Like A Hole In The Head (14 page)

     "I take it, Savanto has some sort of plan and I have to put a polish on it. Right?" I said.

     "More or less."

     "What's the plan?"

     "Diaz arrives at the Paradise City airport at 22.15 on September 27th. He will be travelling with four bodyguards. There will be a car at the airport to meet him. He and his bodyguards will drive along Highway 1. I have a marked map of the route. He will arrive at the Willington estate around 23.20. I have a map of the house and grounds. He will stay there for three days. Then he drives back to the airport and takes off. Mr. Savanto wants him knocked off here . . . not on his home ground : that would make too much of an uproar. So we have three days and two nights to nail him."

     "The Willington estate . . . what's that?"

     "It's where his new girl friend lives," Raimundo told me. "Nancy Willington. You've heard of her, haven't you?"

     "You mean Edward Willington's wife?"

     "That's the one."

     Edward Willington was the President of National Computers. He was always in the news. There were constant press photos of him shaking hands with the President, boarding his enormous yacht, getting into his Rolls and so on and so on. I remembered him as a tall, fat man around sixty-five years of age with a politician's smile and financier's eyes. He had been married three times and had married yet again a year or so ago to an eighteen-year-old model. The marriage had caused quite a newspaper yak. I hadn't paid much attention at the time, but the yak had been enough for me to remember.

     "Are you telling me Willington's wife is Diaz's new girl friend?"

     "That's it. They met when Willington took her with him on a business trip to Caracas. While he was making money, Diaz was taking Nancy around. Now Willington is going to Paris from September 26th to 30th. The big house is shut up. Nancy is supposed to be at the Spanish hotel until Willington comes back. There's a bungalow used for guests on the estate. That's where she is meeting Diaz."

     "How do you know all this?"

     Raimundo grinned.

     "We got at Nancy's coloured maid. She will be there to cook and clean while Diaz is screwing Nancy. Nancy told her the whole programme and she relayed it to me."

     "Let me look at the map of the estate."

     "Don't waste your time. I've been to the place and checked it. There would be no problem if he was on his own, but he isn't. His four boys are good. I don't say they are better shots than you, but they are good. They will be patrolling all the time." While he was talking, Carlo came out with a plate of sandwiches. "Eat something, soldier," Raimundo went on. "You don't have to worry about her." He was smart enough to read my thoughts. The sight of those sandwiches had turned my mind to Lucy who had been getting my lunch ready when I had left her. "When Mr. Savanto says someone is okay, you can believe it."

     "I want to talk to her on the telephone. You make the connection and let me talk to her."

He hesitated.

     "I've got to talk to her," I urged. "Maybe she is safe, but she doesn't know it. If Savanto wants the job done well, I've got to talk to her."

     He chewed his sandwich while he thought, then he nodded.

     "Makes sense to me. Just don't tell Mr. Savanto."

     He went into the house. I waited, my heart thumping. It was a five minute wait. To me it seemed like an hour, then he came to the door.

     "She's on the line."

     I went into the hot sitting-room and picked up the telephone receiver.

     "Lucy?"

     "Oh, Jay . . ."

     The sound of her voice, scared and unsteady, hit me under the heart.

     "Are you all right?"

     "Yes. Jay, what does all this mean?"

     "Don't worry about it. Are you being looked after?"

     "Oh, yes, but Jay ! I must know . . . what's happening?"

     "Don't worry. Trust me. I'll be with you in a few days. Just trust me . . ." I heard a click on the line and it went dead.

     Well, I had got some kind of message over. At least, she had told me she was all right. Of course she was scared, but now I hoped she would hang on, remembering what I had said.

     "Got that off your chest, soldier?" Raimundo asked. He was standing in the doorway, watching me.

I replaced the receiver.

"It helped."

     I returned to the verandah and sat down. I was now more relaxed and hungry. As Raimundo sat by my side, we both reached for sandwiches.

     "If I can't nail him on the estate where do I nail him?" I asked.

     "In around ten minutes you'll see." He chewed for a moment, then went on, "The Little Brothers are sending a witness who has to be convinced Timoteo did the shooting."

     "Who will that be?"

     Raimundo spat over the verandah rail.

     "Fernando Lopez. He is a big shot in the organisation and he hates Savanto. He's sure Timoteo hasn't the guts to knock Diaz off. It'll be your business to convince him."

     I didn't like the sound of this.

     "If he's going to stand over Timoteo while he shoots we can give up right now."

     "Mr. Savanto will be here. He won't let him stand over him. This is something we have to work out."

     I looked at him.

     "Just why are you getting involved in this? You're making yourself an accessory to murder."

     Raimundo fingered his jaw tenderly.

     "I don't see it that way. Mr. Savanto did me a lot of good when I was a kid. I owe him plenty." His black eyes hardened. "This has got to work, soldier."

     "So he tells me or my wife gets branded."

     "When it's done you'll be a rich man. Savanto keeps his promises. You'll only have yourself to blame if he puts the iron on her."

     I felt a cold chill crawl up my spine.

     "He will do it?"

     "He'll do it."

     He looked at his watch, then got to his feet and went into the house. He returned, carrying two pairs of 9 x 35 binoculars. He gave me one pair, then sat down, holding the other pair on his knees. "The bay ahead of you is part of Willington's private beach." Again he looked at his watch. "Take a look at the bay through the glasses and imagine you are going to shoot."

     As I picked up the glasses I heard the distant throb of a high- powered engine. I was focusing the glasses as I picked up a sleek motorboat as it came around the arm of the bay. I adjusted centre screw. The glasses were good. I now had the boat in focus. There was a fat negress wearing a white overall at the wheel. I saw the tow rope white against the blue of the sea and I shifted the glasses to the left.

     The girl on the skis was completely naked. Her slim, perfectly-built body was golden brown: her straw-coloured hair streamed out behind her. I moved the centre screw a little and she came sharply into focus. I could see her dark nipples and her taut arm muscles. She looked like a sea nymph as she skimmed over the water to the far end of the bay. There was an excited, laughing expression on her young face. The boat made a sharp turn. She jumped the tow rope with the ease and confidence of an expert, then she lifted a leg and skimmed along on one ski.

     She cavorted for some fifteen minutes: beautiful, exciting, sexy and thoroughly expert. Then the boat took her out of sight behind the row of palm trees that fringed the bay. I heard the motor splutter, then die.

     "That's her," Raimundo said, putting down his glasses. "Every day at this time she skis. Diaz is one of the top skiers in South America. It's a safe bet when he has screwed her enough, they will come out on that bay and show each other how good they are. Can you nail him from here?"

     I thought about this. The target would be moving fast and constantly changing direction. I thought of the 600mm. telescopic sight which would cut down the distance to maybe a hundred feet. It wouldn't be an impossible shot, but a tricky one. Then I thought what it would mean if I missed. I looked again at the Red Dragon brand on the verandah upright. I remembered the time when I had been high in a tree with a rifle equipped with a 300mm. sight. I had waited three long, hot hours for a sniper to show: a sniper who had done a lot of damage. My arms had become stiff and my eyes, in the glare, unreliable before he raised his head into sight. The range had been close on five hundred yards. I had a split second to kill him, but I had killed him. That was three years ago. My reflexes were that much slower, but I would have Diaz in my sights for half a mile. I would be shooting with a silencer. I would have at least six shots at him without him knowing he was being shot at.

     "It's a seventy-five-twenty-five chance on," I said. Will she perform tomorrow?"

     "Every day at this time."

     "I'll know for sure when I've looked at her through the telescopic sight." I stood up. "I'm going back to get Timoteo's rifle."

     Raimundo squinted up at me.

     "You want me to come with you, soldier?"

     "I won't run away."

     He nodded.

"Go ahead."

     It took me a little over thirty-five minutes to get back to the place I called my home. During the drive I thought of Lucy. I thought of the first night we had spent together. Unlike most girls these days she had been a virgin. I remembered her little gasp of pain as I had entered her and I remembered her gentle hands holding my head. I remembered the next three months when she had always been dithering but encouraging. I remembered her saying:
I
am a
little scared of you. I do see you have to
be tough and hard if
you are
to succeed, but please try not to be tough
and hard with
me.

     To get her back I had to kill a man. But who was Diaz Savanto? He had shown himself to be an animal. He had raped and branded a girl who was probably as harmless as Lucy.

     As I drove up the sandy road that led to the shooting school, I saw the gates were open. As I neared the bungalow I saw the red and blue Buick convertible that belonged to Detective Tom Lepski of Paradise City's police headquarters.

* * *

     I slid out of the car, my heart thumping and I looked around. There was no sign of Lepski. I walked to the bungalow. The front door stood open. I entered the sitting-room. The table was laid for a meal. I went into the kitchen. On the stove was a frying pan with slices of ham, a saucepan of peas and another saucepan of water with a cup of rice near by. I walked into our bedroom. It was as I had left it. I looked into Lucy's closet. Her clothes were there. Nothing seemed missing.

     I had a feeling of utter loneliness. This was the first time I had come home and not found her waiting for me.

     I left the bungalow and headed for the shooting gallery. I had an idea I would find Lepski there. I was right. As I approached, he appeared in the doorway of the lean-to.

     His cold quizzing eyes met mine.

"Hi ! I was going to put in an alarm about you."

I forced myself to meet the probing stare.

"Alarm? What do you mean?"

"I found this place deserted. I thought something was wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. What brings you here, Mr. Lepski?"

     "I was passing. I promised Mrs. Benson a recipe for a chutney my old lady used to make. Where is she?"

     I was sure he had been in the house, had seen the preparations for the meal and had sniffed around as only a trained cop can sniff around.

     "I've just seen her off. A friend of hers is ill. We had a panic call."

     "That's tough." He shook his head. "When I got here and looked around it was like another Marie Celeste."

     "Another . . . who?"

     He looked a little smug.

     "The ship that was found deserted: meals on the table . . . no one aboard. I'm a
Reader's Digest
subscriber. They tell you stuff like that. When I got here, found the front door open, the table laid for a meal, the meal on the stove, no sign of life . . . it got me bothered."

     "Yeah, we had this panic call. We dropped everything and ran."

     "A friend of your wife's?"

     "That's right."

     He eyed me.

     "Who won?"

I gaped at him.

"Come again."

"What was the fight about?"

I had forgotten my bruises and the cut under my eye.

     "Oh, nothing. I got into an argument. I guess I flip my lid from time to time."

     "Some argument." He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away from me. "Your telephone isn't working." His eyes swivelled back to me.

     "It isn't?" I began to fumble for a cigarette, then changed my mind. That sort of move tells a cop he's making you nervous. "One minute it works, the next it doesn't. You know how it is when you're as far out as we are."

     "The line's been cut."

     The back of my throat was turning dry.

     "Cut? I don't understand that."

     "It's been cut."

     "Some kid . . . Kids around here are hell. I'll get it fixed. I had no idea."

     "Do you usually walk out of your home leaving the front door open?"

     I was getting fazed with these questions. I decided it was time to stop him.

     "If it doesn't worry me, why should it worry you?"

     Lepski's face hardened. He became all cop.

     "Folk who are that careless make a lot of work for the police. I'm asking you : do you usually walk out of your house and leave the door open?"

     "I guess so. We're miles from anyone. We often sleep with the door open."

     He regarded me, his eyes bleak.