Pattern for Panic (15 page)

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 place 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.

She said, “I remember you well now. You purchased cigarettes from me. Your eyes were bold.” Her voice sounded as if she were trying to sell me more Belmonts.

“Yes, that, uh ... the man?"

She shook her head. “I do not know him, I have seen him before, I think, but I do not know who he is."

“It's urgent that I see him. If you could give me any idea where he might be—"

“I am sorry, but I do not know who he is. Nor where I might have seen him before. I go with the cigarettes to other nightclubs, perhaps at another I saw him. I do not know."

“He gave you the note..."

“
Sí.
He gave me it, and some money, asking me to pass to you the note at exactly six o'clock."

“But you said the note was for the girl."

She frowned. “Is true. I did only what he asked. What is the matter with it?"

“Well, I wound up in jail last night."

“I know. You fight with him, no? I hear of it. He was not very nice."

“Yeah. I fought the whole police force. And a funny thing. I bought some cigarettes, Belmonts, from you. When I got to the police station, the Belmonts were marijuana. How would that happen?"

Her frown deepened. “You are joking.” Then her face brightened and she laughed. “How funny. You are making a joke."

“I am not making a joke."

“Then you are crazy.” She spoke more sharply, black eyes narrowing. “What is it you come here for? To find a man, or to speak cruel things to me? I do not know what you talk about. I think I do not like you any more."

“Miss, I don't enjoy saying cruel things. But the cops found the marijuana on me, in a Belmont pack."

“Then you got it from another. Maybe you are a dope-head. How do I know? I am tired of talking."

“Miss, a number of unpleasant things have happened to me in the last few hours. If you should not tell me the truth, it could—"

“
Caramba!
You tell me I am lying?” If eyes could flash fire she'd have burned me to a crisp. She forgot about holding the covers, and bounced straight up in bed, spitting words at me. The covers fell to her waist but for a moment she was too angry to think about that.

How can I keep her mad? I thought. Think of something infuriating! But hell, I knew now she was telling me the truth. She wouldn't lie. She had an honest face.

“Dog!” she spat. “I do not lie with you."

That, I thought unhappily, seemed certain now.

“I tell to you the truth! Go away! Out of the door, go!"

I guess I was looking at her with a simple, half-pleased expression on my face, because suddenly she snatched the covers and yanked them up in front of her. She almost flipped them over her head. Then she pressed them under her chin and said a whole mess of things at me in Spanish which, even though I didn't understand them, made me sad.

“Whoa, wait, simmer down. Honey, look. Wait.” I held my hands in front of me and finally the words slowed and stopped. She glared at me. I stood up.

“I'll leave now, but—"

“Good!"

“—but first I want you to know I
had
to ask these questions. I've been shot at a couple times lately, certain people have a large desire to kill me, and I'm merely trying to learn enough so I can stay alive. There's more, but believe me, I had to find out if you could help. Thanks, and I'm sorry.” I turned around and walked to the door.

I had my hand on the big doorknob when she said, “One moment. It is true? Your life has been shot at?"

I turned around. “Is true. They almost hit it."

Her eyes flashed that fire again, momentarily, as she said, “You are not lying with me?"

I grinned. “No.” I tapped the Band-Aid on my neck.

She moistened her lips. “Is different. And I am not angry for what you thought of me. If I see this man, I will tell you. Tonight I am at Monte Cassino again."

“Fine."

“Goodbye, then. How do you call yourself?"

“I call myself Shell Scott, Sarita."

She smiled slowly. The covers drooped, slid down a little farther. Not as much as before. Enough. I was still holding onto that little bit of doorknob. I turned it, opened the door, and made myself go out.

The cab driver let me out at the corner of Juarez and Luis Moya, half a block from Villamantes' office. The sun was shining, as it usually does mornings during the rainy season, and the street was alive, brilliant with color. Far down on San Juan de Letran the steel skeleton of a new skyscraper reared high in the crisp air above the other buildings. An old, brown-faced woman sat on the sidewalk around the corner on Luis Moya Street with her wicker basket of tortillas, calling
"Grandes ... grandes,"
in a high, cracked voice. On Juarez another woman, like a twin to the first, squatted on her haunches beside a small metal pan filled with chestnuts, fanning hot coals beneath the pan to keep the chestnuts sizzling.

I walked past sidewalk tables and stalls loaded with bright silver jewelry, necklaces, rings, hammered cigarette cases, pins and charms, maracas with the death of the brave bull painted on them. At one stall the salesman haggled over the price of a tooled-leather wallet with a well-dressed tourist carrying a rainbow-colored serape, a miniature camera hanging from his neck. A dozen times in the half block I walked, I passed men or women or children selling the inevitable lottery tickets. Ten million pesos was the top prize this time, eight hundred thousand U.S. dollars. A young Mexican took my picture and handed me a printed ticket. A parrot squawked in one of the stores, and a cat inside the entrance dozed at the edge of the sun. It was a lovely morning, brisk, bright with color, one of those days when it's enough just to be alive.

Villamantes' office was in the Edificio Real in the middle of the block. I walked past a blind man holding a card of Gillette razor blades before him, went inside to the elevator. At the third floor I walked down to number 18 and stopped before the door.
Villamantes: Exportadora e Importadora, S.A.

I went inside.

Chapter Twelve

There were two desks in the room—one inside the door, one in the corner on my left. A young Mexican man sat at the far desk scribbling on some papers. In the back wall near him was a closed door with a plain frosted-glass window. I stopped inside the entrance. A woman about forty years old, with a face like a prune biting a lemon, sat behind the desk. She glanced up, adjusted rimless glasses and looked at me.