"Sorry, sir, we have absolutely nothing without a prior reservation."
"I see," Durell said. "Then would you have a reservation scheduled for tomorrow evening in the name of Miss Deirdre Padgett?"
The clerk looked toward a winding, surrealistic staircase to a filigreed balcony above. A tall blonde woman was up there, talking to a dark-haired man in a dinner jacket. There were not many people in the lobby, but they all bore the same stamp: a deep tan, a haziness about the eyes from too much liquor and rich food, a poised and assured air of speaking and carriage. The clerk jerked his eyes back from the blonde woman above.
"Just a moment, sir. I'll see."
He slid out of the plush doughnut desk and walked up the airy staircase as if he wanted to run. He spoke to the blonde. She looked down at Durell. Her eyes were pale, either gray or blue, he could not tell which. Her oval face was darkly tanned, and her lipstick looked orange in the subdued lobby light. The handsome dark-haired man said something quickly and turned away. The blonde woman nodded to the desk clerk. Durell felt someone watching him and looked around and saw only a small, old Mexican in a red jacket and white trousers, a bellhop waiting for the new suitcase he had just purchased. He looked at the balcony again. The blonde, staggeringly beautiful, looked angry, like an annoyed goddess. The desk clerk all but tumbled down the filigreed staircase again.
"Yes, sir. I find we can accommodate you."
"Is that Miss Neville?"
"Why, yes, sir."
"You didn't answer my other question. About Miss Padgett."
"I'll check, sir."
"I thought you checked with Miss Neville."
The clerk was sweating, although the air in the lobby was pleasant and perfumed. "Just one moment."
When Durell looked up at the balcony, Cora Neville had vanished. The clerk consulted a file of extravagantly engraved cards, or pretended to consult them. Then he bobbed his head. "Yes, sir. A reservation exists for Miss Padgett, of Washington, D.C., for tomorrow. Is she a friend of yours, sir."
"Yes, indeed."
"Your cottage is number Twenty-three. I hope you will be comfortable."
Service at the Salamander was supplied by Mexicans, and the elderly bellhop, whose name was Miguel, took Durell's suitcase while a smart young man parked Durell's rented car and a liquid-eyed girl smiled and turned down the coverlet on his bed. He ordered ice and a bottle of bonded bourbon and a sandwich, and when all this had been quietly and quickly delivered, he took a hot shower and ate the sandwich and had a quick drink.
Yet he felt he was not alone.
He turned out the lights and adjusted the slats of the blinds and sat still in the darkness, smoking, finishing his second drink. His nerves felt stretched to the breaking point. Ahead, through the hours, there seemed to be nothing to do but wait.
He got up and went outside and stood in the cool desert air, in the deep shadow of the oleander bush beside the cottage door. There was nothing to see. The nearest cottage, of which only a corner was visible down the curving path, was in darkness. He walked around the small stuccoed building, looking at the dark shrubbery. Nobody was there.
But he was watched.
The bourbon had not helped. His nerves still hummed. He stretched out on the bed in the dark and tried to sleep. He could not sleep. Somewhere nearby was Calvin Padgett, alone as he was alone, maybe frightened, certainly confused. In his head, a knowledge of the stars in their courses, and a change in the heavens to be made within about forty hours. Not much time. Durell tossed and turned. He was here, but Deirdre was not here, and nothing could flush Padgett from his hiding place until the girl arrived. If she arrived. If she wasn't dead by now. He hoped she had sense enough to talk just enough to make them bring her out here. There was nothing he could do about it, though, except to wait. And hope.
Something occurred to him. He could take Larabee's word for it that Calvin Padgett was not hidden at the Salamander. Then how did Padgett expect to know when his sister arrived? She was due tomorrow — no, this evening. How would Padgett know about it? Durell sat up, his nerves suddenly tight. Somebody would have to tell Padgett, wherever he was hiding, that his sister had arrived. Assuming Deirdre had told him all of the truth, and there was nothing more prearranged between sister and brother. But you had to assume that. And if so, then someone here knew where Padgett was hiding. Someone here was watching the register, waiting for Deirdre to check in. Not just Larabee's men, either. One of the staff? Or Cora Neville? He felt impatient for daylight, for the day to begin, so that he could check. He wanted to meet Cora Neville. He wanted to look over the staff. All right. Somebody here knew where Calvin Padgett, the most wanted man in history, was hiding.
And somebody was watching him.
The feeling was so strong that again Durell got up and took his gun and stepped outside to circle the cottage. Nobody. Nothing. A dry breeze made the palm fronds rustle and clack. He went inside and turned on the lights and opened the closet doors and looked in the shower stall. No one. He went back to bed.
To wait for Deirdre's arrival, if she ever got here, meant an intolerable delay. Time was too precious, running out too fast. He could not just sit here and wait. He had to force something to happen. He knew that his inquiry about Deirdre had started something back there in the lobby. He wondered about the man who had been with Cora Neville. This was a lever that Larabee, with all his security organization, had not possessed on his previous check of this place. Larabee had not known about Deirdre Padgett. The fact that there actually was a reservation for Deirdre gave Durell a sudden new hope. He knew he would not have to wait for her arrival. Something was going to happen sooner than that.
And then suddenly he was asleep.
When he awoke, he sensed at once that someone else was in the room.
He did not move. He held his breath.
The dim stirring sound came to him. He had an awareness of an hour, perhaps two, having passed. He was surprised at the suddenness with which he had slept. He tasted the bourbon in his mouth. He listened.
The cottage consisted of the bedroom, the living area, and a peach-tiled bath. Darkness prevailed when he opened his eyes. Someone moved softly in the living area beyond the door. He heard a faint click. It was the catch on his suitcase. Still he did not move.
Now he heard breathing, short and quick, anxious and a little fearful. He slid his hand under the pillow and closed his fingers around his gun. He felt better. He liked this. He was eager to see who the intruder might be. But he took his time about moving.
The sounds of the search went on, muted, woven through the dry clacking of the palm fronds in the desert wind outside. Everything else was still. Durell slid from the bed to his feet and reached the door. And the sounds stopped.
"Hold it," Durell said. "Just as you are."
He snapped on the light switch. It was almost a fatal mistake. In the prompt brilliant glare, he was blinded. There was a blur of movement as someone darted toward the cottage door. He almost fired. Sharply he said, "Alto!"
It was the old Mexican, Miguel, who had carried his bags.
His suitcase stood open on the couch, the new shirts he had bought tumbled about. The old man stood still and trembled. He had a thick gray mustache, thick gray hair. The trim little red jacket he wore looked undignified for his years.
"Senor, por favor…"
Durell spoke quietly in Spanish, to put him at ease. "Come back here. Sit down. You will not be harmed."
"It was a mistake, señor. I beg of you, it was a mistake."
"We will see. Sit down."
The old man's eyes touched Durell's gun, scurried over Durell's face, and he sat down stiffly, uncomfortably, embarrassed to be seated in the cottage on the fine furniture. Durell lit a cigarette, poured some bourbon, and drank it, letting the silence build upon itself while the old man's nervousness grew. Great beads of sweat stood out on Miguel's fiat brow, on the fine, sunburned planes of his old face.
"Tell me about you
r mistake," Durell said.
"I forgot myself. I am an old man. I thought this cottage was not occupied. I was looking for — something."
Durell smiled. "Go on."
"I cannot go on."
"You are a poor liar, Miguel."
"Yes."
"You should not have been entrusted with this mission."
"I did not desire it, señor. I am not a thief."
"Who sent you to search my things?"
"There has been much searching and looking, much police activity in the past two days. It is nothing new."
"But you are not the police," Durell said. "Who sent you?"
The old man shivered. He closed his eyes. He sat with his hands on his knees, his shoulders bowed. Yet there was a dignity in him that came through the red monkey jacket, the slick white trousers, the polished black shoes. The dignity was in his work-worn hands, the lined face, the dark eyes that had seen so much.
"You must tell me," said Durell, "or I shall go to the management with my complaint. To Miss Neville."
"No, please! Not to her!"
"Why not?"
"I will be discharged," Miguel said slowly. "Are you also from the police? When I carried your suitcase, it was too light for a traveler. And your clothing is not the sort of clothing one wears in the desert. You have come from far away, suddenly, without preparation."
"You are an astute man," Durell said, nodding.
"But I wanted to be certain. I did not trust my thinking. I had to see for myself, with my own eyes. You are of the police, señor?"
"No," Durell said. "Not of those you have seen here before. Why should you be interested in me, whatever my clothing or luggage?" When the old man did not answer, Durell stood up, pretending impatience. "Come along. We will go to see Miss Neville."
"At this hour? It is three o'clock. She will be very angry."
"I, too, am angry," Durell said. "You are stupid. If you would trust me, we might each accomplish our mission successfully. Since you do not, we shall see what Miss Neville has to say."
The old man seemed about to speak, then was silent. He stood up as if he was tired in every bone of his old body. Durell was disappointed. He had suddenly been sure that Miguel was the contact Padgett had hoped to use to reach his sister when she arrived. If she arrived. But it was too much to hope for. Maybe the old man was merely a petty thief. He certainly was not working with Cora Neville, or acting under her direction. His reluctance to be taken to face her was genuine.
Durell slid his feet into his shoes and let the old Mexican precede him from the cottage. Overhead, the desert stars glittered and gleamed. The stars in their courses, unchanging, eternal, he thought. Not any more. His shoes grated on the fine gravel of the winding path that led past other dark cottages. There were lights still on in the central building of the Salamander layout, but only from the tall glass doors of the stone lobby entrance and one other window, which was partly shaded, on the third floor in the rear. The wind felt cold.
Durell halted. "Does Miss Neville live here all the time, Miguel?"
"She has a ranch in the Tiengas Hills. It is about twenty miles from here." The old Mexican's voice was suddenly harsh. "But that is her apartment, up there with the lighted window at the balcony you see. She is there now. With Senor West, no doubt."
"West?"
"He is the manager of the Salamander, but he is more than that to Miss Neville. Perhaps I should not say it, señor. It is not my business."
Durell said abruptly, "I understood she was in love with a young man named Calvin Padgett."
The name seemed to hang on the edge of the desert wind. There was a silence. Durell waited.
Miguel said, "Yes. He has been here several times."
"Then you know him?"
"He is a good young man."
"Do you know of his sister?"
Miguel's eyes were liquid white in the dark shadow of the shrubbery where they had halted. His breath made a soft hissing sound. "Senor, do not ask anything of me. I am a simple man. I do not understand all this. I have a feeling you may be a friend, but I cannot trust my feelings in this matter. I must do what I am told."
"Then you know where Calvin Padgett is?"
"The police also asked me that. I told them nothing. To them I am an ignorant old Mexican."
"But I am asking you. For Padgett's sister."
"I can tell you nothing."
"Would you consider Miss Neville a friend of Padgett's?"
The answer was sharp and vehement. "No, señor. Never. Whatever the young man hopes, she is not for him. She is a snake, she is a sorceress. She is all evil. But he cannot be advised in this, for he will not believe such things about her."
Durell drew a deep breath. He looked up at the lighted window. There was no one else in sight at this hour, anywhere on the lavishly landscaped grounds of the Salamander. The wind whimpered in the shrubbery, rattled the palm fronds, blew sand from the crouching desert.
"Will you tell Calvin Padgett of me?" Durell asked.
"I cannot, señor. I do not know where he is."
"But you are his friend."
"I talk too much, and it is the babbling of an old man. I am sorry if I misled you, señor. I cannot help you find him."
Durell looked sharply at the old Mexican. He thought Miguel was lying, but he could not be sure. He had come fast and hard, this far; now suddenly the old man was blocking him. He had accomplished much more than Larabee in his two days of search; but he'd had the advantage of knowing about the contact set up with Deirdre.
"Why did you search my room, Miguel? I ask you again."
"I was curious about you because at the desk when you registered you inquired about a reservation for the Senorita Padgett. I was curious, but it was a mistake."
Durell nodded. He had guessed right about the reason for his progress. "Miss Neville did not send you?"
"No, señor, I swear it."
Somewhere, Durell thought, he had slipped. He had almost won the old man's confidence, but now Miguel had retreated, guarding his answers, standing hunched in the cold night wind. Maybe Miguel was on the other side of the fence. He told himself to take nothing for granted.
"All right, Miguel. You can go now."
"Senor, I am in your debt for not reporting me."
"Go along."
The old Mexican bobbed his head and shuffled away out of sight. Durell watched him go. He looked up at the bright stars again and was annoyed because he shivered. Then, when he was sure he was alone, he turned toward the main building of the Salamander. It was time to push another button to make things happen.
Chapter Eleven
He moved like a shadow, like a stalking panther, like a falling leaf. In ten minutes, by means of an outside stairway, a dimly lighted, scented corridor, and another stairway, he stood in the darkness of the balcony that was not quite darkness, slitted by the light through the Venetian blinds of Cora Neville's window. Voices moved out to him on the whimpering desert wind. The intensity of their anger touched him through the woman's voice and he stood like a shadow among the other balcony shadows, looking into the apartment within.
He saw a bedroom, elegantly feminine, pink and gold and ivory and ebony. A huge swan bed, Florentine mirrors, gilt Renaissance tables, delicate chairs. Mirrors that Hashed and winked and reflected the scene a score of times over, at intricate angles and perspectives.
Cora Neville sat at a vanity table, studying her blonde erotic beauty. From the waist up she was nude, and around her swelling hips was a slithered heap of silk, nothing more. Her nakedness did not seem to be a conscious matter with her, or designed to gain any overt reaction from the man who was with her. The man was the general manager of the Salamander, George West, tall and lithe, with a dark face and darker rage, who moved in the room with an intimacy that made their relationship clear at once, the intimacy of husband and wife, or lovers long grown domestic with each other.
Durell watched and wondered.
They were not speaking in English. They were using German. Durell had learned German well when he had been with Lew Osbourn in Cologne.
"…nothing to be done. Better to know where he is, so he can be watched."
"It is an unnecessary risk!"
"George, you are losing your nerve." The woman's face was lovely and cold and full of hate.
The man walked across the room and put his hands on the woman's shoulders, looking at her reflected in all ihe mirrors. His hands were casual, intimate, stroking her body. The woman looked at him with nothing at all in her gray eyes. But her shoulders shrank a little, and the man felt her shrinking under his hands, and he smiled.
"Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he comes from the sister, after all."
"Please, George."
He said something in another language, not German. Durell thought it was Czech. He did not understand it. He stood blended with the shadows in the wind on the balcony, frustrated. They had been talking about him and about the woman's decision to let him have a cottage here. The man was dubious. Durell looked more closely at the man, his wide forehead, thin nose, slitted mouth, dark hair. In his early forties, built like a bull, hard and tanned, with black glowing eyes. He had moved away from the half-naked woman. His anger deepened his scowl. Now suddenly they spoke in English.
"Cora, we must not make a mistake about this. If I am successful, you will be rid of me for good and always."
"That will be nice," the woman said dryly.
"You will not betray me, darling, or your life as you know it will be at an end. Must I repeat what will happen to you if our liaison of the past years becomes known to the authorities?"
"You've said it often enough. I know that you are low enough to destroy me."
"Strong enough. Put it that way. We must find Calvin Padgett. Surely he will contact you soon. When the sister arrives, you must be alert."
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