Later that evening Cade was sitting in the lounge when the yellow-haired man approached and introduced himself.
“My name’s Johnson. Earl Johnson. I’m from the States. Philadelphia. Mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all. I’m Robert Cade.”
“English, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Thought you were. Saw you at dinner. Said to myself : There’s a Limey or my name’s not Earl Johnson. No offence meant. You got the look.”
“Mrs. Torres thought I was American.”
“That so? I’d have said she was sharper than that.”
“I think she’s pretty sharp just the same. Sharp enough to bring me to her hotel.”
“Oh, she’s a good business woman. Knows how to run this place, and in a town like San Borja it can’t be too easy to make it pay.”
“It is hers then, not her husband’s?”
Johnson laughed. “Jorge? He’s just the boy around here. He belongs to the señora like everything else. He even has to ask her for money when he needs it. And he always needs it. Yes, sir.”
So that was the situation. It explained why Torres had been so ready to take a bribe to keep his mouth shut about his conversation with Cade. No doubt he was very glad to augment his allowance. But it could cut both ways; it might be equally easy to bribe him to open his mouth.
“You’ve been here some time then?” Cade asked.
“Couple of weeks.” He summoned the waiter. “What are you drinking, Mr. Cade? They’ve got some good Scotch.”
“Thanks,” Cade said. “I’ll have a Scotch and soda.”
Johnson gave the order. “I’m a geologist,” he said. “Working for an oil company.”
“You think there may be oil in this area?”
“That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. I’m here to get the answer. It’s always a guess, mind you; never can tell for certain until they put those drills down and the black stuff comes spouting up.”
The drinks came. Cade wondered whether Señora Torres ordered her Scotch in Caracas and had it flown in by the Dakota. It seemed probable. No doubt she had been returning from a foraging expedition when he had met her.
“What’s your line of business?” Johnson asked. “That’s if it’s not a trade secret”
“No secret,” Cade said. “I’m a journalist.”
Johnson looked startled. “Oh, oh, I’ve been shooting my big mouth off too much. I hope you won’t mention my work in anything you write. Don’t want publicity just yet. You know how it is in the oil world; it only wants the rumour to get around and whoopee.”
“Don’t worry,” Cade said. “I’m not a newshound. I’m doing a kind of geographical feature for a magazine. To tell you the truth, it may never see the light of day.”
Johnson seemed relieved. “You sure had me worried there for a minute.” He tapped his chin with his knuckles. “Look, Rob—okay if I call you that?”
“Okay,” Cade said.
“I could maybe give you some help, Rob. I’ve got a jeep. I get around. You want to tag along any time, just say the word.”
“Thanks,” Cade said. “I might take you up on that. Do you know where the Gomara estate is?”
Johnson’s eyes narrowed a shade. “Sure I know where it is. Going right past it tomorrow morning. You got some interest in Gomara?”
“Not particularly.”
“If you’re thinking of getting a story out of him, forget it He sees nobody. And I mean nobody.”
“No harm in trying.”
“Well, if you like being warned off—”
Cade wondered whether Johnson himself had been warned off. Perhaps he had tried to do some prospecting on the Gomara place and Gomara had objected. If he really was as retiring as Torres had said, the last thing he would want would be oilmen running all over his estate.
“I’ll risk it,” he said.
“So be it then. I’ll take you out there in the morning.”
“Will Mrs. Johnson be going with you?” Cade asked.
Johnson stared. “Come again.”
“Your wife. Will she be going too?”
“I’m not married,” Johnson said.
Cade saw that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Oh, I thought—”
Johnson laughed. “You thought the lovely lady I was dining with was my wife?”
“Yes.”
“Not so. That was Miss Juanita Suarez.”
“American?”
“South American. And speaking of angels, there she is.”
She had just come through the archway connecting the lounge with the lobby. She was not really tall and yet she gave the impression of being so; perhaps it was in the way she carried herself; she moved across to where they were sitting. Both men rose to their feet
“Let me introduce Robert Cade,” Johnson said. “From England.”
Miss Suarez smiled. At close quarters her beauty took Cade’s breath away. “I am so pleased to meet you, Mr. Cade.” She regarded him steadily with her dark, brilliant eyes. “You have an interesting face. The bone structure particularly. And very male. Oh, yes, extremely male. Don’t you agree, Earl?”
“Sure,” Johnson said. “He’d never make a female impersonator. That’s one profession ruled out.”
Cade felt slightly embarrassed. Miss Suarez was nothing if not direct.
Johnson noticed his embarrassment and gave a laugh. “Juanita is an artist. She looks at people with the eye of a painter. To her everybody is a potential model.”
“Some day,” Miss Suarez said, “I should like to paint you, Mr. Cade.”
Looking at Miss Suarez Cade also felt that it might not be such a bad idea.
FIVE
THE GOMARA PLAGE
THE JEEP was on the forecourt in front of the hotel when Cade went out. Johnson was standing beside it talking to Juanita Suarez. Miss Suarez was wearing blue jeans and a loose cotton shirt. She was able to look glamorous even in those clothes.
“Juanita is coming along too,” Johnson said. “She’s going to do some location painting.”
Cade saw that Miss Suarez was carrying a folded easel, a paint-box and other gear. She began to pile all this into the back of the jeep.
“Leave room for the passenger,” Johnson said. “You don’t mind riding in the back, Rob?”
“Suits me fine,” Cade said.
The day was warming up. There were no old men lying under the tree in the Plaza; no children there either. Perhaps the old men were still in bed, the children at school, Pancho brought a basket of provisions out of the hotel and handed it to Johnson.
“Okay then,” Johnson said, “Let’s go.”
They got in. Johnson started the engine. They were away. Nothing much seemed to be happening in the town; it was difficult to see for what reason it had grown there. Cade remarked on this to Johnson and the American explained.
“Used to be a silver mine in the foothills. It petered out years ago. There’s still a bit of cattle raising, but if you ask me this is a dying town. Only thing that could put new life into it would be some industry.”
“Like oil?”
“Like oil,” Johnson said.
“And that would spoil it,” Juanita said.
“Better spoilt than dead.”
It did not take them long to get clear of the town. On the outskirts were huddles of adobe houses and wooden hovels, lines of washing hung out to dry in the hot sun. The jeep went past, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Then they were in open country, the road nothing but a stony trail, on each side the land covered with coarse tufts of grass with here and there clumps of trees and a few long-horned cattle grazing. In the distance ahead were the foothills and then the mountains.
They had been travelling for about half an hour when Johnson brought the jeep to a halt.
“There’s the Gomara place.”
There was a side-road branching off to the right. It was dead straight and it went gently downhill for about a q
uarter of a mile. The Gomara place was at the end of it: a big square house, two-storied, a few outbuildings and a clump of trees at the back, the whole enclosed by a fence, geometrically rectangular in outline. There was not another house anywhere in sight.
“Not troubled with the neighbours‚” Johnson remarked drily.
Juanita looked at the distant buildings, at the bleak surrounding country, gave a little shudder. “It is so desolate. So very desolate.”
She had the right expression, Cade thought. There was indeed a sense of desolation. The poor, coarse grass with areas of dry, stony soil showing through, the occasional gnarled, ragged-looking tree, the vast distances, all combined to give an impression of a land untamed and untameable, a wilderness, inimical to human life.
“Why should a man choose to come and live here?” Cade asked.
Johnson gave him a swift, sidelong glance. “It makes a good refuge.”
“From what?”
“The world.’
“You think Gomara is running from something?”
“He is not running,” Juanita said. “He has stopped.”
Cade looked at Johnson. “But you think that this is his bolthole?”
“I don’t know Gomara. Anyway, he didn’t build the place. From all accounts he’s only been here a few years. It was originally a cattle ranch, an estancia, but it’s not really good cattle country. About the only breed that can stand the conditions is the Spanish Longhorn, and you can’t run more than one cow to every fifty acres. That’s a lot of land per cow.”
Johnson seemed to have been studying the subject. It hardly appeared to have much to do with oil.
“But Gomara doesn’t raise cattle,” Cade said.
“Who told you that?”
“Jorge Torres said he had retired.”
“Very much so. Well, I’ll take you to the gate, but I don’t think you’ll get in.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Cade said. He got out of the jeep.
“If they don’t let you in you’ll have a long walk back. I’m going to the hills.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“I’ll be back this way around four.”
“Right,” Cade said. “If I’m not here, don’t worry. I’ll have made my own way into town.”
“Well, if that’s the way you want it.”
As he set off down the road he heard the jeep move away. The sun was hot and he began to sweat. In the distance beyond the house he caught sight of a rider on a black horse; there was no other sign of life. When he drew nearer he could see that the fence was of heavy chain-link wire-netting to a height of eight feet or so, topped with several strands of barbed wire. There was a tall iron gate at the entrance with vertical bars ending in sharp spikes at the top. It was quite evident that Gomara believed in being in a position to deny admittance to any unwanted visitor.
The gate was closed. On the other side the road went past a large timber building that could have been a barn or stable. The house stood further back, perhaps fifty yards from the entrance. There was a chain on the gate fastened with a padlock. Cade looked for someone to let him in and could see no one. He rattled the chain. No one came to see who was making the noise. The Gomara place seemed as desolate as the surrounding country.
Cade searched for some means of announcing his presence. There ought to have been a bell, but there was nothing of the kind. He decided to shout. After he had been shouting and rattling the gate for about half a minute a man appeared from the building on the right. He had a dark, tanned face and a sullen expression. He looked like a vaquero. He came to the gate and stared at Cade through the bars.
“What do you want?” His voice was harsh and unwelcoming.
“I want to come in,” Cade said.
“why?”
“I wish to see Señor Gomara.”
“Señor Gomara sees no one. Go away.”
“I have come a long way to see him.”
“That is your concern. I did not ask you to come.”
“Will you take a message to Señor Gomara?”
“It would be useless. A waste of time.”
The man was wearing a sweat-stained sombrero, a check shirt, baggy trousers thrust into short riding-boots and a leather belt adorned with brass studs. His hair was greying slightly at the sides and he looked as tough as a rawhide whip.
“You could at least tell Señor Gomara that I am here.”
“He would not be interested.”
“How do you know?”
“I have my orders.”
It was his final word. He was turning away when Cade heard the sound of horse’s hoofs.
A woman’s voice said: “Unlock the gate for me, José.”
Cade swung round. It was the rider he had seen in the distance, the rider on the black horse. She was wearing a black Spanish hat with a wide flat brim and silver nuggets in the band. She had jodhpurs and a white silk shirt. She had long legs and a slim waist, and her breasts were firm and pointed.
José came back to the gate, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock. The girl pushed the hat back from her head and let it hang by the chin-cord. She had short blonde hair and at first glance she seemed almost childishly young; not quite so young on a closer examination. But at first or second or any other glance she was worth looking at; of that there could be no doubt whatever. Cade looked at her and could see only one point to criticise: there was a suggestion of petulance about the mouth; it was the mouth of a spoilt child.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Robert Cade.”
She stared at him coolly while José swung open the gate. “And what are you doing here, Robert Cade?” She was speaking Spanish but it did not sound like her native language. She could well have come from the same part of the world as Earl Johnson.
“I want to see Señor Gomara.”
“But Señor Gomara does not want to see you.”
“I told him,” José said. “I told him the master would see no one,”
“So now you must go away, Robert Cade,” the girl said, “You have had a long walk for nothing in this hot sun.” There was a note of mockery in her voice and mockery in her eyes also. The eyes were large, blue, of an innocence that was perhaps misleading. “You should have brought a horse. Or perhaps you do not ride.”
“I ride when there is something to ride‚” Cade said. “I have ridden with gauchos.”
“Gauchos!” she said, and the mockery was gone from her voice. The word seemed to have touched some nerve. She looked at him more keenly. “Where have you ridden with gauchos?”
“On the pampas of Argentina. On the estancia of a man named Oviedo. I and a friend.”
“Who are you?” she asked a second time.
“I told you. I am Robert Cade.” But he knew that she was asking more than that
The black horse lifted its head and jingled the curb chains. José stood with his hand on the gate and looked impatient.
“What do you want with Gomara?”
“I have a message,” Cade said.
“A message? From whom?”
Cade lowered his voice so that José should not hear. “From Harry Banner.”
He had been feeling his way, playing it blind. But he was hitting the right notes. The girl’s eyes seemed to light up. She got down from the horse and handed the reins to José.
“Take him to the stable. Señor Cade will come with me.”
“My orders are to let no one in,” José said stubbornly.
She answered with a flash of anger: “Your orders are not to argue with me.”
José stood his ground. “I do as the master says.”
“You do also as I say.”
“I do not take orders from a woman.”
“Let me pass.”
“Not with this man.”
She was carrying a riding-switch in her hand. She raised it and struck him on the left cheek. “Stand out of my way. You are being insolent.”
<
br /> For a moment it seemed to Cade that José was going to retaliate. His eyes glittered angrily and he took half a pace forward. Then he controlled himself. “As you wish, señorita.” He moved to one side, taking the horse with him.
She walked past José and Cade followed. As he passed José he glanced at the man’s face. José was slowly rubbing his cheek where the switch had lashed it and there was hatred in his smouldering eyes. One thing was certain if nothing else: this was no friend.
The house was built of wood and painted white. There was a portico and a few steps leading up to the front door. The door was big and heavy with black iron hinges and a twisted wrought-iron ring instead of a doorknob. The girl climbed the steps, pushed open the door and went in through the wide doorway, Cade still following.
It was a spacious entrance hall. Whoever had built the house had done things on a grand scale; perhaps when the silver mine had been in production the estancia had been prosperous also. There was a broad staircase leading up out of the hall, tall, curtained windows, opulent furnishing. It appeared that Gomara did not lack money either.
The girl conducted Cade to a drawing-room and invited him to sit down. There were armchairs and sofas upholstered in rich brocade, polished tables, oil paintings in gilded frames. Cade sat in one of the chairs.
“We may as well speak English,” the girl said. “I’m American.” She laid her switch on one of the tables, took off the Spanish hat and laid that on the table also.
“Yes,” Cade said.
“You knew that of course.”
Cade said nothing.
“You are a friend of Harry’s?”
“Yes.”
She sat on the arm of a chair, facing Cade and swinging one jodhpur-clad leg. “I am Delia Lindsay.”
“Yes,” Cade said again.
“You knew that too of course. He’ll have told you about me.”
Cade looked at her.
“The message is for me, isn’t it. Not for Carlos.”
“Were you expecting a message, Miss Lindsay?”
The Rodriguez Affair (1970) Page 5