The Brink of Murder (17 page)

“Barney, don’t go!” Simon shouted. “I’m here to help you!”

With the surprised Laurentis puffing at his heels like a puppy on a leash, Simon pursued. The post call had sounded and the flow of pedestrian traffic was against them. By the time Simon reached the exit the man was nowhere to be seen. Ahead was a parking area and most of the cars were small foreign makes with a sprinkling of the inevitable Falcons. Simon ran towards them. Pausing in the middle of an exit aisle, he stretched tall to peer over the sea of low roofs hoping for a glimpse of a loud plaid jacket. The man must be Barney. There was no other explanation for his flight.

“Drake!” Laurentis shouted behind him. “Look out! “

Simon spun about in time to see a car bearing down on him—an American car, big and white with an open top. He caught a glimpse of dark glasses and the plaid jacket as Laurentis pulled him out of harm’s way. The big car sped past, careered wildly as it side-swiped a parked tourist bus and then roared on in the direction of the highway.

“That was close,” Laurentis gasped. “If that is your friend, Drake, you don’t need enemies. He tried to run you down.”

Later they dined at one of the justly famous Argentine steak houses and thrashed out the puzzle of Simon’s escapade. “If it really was Barney,” Hannah observed, “he certainly doesn’t want to be found.”

“Still, that’s no reason to try to run down an old friend,” Laurentis said. “Do you suppose he’s lost his mind?”

“He’s changed—that’s obvious,” Simon said. “The moustache must be false—he hasn’t had time to grow one that heavy since his disappearance. His clothes are flashy—not Barney’s style at all—and did you see that car?”

“It was a Buick,” Laurentis announced. “I owned one just like it in ‘65. A car like that is a rarity here. There’s an embargo against importing parts that makes them expensive to maintain. I think he scraped a fender on that bus, too.”

“How about checking out garages for the repair job?”

“Excellent idea. I’ll start with my own mechanic tomorrow.”

But through the conversation Elise Laurentis smiled knowingly. She was a charming blonde at least fifteen years younger than her husband. One of those fragile-looking women who appear to have no serious thoughts even if they are as shrewd as Bernard Baruch. “It’s a woman,” she declared. “To me the whole situation is perfectly obvious. The man has left his family to start life with another woman and he wants no encounter with a link to his past life.”

“That’s another thing that doesn’t sound like Barney,” Simon grumbled. “His family were middle-class, small-town stock. They married for life with no cheating on the side.”

“In rural California—perhaps,” Elise argued. “This is Argentina. Even an old sober-sides becomes as romantic as a gaucho here.” She tugged at her husband’s ear and he smiled back.

“Now, Elise, when did I ever need a change of locale to make me romantic?”

“Never, darling—thank God. But isn’t the whole idea of running away from one life to break the boring pattern of the life left behind? Of course Barney Amling has changed. He’s a free man.”

“A woman,” Hannah mused. “Simon, didn’t you say the man you tried to catch last night had a woman with him?”

He had told them the story of his visit to the waterfront club and described the young dancers on the stage. Reminded, Laurentis snapped his fingers and exclaimed: “That club! I know the place, Drake, and I think I know the dancers. Elsie, what were the names of those talented young people who auditioned for your last theatre project? Remember the lovely girl with long black hair who made you so jealous?”

“Not jealous, Alex—envious. Such a body. I can’t recall their names but they must be on file at the theatre.”

“Good. We’ll look them up and ask if they have seen Drake’s elusive limping man. He may be a regular at the club. Now, for the rest of the evening at least, let’s forget about Barney Amling and enjoy ourselves. Have you heard the news, Drake? Hannah has consented to give a reading at our drama society. What a coup! The return of Hannah Lee! She’s doing scenes from
Mother Courage.
”

“In English,” Hannah said quickly. “It’s an incentive when one knows at least half the audience won’t understand what’s being said and won’t know when I fluff a line.”

Hannah was splendid. She carried off the rest of the evening in a manner that belied any problem on her mind. It was when they were preparing to leave the restaurant that she managed to get Simon alone and speak about what lay behind the bright chatter. “Simon,” she said, “you don’t have to go on with this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The search for Barney Amling. Isn’t it obvious that he’s determined not to be found? Remember those papers you drew up transferring the property to his sons. You said it was for Carole Amling’s protection. Barney was closing a door he doesn’t want opened. You might hurt Carole much more if you do find him.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Simon admitted, “but Barney may be sick. There’s something wrong here, Hannah. The man I saw in the night-club was with a woman—but she looked like a prostitute from where I sat. That’s not the kind of woman a man breaks up his home to get.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked coolly. “What kind of woman was Verna Castle before she found a better way of making money? It’s a long time since Barney Amling was an all-American, Simon.”

Hannah was making more sense than she realized until something happened that made it all futile. The restaurant was one of the most popular in Buenos Aires—a natural magnet for visitors. Simon glanced towards the doorway where new arrivals were making an entrance and what he saw caused his hand to tighten on her arm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There—just coming into the room,” he said. “Do you see that man in the grey silk suit?”

“The one with the moustache? Simon, you can’t think
he’s
Barney Amling. He’s much too heavy and not nearly tall enough.”

“No, I don’t think he’s Barney. His name is Knox Reardon—Captain Reardon of the Los Angeles police. Don’t let him see us.”

“Los Angeles police?” she echoed. “What is he doing here?”

“The same thing we’re doing. Hannah, I’ve no choice now. I’ve got to find Barney before Reardon does.”

I
T WAS FOOLISH
to have thought the authorities wouldn’t learn about the cable from Buenos Aires. The FBI would have checked out the flight of a Braniff passenger listed as Barry Anderson: they would have checked with Ezeiza and learned no passenger with that name had arrived. But Simon Drake and Hannah Lee travelled with genuine passports and they had passed through customs. Reardon must have followed on the next flight, and he was a man who knew Amling by sight as well as Simon. Avoiding him in the restaurant was a temporary victory. He had come to Buenos Aires on the same mission, and Simon didn’t share Lieutenant Wabash’s misgivings that he might have his loyalties confused.

Hannah elected to spend a few days with the Laurentises in their home at San Isidro and Simon returned to the hotel alone. Eager to follow up on his clue, he contacted the driver, Paco, and made a second nocturnal visit to the waterfront club. This time he took a table in the rear of the room and concentrated on the faces of all the other guests, but the tall, dark man who limped made no appearance. If he really was Barney Amling, Simon realized, the odds against finding him were heightened now that he was forewarned. He spent the next day working with his lists: other hotels and English-speaking doctors. He made no headway until Hannah telephoned with word that broke the deadlock.

“I met those fantastic young dancers,” she reported enthusiastically. “Elise contacted them and they came out immediately—thinking it was a job offer. As a matter of fact, I think she is going to work them in on something she has in mind—but that’s beside the point. Alex told them of your experience at the club. He didn’t say the friend you are looking for is Barney Amling. Not that it would have mattered; they live in their own world, I’m sure. But they did remember the limping man with dark glasses who came to the club. He had been there several times before you saw him. They remembered because he got into a fight with another customer and had to be asked to leave. Young performers take their work very seriously and resent that kind of customer.”

“What kind of fight?” Simon queried.

“Does anyone know what starts fights in night-clubs? He was with a woman of some local reputation. A known prostitute.”

“How well known?”

“Well, not as famous as Eva Peron. She came out of the
misereres,
you know. Not that I hold that against her. It might be a good idea if all first ladies came from such a background so they would know what kind of world they are the first lady of.”

“A fight in a night-club is another thing that doesn’t sound like Barney,” Simon mused.

“You may have a schizo on your hands,” Hannah remarked. “But, just in case you want to follow through, I did get the woman’s name. It’s Maria Sanchez and you may contact her at the same club. The young people resent her, of course. They’re very intellectual and are very dedicated to their art. I’m dying to see that act.”

But Simon had no intention of taking Hannah on his search for Maria Sanchez. He urged her to stay on at San Isidro a few days longer, concluded the call and went downstairs to search for Paco. It took a little time. It was mid-afternoon but other drivers relayed the word over a grape-vine that brought him to the hotel within the hour. When Simon told Paco what he wanted, the driver was indignant.

“What do you want with that woman—a gentleman like you? I can give you names of better girls than Maria Sanchez.”

“What’s wrong with Maria?” Simon asked.

“She’s old: twenty-four, twenty-five. She’s got a bad temper. She drinks too much. Pretty soon she gets fat.”

“And she doesn’t give you a percentage for customer referral,” Simon suggested.

Paco shrugged. “If that’s the way you feel, señor, okay. I know where the woman lives. Get in the taxi.”

A waterfront area that was picturesque and mysterious after dark was shabby and miserable by daylight. Like every other large metropolis, Buenos Aires was a city of contrasts: wealth and elegance, poverty and wretchedness. Maria’s address was a good deal less than halfway between the extremes. She didn’t live in a shack. She had escaped the
misereres
, but her tiny apartment was in an aging building in need of paint and repair. A few potted plants at the windows showed a flickering desire for beauty. The shutters were cracked and peeling, the hallway was barren but clean. Simon knocked at her door and waited. A weary voice spoke from behind the door.

“
Que quiere
?”

“I want to see Maria Sanchez,” Simon said. “I’m a North American.”

“No Maria Sanchez here,” the voice answered. “Then somebody else gets my twenty dollars.”

“
Un momento.
”

He heard a scurrying noise as if someone inside the apartment was doing a quick clean-up job and then the door opened. The woman who opened it didn’t look 24; she looked nearer 30. Dark, loose hair framed a face that might have been pretty if it wasn’t puffed and swollen. She was knotting the belt of a cheap housecoat. Her legs were bare and her feet looked uncomfortable in high-heeled red sandals. She smiled encouragingly.

“
Perdona
, señor,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today. Usually an arrangement is made before calling.
Entrar.”

Simon stepped into a small room dominated by a bed. One wide window faced the street. The shutters were open and a warm breezle was blowing off the sea. He opened his wallet and took out a $20 bill.

“Put it on the table,” she said. “You like a drink first? I have some bourbon.”

“No drink,” Simon said. “I only came to ask a few questions. Don’t look frightened—I’m not official. I’m looking for a friend and I think that you may have seen him.”

“
Norte Americano
?
”

“Yes. A tall man. Dark hair, dark moustache. He walks with a limp.”

A quick fire lighted her eyes. “No!” she cried. “I won’t see this man again. I have no more to do with Miguel.”

“Miguel? Is that what he calls himself?”

“Calls himself,
si.
Miguel Torres. But he’s no real Spanish. He’s a pig.”

“When did you see him last?”

“When?” She pulled back the hair from the left side of her face and revealed a purplish bruise running along the cheekline up to her eye. “When he did this to me!” she exclaimed. “I have pride, señor. I don’t need the money of some big mouth who is also a big pig.”

“Did he hit you?”

“What you think? That I walk into a door? This man comes to me driving a big white car. He makes a big smile. He shows me lots of money and says: ‘You like to have a good time?’ “

“When was this?”

Maria grew pensive. “Four—no, three days ago. At first it’s all right. We have dinner and drive to some nice places. Then we make love. Only this pig makes love like a pig. I tell him, ‘Don’t get tough and push me around. I’m not your wife!’ But what he wants is not to make love but to make pain. ‘A woman isn’t beautiful until she cries,’ he said. Look—” Maria ran to a small closet and pulled out a flowered silk dress that hung in shreds. “He tore my best dress. Why? He didn’t have to do that. He ripped the dress to pieces and laughed. ‘I’ll buy you a better one,’ he said.”

“Did he?”

“No! I wouldn’t go with him any more. Every time he was more of a pig.”

“Where did you go?”

“I told you—to dinner, driving, to a night-club. Then to his hotel.”

“Then you do know where he lives. Maria, I have a taxi waiting. Put something on and take me to that hotel and I’ll replace your dress.”

She didn’t believe him. “You want to take me to Miguel?”

“No, I want
you
to take
me
to Miguel. Show me where he lives and I’ll have the taxi driver take you straight home. You don’t even have to get out of the car.”

“That’s all you want?”

“That’s all. You won’t even see him—I promise. Will thirty dollars pay for the dress?”

Maria watched Simon take the money out of his wallet. By this time her fear was under control and she could notice such things as the expensive cut of Wanda’s gift jacket and the fine leather in his custom-built shoes. “It was my best dress,” she said, “and I can’t work with this—” She showed him the bruise again.

Simon added two more tens to the $30 and she smiled.

“
Gracias,
señor. You are a gentleman. You like whisky? I have whisky in the kitchen. Get yourself a drink while I dress.”

• • •

Paco drove them to the address Maria Sanchez supplied. It was closer to the downtown area than the waterfront in a district of small hotels not recommended by any tourist agency. It was an old colonial building with a picturesque stairway leading up to a second-floor lobby that was probably less picturesque than shabby. Paco parked across the street from the entrance and the woman sank back in the seat cowering away from the window. Pointing upward, she said, “Up there—the top floor. Miguel said he likes always to be on the top floor so he can look down and see what’s happening below.”

Simon got out of the taxi and gave Paco his instructions.

“I don’t like to leave you here,” Paco protested. “I can park further down the street and wait.”

“Take the lady home,” Simon insisted and handed him a $10 bill.

“I can come back for you, señor.”

“No need. It’s broad daylight. Keep the change, Paco. You’ve done a good job.”

The taxi drove away and Simon walked across the street and up the curving stairway. It wasn’t the kind of place a man with almost a million dollars would go to enjoy his wealth. The lobby was clean with a few leather chairs and a sprinkling of potted plants that failed to give it charm. There was another stairway leading upward and one old but automatic elevator. There was no one on duty at the desk. Failing to get a response when he rang the bell, Simon entered the elevator and took it up to the sixth and top floor. The room Maria had indicated was at the front of the building. He walked over a well-worn carpet through a narrow corridor that was silent until his ears picked up the familiar whine of a vacuum cleaner. He followed the sound to its source: the open doorway of a room being prepared for occupancy. The cleaning woman, a buxom peasant with her hair caught up in a dark scarf, turned off the machine as he asked for directions to Miguel Torres’s room. Smiling warmly, she replied in Spanish that she spoke no English. Simon was groping for an adequate translation when an ear-splitting scream from the front of the building put an end to conversation. The scream was wild and animal-like—a scream without gender followed by a silence so intense Simon could hear his own breathing. A door slammed. Heavy footsteps came running towards him along the corridor. A young man with bushy black hair and frantic eyes exploded out of the shadows, started at the sight of Simon and slashed out with a knife that was already dripping blood. Simon raised his left arm as a shield. He felt no pain when the knife struck his flesh—only the warm trickle of his own blood on his arm. The act was done so quickly the running man didn’t break his stride. He reached the elevator and found the door closed. The indicator showed that the cage had been brought back to the lobby level. The young man turned away and disappeared down the stairwell.

The scream was still in Simon’s ears. He swung about and ran in the direction from which the assailant had come. At the very end of the corridor a door stood open and a long shadow fell across the carpet. Framed in the doorway was the man Simon had seen at the race-track, but now his plaid jacket was torn and soaked with still-flowing blood. There was only a dim light in the corridor but sunlight streamed through the windows of the room. Simon glimpsed a scene of wild disorder: a brown leather suitcase open on the bed and American currency spilled out on the floor.

“Barney?” Simon cried.

The dark glasses were gone. The man’s eyes were blue but his face was twisted with pain. He staggered forward and Simon grabbed him as he fell. For a moment their bodies were locked together like two prizefighters in a clinch.

“Let me go,” the wounded man gasped. “They’re going to kill me. For God’s sake, let me go.”

“Barney, you’re hurt.”

All Simon’s strength wasn’t enough. He saw the head lower and the shoulders hunch forward. The full force of a body powered by panic lunged forward hurling him back against the opposite wall. Simon lost his footing and crumpled to the floor. He heard a muttered curse as the man ran limping down the hall. The whine of the elevator signalled that the cage was rising quickly. The wounded man ducked into the open room where the cleaning woman was still frozen in mute terror. Simon scrambled to his feet and followed. When he reached the room the window was open and a splash of blood stained the sill. He ran to the window and looked down. The roof of the adjoining building was about six feet below and the man who called himself Miguel Torres had landed on his feet. He fell forward, catching himself with his hands, regained his footing and stumbled towards the metal railing of a fire escape on the far side of the roof. Behind him, Simon heard the elevator door open and the cleaning woman, suddenly vocal, shouting something in Spanish.

The woman was like a magnet. Simon looked back as a uniformed policeman, gun in hand, ran into the room. Knox Reardon was only a step behind him. As the armed policeman reached the window, Simon shouted: “Don’t shoot! He’s the victim! He’s the man who was stabbed!”

Reardon elbowed his way to the window. He watched as the man limped the last few steps to the fire escape and began to climb down. Reardon turned to Simon without a word of greeting or a sign of surprise. “Is it Barney?” he asked.

“You saw him. What do you think?”

“I think it’s Barney. Is he badly hurt?”

“I think so. He yelled something about somebody wanting to kill him. He has a car.”

“I know. A white Buick. That’s how we traced him here.”

Reardon spoke rapidly in Spanish to the police officer who had preceded him into the room and then gestured to Simon. “Come with me,” he ordered. They ran back to the elevator and started down. It was then that Reardon noticed blood on Simon’s jacket. “What happened to you?” he demanded.