The Brink of Murder (16 page)

T
HE PLANE CARRYING
Simon and Hannah to Buenos Aires landed at Ezeiza International Airport approximately 24 hours later. Getting through customs was easy. Only a passport and smallpox vaccination certificate were needed for clearance. Nothing like the tight security measures at Miami where even hand luggage and purses were searched and every boarding passenger passed through a magnetic doorway in the effort to avoid hijacking. Hannah’s friend was waiting at the information desk: a man named Alex Laurentis, a former documentary film producer in his early fifties. American born of Italian parentage, he embraced Hannah with an enveloping hug and a verbal stream of affectionate phrases. Waiting in the parking-lot was a new Fiat sports sedan which, Laurentis explained, was a product of Argentine industry. Five years in the country had made him an enthusiastic booster.

“Hannah,” he explained, “this country is heaven! Half the population is either Italian or of Italian descent. It’s like New York City with good climate, scenery and grace.”

Driving into the city along a tree-lined super-highway, he explained that he had reserved rooms for them at the Presidente Hotel on the magnificent 9th of July Avenue where they would be centrally located—but this only because Hannah had insisted on such accommodation.

“You are both welcome at my home in San Isidro,” he added. “We expect you. Elise will be devastated if you don’t come.”

“That’s fine for Hannah,” Simon said. “I’ll be too busy. Besides, I’m a stranger.”

“Elise is Hungarian,” Hannah remarked. “She doesn’t believe in strangers.”

Laurentis had heard about Barney Amling’s disappearance. The
Buenos Aires Herald,
an English-language newspaper, had carried the full story. He was also aware of Simon’s reputation and his mission.

“If you don’t want to get involved,” Simon said, “this is the time to cut out.”

Laurentis’s eyes sparkled. “I am never involved,” he said brightly. “I am retired. I do some writing and have an interest in the local theatre. You must let Elise take you to our street theatre, Hannah. You’ll be enchanted.”

“I am already.” Hannah’s eyes swept the tree-lined artery leading into the city. “It’s like Paris.”

The Presidente was everything a first-class metropolitan hotel should be. They checked their passports at the registration desk and were taken up to a suite of rooms overlooking one of the widest avenues in the world. Laurentis again offered his home for their convenience and added: “We dine at ten o’clock. Elise will be disappointed if you don’t come.”

“
Gracias
” Hannah said, “but not tonight, Alex. I can’t speak for Simon, but I’m just a bit tired.”

“I understand. Tomorrow night, then. There’s an excellent restaurant in this hotel. If there’s anything you need, Drake, feel free to call me at any time. My car is at your disposal, of course,”

“Thanks, that’s nice to know,” Simon said. “I suppose there’s also a car-rental service in the lobby.”

“Naturally. Taxis, too, if you have strong nerves. In any event, I shall call you in the morning. Hopefully, I may have some news about your friend.”

Laurentis left and Hannah sighed happily. “You see,” she beamed, “I’m still of some use after all.”

Hannah retired for a siesta after lunch but Simon couldn’t relax. He put in a call to Carole Amling and learned the situation was unchanged. He called Wanda and talked longer—not about Amling at all. That done, he went down to the lobby, armed himself with a city map, and began to explore the immediate vicinity. He found the American drug store and made discreet inquiries. He was to meet a fellow-American but had forgotten the name of his hotel. The English-speaking clerks were polite but not helpful. No one had seen the tall
Norte Americano
who limped. Twice he was directed to the United States Embassy, the last place Barney would have gone. Empty handed, he returned to the hotel where he requested and received a directory of other hotels in the area. From the length of the list it appeared the search would take a long time. He checked out the locations on his city map. By that time Hannah was awake and eager to see the city. They dined in the hotel restaurant and took a sightseeing cab drive before retiring.

Buenos Aires lived by night—especially Saturday night. Hannah had taken a sedative to make sure she would awaken refreshed after the long plane flight, but Simon’s nerves were too keyed up for sleep. It was almost midnight when he gave up the effort, dressed and returned to the street below. A shiny new Falcon cab was waiting at the curb and the driver spoke passable English. Taxi drivers were the same the world over. With proper inducement in the form of a heavy roll of
pesos
he quickly agreed to query his fellow drivers to learn if any of them had carried a man of Barney’s description, a tall
Norte Americano
with a pronounced limp.

“If your friend doesn’t want to be found,” the driver advised slyly, “he’s come to the right place. Still—a man who limps.”

“There’s fifty more for you if you bring me a positive lead,” Simon said.

“Fifty?
Pesos,
señor?”

“American dollars,” Simon promised.

The driver grinned. “For fifty dollars, señor, I will ask every taxi driver in Buenos Aires. Now, how about yourself? Would you like to see some—what is it you call it in the States? Some action?”

“What kind of action did you have in mind?”

“I know a club in the waterfront district where tourists would go if they knew about it. Music, real entertainment. Not one of those dreary places where the tour buses go.”

“It’s better than sitting in a hotel room,” Simon agreed.

The driver was delighted. He made an illegal turn and raced through a maze of streets to the old Boca district where the buildings were painted in vivid hues of purple, green and red. For all the neon lighting, the streets were narrower and darker here. He stopped at last in front of the bright doorway of a waterfront club where the plaintive beat of drums and the piercing wail of woodwinds greeted the ear as soon as the taxi door was opened.

“I talk to a driver or two while you entertain yourself,” the driver said. “Tell the doorman that Paco sent you,”

“I’ll bet you get a percentage,” Simon said.

Paco’s grin flashed again. “Right, señor. But you’ll get a good table. You’ll see.”

The musical orgy was reaching a climax when Simon was seated at a small table near the stage. Caught up in the beat, the spectators paid no heed to a new arrival. Shouts came from the audience as two nearly-naked performers, a lovely young girl with long black hair and a boy with his head shaved and glistening under the lights, leaped into a wild, primitive dance that was both sensuous and innocent in its exuberant celebration of life. They were very young and very good. Engrossed, Simon wasn’t aware when a girl sat down at his table beside him.

Like taxi drivers, many things were the same everywhere.

“Buy me a drink, señor?”

“If you say so,” Simon agreed.

“
Gracias.
You like wheesky?”

“Only if it’s wet,” Simon said.

A waiter emerged out of the darkness to take the order. By this time the dance on the stage was concluding and the audience was amost hysterical. By this time, too, Simon’s eyes were getting accustomed to the dim light. He looked about the room. The crowd was young except for a few middle-aged tourists. It didn’t appear to be a place where he would have to watch out for trouble. When the drinks came he paid the tab without flashing too much of a bankroll. The whisky was bourbon—good but expensive. The girl seated at his table wasn’t in that category at all. His eyes wandered back to the other tables.

“You want to dance, señor?”

“To this rhythm? You flatter me,” Simon said.

“Flatter?”

“Skip it,” Simon said. “I’ll buy one more round and then
Yanqui
go home.”

She understood the part about the second round of drinks and the waiter returned. It was when he delivered the second round of drinks that Simon caught sight of a man near the back of the room who was leaving his table in the company of a dark-haired woman. He was tall—that’s what made him conspicuous. He was also wearing dark glasses, well-cut clothes and walked with a limp. Simon deposited a wad of
pesos
on the table and stood up.

“Sorry, honey,” he said, “but I have a previous engagement.”

He elbowed his way through a wave of patrons moving towards the dance floor now that the show was over, saw the tall man framed in the entrance doorway and called out: “Barney! Wait!” It might have been imagination but it did seem that the man’s body stiffened at the sound of the name. He looked back for an instant and then, one arm wrapped tightly about the woman’s waist, disappeared through the doorway. By the time Simon reached the street there was no sign of either of them. He started to walk hurriedly in the direction of the nearest intersection but Paco appeared out of the shadows and grabbed his arm.

“Please, señor, it’s not wise to walk in this district.”

“Did you see them?” Simon demanded.

“See who, señor?”

“A man and a woman just came out of the club. The man limped.”

“He limped?” Paco looked incredulous. “No, señor, I didn’t see them. I was talking to my
amigo
who drives the taxi parked just ahead of me. I saw no one.”

“But he
limped,
” Simon insisted.

“Then I’ll drive you around for a few blocks and we’ll look for him. It isn’t safe to walk. In this district we have—” Paco groped for a word and then grinned again. “—muggers,” he said.

“All the comforts of home,” Simon sighed.

He climbed into the taxi and they drove slowly through the narrow streets until it was obvious the limping man was not to be found. Simon ordered the driver to return to the hotel. As he alighted from the cab Paco said:

“Maybe the man you saw will return to the club tomorrow night. It’s a good place for strangers to find entertainment. Shall I pick you up tomorrow, señor?”

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you,” Simon said. “
Adios
.”

“
Ciaou,
” responded the driver.

• • •

The next day was Sunday. Simon was preparing to start making inquiries at the hotels on his list when Alex Laurentis called and announced eagerly:

“Drake, I have news that might interest you. One of my friends works in one of the major currency exchanges downtown. He reports changing ten one-hundred-dollar bills into
pesos
last week for a customer who answers to the Amling description. A tall North American who limped.”

“Ten one-hundred-dollar bills?” Simon echoed.

“Intriguing, isn’t it? My friend remembers because tourists usually cash money orders—ten or twenty dollars’ worth at a time. He’s certain the man had dark hair and a dark moustache but there is such a thing as hair dye.”

“Not to mention wigs and false moustaches,” Simon added. “Did he notice the colour of his eyes?”

“He couldn’t tell—the man wore dark glasses.”

“Dark glasses. I may have seen the man last night. I can’t be sure, of course. To me all limping men are suspicious.”

“You’ve had an adventure,” Laurentis cried. “You must tell me all about it this afternoon. Elise and I are driving in to take you and Hannah to the races at Palermo.”

“I’m not here for pleasure,” Simon protested.

“But of course you are. Everyone who comes to Buenos Aires comes for pleasure. Especially anyone who has appropriated almost a million dollars. Did your friend enjoy horse racing?”

“Barney? I don’t think so. He was a golfing man.”

“Golf! That’s an old man’s game. People come to South America to keep young. Horses are the thing in Argentina. Riding, racing, betting—”

“I meant to check out some other hotels.”

“A waste of time. Your friend has found himself a nice apartment where he doesn’t have to show a passport. Which reminds me, I have also learned that no one bearing a passport issued to Barry Anderson or to Bernard Amling has come through Ezeiza in the past few weeks.”

“But the cable—” Simon protested.

“Sent from one of the major offices in downtown Buenos Aires where the employees are too busy to remember faces. It simply means, Drake, that your friend is travelling under a forged passport—a simple matter to arrange when one has money. We’ll discuss it when we meet in the lobby. Is eleven o’clock satisfactory? That gives us time for lunch together.”

Simon had run out of arguments. Hannah was delighted with the arrangement. She had packed a floral silk jersey dress for just such an occasion and insisted that Simon wear the knitted plaid sports coat Wanda had bought for him in a reckless moment. Complete with binoculars, they met the Laurentises at the appointed hour. It was a bright blue day as they drove down fashionable Avenida Santa Fé to wide Avenida del Libertador with the sun roof open and the wind blowing fresh off the De La Piatta estuary. There was time to stop for a leisurely lunch before arriving at Laurentis’s box at the race-track. While Laurentis and Hannah engaged in a spirited discussion of race horses—particularly the great Azucar which, Hannah insisted, had fed her during one entire racing season—Simon restlessly haunted the stable area, visited the exercise grounds and caught the first two races at the rail. He was searching for the entrance to the boxes when he encountered Laurentis who had come down to look for him. Beaming, the host exclaimed:

“Hannah is as fantastic as ever! She won the last race because she liked the jockey’s name. Now she’s betting on a grey horse because he reminds her of Azucar.”

“She’ll probably win again,” Simon said.

“I don’t doubt it. What about you, Drake? Do you feel lucky?”

Simon never had a chance to answer. Thirty feet away a tall, dark-haired man wearing a plaid jacket even more outrageous than his own was counting his winnings on the last race. As he moved further from them one leg dragged in a pronounced limp. Spontaneously, Simon shouted:

“Barney! Barney Amling!”

The man froze. His head turned slowly towards them. His eyes were covered by dark glasses and his upper lip by a full moustache. It was impossible to read his eyes but the body language was eloquent. Shock, tension—then complete fear as he spun about and ran limping towards the nearest exit.