Read Pattern for Panic Online

Authors: Richard S. Prather

Pattern for Panic (10 page)

BOOK: Pattern for Panic
4.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

She turned toward me, a cool finger covering my lips. “Shhh.” She moved against me, slipped lower on the divan, her head against my shoulder. “Is it so bad?” she asked me.

“No. Not at all."

“Do you mind?"

“Not—well, no."

“Then quiet, Shell. Quiet."

She sighed, moved slightly, pulled my hand farther over her shoulders. My fingertips touched the swelling softness of her breast, felt the heat of her body. Her fingers slid up the back of my hand, gently squeezed my wrist, and pulled my hand down to cup a full warm mound. She strained her body forward, pressing the soft, silk-covered flesh into my palm. She wasn't wearing a brassière.

“Finish your drink,” she whispered.

I swallowed what was left of my rum and she took the glass from my hand, put it on the floor. Then she leaned her back against me, pulling my arms around her. On the wall, the man returned. A minute passed in silence. The Countess moved against me, turned to face me. In the dim light I saw her hands go to her shoulders, fumble there, then like a shadow the gray dress moved down over her shoulders, was still for a moment; then slowly the shadow melted from the globes of her breasts and gathered in the darkness at her waist. Her hands took mine and pressed them against her flesh, and then her fingers touched my cheek, my lips. Her hand moved on my thigh as I put my arm around her and drew her to me.

She came toward me easily, lifting her head, and I felt the warmth of her breath on my face, smelled the faint perfume of her, then her lips were on mine, hot and moist, writhing, clinging wetly, devouring my mouth.

I thought I heard a bang. A kind of slamming sound. The film clicked through the projector, slapped as the end came free, and white light flashed against the wall. The room became brighter. I'd forgotten the projector. I wondered what I'd heard, or thought I'd heard.

The Countess was breathing audibly, her breasts heaving.

She said, “Did you hear something?"

“What?"

“Something slamming? In the house?"

“I thought I did."

“It must have been the door. Oh, God."

“The door?"

“Yes. Oh, God."

“Huh?"

“My husband is home."

“Hus-hus-husband?"

And then I heard the footsteps pounding down the hall, enormous, perfectly fantastic footsteps, like King Kong striding smack at us, clump, clump, clump.

“Oh, God,” I said. And I thought: Scott, you
fool,
you!

Chapter Eight

The countess was getting back into her dress one hell of a lot faster than she'd gotten out of it. I was sitting there with my mouth open. King Kong was getting closer.

The footsteps really couldn't have been so very loud, but at that moment it seemed they were right inside my head.
Clump, clump.

They stopped outside the door. I fumbled on the floor for my glass wondering if I should say, “Ah, hello, old sport; just having a spot of rum.” And then the clumping started again and the monster moved on down the hall. I heard, very clearly, a door open and close nearby.

“You sure that was your husband?"

“Yes. He walks heavily."

Walks heavily? I thought. He must have been out there jumping up and down. Hell, Scott, pull yourself together; he's only a man, like you. Well, anyway only a man. He can't hurt you. You're tough—and smart. Yeah, oh, boy, am I smart. One thing was sure, I was in a hell of a shape. I could hear the General moving around in the next room. Thin walls, very thin. Well, that settled that.

“Ah, Countess,” I said. “Sweet.” I cleared my throat. It felt as if it had grown together. “Well, guess I'll run along."

“Damn,” she said.

The projector was still going clickety-click, and I started to tell Señora Lopez it might be pretty clever of her to turn the fool thing off and hide it, and then there was an odd noise from the next room.

The Countess swung her head around as I straightened up. It sounded like scuffling, banging, then there was a hoarse shout. Right after that there was a soft thump, like somebody falling.

The Countess put her hand on my arm. “Shell, that—something's wrong."

She started toward the door. I passed her on a run, yanking out my .38, jerked open the door and ran down the hall to the next door, slammed it open and jumped inside.

The light partially blinded me for a moment, after the dimness where I'd been, but I saw the two men near a big desk, the General seated in a chair, slumped loosely, his head hanging forward; and the other man holding the General up by the collar, a big automatic in his right hand. The automatic was pointed at the General's temple.

I started to flip my gun toward the guy just as the Countess ran up behind me, crashed into me, then let out an enormous scream right in my ear. I shot a hole in the carpet.

The guy swung around, flipping his automatic toward us and letting go of the General's coat. I had caught my balance and all I had to do was pull the trigger and plug him, but when I saw his face it jarred me enough to freeze my index finger for a moment.

The General slowly toppled to the floor.

It was just blind luck—that and the man's obvious shock and fright—that he didn't kill me then. He fired twice, the automatic bucking in his hand, but both bullets smacked into the wall near me. He broke and ran toward wide picture windows only partly open on my left. I snapped one shot at him and missed a yard, then steadied myself as he leaped through the air with his hands in front of his face. I pulled the revolver onto his back and squeezed the trigger just as he burst through the window in a shower of splintered glass fragments. Then he was gone. I might have hit him, but I couldn't be sure.

“Douse the lights!” I yelled to the Countess, but she either didn't hear me or it didn't mean anything to her. I ran after the guy, shoved the window wide and went through it, making a lovely target with the light behind me, and dropped flat on the ground. I heard him running. I ran toward the sound, but after half a dozen steps a car engine growled nearby and then roared; tires squealed as the car left in a hurry, the sound fading.

I stopped running. And now that the action was over I wondered about that face I'd recognized, wondered what the hell
his
being here meant. Because the guy who had just gotten away was also the slob who'd started me on my way to the can—my pal, the Latin Hemingway.

I didn't get anywhere trying to puzzle out why the guy who'd leered all over Buff at the Monte Cassino would now turn up here holding a gun at the General's head, so I went back to the house to see if General Lopez was alive.

When I climbed through the window, the General was still sprawled on the floor and the Countess was kneeling over him, mumbling, almost crying. I knelt beside him and felt for his pulse; it was strong. He was breathing heavily.

“He's O.K.,” I said. I felt for the lump on his head and found it just over the hairline. “Sapped. He'll be good as new in a minute, except for a sore head. A cold rag would help. And anything you've got for a bad headache."

She left the room, but the General moaned and started coming out of it before she came back. When she brought the cold rag I had her mop him with it while I looked around. There were drapes at the sides of the windows, so I pulled them together, then went back to the desk. It was bare except for a phone and a piece of white paper with pen-and-ink writing on it. I looked the paper over, but it was all in Spanish, so I couldn't read more than a word or two. It looked like a letter with “Nana” as the salutation, and “Toro” as the signature.

I asked the Countess, “You know anybody named Nana? Or a Toro?"

She looked up, eyes widening. “Why, Nana is a kind of pet name for me—my name is Natania. My husband calls me Nana. And I often call him Toro.” She paused, flushing slightly. In Spanish,
toro
means bull. She went on, “It is a pet name, from his name, Torres. You know, a pet name. Why?” She seemed a bit flustered.

I handed her the paper. “Here's something that was on the desk. Hope it isn't private, but I can't read it anyway. If it's anything that might help, I'd like to hear it, though."

She looked at it, then frowned, staring at me. “Why, this is silly,” she said. “It ... here, I'll read it to you. ‘Nana—you will know, and understand, why I do this, why I must do this. Forgive me, as I forgive you.' And it's signed, Toro.' I don't understand."

“I don't get it either.” And I didn't for a good five seconds. Then, naturally, I got it. It was a suicide note—and the General sure as hell hadn't been committing suicide when we'd barged in here.

“Countess—” The General moaned again and I started over—"Señora Lopez, does that look like your husband's handwriting?"

She frowned at the note. “Why, yes, I'd say it was his."

“Who knows your pet names for each other besides you and the General himself?"

“Nobody that I know of. It's—a private thing. What do you mean?"

“Let's talk to the General.” He was still on the floor, but he'd started blinking his eyes. He mumbled something. In a few more minutes he was O.K., sitting in the chair holding his head. Finally he said in a booming voice, “I am all right now.” He looked at me and then at his wife. “Who is this man?"

I had a bad minute there, but the Señora explained, rapidly and well, almost as though she'd planned it, that she had been worried about the General because of threats against his life and had without his knowledge hired me—a
norteamericano
detective—to try to learn who made the threats.

“What is your name?” the General asked me.

My stomach turned upside down. Undoubtedly the Countess had found it necessary to tell him the man she'd wanted out of jail was Shell Scott. If I gave him a fake name and he learned who I really was, the fat would be in the fire.

“Shell Scott,” I said.

He looked puzzled. “The man from the jail?” He glanced at his wife. My stomach did a hula. I opened my mouth but Señora Lopez kept carrying the ball and said smoothly, “Yes, dear. I wished a detective who is not known down here, one who could more secretly investigate. Your life ... is most precious to me. I did not tell you why I wished Mr. Scott removed from jail because I did not wish you to worry. You have too many worries already. And Mr. Scott has a wondrous reputation in the United States."

The General smiled. If a smile could look puzzled, this one did. But he said, “That is sweet, my dear.” He seemed a bit perplexed, but he appeared to accept the explanation: he was still groggy.

I broke in to tell him I'd gotten here just as his attacker had been about to shoot him, added the rest of it, then got his story.

The color was back in his face now, and except for wincing once in a while when his head throbbed, he seemed normal. His gray hair was mussed, but his dark eyes were clear and steady under the thick brows, his big square jaw firm. A rugged-looking, almost handsome man, he didn't look more than fifty years old.

He stiffly expressed his gratitude to me, then said, “I had just come in and was seated here, at my desk. Apparently the man came in the window behind me. I thought I heard a noise, and turned. I saw him almost upon me with something in his hand, a clubbing thing."

“Sap?"

“I guess that is it. We struggled, then he hit me. That is all I remember.” He shook his big head. “It is fortunate you came."

I took the note from the Countess and handed it to him. “General, if you don't object to my questions—"

“No, no,” he said. “Please be assured, I do not. It seems I owe you my life."

“You owe me nothing. But—this note—why did you write it?"

He looked it over, blinked, and shook his head.
"Chihuahua!
What is this? This I did not write. This I have never seen. What is it?"

“It's a suicide note, General."

He read the note again, then looked at me. “Fantastic."

“Who would want to murder you?"

He shrugged. “Many people. I have received threats against my life often in the last few years—as my wife knows, and must have told you. But nothing like this has happened.” He paused. “Do you know of my work, my public battle with the Communist criminals?"

“Yes, I do."

“Then there is your answer. I sincerely believe, Mr. Scott, that there is no man in Mexico the Communists are more determined to destroy. Perhaps that sounds immodest, but I think it is the truth. Tonight they have tried to kill me."

“Isn't that jumping to a conclusion?"

“Not at all. There have been others, many others. Accidents, heart attacks—several of those, Mr. Scott.” He smiled oddly. “Among the secret police of the Soviet, there has long been a saying: ‘Any fool can commit a murder, but it requires an artist to commit a good natural death.' And the Soviet apparatus contains some very artistic men.” He paused. “Who is to say why a young man dies suddenly of a heart attack? There have been three men who once worked closely with me, good men, men who loved Mexico as I love her. They are all dead. Salvador, on the road between Mexico and Cuernavaca; his car went from the road where it was steep, and he died. Roberto is dead—of a heart attack, señor; once he had been a Communist, but he grew wise and turned against them. He helped me greatly, but he is dead. He was young, thirty-seven; his heart was as strong as it was brave. And only three months past old Golpez fell from a tall building; he had been much in the newspapers, the Communists had attacked him, his home, and his friends; they smeared his name. It was said he jumped to his death. And there have been many obvious murders and several dead of the snakes."

I squinted at him, wondering what snakes he was talking about.

He pursed his lips. “I had begun to think I was too big, too powerful, to be murdered. There would be a great public outcry."

“You were right to think that,” I said. “You weren't to be murdered.” I pointed to the note still in his hand. “You were going to commit suicide."

BOOK: Pattern for Panic
4.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Wyrd Sisters by Pratchett, Terry
Through Wolf's Eyes by Jane Lindskold
Principles of Angels by Jaine Fenn
Easy Motion Tourist by Leye Adenle
A Greek Escape by Elizabeth Power
Stiff News by Catherine Aird