Pattern for Panic (12 page)

I learned what I could about Villamantes, but even the General didn't know much. He was supposed to have won a million pesos in the National Lottery a few years back, invested it wisely and made a pile, which he'd sunk into his successful import-export business. There had never been any scandal connected with him.

I said, “General, where was Villamantes when ... the disturbance occurred? And what did he do?"

“He sat by me on the couch.” That figured. “When the darkness came he got up and went toward the projector."

“Immediately?"

“Why ... I do not remember. I think so. What is this film? Why did it cause so much disturbance?"

“Never mind the film.” I was starting to get a little green myself.

“But it was stolen. This was verified by its absence from the machine. It is strange, this—"

“Don't worry about it,” I said rapidly. “The film's only incidental.” He was asking too damn many questions. And he was getting that puzzled look again, the same one he'd had on his chops during the Señora's explanation of my presence here. I tried to keep him talking, turn his thoughts in other directions.

“General,” I said, “I've good reason to believe Villamantes is a Communist, and knew there would be an attempt on your life tonight. You've got to take my word for it and guard against anything he might do."

He didn't say anything. I went on, “If he
is
a concealed member of the Party, you—as an expert—know that even experts can be fooled. The Communists have experts, too."

He was silent for a few moments, then said, “That is true. The Communist does not achieve anything
as
a Communist, of a certainty. It is only by posing as a non-Communist, and thus influencing true non-Communists, that he is effective.” He frowned. “I have seen much of this—it was evident in the false stories about my Natania."

He repeated what I had heard from Amador, about the smears against his Russian-born wife. Then he mentioned the many attacks upon himself, and went on: “Often these came from good and honorable men who had swallowed the lie which one would think un-swallowable: that it is not Communists who are dangerous, but anti-Communists. It is one of the insanities of our times, as if to say criminals are not dangerous, but those who apprehend criminals are."

“You're talking my language, General.” I pulled at my highball. “I've met some of those imbeciles."

“Ah, but often they are intelligent men, Mr. Scott—merely uninformed, ignorant of Red techniques. Or, more often, misinformed. The difficulty is that the Communists have mastered the use of propaganda, have repeatedly sold the lie while we have not even been able to sell the truth.” He shrugged. “These Reds, they are few in number compared to honest men, yes; but they are effective because they are all clever liars, and when the line comes to them from Moscow
they all lie at once.
One on the television, one in a school, one in a union meeting, one in a newspaper, one here, another there. One and one and one and one—but it is the total of them, and the direction of them all at the same time, from the Kremlin, which is the great danger. The order, the Party line, comes down: work for Red China in the United Nations, or a Summit meeting; or make black the name of a Rhee, a Batista, a McCarthy—or General Lopez; make acceptable a Mao Tse-tung, a Castro; harass and revile the men and committees exposing the conspiracy."

He waved a hand in the air. “Suddenly, all over the land, often from high places, the same cry is heard, over and over. Thus a few shouting all at once make a great noise—as if an entire nation speaks. And many are fooled by this noise."

I nodded, thinking of my conversation with Dr. Buffington. And that made me think of Buff. I wondered when my cab would get out here. I finished my drink and said, “The hell of it is, a lot of people swallow the propaganda and then start squirting it out their big mouths again."

“Yes, they add their own voices, making the shout even louder. But this would not happen, Mr. Scott, if they knew that what they are saying had come from Moscow. As you are aware, the Communists get this direction, the Party line, in their newspapers and Party magazines, in their secret meetings. But if the loyal persons knew the Party line as soon as do the Communists—if
our
newspapers would print an analysis of it weekly, if radio and television commentators would speak it—we non-Communists would not be so easily fooled."

I jerked my head around to look at him. The General had just tossed off, casually, a simple idea which could negate the most insidious propaganda of the whole Communist apparatus.

He was going on, still casually, “We would know
in advance
what the concealed Communists among us were preparing to shout and write. Not only would we thus be forewarned, but more—we soon could identify those persons in our country who continue to propagate the Red line, who follow with marvelous consistency each twisting and turning of Moscow's instructions. Soon, therefore, they would have to stop this truth-twisting, this attack upon our minds—or be identified by us."

It sank in slowly, but when it did it hit me hard.

I sat up straight. “General, do you know what you've just said? Man, you've got it. It would be like Mickey Mantle knowing what the next pitch was going to be—"

“Mickey Mantle?” The General looked puzzled.

I grinned. “I was thinking in baseball terms, General—but I get your point. Why, hell, it's beautiful. The Commies get the line every week, every day, and put it over on us because we
don't
know what the next move is. But if we
did
know—"

He waved a hand, smiling oddly. “Do not become so excited, Mr. Scott. Truly, it would help greatly to cripple the conspiracy—but I have tried long to get this done. I have met with newspaper editors here in Mexico, with men of radio and the television. I say to them: Give us loyal citizens the Communist line as soon as it is given the Communists, and it will become useless to them. Print it in your newspapers, speak it on your radio and TV.

Then we will know where they aim the Red knife before they can stick it in us, know their plans before they can act to fool us.” He paused. “Can you guess what occurred?"

I nodded slowly.

“
Sí,
nothing. But is it any different in your United States, Mr. Scott?"

I thought about it. Except for Louis Budenz' analysis, published weekly in Brooklyn's Catholic
Tablet,
to my knowledge there wasn't a single major U.S. newspaper which carried an expert summary of the Communist plan of attack—the current Party line—among the want ads, much less on its front page. “Nope,” I said. “No different."

“It will come, it must. In time. I have not stopped trying to accomplish this in Mexico, and I will not stop while I live.” He paused, and again it seemed that he was not looking at me, but at some spot far beyond me. He said, “I have had two love affairs, Mr. Scott, one with my wife, and one with my country. They are still my only loves. Mexico is ... like my flesh. I have watched it grow, and I have grown with Mexico. I am an
indio;
I was eleven before I wore my first shoes. Now I am General Lopez. I wish that Mexico should continue to grow, become more strong, more free. I wish my people all to have freedom, education, and food for their bellies. And we are achieving this, but the Communists will stop her if they are allowed to do it. There would be no freedom of mind or body, and hope would die; then Mexico would die,” He blinked, then came back to where I was. He smiled. “And I would not be General Lopez. The dead one, maybe."

That reminded me. I said, “About that forged suicide note, General. Who would know of the nicknames you and your wife have for each other?"

“I can think of no one. We rarely use them, except alone here.” He seemed slightly embarrassed by the thought of “General Toro."

“How about your servants?"

“I trust them. Two have been with me for many years, the cook and chauffeur. The maid not yet a year, but I trust her also."

“You trust Villamantes, too."

“Well...” He pursed his lips. “Yes, I see what you mean. But I cannot yet accept what you tell me."

“You don't have to. But Belchardo kind of meant to kill you."

He nodded. We talked a little longer and I learned some more about the so-called Culebra character whom nobody seemed to know except by reputation. He was also supposed to have a headquarters called simply
El Centro—
The Center—somewhere near Mexico City. It was as nebulous as the man. There were a number of conflicting rumors about both the man and the place, but the theme of death and cruelty and torture ran through them all. The Center was a house or mansion or old church or cave or God-knew-what, depending on the story, from which Culebra and other Party members carried on their work for the Kremlin. The headquarters was supposed to hide a printing press, paper supplies, inks, stencils, guns and ammunition, and was, as its name implied—so the story went, anyway—the physical center of the Communist conspiracy in Mexico.

The General told me, with that cruel look again on his face, that if he knew where it was he would take Army men, troops who were friendly to him, and loyal, and march upon it, destroy it completely.

He said, “Because of its great importance, I would level it to the ground. On my own initiative I would do this—and I believe I would be praised instead of reprimanded once the thing was irrevocably done."

“Troops—that sounds like war. General."

“But of course,” he said quietly. “Of course it is war."

I lit a cigarette. “General, you said something about men dying from the snakes, and this Culebra hiding behind the name of a serpent. What's all that?"

“His name, Culebra, means snake in my language. It was given him by those who know of him because at his headquarters, so it is said, he keeps deadly snakes, rattlesnakes."

My flesh crawled. I'm like anybody else; some things I enjoy and some I don't enjoy. There is absolutely no question about my feelings for snakes: I do not enjoy snakes.

I said, “Is the guy actually nuts enough to keep snakes around? He crazy?"

The General shook his head. “It is not that; perhaps he is a little crazy too. But this part is not crazy. It is said that he likes the ugly things, takes a twisted pleasure from them. But the important fact is that, of the men who opposed Culebra or attempted to betray him some have been found in the hills, dead from the bites of rattlesnakes. It is another accident, no? And who is to say the men were not accidentally bitten? If Culebra is crazy, he is also clever."

I swallowed. I don't like even talking about snakes. “That just another story, General?"

“I have seen the dead men, Mr. Scott, with the two little fang punctures in legs or arms. And perhaps others have not been found, and only their bones lie now against the ground."

We were quiet for a few seconds, then I heard the
libre
honk outside. I got up. “Thanks, General Lopez. Here's my cab."

He shook my hand and I left the room. The Countess met me and showed me to the door. I told her, “Listen, don't let him out of your sight; stick with him. Don't let anybody get next to him with a chance to slip him a copy of that film or any prints from it. If he lamps that, everything blows up."

“I know. I will try. I know how important it is."

“You got it, didn't you? He was supposed to see that film, then knock himself off. At least that's the way it was set up."

“Yes, I understand that; I do now. And I am terribly worried about him. This, tonight, it hurt my heart. That they would kill him—"

“Yeah."

Maybe the word, or the way I said it, sounded funny. I wasn't being sarcastic; my thoughts were down at the Prado. But she must have thought I was censuring her. She said, “It is true. Can you not believe that I love him? I do. Even though, with you, and the—"

“I know. Sure, I can believe it, Countess.” Hell, I was getting to the point where I could believe the moon was a meatball.

She stepped closer to me and put her hand on my shoulder, squeezed a little. “It is true. But at the same time I am sorry that ... you understand, the interruption. Perhaps—"

“Yeah,” I said, and left. I didn't even pat her fanny. The General seemed a nice enough guy, and I liked the old boy. But there was no point in making a big thing out of it, so I merely left her standing in the doorway and hopped into the waiting
libre.

“Hotel del Prado,” I told the driver. “See if you can hit a couple hundred kilometers an hour."

At the hotel, I went straight up to Buff's room. I knocked, and the door swung inward. It didn't have to mean anything. I went inside. In two minutes I knew. Buff was gone. A couple of chairs were tipped over. There was blood on the floor.

Chapter Ten

half an hour later I'd learned the gimmick. I had checked the Doc's room, too, but I hadn't expected to find anything and didn't. I looked around the hotel, the bars, and the lobby, then checked the desk. There I got the story. Why, yes, Señorita Buffington, she became ill. Of the ABC Hospital, the ambulance it came. An hour ago, perhaps more. From here the men took her on the stretcher. No, the desk had not called the ambulance; the call must have gone out from the room.

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.