The classic “accident.” I walked toward the door, stopped in front of it. I hated to open it. Monique, who had been so alive, with so much fire and passion in her eyes and smile and lips and hormone-packed body. Dead. Everybody dead. Probably pretty quick, me dead. I felt terrible.
I pushed open the door and walked in.
And there she was. Monique. Dead. Soaping her left arm, her lovely slim body glistening ... soaping. Soaping? She was not dead.
Monique turned her head and looked at me, startled for a moment, possibly by the way my chin was hanging down. Then she said, “Why, Shell. You naughty."
“Well,” I said. “What do you know? I thought you were dead."
She held up a washrag in front of her breasts. “Don't you ever knock when you walk into bathrooms?"
“I thought you were dead,” I said, perhaps a bit stupidly.
“What are you talking about? You can see I'm not dead.” She smiled. “You'd better get out of here."
“Yeah, sure.” I said. “Just wanted to know if you were all right."
She was still smiling. “Don't I look all right? Go on. Wait out there."
I backed out, shut the door, and turned on the living room lights. I started pulling myself together. At least I was getting back more confidence in myself as a detective. I had found out that Monique was not dead.
In a few minutes she came into the living room, a towel wrapped around her.
I was a little more sober. “Listen, all hell has busted loose. Doc's still gone—and now Buff is, too."
The smile slowly faded from her face. “What do you mean, gone?"
I told her what had happened since I got back. She didn't have any more idea what had happened than I did. She said, “Why, I talked to Buff not long ago."
“When? How long ago?"
“I don't know. What time is it now? It was about eleven, maybe half past, somewhere around there. I went down to her room, she was so upset. After that I read a while here, then ... took a bath."
A couple more minutes of talk didn't add anything new, except that the towel she was wearing was not conducive to straight thinking. Her short black hair was in damp ringlets all over her head.
“Get some clothes on,” I said. “You're going to get out of here."
“Why?"
“Why? Use your noodle. Both Buff and her dad have been grabbed off by somebody; you've been with them all the time, you're their friend. Maybe you're the next one. How the hell do I know? I'm not even sure what's going on yet—but you'd better get the hell out of here and hide. Me too, for that matter."
“Maybe you're right.” She frowned. “I'll get dressed."
She turned her back to me and walked into the bedroom.
She came back fully dressed in a white blouse, brown jacket and skirt, and high-heeled brown shoes. “What'll I take along?"
“Nothing for now. Keep the room. We'll find another till this mess clears up."
We went downstairs and down the steps from the lobby onto Juarez, grabbed one of the cabs in front. The driver spoke good English and I told him to head toward the Reforma.
Passing the Caballito Monique said, “Damn, I'm getting jittery now that you've got me thinking. I'm getting scared."
“You'll be O.K. when we find another place. Maybe you were all right at the Prado, but no sense sticking your neck out."
“I need a drink."
“I could use one myself, but I'm afraid we can't go night-clubbing tonight."
It took her a minute of argument, but we wound up getting a bottle and a quart of mineral water. Monique had a drink while I looked out the windows, including the rear one. During the night I'd come to expect being followed. I didn't see any black Cads, though, or any other cars that looked suspicious. I kept looking. Monique handed me the bottles.
“I needed that,” she said. “I really did."
“Well, cheers,” I said. I had a sloppy highball.
“Where are we going?"
“I don't know yet.” I hadn't spotted anybody following us, so I told the driver to pull over to the right and park for a minute while we figured out where to go. “There are some good small hotels on Insurgentes near here,” I told Monique. “I guess any place besides where you were would do.” I was looking out the back window while we talked, and I saw something that stuck in my mind. There wasn't anything really fishy about it, just another car parking and dousing its lights. But I noticed it.
The Paseo de la Reforma is a wide street with three lanes for eastbound traffic and another three for westbound cars, the street bisected by a ridge in the middle. But in addition, there are two other small strips of highway clear over at the ri
ght and left of the Reforma itself, these separated from the main drag by plots of ground a few feet wide, with trees growing in them. The small drives are called familiarly “Little Reformas,” and it was on the Little Reforma to our right that the car had stopped.
It hardly seemed worth checking, but I'd been shot at twice tonight. I checked it. “Move up another block, driver."
He was still accelerating slowly when the parked car's lights came on and the car pulled away from the curb. It stayed clear over on the Little Reforma, about half a block back, sometimes less. The Independence Monument, the “Angel,” was up ahead in the middle of the circular glorieta, the highway going clear around it in a circle at the intersection of the Reforma and Tiber.
“Driver,” I said, “go around the glorieta. Clear around it. I'll tell you when to turn off. Keep it slow."
I kept looking out the back as we reached the tall Angel monument and started around. It would look as though we were going to turn left onto Florencia, and I watched the car as it slowed where the ridge ends to allow cars to pull over onto the Reforma itself, and when we were headed toward Florencia the car speeded up and swung onto the Reforma, then angled into the circle around the glorieta behind us. It followed us clear around.
“We've got a tail,” I said to Monique.
“A what?” she giggled.
“A tail. A car's following us."
“Shell, please. Really?” Her voice was suddenly strained.
“Yeah. I'm not trying to scare you, but you might as well know."
“Oh, Lord. What'll we do?” I was watching that car, but I saw movements as she tilted the bottle again and washed the drink down with mineral water. She coughed.
We weren't far from Chapultepec Park. I said to the driver, “Keep going down the Reforma. At the Diana Statue pull this again, around the glorieta, then light out like mad into Chapultepec Park once we get around. Drive like hell.” He started to give me an argument but the handful of pesos I shoved over his shoulder ended the argument. “Remember: push that accelerator clear down to the floorboards,” I told him.
He said, "Sí," and headed toward the Diana.
Monique said softly, her voice frightened, “I don't like this at all."
“You think I do? Don't go to pieces. You may have to do some running. Take off your shoes."
She took them off. We started around the statue. The other car slowed, almost stopped, about fifty feet from the entrance to the Diana. We went all the way around.
“O.K. Step on it!” I yelled, and the guy dug out. He must have shoved the accelerator clear down, because we started picking up speed fast. We got a little head start, but then I saw the other car jump forward and take off after us.
“Baby,” I said, “get this. We've got a tail back there for sure. I don't know how many in the car, or who, but they're on to us."
“Oh, Shell!” she squealed. “I'm scared. I'm sick."
“Shut up. When we get into the park I'll have the driver stop fast at the first chance, dump us, and go on. If we're lucky, that tail won't notice. And then, Monique we're going to light out. I hope you can run fast."
“Don't leave me! Shell, don't leave me."
“I won't. But I don't want to have to shove you."
We ripped between the big metal lions guarding the park's entrance and somewhere a cop blew his whistle as we roared into the darkness of the park itself. We had a good lead on the car behind us, but I noticed its lights flick out as it passed between the lions. I couldn't see the car any longer and I turned to face the front. I explained to the driver what he was supposed to do, and as we rounded a curve deep in the park I said, "Now!"
He slammed on the brakes and the car swerved, slowed. “Out,” I yelled at Monique. “Don't wait till it's stopped."
She swung the door open and jumped, with me right behind her. I slammed the door as I went out, and the driver gunned the motor. I started to run and almost stepped on Monique, who'd fallen flat on her face. I swore and yanked her up and gave her a shove. If she hadn't been with me, I could have stuck around to shoot the guys following us. but I couldn't take a chance Monique would get a hole shot in her. I started to run after Monique as soon as I shoved her, but we were just too slow. I heard brakes squealing and didn't even have to look. The other car was stopping.
I was running like hell when I heard a car door slam. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the glare from two flashlights, bobbing after us. I also ran into a tree.
I should have known. The goddam park is full of trees. I was flat on my back with lights going around in my head, and I hurt everywhere.
Monique had stopped. “Shell! What happened?"
“Don't ask stupid questions. Just run like hell. And look out for the damn trees."
Fifty yards farther I grabbed her arm. “Whoa, stop a minute. Listen."
We could hear them running, but I couldn't see the flashlights. Then one winked on, was sprayed around for a couple of seconds, and went off. It was close. Even after running into that tree, I'd kept hold of my gun. I cocked it. Monique heard it and said, “Shell, don't! We'll get killed!"
“You go on."
“No, I'm scared. Please, Shell!” Her voice was trembling.
I saw a flashlight wink on again. “Well, come on then,” I said. “Keep close to me.” I started trotting. As I remembered the park, we were almost at the lake. In half a minute we came to the edge of it. Boats were drawn up on the shore. At Chapultepec Lake there are always boats; the people here are fruit for boats. But that gave me an idea. The damn flashlights were close enough behind to give me the willies.
I went along the edge of the lake. There was a little boathouse ahead, but before we reached it I spotted a canoe pulled up on the shore. It was just as well; there was a dim light burning at the boathouse.
“Come on, kid,” I said. “Get into that thing."
She didn't argue. She walked by me and went clink. That was peculiar, I thought. “Hey,” I said. “What was that noise?"
“What noise?"
I let it go. There wasn't time to argue. She sat at the far end of the canoe, facing me, and I shoved the canoe into the water, then gave it a big push and jumped in. We almost capsized right at the start. I had seen better canoes. There were no seats, no cushions, nothing, just the slightly rounded wooden bottom. I had to sit flat on my fanny with my knees practically in my face. But we stayed on an even keel and I'd given the thing a good push, so we coasted along at a fair clip for a while. I started pawing around in the bottom of the boat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking for the paddle.” I whispered. I stopped pawing for a moment and glanced back at the shore. We were only out about twenty yards, and the flashlights blinked almost at the lake's edge. I pawed some more.
Then I swore nastily.
“What's the matter?” Monique asked.
“Guess.” We were up the goddam creek without a paddle.
“Paddle with your hands,” I said softly. “Keep this thing moving. If we can get out far enough we ought to be O.K."
She went clink.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whispered. “Did you clink?"
“Hmmm?” Clink.
“What the crud are you doing up there?” I said. I carefully scooted forward a couple of feet, banging into a thwart or whatever canoes have. The moon was behind thick storm clouds in the distance. But there was a little illumination and I could see the dim moon glow glimmering on Monique. It was gleaming on her hands. No, it was gleaming on something in her hands. Bottles.
“You didn't run nineteen miles with those damn bottles, did you? Did you?"
“These?” Clink. “I didn't even think about them. I just ran. When you're running, you don't think about bottles."
“Yeah. I guess you're right. Well, paddle."
We paddled. We didn't seem to be going much of any place, but it took me half a minute to catch on. “Well, woman,” I said, “I know you're
sitting facing me, but you don't have to paddle at me. We're killing ourselves standing still. What the hell are you, a Communist? You want to go back to shore? Paddle backwards."
We finally got coordinated. I kept looking around toward land, but I didn't spot any more lights. We made pretty good time, considering the silly way we were traveling. Finally we got close to the middle of the lake and just coasted.
“What do we do now?” Monique whispered.
“I don't know,” I whispered back. “I don't know where those guys are; might be anywhere around the shore. Might even be in a boat on the lake."
“Oh, Lord.” She tilted the bottle and I heard it go glurk, glurk. She scooted toward me, moving carefully down the middle of the boat. I met her halfway.
“Here,” she said. “You might as well have a drink."
I had a drink. We passed the bottle back and forth a few times, not saying much. Finally Monique gave me the bottle and it was empty. I threw it and the mix bottle away. I felt pretty good.
“How you feel?” I asked her.
“Wonderful."
“You know we almost got killed? Still might.” My tongue was floppy.
“Doesn't worry me like it did."
“Wish I knew where those guys were on shore. Wish we had a paddle. Well, here we are. Alone at last."
“It's kind of peaceful,” she said.
“Peaceful, ho. Bullets cart stumming at you, start coming at you, it'll be peaceful. We're still in trouble. Don't you realize?"
“It's kind of nice. Look, the moon's coming out. Isn't it pretty?"
“Great. That's all we need. Moon's coming out. Only thing worse is for the sun to come out."
“Oh, how silly. The sun can't come out at night. You sound so silly."
“You sound like a real brain, yourself. Running around with bottles. Oh, boy, we're a pair. How in hell did we get out here? You ‘member?"
She didn't say anything. I looked around the shore. I couldn't see any lights. As a matter of fact, I could see very damn little of anything. The moon was fairly bright now, and I looked back at Monique. I squinted at Monique.
Pattern for Panic Page 10
