Pattern for Panic

by Richard S. Prather

  “Don't sit like that,” I said. “Please ... don't sit like that."

  “How else am I going to sit? And why not?"

  “Just don't ask me, see? If you knew what I've been through tonight—just don't, that's all."

  “I can't sit any other way. What do you think this is—a yacht? It isn't very comfortable, either."

  “Oh, hell,” I said, “sit any damn way you want. What do I care how you sit? But sit still, will you?"

  “I told you it's uncomfortable. I've got to get comfortable.” She moved around for a few seconds. “Ah, there, that's better."

  “The hell you say. That's worse. That is—oh-h, that's horrible. Hey, listen, Monique. I've known guys to go clear off their trolley from less than this. I've been through hell tonight. Hell. You're asking for it. Listen. Dammit. Pretty quick I'm going to jump in the water. Have a heart, Monique. You doing this on purpose?"

  She laughed. “Uh-huh. Didn't you know that? You're awfully cautious. Shell, how did I look in the tub?"

  “Well, I thought at first you were dead, you know. That didn't help, right off. But you looked pretty good."

  “Pretty good?"

  “You looked fine. You looked terrific.” Come to think of it, she didn't look half bad right now.

  She said, “Shell, isn't this funny? We're in the park on the lake, in a boat."

  “You call this a boat?"

  “All alone. You could at least kiss me. You never have. But you've looked at me like you wanted to kiss me. Kiss me."

  “Look, will you stop sitting like that? I tried to tell you. And if I try kissing you this damn boat will turn over."

  “Oh, silly.” She slid forward and got her knees under her, leaned close to me. “I feel so good,” she said. “There now, you can kiss me easy."

  “I better kiss you easy. I kiss you hard and we'll sink."

  Her mouth covered mine as I got the last word out. Even under the circumstances, the kiss was everything I had imagined Monique's kiss would be. Everything about her, her eyes, lips, body, was fiery hot, and this was like kissing a branding iron. I could feel the boat rocking. I was getting to the point where I didn't care.

  Her lips left my mouth and caressed my neck. “Mmmm, Shell,” she said. Minutes went by. “Mmmm.” She whispered in my ear.

  “Don't be silly,” I said.

  She kissed me some more. All this was a little difficult, what with the canoe rocking, but I was doing very well, I thought. I was fairly proud of myself.

  Monique whispered in my ear again.

  “Well,” I said, “it sounds impossible."

  “No it's not. Put your foot there."

  “Oh, now look. I can't do that. I'll turn the boat over."

  “No, you won't. I'll ... lean on this side."

  “How the devil you going to lean on that side? You know what you're saying?"

  “It's the only way."

  “There must be another way."

  “Oh!” she said. “Well, we can try it, can't we? If it doesn't work, we can try something else."

  “But we'll be all wet."

  “Oh, Shell! You'll make me hate you."

  “Well ... can you swim?"

  “My God. Can I swim, he says! At a time like this he wants to know can I swim. I never saw such a cautious man."

  I said one last time, “O.K., but don't blame me if I turn this stupid boat over."

  “You won't."

  “I will."

  “Shut up. Now, put your foot there."

  I put my foot there. I moved maybe three inches and the boat turned over. As the water closed over my fat head I remember thinking: I knew it; I just knew it.

  I was pretty well looped from all those drinks, anyway, and I couldn't get oriented for a few seconds. I was paddling around but I wasn't sure where I was going. Pretty quick my hand scraped bottom, though, and I got my directions straight and shot up to the surface. It wasn't much of a shot.

  Monique was standing there about a yard away with a very sad expression on her face, and her hands on her hips. I guess they were on her hips; they were out of sight under the water, which only came up to her chest.

  “Now you've done it,” she said.

  “Now I've done it? I did it? Listen, whose idea—"

  “And what did you think you were doing down there? The water was swirling around like crazy."

  “I was swimming up."

  “Oh, goodness. Up. It's only four feet deep here."

  “O.K., I was fighting an octopus. What you think I was doing? Down there laughing?"

  She sighed. “What a mess,” she said. “Where's the boat?"

  I told her what impossible thing she could do with that damnfool boat.

  She moved a little closer. She looked odd. She looked just like a bust floating over the water. “Damn, damn,” she said. “Oh-h, damndamn."

  Then silence fell between us. A pretty sticky silence. I heard the rumble of thunder. Lightning flashed—and then, the way it usually does, it suddenly started to rain. In ten seconds it was coming down like a waterfall.

  “Oh, it's raining,” Monique said.

  “That's a clever remark. Yeah, you're a very clever girl. Your conversation keeps opening up new vistas."

  “Oh, shut up."

  “It's raining, she says. Hell, it could be worse. We might be dry."

  “Oh, shut up."

  “Well, I suppose we could walk around and see if there's a way out of ... hey, I'm sinking."

  “I'm pretty stinking myself."

  “Look, stupid, I'm sinking. Going to sink."

  “Go ahead and sink."

  “Ah, Monique, don't talk like that. My feet are stuck in this muck—"

  “Oh, shut up."

  I seesawed around in the gunk underfoot and finally got up onto terra firma, or whatever the stuff was. “You ready?” I asked Monique.

  She wasn't speaking to me.

  We started slopping out. Oddly, my gun was still in its holster. That didn't surprise me. Nothing would ever surprise me. From now on I was Unsurprisable Shell Scott.

  Slop, slop, we went, and finally we were out. Nobody shot at us. We walked through the park to a road and caught a cab. The driver charged us extra for dripping.

  Monique came out of the shower. “You can use it now,” she said a bit frigidly. She was in a towel again.

  I went on in, undressed and stepped into the warm stream. This wasn't much of a hotel. When we'd come in, we hadn't looked very well-heeled, but we had our lodging for the night. I soaped up and showered, then went out into the one room, also wearing a towel.

  “Clothes are still wet,” I explained. Monique was sitting on the bed.

  She glared at me. “You weren't going to put them on, were you? You weren't going to run out on me! You're not going to get away with it!"

  “Don't get hysterical, I—"

  “You got me in the bathtub!” she shouted. “You got me in the boat! You got me in the lake—and you never got me!"

  I grinned at her. “Relax, honey. I'm not going anywhere."

  “You serious?"

  “Sure, I'm serious."

  She looked at me for a while, her face softening. “Well, that's better.” She raised a dark eyebrow; her tongue started to move around inside her cheek.

  I told her, “I'll admit I said some slightly—unfriendly things back there in the lake. But that ... sort of dampened my spirits. And we are no longer in the lake.” I paused. “So can't we be friends?"

  She moistened her scarlet lower lip, looked at me from heavy-lidded eyes, smiled slowly. “Maybe we can,” she said. Her fingers rumbled at her side, then she lifted her body from the bed, slid the towel free, sank down on the bed again.

  “At least,” she said, “we can try."

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke up suddenly, cold perspiration on my body, the sheet clammy beneath me. Sunlight streamed through the open window. Half awake, half asleep, I still could see shadowy figures
moving in the nightmare, fantastic and unreal, unearthly, as nightmare figures are.

  I had been looking into a sterile, gleaming laboratory filled with curved retorts and huge glass beakers and flickering Bunsen burners, and great vats filled with a slimy, molasses-like brew, a bubbling lava with tenuous, misty threads wriggling from its oily surface and floating through the air like writhing worms. Shaggy, misshapen apes reeled about the white and gleaming room, moving jerkily. The disembodied head of General Lopez hung in the steaming air, a jagged hole gaping from one bloody side, the gray brain hanging, Daliesque, from it to the floor.

  Dr. Buffington stood, twice as tall as life, in the center of his laboratory, bending down to peer at first one and then another of the apes, examine the pendant brain, stare at the bubbling vats. A tiny, doll-sized girl danced mechanically, clapping her hands and rolling her dark eyes, head rocking back and forth as if in time to a metronome. Buff lay silently in the corner of the room, her face bloodless, her staring eyes the solid white of boiled eggs.

  The apes moved jerkily, crashed into the tables, overturning them as glass shattered noiselessly in the total silence of my dream. The apes fell, one by one, and rolled and shuddered, then lay still, their bodies melting into black putrescence. The boiling vats melted to the floor, the slimy lava pouring endlessly. The gray brain twitched and writhed, pulsed slowly like a feeding snake.

  I sat up in bed, rubbed a hand across my cold forehead, and shuddered. Monique stirred restlessly beside me. I got up, washed and dressed, checked my .38 again. I'd cleaned it the best I could before going to sleep, and it was O.K. I awakened Monique.

  She blinked at me drowsily, stretched. “Oh-h, did I sleep!” She blinked some more and frowned slightly. “Hi. You look sort of sick."

  “I had a dream, a nightmare. Haven't snapped out of it yet, I guess. Look, I'm going to take off. You want anything to eat, or are you going to sleep some more?"

  She yawned. “Sleep, I guess. Where are you going?"

  “I don't know yet—but don't you go anywhere. I'll call you later.” I remembered there wasn't any phone. “I mean, I'll drop back when I can. I'll see you later, honey.” She nodded and I went out.

  While I grabbed some fried Vienna sausage with toast and coffee, I thought about what I'd do today. Last night's events had followed one another too quickly for me to fit them together into any real pattern. I was slowly coming wide awake and I felt good enough, my thoughts clear.

  How closely tied together the attempted murder of the General and the kidnapping of Dr. Buffington and his daughter were, I didn't yet know. But there was no longer any doubt in my mind that both events were the work of the same man or group—and that man or group was Communist. For quite a while I had wondered why the doctor would be kidnapped, taken forcibly, and held against his will. I thought of my dream. I remembered the doctor saying, “I refuse to let my brain father such a monster"; and my reply, “Hope nobody ever changes your mind, Doc."

  The memory of that nightmare clung to me, like a stain upon my thoughts, and I found myself becoming filled with an urgency to find the doctor—and Buff; a need to hurry. The other thing seemed almost unimportant now, but there was reason to believe if I found the doctor I'd also find the person or persons responsible for the movie of the Countess, and the General's “suicide.” Or conversely, if I found those responsible for the film, I'd find Doctor Buffington. It was a belief supported not only by logic but by Belchardo's part in both; the parts of the puzzle were too closely interwoven for simple coincidence.

  I thought of everything that had happened last night, and when I finished I knew, at least, where to start. There were four people who might conceivably be leads to the Doc and Buff. One, Belchardo, obviously; but I might never see him again, particularly after he'd recognized me at the General's. Two, Captain Emilio. The cop with the missing teeth had been almost uncannily handy when Belchardo had started to slug me outside Monte Cassino, and Belchardo had acted as if he knew he had nothing to worry about, knew that help was nearby. Three was the sadistic, smooth-faced Villamantes, who seemed the most important—and dangerous—of all. And fourth, a possibility, the bosomy cigarette girl who had sold me cigarettes and chatted with Belchardo in Monte Cassino.

  I gulped the coffee and left, bought a new suit and a cheap watch to replace my muddy and wrinkled gabardine and my muddy and inoperative watch, and added a lightweight trenchcoat. I phoned the Hotel del Prado and Buffington's rooms, but learned nothing new. Then I called the General's house. His wife answered.

  “Shell, Countess. Is everything all right?"

  “Yes.” She spoke softly. “But I—another one of those ... packages came this morning. By messenger. It was addressed to the General, but I took it and destroyed it. He was still asleep."

  “Has the General said anything about me? Any questions?"

  “No. Since last night there has been much to occupy his mind, but if he should learn I wanted you free because of the ... blackmail, there is no question; you would be returned to jail—and Captain Emilio has already phoned this morning."

  “Emilio? He's damned anxious. What did he want?"

  “He wished to speak to the General, but I spoke for my husband. The Captain wished only to know if there had been any change—concerning you. I assured him there had not been."

  “Did he phone before or after the package arrived?"

  “Afterwards, perhaps half an hour."

  “I see. Thanks, Countess. You take care of your end and I'll do what I can here. Is the General handy? If he is I'd like to talk with him a moment."

  She told me she'd get him. In a minute his deep voice said, "Bueno?"

  “This is Shell Scott, General Lopez. I wondered if everything was O.K., and I thought of a couple things to ask you."

  “Good morning, Mr. Scott. I have thought much of what you said last night. I will think more of it."

  “General, I have thought much, too. Is there anything else you can tell me about Culebra or the supposed Center?"

  “It is not supposed, Mr. Scott, that I know—but it is all I know. It exists. It is a kind of headquarters for this Culebra, and for others of the criminal conspiracy, but I know not where it is."

  “I'm reaching a long way for this one, General Lopez, but if I should somehow learn where that headquarters is, could I count on your help? I couldn't very well go to it by myself."

  “Of a certainty, Mr. Scott. If you recall what I said to you last night, you will be assured of my help. There are many loyal to me—and Mexico—who would also help."

  I remembered his words, and the cruel look on his face. “I just wanted to be sure. One other thing. You remember I wanted to talk with Villamantes last night. I still do. Can you tell me where to find him?"

  “His office is downtown on Juarez. Except for that address I do not know where he would be. If what you told me last night is true, it might be dangerous for you to see him."

  “I know.” He gave me the address and I wrote the number on a card, then hung up after he told me he would “exercise great caution” during the day.

  I checked, but neither Belchardo nor Emilio was in the phone book. After what had happened last night, it didn't seem wise for me to walk into the police station and ask for Captain Emilio. Doctor Buffington had disappeared while I was in jail, and I was convinced now that I'd been framed into jail, probably to have me out of the way when the Doc was snatched.

  So I called Amador. I got him out of bed and his words were at first punctuated by yawns. In a minute, after briefing him on what had occurred, I said, “So I need a check on this screwy cop, but if I go down there he might shoot me and claim I attacked him again. It could happen."

  “Yes. I think he liked those teeth. But I see what you mean, besides. You think he is in it, huh?"

  “Yeah, I'm almost positive. Is there some way you can check and see if there's anything else fishy about him? You've got the contacts. And I'd like to know where the bastard lives, some pl
ace I might get him alone."

  “Hell, I go down there, Shell. O.K. for me to go to the jail; I didn't hit him."

  “But you helped spring me."

  “What can he do? All the cops down there, I know good. Where I see you?"

  “How about your apartment?” It was now almost eleven a.m. “Say noon?"

  “Está bien. I see you. What you gonna do?"

  “I don't know for sure. Ask some questions. I'll see you at your place.” We hung up.

  I spent ten minutes and a few pesos at the Hotel Monte Cassino, got the cigarette girl's address—and name, Sarita—and by eleven-thirty was waiting for her to answer the door of her hotel room.

  I heard soft footsteps, and a "Momentito," then the huge knob of the door turned, the door was cracked, and her tousled black hair and one dark eye peeked out at me."

  “You may not remember me, miss,” I said. “I was at Monte Cassino last night with three others."

  “I think I remember."

  “You brought a note to the table."

  “Ah, sí. I recall. What do you wish?"

  “I'd like to talk to you, if it's all right."

  “Is all right. I am not dressed. Momentito."

  She left and in a little moment she called, “Is all right. You come in."

  I went in and shut the door. She apparently lived in one room with adjoining bath. There were two chairs in the room, a dresser, and a bed. She had jumped back under the covers before calling to me, and now she said from the bed, “You will excuse. It would take time to dress—and I sleep for much longer."

  “I'm sorry to bother you. It's very important."

  “Is no bother. Bring the chair.” She pointed.

  I pulled the chair up next to the bed and said, “It's about last night. I want to get in touch again with the man who gave you the note to bring me. Señor Belchardo."

  She reached behind her and pulled the pillow higher against the head of the bed, sat up a little straighter, holding the covers in front of her. Her black hair was loose and framed her face in a wild tangle, and her face had the typical striking Mexican beauty, with her own individual difference. The eyes were dark, almost black, the lips full and well-shaped, though unpainted. She had no makeup on, and still she looked good. Not sultry and glamorous as she had last night, but fresh and pretty. Of course, I couldn't see everything I'd seen last night. She was young, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two.