Assignment Carlotta Cortez

by Edward S. Aarons

Johnny’s voice sounded queer and high. “Look, I was trying to get back to you. I want an explanation. I want to know what happened back at Piney Knob—why you shot at me and the girl’s father—”

  “Into the car,” Justino said. He turned the gun toward Pleasure. “You too, Miss Kendall. We have been looking for you also. If you do not move at once, I shall be forced to kill you right here. In a moment, those men will show up again.”

  “Who—who were they shooting at?” Johnny asked. “Pablo O’Brien,” Justino said. He grinned. “Do you want me to kill you right here? Right now?”

  Pleasure felt Johnny’s hand urgently on her arm. She moved toward the car, and got into the front seat.

  “You drive, Johnny,” Justino said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Durell got out of the Cortez house before Carlotta unlocked the front door. He heard the second shot as he scaled the garden fence and dropped to the driveway on the opposite side. The third shot came as he pounded toward the street entrance two hundred feet away. Somebody began yelling in the street, beyond his angle of vision, and he held his gun ready in his hand. He came to a halt at the entrance, paused a moment, heard running footsteps, and saw Barney Kels slam past, and ran with him.

  There was a small Italian grocery, dimly lighted, near the far comer. It was a basement store, with steps going down to the front door. Two or three of Barney’s men were converging toward the recess here, and Durell saw someone crouching on the steps, his back to the fly-blown, plate-glass window. Durell halted and slapped Barney Kels’ gun down.

  “No more shooting.”

  “I don’t know what happened any more than you do, Sam.” Barney had a small, ugly face like a rubber mask squeezed angrily together. “One of my men blew off the cork.”

  “He was a damned fool,” Durell said. He raised his voice toward the man hiding in the shadowy basement steps. “Come out of there!”

  “I am coming, señor! Just do not shoot any more!” The voice was heavily accented with Spanish. “Okay?”

  “Come on out. Keep your hands high.”

  “Right.”

  The man climbed up out of the recessed stairway, his arms lifted over his head. He was grinning. It was Pablo O’Brien.

  The dark street was coming alive with lights and people. Two local cops and a prowl car tried to keep the spectators away, but they had a hard time of it, and Barney Kels explained quickly to them, identifying his men. Then Kels located his deputy who had shot at O’Brien and sent him over to Durell to explain. The man’s name was Grenadine. He looked excited.

  “I was posted in the back watch-room, Mr. Durell,” Grenadine said quickly. He looked frightened as well as keyed up. “We watched you go into the subject house— Barney told us you were making a prowl—and that was okay. But then this character came sneaking into the alley and I got a look at the gun in his hand through the night glasses. He looked mean, and I started to ring the phone to warn you, but Barney called me first, before I could get the line clear to you. Barney said the Cortezes were back in their car around the front. It seemed as if everything was happening at once.”

  “So you lost your head,” Durell said flatly.

  Grenadine flushed and bit his lip. “I didn’t want this character jumping you with the others behind you.”

  Durell was instantly regretful of his acid tone. He said, more quietly, “All right. But who shot first?”

  “He did.”

  Durell looked at O’Brien. “That right?”

  “I didn’t know who he was,” O’Brien said. He grinned at Durell. “Then he nicked my ear. Hello, amigo."

  “Let’s get out of here,” Durell said.

  They faded quickly from the scene, while the cops and the prowl-car men handled the Italian grocer and the spectators. Durell and Barney Kels kept O’Brien between them as they walked quickly but unobtrusively around the block and down the side street to the back door of Number 11. At the corner, Jensen joined them.

  “Sam, we’ve got trouble.”

  “I know that.”

  “More than you think.” Jensen looked at O’Brien and dismissed him as unimportant. “This bird messed things up good. Did you know that Johnny Duncan finally made his show?”

  Durell started to speak, then bottled it up. “Where is he?”

  “Gone. With the girl.”

  “Pleasure?”

  “She ran out the front door. We all forgot about her when we heard the shots. And I think Justino got them both.”

  “You think?"

  O’Brien spoke up unexpectedly, “That is correct, amigo.”

  “What do you know about it?” Durell snapped.

  O’Brien shrugged. “Let us go inside and discuss it, shall we?”

  In the kitchen of Number 11 Durell got his first good look at O’Brien. The red-haired Irish Latin-American was tall and lean, with the smooth, graceful coordination of a cat. His Latin ancestry had given him fineboned articulation, a narrowness of feature that was not unhandsome. The Irish in him provided the solid muscle, the red hair, the blue eyes. Hatless, he wore a dark overcoat, a dark blue suit, a dark shirt and tie—and Durell noted that the outfit was deliberately designed to make the man almost invisible at night.

  O’Brien provided his credentials readily when Durell asked for them. Before Durell examined the papers, he turned to Jensen. “What’s being done about the girl and Duncan?”

  “We’re short of men, Sam. We’ve got two cars searching the neighborhood, and six more men on foot. A woman who is a palmist saw it happen from her parlor window. She says Duncan and the girl ran and hid behind her steps, and then a small, dark car—a Chevy or a Ford, not the Cortez Buiek—drove up and a tall, dark man got out with a gun and made them get into the car with him.”

  “No license?”

  "Madame Frenatti didn’t notice. She’s consulting her charts.”

  Durell tried to stifle the rising squirm of anxiety in him and looked at O’Brien’s credentials.

  They were all in order. O’Brien was listed with the alien immigration authorities as a registered agent of the Latin American republic that had ousted the Cortez dictatorship. As second in command of the National Police, O’Brien was the equivalent of first aide to the head of the American FBI. Important enough. And young and tough and competent enough, as Durell knew from first-hand experience.

  “Let’s hear your story,” he suggested.

  “It is as your man said,” O’Brien said quietly. “I have been assigned to keep an eye on the Cortezes. It is known that they dream and hope and work for a return to re-establish their dictatorship in my country.” O’Brien smiled wryly. “My people on both sides of my family have a long heritage of struggle for liberty, señor. And do not be mistaken by my name. I am a patriot. I belong to my country, heart and soul. I would do anything to keep the democracy we have fought and bled for.”

  “You have an Irish tongue, all right,” Durell said.

  “And a Spanish heart. Please to remember that.”

  “What do you know about the Cortez plans?”

  “I am sure we can cooperate on that,” O’Brien said. “There has been much activity in the clique surrounding the General. We know they have armed men and several squadrons of surplus planes of yours, located in a sympathetic Caribbean country. This has not troubled us too much, since we knew of it and were ready against any surprise. But what has happened here does not make sense. The Cortezes would not dare try to return with the feeble military forces they have recruited to date. There must be something more, but what it is, I have not yet discovered.” O’Brien lifted bland, inquiring eyes to Durell’s tall figure. “Perhaps, in cooperating, you will tell me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “But it is big. It has frightened you?”

  “It is alarming, yes,” Durell said.

  O’Brien’s eyes turned cool and hard. “This Duncan— he knows, does he not? And you want him for the details.”

  “We want him very badly
.”

  “But Justino will kill him, of course.”

  “Unless we find him first.”

  “I see. I might help, you know,” O’Brien said.

  “For a price?”

  “For cooperation. For the privilege of allowing me to work with you.” He laughed gently. “Alone, I am a man between two fires, it seems. I do not enjoy avoiding Justino and being shot at by your men at the same time.” He spread his hands in a Latin gesture. “How was I to know that you were already in the Cortez house doing what I had planned to do myself? It was an unfortunate coincidence in timing.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Durell said. “If that’s all it was.”

  “You suspect my actions were deliberate? I swear I meant—”

  “We don’t know. If you’re in the business, you know that nothing can be taken for granted on surface appearances.”

  “That is true,” O’Brien agreed. He sighed. “So I am under arrest?”

  “Let’s say that you’re in my custody.”

  O’Brien inclined his handsome head. “One could not wish for more.”

  Garry Fritsch came back from the search for Duncan and the girl. His report was negative. When he was briefed on O’Brien, he looked at the man as if he wanted to kill him for the disaster. Jensen signalled Durell for a private conference and they went upstairs, with Fritsch, to the front sitting room. They did not put on the lights. Durell looked out at the street and saw the Buick still parked in front of the Cortez house.

  Fritsch spoke heavily, smoothing his pale hair. “It’s gone too far now. We’ve lost every hand in the game. We’ve got to move in on them now.”

  Fritsch swung to Jensen. “What can we do? You’re the legal brains around here, aren’t you? You represent the Attorney General, right?”

  “Yes,” Jensen admitted. He adjusted his glasses again and looked uncomfortable. “But taking legal steps may not be the most desirable action at the moment. Durell has pointed that out to us. We can be blackmailed into silence by those missing bombs. That would bring it out into the open, between us and the Cortezes, and might precipitate a final act on their part that could beat us right down into the ground.”

  “Hell,” Fritsch said. “We can get a Grand Jury indictment in twenty minutes, if we have to.”

  Durell nodded. He looked at Garry Fritsch. “Have you called Wittington on this move?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What does he say?”

  Fritsch looked annoyed. “We’re to use our discretion.” He stood up decisively. “I say we ought to move in on that crowd right now. Sitting around here warming our duffs won’t get the eggs back.”

  “Neither will indictments and bench warrants. We don’t have Justino or Professor Perez in hand,” Durell said flatly.

  “We can bleed it out of them.”

  “You’re not dealing with two-bit hoodlums,” Durell said. “Don’t forget the Cortezes have influence in Washington among certain financial circles who’d have an edge on things if the Cortezes got back home. It’s unfortunate, but true. We’d be up against the finest attorneys and fastest legal action that money could buy.” “So do we just fold our hands while they move the eggs out and use ’em on O’Brien’s people?”

  Jensen said, “If we just had some idea of where they plan to cache them, or how they hope to get them out of the country—”

  “I can make a guess about that,” Durell said.

  They looked at him.

  He took folded papers out of his pocket. “I lifted these from Cortez’s desk in his house half an hour ago.

  There were a few other things. The General’s private steam yacht, for instance. El Triunfo. Does anybody know where it’s berthed?”

  Jensen clapped his forehead. “Miami.”

  “Is it there right now?”

  “I can find out.”

  “Do that. My bet is it’s steaming north right now. It might even be in New York harbor at this minute. Check the Port Authority people on that. The Coast Guard, too.”

  Fritsch was still unconvinced. “So they plan to use the yacht. It’s not enough. Where do they load the eggs?” “From the Jersey waterfront. The Cortezes have a lease on some property there. Here it is, but it’s not clearly identified. Maybe O’Brien knows about it.” Jensen went downstairs to telephone Miami and the Coast Guard, and sent O’Brien up. Fritsch still looked unconvinced.

  O’Brien listened to Durell’s concise briefing with no change of expression; Durell did not identify the cargo of Duncan’s plane. He did not interrupt when Durell told how they had lost both Justino and Perez and Duncan and the girl. O’Brien’s eyes were like blue china, meaning nothing but meaning everything, all at once. Durell wondered how much O’Brien had guessed, when he had finished, and O’Brien suddenly inquired, “The loss of Professor Perez is serious, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Durell admitted. “We’re not doing too well.”

  “And I understand you need the girl as a witness, to identify Justino, our butcher, in some act of crime he committed.”

  “You have big ears, Pablo.”

  “Agreed. I am right?”

  “Yes.”

  “This act of Justino’s was serious?”

  “Of the utmost seriousness.”

  “And it involves Perez, too?”

  “Let not your mouth rival the size of your ears, Pablo.”

  O’Brien grinned. “I will ask no more about the matter that troubles you. If my guess is correct, we are all in serious trouble, indeed. Something must certainly be done.”

  Fritsch leaned over him aggressively. “You’ve been tailing the Cortezes for how long—a couple of months?” O’Brien nodded.

  Durell took over. “Did you ever tail them to Jersey?”

  “Ah. You mean the warehouse,” O’Brien said.

  “Yes. Do you know where it is?”

  “Of course. But there is nothing in it.”

  “How many times has Justino gone there, for instance?”

  “Twice,” O’Brien said promptly. “Once with the General, on last October twenty-fifth, when they leased the property and inspected it. And again, four days ago.”

  “Did you search the place?”

  “Three days ago. It is empty.”

  Durell said, “I’m betting it isn’t empty now. I’m betting we’ll find Dunk and the girl there. And some cargo for the yacht, that Perez may be tinkering with.” He swung back to O’Brien. “Can you take us straight there?”

  “Of course.”

  Fritsch said, “Then let’s go.”

  O’Brien didn’t move. “All of us?” he asked gently. “As many men as we can scrape together,” Fritsch snarled. “Including you, chum.”

  “It would be useless, such a raid in massive force.” Fritsch started to speak again, but Durell chopped the air with his hand, cutting him off. “Why?”

  “This place you speak of is guarded by Justino’s former SN men. You have heard of the SN, his secret police? The mobs killed some of them when the revolt threw out the Cortez regime. But Justino saved a few of his bloody-handed butchers. They are here with him, still drawing pay from the treasure chests Cortez took with him. Any massive raid you may plan would immediately alert and alarm them.”

  Durell faced the lazy figure of O’Brien. “I gather you know this warehouse in Jersey pretty well, don’t you, O’Brien?”

  “I do,” O’Brien said blandly.

  “Can you get me in there without setting off an alarm?”

  “I can,” O’Brien said.

  Jensen murmured, “That’s rather risky. Perez may be there. You know what that could mean.”

  “Johnny Duncan and Pleasure will be there, too,” Durell said shortly. “We’ve got to get them out before we can make any other move, legal or otherwise.”

  “I can help you with that,” O’Brien said. He inclined his head toward Durell. “I can get in there with you, señor.”

  “Just the two of you?” Fritsch o
bjected. “That could be suicide.”

  “We’ll post every man we can spare,” he said. “But nobody goes within a quarter of a mile of that warehouse unless they’re needed. O’Brien and I will go in the rest of the way.”

  Fritsch objected. “How will we know if we’re needed.”

  “Well set a time limit. Say one hour.”

  “That’s too long.”

  O’Brien said, “We will need the time, señor. It is just right.”

  “And if you don’t come back?” Fritsch asked.

  “If we don’t come back,” Durell said quietly, “call Wittington in Washington. We’ll leave the next move up to him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jensen provided a small, unobtrusive sedan. It was nine o’clock when Durell and O’Brien left the house at Number 11. O’Brien did the driving, and Jensen was left behind in charge of the stakeout on the Cortez house. As far as could be learned, the General and his beautiful daughter, Carlotta, were spending a quiet evening at home. Fritsch commanded a second group, and Barney Kels a third, following O’Brien’s directions to Jersey.

  “You’re going too fast,” Durell said. “Kels won’t keep up.” “I told him the way,” O’Brien observed casually. “Besides, I assume you are in a hurry.”

  “I am, but we have to work with Barney and Fritsch.”

  “You are a cold-blooded man, señor. Have you a cigarette?”

  Durell gave him one. “Why cold-blooded?”

  “You do not know Justino.”

  “I’ve known men like him.”

  “So. And he has your girl. Do you not know what he will do with her?”

  “Pleasure isn’t my girl. But I promised to guarantee her safety. She’s an innocent one, you understand.”

  “Innocent?”

  “I took her from the mountains, from a simple world, because we need her as a witness. She doesn’t know what men are really like.”

  “Innocent.” O’Brien spoke the word again. “This one, then, I would also like to help.”

  “I hope we can.”

  “But this Johnny Duncan—he is a traitor?”

  “Yes,” Durell said reluctantly. “But we believe he has his regrets.”