by Nick Carter
I moved in and the door closed behind me. I am sure no one touched it. Some hotel doors are enchanted.
I stood there and looked at her with a silly grin on my face. I know it was a silly grin because I happened to see my face in a small gilt-edged mirror that hung on one of the walls. And she was looking at me with what could only be described as an expression burdened with primitive lust.
She was in my arms. I pressed her tightly to me. She sighed. It had been such a long time in the clinic, she told me, and there had been such terrible pain.
Sad, sad.
Yes, yes, she told me.
When she saw I was sympathetic to her pain, she showed me the wound on her shoulder. There was no other way to show it to me than to take off her sweater and when she did that I could see that she had nothing on under the sweater at all, that is, nothing but that beautiful golden skin. She was just as nature had made her.
Actually, I even looked at the small bandage on her shoulder and admired the work of Dr. Hernández.
— Was that not terrible? she asked me.
I sympathized.
— I was once scarred on the thigh, she told me. Actually it was because I did not like a vaccination mark on my arm, she continued, and so I had my vaccination mark made on my leg. It swelled terribly.
I sympathized.
She believed me. In a moment she stepped out of her skirt and panties and showed me the scar on her thigh. It looked very well on her. I told her that.
— Surely, she said, you must have some wounds, too.
— I am a battle-scarred veteran of many wars, I assured her, and proceeded to show her the proofs.
We were somehow in the bedroom at this point and Tina drew back the bedclothes carefully and patted the sheets a bit, moving the pillows into a strange position.
When I asked her why she was separating the pillows that way, she informed me that Swedish women have very advanced ideas about love. To prove that Swedish women are good to their husbands and lovers, she cited the current longevity charts made up by the United Nations that proved that the life expectancy among Swedish males is 71.85 years, compared to the life expectancy of American males of 66.6 years.
— I show you why, she told me. We have certain methods of keeping the life juices flowing.
Thirteen
Breakfast in Granada.
"You've got to promise me to stay in the hotel here," I told Tina, looking around at the excellent decor of the dining room.
Tina looked sad. "But I will miss my skiing!"
"If you go to Sol y Nieve, you'll be responsible for Rico's death."
"I understand that." She pouted.
"And you may be putting yourself on the spot."
"Okay. Where you go?"
"I'm going back to the resort. I have a job to do."
* * *
It was a pleasant forty-minute drive up the mountainside and into Sol y Nieve. When I got there the skiers were already out on the slopes. It was a bright day with a good light powder from a brief fall the night before.
I strolled into the lobby and saw Mitch Kelly sitting at the bar off the lounge.
I pulled up a stool beside him. "You look like you opened the bar this morning."
"Right. Just got in."
"You're early, aren't you?"
"Figured I'd get here as soon as I could. What's the plot?"
"You know what it is. We've got our man up here, but he's afraid to show his hand. And we've got a double that wants me to lead him to Roman Nose."
"So?"
"Here's what we do."
We leaned our heads together, and I gave him the scheme — nuts, bolts, hammer, saw, and lumber.
* * *
I let myself into my room, banging around while I changed clothes. I got into my ski stuff and waited for Juana to hail me.
She did From the doorway.
"I see you're back," she said in that lofty no-nonsense voice — the wounded puritan.
"Yes," I said musically. "It was a long drive."
She sniffed. "What's on the program for today?"
"We ski."
"Good!"
"Then tonight we go into action."
"Action?" Her spirits rallied.
"You're going to take care of Elena."
"How?"
"Stay with her all the time. I'm working something with Parson. Kelly and I."
She nodded. She seemed disappointed. "But Elena seems quite innocent."
"Innocence or guilt is not the question. We have to isolate Parson. I'll set that up. But I don't want any interruptions from Elena."
"Okay. Now. What about now?"
"It looks like a great day for the slopes."
She brightened. "Right on!"
* * *
We spent the rest of the daylight hours in the snow. It was strictly relaxation and recreation. For a few short hours I forgot all about Corelli, Tina, Elena, Hauptli — forgot about all these troublesome people and about the mission, this Spanish Connection that was proving to be so difficult to make. I had my plans all laid. It was just a matter of waiting to get Parson in the right place at the right time. Late in the afternoon we ran into Parson and Elena near the Borreguilas. Elena seemed withdrawn and subdued, but Parson was his old ebullient self.
"Had a smashing run this morning, didn't we, Elena?" He was really so British it almost curdled the blood.
"Oh?"
"I thought it was magnificent! Beautiful conditions! Really a great run!" He grinned at Juana. "And how are you, Lovely Lady?" The capital letters sounded in his voice.
"Fine," said Juana.
"I think we must have missed you last night Where were you?"
"Around," said Juana.
"I was in Granada," I said.
Parson shrugged. I drew him aside.
"There's someone you have to meet," I told him in a low tone of voice.
"Oh?"
"About the trip."
"Trip? What trip, old chap?"
"To the States."
"Already? You mean you've looked over that material I gave you…?"
"Not yet. But it seems wise to set up the itinerary. There will be a logistics problem, I'm sure."
Parson cleared his throat. "All right. Where shall we make it?"
"Not our rooms," I said. "I'm convinced they're bugged."
His eyes widened. "You don't really think so?"
Damned hypocrite! He was the one who had planted the bugs!
"I actually think so," I said.
"Then where? In the snow?" He was grinning.
"The discothèque."
"In the basement of the hotel?"
"Right."
He nodded. "You're on."
"Ten o'clock?"
"Good show."
"I've told Juana to meet with Elena. We just don't want any interference. This is important"
"Of course, old boy."
"The four of us will have dinner together, and then Juana will sit with Elena in the lounge."
"I'll admit Elena is somewhat of a sticky problem," Parson frowned. "Sorry about that"
"Nothing that can't be handled."
We ate dinner together, and everything went off just as planned. Juana and Elena drifted off to the lounge, and Parson and I went down to the discothèque to "talk business."
The floor show had not yet begun. The stereo rig was providing loud music, and dancers were wandering about on the floor doing the monkey and the frug and whatever else was «in» at their particular scene.
Parson and I got a table in a corner. I sat in the V, with two walls angling out from me. Parson sat at my left. I put him there purposely. There was one empty chair at my right.
We ordered some mild wine to start. It did not really take long for the music to increase in volume and the action to speed up out on the dance floor. A few drunks were already being escorted out on the shoulders of their companions.
Then Mitch Kelly appeared, spotted us in the corner
, and twisted his way between the tightly-placed tables toward us.
He grinned at me. "George," he said.
"Kelly," I said. I turned to Parson. "Barry Parson, this is Mitch Kelly. He's the man I was telling you about."
Kelly grinned and sat down. He ordered from the waiter and the kid disappeared in the crowd. It was dark now, with the lights on strobe in the center of the dance floor.
"You don't really look Italian," said Kelly with that wide, disarming grin of his.
Parson's face stiffened. "Well, neither do you."
"I don't profess to be," Kelly rejoined.
Parsons eyes narrowed. He glanced at me and then, seeing no expression on my face, turned back to Kelly. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It is supposed to mean: How can you prove you're the man you claim you are?"
Parson relaxed. "Well, now. I think I've proved it to your colleague. Isn't that enough?"
"I'm the man who has to arrange your transportation to the States." Kelly's face tightened. "I don't fancy trying to smuggle in the wrong man!"
"I'm the right man," Parson said, his accent noticeably diminishing. He began to sound more like the «Corelli» role he had played with me at the Veleta. I sat back enjoying the give-and-take.
"I feel we are talking about two different things, Mr. Parson," Kelly said politely. "I have authorization to arrange transportation to the United States for the man who is the key figure in the Mediterranean drug chain."
"I am the man," snapped Parson.
"The man's name is Rico Corelli. Are you Rico Corelli?" Kelly wore a vague smile that did not touch his eyes.
"Yes. I am Rico Corelli." Parson's lips were white and he had them pressed together very tightly. Tension, tension.
"I am afraid you will have to prove that to my satisfaction, Signor Corelli."
Parson put his hand to his mouth. "Not so loud! That name is known everywhere!"
"No one can hear with all this noise," smiled Kelly. "I repeat, you will have to prove your identity to me."
"But I have already given the material that can prove it to George Peabody."
I shrugged.
Kelly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope. It was letter-size. He opened it and drew out a tiny roll of film. He placed the roll in the middle of the table.
The waiter brought Kelly's drink.
Parson stared at the roll.
"My microfilm?" he asked in a hushed voice.
"No. Rico Corelli's," said Kelly.
"But I gave the film to Mr. Peabody! The real Rico Corelli film!"
"Negative, Parson. That is impossible."
"How, impossible?" Parson was running a good bluff, but I could see the tension around his eyes — tiny crow's feet of nerves fanning out into his flesh.
"I am Rico Corelli, Parson. And I dare you to dispute that fact."
Parson's face was like granite. I was reminded of the schist along the ski run. He stared at the roll of microfilm. He picked it up to look at it some more, even went to the trouble of unrolling it.
"No need to try to read it," Kelly said. "It's too small to see. And, anyway, it's a duplicate."
There was a thin bead of perspiration on Parson's forehead. "A duplicate?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," Kelly said with a smile a cobra would have envied.
"And the original?"
"Mr. Peabody has sent it along to Washington for verification with the Narcotics Bureau of his great country"
Parson stared at Kelly for a long moment. Finally he let his breath out in a long sigh.
"Well," he said. "Well, well, well."
"Indeed yes, Barry," I said with a smile. "Well?"
He turned to me, his lips twisted. "What made you set up this kind of charade? I don't understand you."
He was going on the defensive. Mitch Kelly and I had succeeded in our primary intent. We had determined that Parson was not Corelli. If he had been Corelli, he would have scoffed and laughed, and congratulated me on my little game. But he would not have knuckled under. The problem from Parson's viewpoint was that he did not know who Corelli was at all; he suspected Mitch Kelly might indeed be he. And the microfilm unnerved him. His had been fake. This could be genuine. He simply did not know how to proceed.
"Actually," I said with a smile, "this meeting was set up at the instigation of Mr. Corelli." I nodded toward Kelly.
Kelly smiled. "Yes. I wanted to see what the man who had been hired to kill me looked like."
Parson's face was a mask of old leather goods.
"You're being very humorous, Mr. Kelly."
"You can call me Corelli. You hear the similarity, Mr. Parson?"
What a damned coincidence! I thought. There was not an ounce of truth in what Kelly implied — that he had taken on the name Kelly to sound like Corelli. But it played beautifully.
"All right. Corelli. It's a cat-and-mouse game." Parson's forehead was gleaming with perspiration now. "I don't like cat-and-mouse games."
"Nobody does," said Kelly. "Especially the mouse. A minute ago you were the cat. Now you ve got red eyes."
Parson sighed. "Go ahead. What is it you want?"
"I want to know why you tried to play me for a sucker!" I snapped.
Parson smiled thinly. "I've been playing you for a sucker from the first minute I met you, George — whatever your name is, Mr. Secret Agent from America — and I do not distinguish which particular moment you refer to."
"That was unkind," I said softly. "Most unkind of you, Barry-baby." I leaned toward him. "I mean when you took on the role of Corelli at Veleta."
He shrugged, his face fixed in a frozen smile. "Very simple. I'd bugged your car. And I was there when Arturo was killed. I went to Veleta to find Corelli and kill him."
I glanced at Mitch Kelly, and he ducked his head down and drank his liquor.
"Then you were at the cable car engine room the first night?"
"Of course. I followed you to Sol y Nieve to find Corelli. It was simply a matter of being sure I met everyone you did."
"So you knew I was meeting Corelli…" I turned to look at Mitch Kelly"…midnight at the Veleta."
"Right."
"And you were waiting for me when I got there?"
"Exactly." Parson smiled faintly. "I could hardly explain away the coincidence, could I? I had to say I was Corelli when you found me. And, besides, I knew I would eventually find Rico Corelli through you." He turned to Kelly. "As I have."
"It was a kind of sudden inspiration, wasn't it?" I suggested.
"That's right." Parson was gaining confidence.
"And you figured Corelli would surface to find out why you were impersonating him?"
"Something like that"
"And you hoped the fake microfilm wouldn't have been checked by that time?"
"I had to take some chances."
I leaned back, watching him. "Not quite, Barry. Nice try. But not quite good enough."
Parson frowned. "I don't understand."
"The fact is, you cut that brake line in the Renault before I left for Veleta. You wanted me completely out of the picture. You wanted to have Corelli all to yourself at the monument so you could kill him and go off scot free. Right?"
Parson took a deep breath. "I deny it. Why would I go to all that trouble to save you afterward, when your car went out of control?"
Kelly looked at me. It was a telling argument.
But I knew the answer to that "You needed me after Corelli did not show up at the meeting. I was the only one left who could lead you to him. Aside from Juana. But Juana was not authorized to meet with Corelli until I had set it up. You had to have me, Barry. Alive. Why not pretend you were Corelli, until Corelli finally did make himself known to me. Right?"
He sat there stonily.
The lights suddenly went out in the discothèque, and then flared up again. The stereo had been turned off and the dancers had left the postage-stamp floor. Professional Spanish dancers were assembling on
the small stage dressed in flamenco costumes. Six guitar players were seated in chairs at the rear of the stage.
In the ensuing moments, the singer — a male — came forward, strumming his guitar, and started to narrate the story of the dance.
"What do you want with me?" Parson asked now, looking across at Kelly.
"Somebody hired you to kill me," said Kelly, flat-lipped.
"I deny that," said Parson.
"Don't give me that kind of crap," said Kelly in a low threatening voice. "Somebody hired you. You're a professional killer. Barry Parson is a cover name. You've been on the payrolls of a dozen countries since World War Two. Come on. Interpol knows all about you."
This was one we had pulled out of the hat.
Parson's face turned to ice. "I work for hire, that's true. I work for anyone who pays me."
I glanced at Kelly. He kept on the pressure. Parson had cracked. He had admitted it. He was up for ire. He would work for Kelly now if Kelly put the ice high enough.
But we did not want that at all.
"Who hired you to kill me?" Kelly asked again.
"If I tell you, I'll be target for tonight," said Parson with a hollow laugh.
"If you don't, you're target right now sitting in this discothèque," said Kelly, putting plenty of force behind the words.
"I'm dead either way," Parson reasoned.
"We'll get you out of here. Tell me who hired you and we'll start for the door right away. We'll get you away from the resort. I have assistants."
Kelly turned and glanced at the bar. One of the waiters standing there looked at Kelly and nodded. Then Kelly glanced at a table in the far corner of the room. A man in black was seated there. He tipped his beret with his finger when Kelly looked at him.
A little window-dressing to make it look right.
Parson was pale now.
The flamenco music started, and a soloist came out to dance. He was fast and sure-footed. His heels went like machine-gun fire. The dance increased in tempo and volume.
"Tell me who hired you!" Kelly rasped.
"Not that," Parson snapped. "Anything else, but not that."
"The Mafiosi?" I asked.
He looked at me scornfully. "That was Moscato's bosses! Not me." His eyes widened. He realized he had practically told me who had hired him.