“I have the money.” Jose fished for pesos in his pocket. “I have enough money to buy a bottle of your perfume. A bottle of La Rosa del Amor.”
The old man kept shaking his head. He was annoyed at the insistence. He was in a hurry to return to the good money of turistas. “Look about you! There is no perfume. I do not sell perfume.” He shuffled off toward the serape couple, mumbling, “No perfume. Go to the market.”
Jose didn’t go. He followed the boy to the counter. “There is no perfume?” he persisted. The teen-age girls giggled to each other.
Jose slanted over his shoulder at Senor Praxiteles. The old man wasn’t free to listen, not if the fussy woman was to be sold the costume she had chosen for her husband. Jose lowered his voice, “Where is Francisca?”
The boy’s blank face said something now. It spoke of fear. “Yo no se,” he stammered. He did not want any more conversation with Jose. His eyes sought Senor Praxiteles’ for help. But his fear was of the old one. He shrank again when the Senor approached the troublous peon.
El Greco’s tongue was barbed. “What now is it you want, Senor?” The title was a sneer. “I am a busy man. I have told you there is no perfume to be had here. Go to the Mercado.”
“I want to see Francisca.”
The girls giggled more shrilly. The fussy woman said loudly, “Well, make up your mind, Horace. The blue or the green,” and the schoolteachers conferred, “This one would go well in front of your fireplace, Julia.” Praxiteles’ silence was the more menacing for these extraneous sounds which dangled from it.
“She is not here,” he finally said.
“Where is she? She tells me I can see her. It is for her I wish to buy the perfume.”
Praxiteles might believe it, he might not. Francisca wasn’t too young to have a fellow seeking her, they started young on the streets of Juarez. “She told you to come here?”
That must be wrong. Jose was belligerent. “You are her abuelo. Where do I look for her but at the house of her abuelo?”
Senor Praxiteles spat, “You are wasting my time. I am busy.” He beamed a wrinkled smile at the arguing couple. “Un momento, Senora.” From his narrow lips, he ordered Jose, “Get out of here. Go away. If you bother me further I will call the police.”
That was a good one. But Jose skirted by the old man as if he were cowed by the threat. He would return later. When el Senor had more time for him. On the broken steps he lingered long enough to roll a cigarette. He rounded the corner where last night two men had waited for him. No one shadowed the sunlight. In the back of his mind, he might have wanted a look at the rear entrance of the Praxiteles tienda. He was not expecting a whisper from the window.
He saw the boy’s empty, frightened face. “Francisca, she did not come home last night.” The boy was gone that quickly. He must have made some excuse to the gigglers to come into what would have been a stockroom, something which would hold water with the old man, such as fetching more gimcracks.
Jose walked on. Tosteen was dead, Francisca had not come home last night. Francisca had the package Tosteen was after, the package el Greco had turned over to Jose for Dulcy Farrar. The package which was more important than a bottle of cheap perfume should be. He was going to find the sorbita. He wouldn’t listen to the dreary whisper that she too might have been laid to rest in the river. He would find her alive.
There was one more source of information, an honest one. Senora Herrera wouldn’t know anything about what made a perfume bottle important but she could tell him more about Francisca and the spidery old man. Senora Herrera was one person who wasn’t afraid to speak out about el Greco. He couldn’t call upon the Herreras in his sweaty work clothes. They were gentlefolk. He’d have to return to the hotel and change. It was just as well to report in to Lou before evening. He’d stirred up fuss in enough quarters over here to make a friend essential. He didn’t want to be found on the riverbed tomorrow morning.
Instead of returning to the intersection, he cut across side streets to Avenida Juarez. His guardian angel must have been nudging him. Certainly he hadn’t thought about trouble waiting at the intersection. The short cut gave him a head start when they spotted him, Salvador and two men in purple-blue suits.
He wouldn’t have noticed them if he hadn’t short-cut again, slanting across in the direction of customs. Salvador was pointing to him, the men began a slant cross of their own. Jose lengthened his stride, eeling through the clusters of tourists and vendors. He didn’t know what the two wanted with him, he wasn’t anxious to find out. The men were half-running but he kept ahead of them and, in a last spurt, declared himself quickly to the Mexican officials.
He was midway to the American side when they reached the barrier. Over his shoulder he watched them gesticulating to the officials. They might be accusing him of anything from theft to rape to subversive activity but they weren’t permitted to follow. He didn’t breathe easy until he had been passed by the American side. Steaming from the heat of the chase. It wasn’t the climate for foot races.
He had a natural distaste for the waiting taxis. No telling what you’d find in a border cab. It was safer to be out in the open. His luck held. A slatternly street car was approaching and he waited for it. His pursuers might have been on board but they weren’t. The car was sparsely filled at this hour. He rode the short way into the city with Mexicans who were crossing the border for shopping or a job. The El Paso streets were cluttered with safe afternoon crowds. When he swung off the trolley, it wasn’t more than a stride to the hotel.
He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he went directly to the coffee shop. The cooling system enhanced appetite; he ordered steak and potatoes and a tomato salad, iced coffee. While he waited, he munched on bread. He sensed rather than saw that someone stood above the table. It was Lou.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t seem pleased about it.
“Sit down.” His mouth was full.
She hesitated and then she pulled out the chair across from him. “I thought I spotted you coming in.” For Lou the waitress rushed to the table. “Nothing for me, Annie.” She waved the girl away. Her frown returned to Jose. “I said you’d checked out.”
He was quick. “Who’d you say it to?”
“The police.”
They observed each other silently. He asked, still not understanding how or why, “The police were looking for me?”
“Not exactly.” There was an ink stain on her forefinger. She rubbed at it. “One of our guests died last night.”
“Was killed,” he said.
Her eyes jumped to his face. “You know about it!”
“I’ve been in Juarez. Everyone knows about it.” He put butter on another slab of bread. “I don’t get why the cops wanted to see me.”
“I don’t know that they did,” Lou said slowly. “Until those friends of yours—”
He waited without expression.
“Jim Wade and Dee Meighan volunteered that Tustin had been looking for you last night.”
He began to chomp the crust. Annie was bringing his plate, it gave him time to think about how much he should tell Lou. By the time he’d sampled the steak, he’d decided to open up. About so far.
“I ran into those two in Juarez last night with a couple of bims. They told me someone was looking for me. Not who.” He told the truth. “I didn’t know Tustin. I didn’t know that was his name.”
“Why was he looking for you, Jo?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have an idea.”
He’d go a little further. “Listen, Lou. I saw the guy for the first time when I got here yesterday. He was coming out of the hotel as I was going in. I didn’t pay any more attention to him than that. And it wasn’t an hour later he was in my bedroom—your guest room—going through my things.”
Her eyebrows zoomed. “Why?”
“I didn’t know then, I don’t know now. I caught him at it because I was expecting Pablo with that lunch, remember?”
“What did he say?”
“He apologized for mistaking the room. You don’t mistake that apartment of yours for a room, Lou.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. Her pretty face was screwed tight with thinking.
“I didn’t like it. Pablo arrived about then and the guy took off. Pablo found out his name for me later.” Tosteen—Tustin.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“What for?”
“We like to keep an eye on irregularities.”
“He hadn’t taken anything, Lou. He’d apologized.”
She pronged a fork on the table cloth. “Did you see him again?”
“In Juarez. We passed each other again, like strangers.” He wouldn’t mention the later altercation. Maybe no one would remember it.
She frowned. “Then why?” She persisted, “That’s all there was to it, Jo?”
“That’s all.” With reservations.
She said slowly, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all.” But she’d lived too long on the border not to be suspicious. Even of Jose Aragon. “There must be more to it, Jo.”
“Sure,” he agreed. “That much doesn’t add. But how are we going to find out the rest of it? Tosteen—Tustin’s dead.”
“You said killed.”
“What do the police say?”
“They think he got drunk, fell into the river, or was rolled. That’s what they say. That he died from the tumble. Not that someone killed him.”
“Why are they so interested? Another drunk.”
“You know why,” she told him impatiently. “Neither side wants any trouble.”
“That’s what they’re saying in Juarez. On which side did it happen? It’s safer if he was killed American. Norte American.
She agreed.
“They’re afraid. They don’t want to talk about it. They know he was killed even if the cops won’t say so. Do you know el Greco, Lou?”
Alarm touched her. “Is he in on it?”
“Do you know him?”
“Everyone knows Senor Praxiteles. He does business both sides of the bridge. He’s a bad one, Jo. Where does he come in?
“I don’t know,” he began, but at the refusal in her face, he made it stronger. “I honestly don’t, Lou. But no one in Juarez wants to talk about him or about Tosteen, your Tustin. It’s fifty-fifty on not talking.”
She spoke softly. “Why were you asking questions in Juarez?”
“I was trying to get some answers.” It sounded flip but he wasn’t feeling that way. “I didn’t.”
“Why did you stay over to ask questions?”
The taxi driver hadn’t come forward. He was pretty sure of that. Dirty little guys like the cabbie could get in trouble too easy. Jose Aragon had been the one selected to take on that trouble but he’d refused. Whether the cabbie was an innocent victim or one of the Praxiteles boys, he’d keep his mouth shut. It could have been he who pushed Tosteen over the embankment to get rid of him. Jose didn’t even have to speak up.
He had waited too long to answer her. She went on, “Why did you stay over to ask questions about Tustin? Before the police knew he was dead?”
“I didn’t kill him, Lou. For God’s sake!”
“I know you didn’t,” she returned as angrily. “But how did you know?” She was almost fearful. “What have you to do with el Greco?”
“Not a damn thing. Or with Tustin. Believe it or not, but it’s God’s truth.”
“I believe you, Jo,” she said but she was still angry. Then she switched emotions. She became shrewd. “Go home, Jo.”
“I can’t.” He’d spoken too quickly.
“Why not?” The two words were bullet hard.
He shouldn’t have told her anything. Every little piece led to another little piece. He was exceedingly careful now, choosing each word, weighing it before he gave it to her. “I lost something last night in Juarez. Until I find it, I can’t go home.”
She didn’t ask what; if he’d wanted her to know that he’d have told her. But she reached back and put things in order. “What about Praxiteles?”
He’d be safe telling her the whole story. She could help him, she had an importance, the woman who ran the biggest hotel in El Paso. But the little fellows wouldn’t be safe; she wouldn’t care about Canario who’d played a joke and was this soon regretting it or of Francisca trembling in the darkness and as yet he didn’t know why. Lou would short-cut to take care of Jose Aragon and the hotel; what happened to the others wouldn’t matter. She’d been here too long, she’d known too many who deserved their border reputation. She’d tar them all with the brush until they proved otherwise. And they couldn’t prove it with two sets of police on their necks; they couldn’t prove it with el Greco’s threads winding about them.
He had no compunctions about involving the Farrar bunch, but if he did, they’d sail out of it with full white sails. Between the Farrars and a border punk, the punk wouldn’t have a chance. He’d save the Farrars for one who saw them without illusions, for himself. He must continue to speak with care. He answered her, therefore, “I don’t know yet, Lou. I only know what I’ve told you, across the bridge the two names are linked. Maybe not by the police. By the people in the Plaza. In the bars.”
“It isn’t safe to play games with Senor el Greco, Jo.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“Have you met him?”
He was careful. “I’ve been in his shop.”
“I wouldn’t go back. If he knows you’ve been asking questions about him, and he’ll know, I wouldn’t go back.”
“Thanks, Lou,” he said noncommittally.
She said, “You were CIC during the war.”
He flared, “You think I’m playing cloak and dagger out of habit? I’m not, Lou. But look at it straight. A guy I don’t know follows me around. Before I can find out why, he’s dead. Now the police are looking for me. I’ve got some things to learn.”
He’d finished his dinner a long time ago. Annie was hovering but not too close; she could see the boss didn’t want an interruption. He beckoned the girl now. “Bring me some peach shortcake and more coffee. How about it, Lou, join me for coffee?”
“I must get back to the desk.” When the waitress withdrew, she said, “There’s a lot you aren’t saying, Jo. I know it. You know it.”
He smiled at her fondly. “I’m hoping to get done with it tonight. Maybe I can catch a late ride. If you hear of any, let me know. You think I ought to see the cops before I leave?”
“It isn’t exactly the cops. It’s Ozzie Harrod. Border patrol. We went to school together.”
“You think I should talk to him?”
“Not until you’re ready to talk, Jo.” She shook her head gravely. “Not while you’re covering up this way. He’s no dope.”
It annoyed him that he was so wide open but he swallowed the rebuke. He said, “Okay.”
She pushed away from the table. “You’re going across the bridge again tonight.” She disapproved.
“I’ve got to.”
“You wouldn’t want to take me along?”
“I can’t, Lou.” He shook his head.
“Be careful.” She walked away on efficient heels.
The girl darted forward with the dessert as soon as the boss had gone. “Get me an afternoon paper, will you, Annie?” He smiled at her. She was eaten up with curiosity but the smile would help her to forget. It was his forward-pass smile. One he’d learned from Beach.
The story was on the front page but you had to borrow a microscope to find it. A couple of lines about a man found dead in the Rio Grande near the bridge, identified as H. E. Tustin. Believed to have lost his balance and fallen over the embankment. Suggestion was he’d lurched through too many bars; the reporter didn’t have to put that in words. Nothing about who Tustin was or what he was doing wandering on a dark embankment. The police would have been through Tustin’s papers, they’d know. It looked as if he’d have to see t
he police despite Lou’s warning.
When he returned to the lobby, he was aware of every face decorating it. Among these would be cops. But no one paid him any special attention and he wasn’t able to spot which ones. That was the way they wanted it. He had to go to the desk for a key. Lou ignored him. Clark handed it over without words. Lou may have warned him to keep quiet too.
As Jose turned toward the elevators, he almost bumped into Pablo. The boy said, “Your pardon, Senor,” and got himself out of the way. His flat black eyes held on Jose’s face. As if he had words on his tongue but there were others heading to the elevators and he withheld them.
The others got off along the way, couples and the usual business men. Jose rode to the top floor. He let himself into Lou’s apartment, shoved the door tight after him. He was stopped cold. By a smell. A smell he knew by now. The smell of La Rosa del Amor.
On Lou’s cocktail table was the lumpy green-wrapped package. Quickly Jose went into the bedroom, into the bath, out again, and without a halt into Lou’s room and bath. He was here alone. He was just reaching for the package when the knock sounded at the door. A knock without any special significance, not Lou’s quick rap, or Pablo’s hesitant one. A plain knock.
Automatically he hitched up his jeans, rubbed his hands dry. He crossed to the door, opened it as an ordinary guy would to an ordinary knock. He didn’t know the man who stood outside but he’d seen him in the elevator. He’d got off on the floor below. A tall, bony man, about Lou’s age, a weather-beaten face; a man with the horizon in his intelligent gray eyes, a quiet voice, a pleasant manner. He might have been a rancher. Jose guessed who he was.
“Jose Aragon? My name’s Harrod.” He held out a small leather folder. Jose took it, glanced at the credentials. “May I come in for a few minutes?”
“Yes. Come in.” He was conscious of nothing but that sickly sweet smell, Harrod couldn’t miss it. Jose was deferent as a younger man must be to an older, offering the good chair. He himself walked boldly to the couch, sat himself down. He couldn’t hide the package; he could make it harmless by making it more conspicuous.
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