Pattern for Panic (17 page)

It was clear now, and almost too horrible to seem real or even frightening. The good doctor had fathered his monster.

Chapter Thirteen

I leaned against the wall for long minutes. Part of the time I was thinking about Doc and Buff, part about the different things that had happened, and part about me. I forced myself to calm down all I could. I still had the dizziness, the cold skin, the shortness of breath, but it seemed to remain fairly constant; at least I was still alive. The thin panic was the worst thing; I couldn't fight it completely down, much less get rid of it. But I'd had all the symptoms for more than two hours now and the first shock was gone.

Captain Emilio still sat in his chair. Every once in a while he pushed a wide thumb up against the space where his teeth used to be. My mind wasn't as clear or sharp as usual, but I knew he was my last chance, the last thread. If I lost him, I lost it all. But I knew damned well I wasn't going to lose him. I went outside. I knew where he'd parked his car and I walked to a spot fifteen feet from it where I'd be partially hidden behind a tree. I waited.

The skies were getting murky and it seemed unusually cold, even for September. There was still cold sweat on my face and body; my clothes felt damp and sticky against my skin. I wrapped the trenchcoat more tightly around me, my .38 in the pocket of the coat, my hand around it.

I saw him come out of the side gate of the hospital, pushing his thumb up between his teeth again. My heart beat faster. I glanced around. A little kid in ragged clothes was playing across the street, and a young woman was walking toward the Reforma. A man was walking this way, a block and a half from me. Nobody else was in sight. Traffic wasn't heavy.

When Captain Emilio was almost at the car I looked quickly around, took the gun from my pocket, then walked toward him with the gun in my fist, pointed at his middle. He didn't notice me, preoccupied with getting out his keys and opening the car door. I stopped a yard from him.

"Bastardo!"
I said.

He swung around, face flushing. He saw me and his face froze in its expression of anger for a moment, then slowly, like an ice-cream face melting, his features went slack, lost their sharp outlines. He got paler and his hand moved half an inch toward the gun at his hip, then he held his hand motionless and started shaking his head back and forth. His lips moved, but he didn't say anything.

“Go ahead,” I said, “open the back door.” I grinned at him. “I'll kill you in the car."

“No!” he blurted. “No, no. Señor,
por favor,
please—"

“Shut up. Open the car."

He could hardly get the key in the lock but he made it and swung the door open. I pushed him into the back and climbed in behind him.

“Get clear over on the far side,” I told him. He squeezed against it. “Now,” I said. “Please do something clever,
bastardo,
like jumping me, or trying to get your gun. I hate to shoot a man when he's cooperating."

“I cooperate. Please, señor, what is it? What is wrong?” His protruding eyes bulged even more than usual.

I didn't answer him; he knew what was wrong. “Emilio, unbuckle that flap on your holster and take out your gun and slide it over the seat to me.” I pulled back the hammer of the .38. When it clicked, his eyes dropped to the gun, his lips wiggled. I said, “And do it rapidly, Emilio. Don't be careful. Just jerk it out, maybe put your finger on the trigger. You understand. Be as careless as you like."

He moaned something or other. “Go ahead,” I said. “Now."

He nodded his head. I thought he was never going to get the thing out. He unhooked the flap, then lifted his gun with his thumb and middle finger. His hand was shaking so that he almost dropped the gun. I wanted his heavy .45 automatic; my .38 Colt Special weighs only twenty-one ounces, and Emilio had a lot of hair.

He dropped the gun on the seat near him.

“Shove it over here, Emilio. Carelessly."

He pointed his index finger at it, pushed it to me, then pressed himself back against the side of the car.

“You're one brave cop,
bastardo.
” I picked up his gun in my left hand. “Now, tell me all about how I was framed into your stinking jail last night. Tell me about Dr. Buffington and his daughter. Tell me about the planned murder of General Lopez. Tell me about Amador and what brought you here. And tell me who your Communist friends are."

His face was pasty, but he said, “I do not comprehend, señor."

I heard somebody whistling, faint footsteps. Maybe the guy I'd seen earlier. I said, “Close your eyes, Emilio. The first one you open—” I wiggled the short-barreled .38—"will be the last one you open. It will be gone away.” He was already squeezing them shut. “I will mean only to shoot your eye away, but it may happen that part of your brain will go with it."

I took a quick look around. The guy was approaching the car, paying no attention to us. Nobody else was near. The kid was playing a little farther down the street.

I waited till the guy had passed, then said to Emilio, “Open the eyes.” He opened them and I told him quietly, “I know damn well you comprehend, mister. And, believe me, Emilio, you are going to tell me. You're going to spill your slimy guts. You can have it either way; you can tell me now, or you can tell me later. Only it will be more difficult for you to form the words later."

“Señor, please. I do not know what you mean. I speak the truth."

“O.K., tell me later. Turn your head and press your face against the window. Right now."

He did it. “You know what I'm going to do, don't you, Emilio? I'm going to hit your head. With a gun. I'm going to beat you very soundly. You want to start talking?” I had the .45 reversed in my right hand.

“But please, señor. I speak the—"

I hit him. He spoke nothing. His face mashed against the window, then slid down it and rested awkwardly against the side of the car. I rolled him to the floor, got his keys and climbed up front. I drove only a few blocks away, but the spot where I parked was deserted enough and I pulled up in the shade of a tree, then hopped in back with Emilio.

I broke out one of his teeth and fished it from his open mouth, then waited for him to come to. It took about ten minutes. In the meantime I wrestled him over on his back, used his belt to bind his feet, and the belt of my trenchcoat to tie his hands beneath him. I searched no him, got the doctor's medical report and another paper, a report apparently made out by Emilio and signed. “Guillermo.” Nothing of importance to me was in his wallet. When I finished, I was drenched with perspiration. My shirt was wet through and I felt weak, nauseous.

He moaned. I kept looking at him while his eyes opened and focused. I let him whine at me for a minute, then I said, “Shut up, Emilio, I have something for you. Belongs to you, anyway.” I held my hand down where he could see it and let him look at his tooth.

He didn't seem to understand at first and I held it between my thumb and index finger, right in front of his bulging eyes. “Recognize it,
bastardo?
It is a tooth. Actually, it is more than just a tooth. It is your very own tooth. That makes three. We have twenty-nine to go."

He burst into an absolute torrent of Spanish. I let it subside and said, “I'm in no hurry. It will take a long time to pull out twenty-nine teeth. On what tooth would you like to start answering those questions I asked you?"

He was sticking his tongue into the now very wide space at the front of his mouth. I gave him just time enough to realize the truth about his tooth, then I grabbed his .45 by the grip and held the heavy barrel over his face, a few inches above his mouth.

He squirmed, rolled his head from side to side, lips pressed together, grunting.

“Hold still, Emilio. Let's be reasonable. Don't make me hit you on the head again."

He stopped and looked at me. I let the .45 barrel fall against his mouth. I didn't put any force behind it so it didn't do much damage. But the spot where I'd split his lip last night peeled open and blood welled from it, trickling down the side of his chin onto his neck. “Please, my God, have mercy."

“Speak, Emilio. Speak the truth.” He licked blood from his lips, his eyes frantic. There was silence. I grabbed the gun by the barrel and raised it over his face.

“I will speak! I tell you. Mercy—"

“O.K. And I make you a promise. For every lie you tell me, you get more gums to play with. Start it."

“What do you wish?"

“For a beginning, you are a Communist, are you not, Emilio? A member of the Party?"

He hesitated.
"Sí."
The air whistled over his tongue.

“Where is Dr. Buffington? And his daughter?"

“I—now wait, señor. Please. Do not hit me. I speak the truth, I promise—but many things I do not know. I am permitted to know little."

I felt the dizziness swell up momentarily and his face blurred in front of me. Then it subsided again; I could see his features clearly. “Go on."

“This I do not know.” He added rapidly, “All I know is that you were with them last night, and were to be removed so there would be less possibility for trouble to occur. I was instructed by Belchardo.” He kept his eye on the gun.

He told me a little more. The rest was how I had figured it: Emilio was to club me and haul me to the can when Belchardo started the beef; Emilio had arranged for the presence of other police by phoning them shortly before—which explained why Belchardo had cautioned Sarita to deliver the note to me at exactly six p.m.

“And Amador?"

“I knew there would be a death, a strange one. I did not know it would be Amador. I was to investigate the strange death and get the medical report."

Neat enough. The Captain of Police, I thought, would be in a perfect spot to get information about any peculiar homicides. Emilio didn't know who had killed Amador, he knew nothing other than what he had said. Most of the rest was unimportant now, the way he was notified by his superiors in the underground apparatus, through an elaborate, typically Communist system of passwords and secret meetings.

Last night he had known I was to be released by Señora Lopez—though he swore he knew nothing of her or the “suicide” of the General—and had phoned a number to be used only in emergency. He called, said twice that he had the wrong number, and hung up. Soon a man—he did not know who—had gotten in touch with him. Emilio told him the situation, and that was all he knew. I knew the rest. I was still wearing the Band-Aid.

“Emilio, this next is very important. Be sure to speak the truth. Who is the man called Culebra and where is his Center, his headquarters?"

“I swear that I do not know."

I wiggled the gun.

“It is truth!” he almost screamed. “I know of both, but that is all. Culebra is the name for the most important of us in Mexico, he is the closest to Moscow, has been much honored. This I know—but no more. Nor where El Centre is. I ... do not even wish to know."

“Explain that further, Emilio."

“It is where we are sometimes taken if we succumb to the lies of the imperialist warmongers."

“You're not at a club meeting; just explain."

He looked puzzled, and that puzzled me until I realized he was just mouthing words he'd been taught. He said, “It is told that some of us, those who betray the Party or succumb to the chauvinistic lies of the Wall Street warmongers, are taken to El Centre and do not return."

I asked him again what in hell he was talking about, but he merely said exactly the same thing. I asked him a question, I rang the bell, and the dog salivated.

I kept after him for another ten minutes, tapping him only lightly with the gun, but got little more of interest. I went over it all in my mind, trying to flunk straight. It seemed that I'd squeezed all I could out of Emilio, but I was still no nearer to the Doc and Buff. Then, finally, I thought of something.

“You haven't spoken freely enough. You answer questions, but you should volunteer information. For example, the medical report, your report on the death of Amador.” I tapped him lightly. “Where does that go?"

“I will tell you, gladly. I had not yet thought of it. I deliver it at five o'clock to another."

“To whom?"

“I do not know. Only that it is at Los Turcos."

I knew the place, a dark, exotic nightclub on Diagonal San Antonio. Emilio was to go to Turcos, into one of the back rooms, and there meet the other courier. In the Communist underground, when it is necessary for couriers who don't personally know each other to make contact, advance arrangements are made so the comrades can identify each other. In Emilio's case, the recognition signal was that he would say “It has been a long time.” The reply would be, “Only ten days,” and he would say, “It has seemed longer.” Just simple, ordinary conversation preceding the passing of information about an extraordinary murder.

There was one other typical method of identification. In Emilio's pocket, he told me, was a matchbox that Belchardo had given him, which matchbox was to be handed to the other courier. I'd seen it when I searched him, but hadn't thought anything of it. I looked it over. It was one of the thirty-five-centavo boxes of Mexican wax
cerillas,
the
Clásicos de Lujo.
On the back of every box there is a reproduction of some famous painting. This one was Diego Velasquez'
El Bufón Don Antonio,
the painting of the long-haired man in fancy costume, his left hand resting on the back of a huge dog beside him. Only on Emilio's matchbox the paper had been torn, it seemed carelessly, and the man's hand and the head of the dog were missing. The other courier would have the missing part as identification, in addition to the words of conversation.

Even now, actually listening to Emilio, a hardcore member of the Communist underground, explain all this to me, and knowing the purpose of the meeting, the elaborate spy-and-counterspy ritual seemed infantile and childish, as though adult adolescents were to play at war. But I knew it was truly war, and this was merely one tiny, isolated knot in the bloody web of conspiracy fashioned in the Kremlin and covering the entire world. I knew it was a war to the death, conducted by criminally insane fanatics who walked and talked like honorable men—winning daily battles while some of the very imbeciles and fatheads under attack prattled about “freedom to think” and a man's right to belong to a “political party” of his choice.