“Does it really work?”
“Guaranteed. Just swing it with all your might. If his back is to you, which we dearly hope it is, go for the head. If he’s facing you, go for the stomach, swing sidearm. Then, when he bends over, give him the second one in the head.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“Acapulco?”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“There’s nothing to it,” he told her. “Just keep your hands by your side when they first come in, so your skirt hides the sap. Wait till I make my move, and then you go for number two.”
“But what if I don’t do it right?”
“Don’t worry about it. If you keep swinging, you can’t go wrong. Besides, I should have the other one’s gun pretty quick. At the very worst, you’ll be distracting him while I take care of his buddy.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “It was a lot easier to just go out the window.”
“Five flights up? If that didn’t scare you, this won’t.”
“It scared me, believe me it did.”
“And you did it anyway. So you’ll do this anyway.” He lay down on the bed, the spray can in his right hand tucked down against his right hip. The door was to his left, so the can should be out of sight until he was ready to use it. He looked over at her standing by the door and said, “You ready?”
She gave him a weak smile, a shrug, and a nod.
“Okay. Let me groan a few seconds first, build it up, before you start on the door.”
She nodded again.
Grofield closed his eyes and got into character.
Now and again his two occupations complemented each other. Grofield the professional thief had worked out the escape plan from this room, but it was Grofield the professional actor who put the plan into operation.
Who was he? Where was he? The underfurnished room, the bare mattress, the curtainless window, the girl standing apprehensive by the closed door . . . it was France, 1942. Outside, the German soldiers have just driven up in two trucks, following the jeep full of Gestapo men. Here, inside the farmhouse, lies the wounded British aviator, being hidden and cared for by the farm family with the beautiful daughter. Everything at this moment hinges on his silence, but he is unconscious, delirious, feverish, terribly wounded . . .
He thrashed a little bit on the bed. Eyes squeezed shut, he began to moan.
2
“HELP! HELP!”
She was doing beautifully, hollering away and hammering her fists on the door. On the bed, Grofield was screaming like a banshee and waving his right arm in the air.
The door burst open so fast that Ellen Marie barely had time to jump back out of the way and get the cosh down out of sight. Grofield, doing it right, let another notch out of his voice and projected a howl straight through the ceiling.
Both of them had come charging into the room, guns drawn. It was the talker and one of his assistants. The talker yelled at everybody at once, trying to be heard over Grofield’s shrieking, “Shut up! What is it? Watch her! Shut your face, you!”
He came running toward the bed. The other one, openmouthed, stood in the middle of the room and paid no attention to Ellen Marie, but gaped at Grofield instead. Grofield’s waving arm dropped down to his side, fingers folding around the spray can.
But the talker had his own methods. He didn’t want to know what Grofield’s problem was, he just wanted to shut Grofield’s mouth. So he came running to the bed, reversing the gun in his hand, and immediately swung the gun butt in a long, rapid loop aimed straight at Grofield’s head.
Grofield, his eyes half-closed, saw it coming just barely in time and wrenched himself out of the way with a jolting effort that drew the kind of knife pain from his wound that he hadn’t felt in two days. The gun butt smashed into the mattress next to Grofield’s ear.
He’d lost the can. It was down there somewhere, he almost had it, but his finger couldn’t find the button on top. He just grabbed it, swung with it.
The talker had wound up his swing half-bent over the bed, enraged face directly above Grofield’s. Before he could regain his balance, Grofield had swung around and hit him in the mouth with the side of the spray can.
But the can was too light. It startled the talker, but that’s all it did. Grofield hit him two more times fast with the can, once again on the mouth and once on the nose, and only dented the can. But by then he’d finally found the button, and he started spraying.
Only he was too late. The talker was already backing away from the bed, getting control of things again, reversing the gun to get the long-distance end aimed at Grofield. Grofield had managed to cut his lip, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.
Nor could he get off the bed in time. The useless spray can still clutched in his hand, Grofield struggled around on the bed, trying to get up, trying to get on his feet. His left arm didn’t want to help at all, didn’t want to do a thing.
In front of him, too far away, the talker had come to a stop, was braced, had the gun around and aimed, was saying, “Goodbye, you smart bas—”
And fell over on his face.
Grofield had managed finally to get off the bed by throwing himself over the edge. He and the talker hit the floor at the same time. The talker’s gun bounced and landed beside Grofield’s cheek. Grofield looked up and saw Ellen Marie standing there, the only vertical person in the room.
She shook her head and hefted the blackjack. “I don’t know what you’d do without me,” she said.
“You got him?”
“I got them both.”
“Bless you, Elly. You’re a dear child.”
“There’s a rumor going around,” she said, “that you’re going to help me.”
“Moral support,” he said. “Also, I hold your coat. Would you mind helping me up? I believe I’ve had enough humiliation for one day.”
She helped him to his feet and handed him the talker’s gun, then pointed at the other door. “I haven’t heard a thing from there,” she said. “Shouldn’t we have heard something?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. A scream maybe.”
“Or sizzling?”
“Oh! Don’t talk like that.”
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go around and see.”
She said, “What if these two start to wake up again?”
“Conk them again.”
“Is that safe?”
“Sure. It’s soft, won’t cut the flesh or anything.”
“But what about concussions?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What about them? Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“All right.”
He went through the other room, out to the hall, down past the locked door to the room where he’d been imprisoned, and tried the door to room number three. It was unlocked, and inside, hood number three was lying on his face on the floor.
Grofield went over and looked at him and he looked very gray. Grofield called through the door, “Unplug that thing.”
“All right. Wait a second.”
Grofield waited till she told him it was all right, then unlocked and opened the door. “There,” he said. “Our choice of escape routes.”
She looked past him, saying, “Is he—is he—?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. I’ve never, I’ve never been involved in—would you please go see how he is?”
“If you say so.” Grofield went over and knelt beside him and looked him over. “He’s breathing,” he said. “Shallow, but breath.”
“I’m glad.”
He looked up at her, and she really did mean it. She wasn’t, so far as he could tell, totally consistent. One minute she was climbing up and down the outside of buildings on a sheet and knocking out gunmen with a homemade cosh, and the next minute she was Louisa May Alcott.
Skipping right out of Alcott again, now, she said briskly,
“Shouldn’t we hurry? We’ve still got to get away from here.”
“One thing at a time, sweetheart. Help me drag this guy into the other room.”
He was feeling very down now, after the sudden burst of activity. Also, his throat was sore from all the shrieking he’d done. Dragging the limp body into the middle room, even with Ellen Marie’s help, left him shaking with weakness. He sat down on the bed, gasping a little, saying, “Got to rest a minute. Look, you go through that side room, lock the door behind you, take the key with you, come around through the hall and come back here, okay?”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine. I just have to sit down a minute, that’s all.”
“Your face is all-over sweat. Let me get you a towel.”
“You’re a dear girl.”
She got him the towel and then went away to lock the connecting door. Grofield mopped his face and looked at the three sleeping beauties. “I would like to see you boys again some time,” he told them, “when I’m up to snuff.”
Ellen Marie came back in from the hall and said, “Now what?”
“Get their guns and their wallets and any official-type papers they may have on them, and pack everything away in your suitcase. Then we’re getting out of here.”
“Good. Where do we go from here?”
“First, down to get my suitcase. Second, out of the hotel and into a cab. Third, to a car-rental agency, where you are going to rent a car. Fourth, out of Mexico City.”
“I can’t go to Acapulco,” she said. “I don’t dare get there before Friday. There are more of—” she motioned at the three on the floor “—more of them down there. That’s why I came here; I thought I’d be safe here until Friday.”
“But they were waiting for you.”
“Yes.”
“So we’ll go somewhere else.” He felt more rested now, and much more pleased with life. He got to his feet, staggering almost not at all, and said, “A place I’ve heard of. We’ll both love it. Come on.”
They locked the hoods in, and went away.
3
THE CAR WAS a Datsun, a Japanese make, cream-colored, with automatic gearshift. A two-door sedan, it was a little cramped for Grofield’s long legs, but not bad. It was a family-type pleasure-type car, sturdy and reliable, but not very peppy. Grofield, at the wheel, had the feeling he’d have trouble getting away from even a determined cyclist.
Still, it was a pleasant little car, about the size of an American compact. Their luggage was on the back seat, two suitcases each now, Grofield having taken extra time to do some shopping for clothes and a bag to put them in.
Late afternoon in Mexico City. Always a good time of day, after the rain, with the sun out again and a bright, fresh, newly washed look to the world. Grofield drove west along Paseo de la Reforma, one of the two major thoroughfares of the city and its more beautiful. Eight lanes of two-way traffic were flanked by broad swaths of green grass. Statues, benches, and pedestrian paths lined these strips of grass, beyond which were narrow access streets paralleling the main lanes, and then finally the buildings. Movie houses, banks, hotels, and government buildings flanked Reforma. The Mexico City Hilton was here, and the American Embassy. At each major intersection there was a circle around a large monument; the statue of Charles IV, the statue of Columbus, the statue of Cuauhtémoc, and finally the Independence Monument, a great golden-winged figure called “the Angel.”
Farther west, Reforma turned at an angle to the right and cut through Chapultepec Park. Great trees arched over the roadway, roofing it in green, so that they drove through a dappled effect of light and shadow, the park stretching away on both sides. The peseros, one-peso taxicabs of red or yellow or dark green, raced by in both directions, the traffic crowded but surprisingly fast.
Ellen Marie lit two cigarettes, gave Grofield one, and said, “This is a beautiful city. I think I’d like to come here sometime.”
“You mean when you can look at it.”
“Something like that.”
Grofield glanced at her, sitting easy and relaxed beside him. Light and shadow, light and shadow; sunlight did very good things for her hair. “I can’t figure out what sort of mess you could get yourself in,” he said.
“Don’t try. Please.”
Grofield shrugged. “Patience is my middle name,” he said.
“Is Alan really your first?”
“Yes.”
“Thank, thank you, Alan, for helping me.”
“Sure. What did I do?”
“You made the blackjack.”
Grofield grinned. “Any time,” he said.
At the end of Chapultepec Park, at a huge statue-fountain affair that looked like the world’s biggest bookend, Grofield turned right off Reforma and onto Avenue Manuel Avila Comacho. He’d spent five minutes looking at a road map in the car-rental office, and now he was a little surprised it was all going as easily as the map had made it look.
She said, “You haven’t told me yet where we’re going. Is it a surprise?”
“For both of us. I’ve never been there myself, but I’ve heard of it. It’s north of here about—”
“North? But Acapulco is south. Shouldn’t we at least go toward Acapulco and stop off somewhere along the way until Friday?”
“No, not a bit of it. I looked at the map, and as far as I can see, there’s only the one road to Acapulco. It goes through Taxco, and then on down to the coast. It’s the only road to Acapulco from anywhere, so all your friends have to do is start at one end and search for us until they find us.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize that. Only the one road?”
“Only the one road.”
“But that’s ridiculous. Acapulco is a big city, a resort city.”
“One road.”
“Good Lord, no place has only one road. I mean, there’s always at least a north-south road and an east-west road, and that’s two. And actually four, because you can come from each direction.”
“Not Acapulco. According to the map, there’s the road from Mexico City and that’s all. It comes from the north into Acapulco and stops. South of Acapulco is the ocean. East and west is the coastline, but there’s no road along it. Maybe there will be some day, but there isn’t now.”
“Then how are we going to get there?”
“We’ll worry about that,” he told her, “when the time comes. What we’re going to do now is go north, to a place called San Miguel de Allende. We’ll stay there until—When do you have to be in Acapulco? What time Friday?”
“Just before midnight, that’s all.”
“All right. Friday morning, early, we’ll leave San Miguel and head for Acapulco and see what happens.”
“But if there’s only the one road—”
“We’ll see what happens.”
“All right,” she said. “We’ll see what happens.”
4
ELLY CLIMBED OUT of the pool, tweaked flesh in at the bottom of her bathing suit, brushed wet hair back from her face with her palms, and came walking toward Grofield.
Grofield, in a bathing suit, sitting on the grass in the sunlight and holding a bottle of Carta Blanca beer in his hand, was well pleased with life. The late-morning sun was warm, the air was clear, the surroundings were pleasant, his wound felt fine, and the girl walking toward him looked incredible in a pale blue two-piece bathing suit. He smiled lazily, gestured with the beer bottle, looked up at Elly through a new pair of sunglasses, and said, “Howdy, comrade. Set a spell.”
“Comrade,” she agreed. She flopped down on the ground beside him, took the beer away from him, swallowed a healthy portion, and gave it back. “You ought to go in the water,” she said.
“My bandage.”
“We’ve got to change it anyway. Besides, it’s spring water, it’s warm, it’ll be great for your wound.”
“The sun is great enough. I’m content.”
She looked around and nodded judiciously. “You’ve redeemed yourself,” she said.
>
“Honey, I told you last night I’d never been to San Miguel before. I’d heard about it, friends of mine told me about it. They said it’s the Greenwich Village of Mexico, it’s full of American painters and writers and composers and whatnot, all on six-month tourist permits, because it’s supposed to be cheap and great—”
“And ugly,” she finished.
“No. And beautiful. I was talking to the barman; he says San Miguel is a national monument. They’ve got two, this one and Taxco, both national monuments. You can’t build anything or tear anything down without permission from the federal government.”
“Is that why they don’t fix the streets?”
“Cobblestones. It’s Old Mexico, preserved for the modern day. I thought it looked great, myself.”
She nodded. “Me too. I’m glad we went through it, it was very nice. I’d love to look at it forever, but I wouldn’t want to live there for a minute. That hotel was just a little too Old Mexico for me. I’m New America myself.” She stretched, which looked fine. “One thing, at least,” she said. “Honner won’t ever think to look for us there.”
“Honner?”
“The man you sprayed.”
“Honner.”
She stretched again. “Well, what do we do now?”
“We wait. We can go back into town tonight, see what the night life is like.”
“I can imagine what the night life is like. But all right, we’ll go.”
“I won’t twist your arm.”
“Will you come in the water?”
“Maybe later on.”
“I’m going now, I don’t want to get a burn.”
“See you.”
She got to her feet and stretched some more. Over at the other pool, the round one with the hot water in it, a couple of the old men sitting at the rim kept looking at Elly and shaking their heads, looking at her and scratching their stomachs, looking at her and kicking their feet a little in the water. Grofield watched them watch her go to the warm-water pool and dive in. Then they looked away, started talking real estate together again, and Grofield took another swig of beer.
The Damsel Page 5