The Brink of Murder

by Helen Nielsen

  “Los Angeles police?” she echoed. “What is he doing here?”

  “The same thing we’re doing. Hannah, I’ve no choice now. I’ve got to find Barney before Reardon does.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS FOOLISH to have thought the authorities wouldn’t learn about the cable from Buenos Aires. The FBI would have checked out the flight of a Braniff passenger listed as Barry Anderson: they would have checked with Ezeiza and learned no passenger with that name had arrived. But Simon Drake and Hannah Lee travelled with genuine passports and they had passed through customs. Reardon must have followed on the next flight, and he was a man who knew Amling by sight as well as Simon. Avoiding him in the restaurant was a temporary victory. He had come to Buenos Aires on the same mission, and Simon didn’t share Lieutenant Wabash’s misgivings that he might have his loyalties confused.

  Hannah elected to spend a few days with the Laurentises in their home at San Isidro and Simon returned to the hotel alone. Eager to follow up on his clue, he contacted the driver, Paco, and made a second nocturnal visit to the waterfront club. This time he took a table in the rear of the room and concentrated on the faces of all the other guests, but the tall, dark man who limped made no appearance. If he really was Barney Amling, Simon realized, the odds against finding him were heightened now that he was forewarned. He spent the next day working with his lists: other hotels and English-speaking doctors. He made no headway until Hannah telephoned with word that broke the deadlock.

  “I met those fantastic young dancers,” she reported enthusiastically. “Elise contacted them and they came out immediately—thinking it was a job offer. As a matter of fact, I think she is going to work them in on something she has in mind—but that’s beside the point. Alex told them of your experience at the club. He didn’t say the friend you are looking for is Barney Amling. Not that it would have mattered; they live in their own world, I’m sure. But they did remember the limping man with dark glasses who came to the club. He had been there several times before you saw him. They remembered because he got into a fight with another customer and had to be asked to leave. Young performers take their work very seriously and resent that kind of customer.”

  “What kind of fight?” Simon queried.

  “Does anyone know what starts fights in night-clubs? He was with a woman of some local reputation. A known prostitute.”

  “How well known?”

  “Well, not as famous as Eva Peron. She came out of the misereres, you know. Not that I hold that against her. It might be a good idea if all first ladies came from such a background so they would know what kind of world they are the first lady of.”

  “A fight in a night-club is another thing that doesn’t sound like Barney,” Simon mused.

  “You may have a schizo on your hands,” Hannah remarked. “But, just in case you want to follow through, I did get the woman’s name. It’s Maria Sanchez and you may contact her at the same club. The young people resent her, of course. They’re very intellectual and are very dedicated to their art. I’m dying to see that act.”

  But Simon had no intention of taking Hannah on his search for Maria Sanchez. He urged her to stay on at San Isidro a few days longer, concluded the call and went downstairs to search for Paco. It took a little time. It was mid-afternoon but other drivers relayed the word over a grape-vine that brought him to the hotel within the hour. When Simon told Paco what he wanted, the driver was indignant.

  “What do you want with that woman—a gentleman like you? I can give you names of better girls than Maria Sanchez.”

  “What’s wrong with Maria?” Simon asked.

  “She’s old: twenty-four, twenty-five. She’s got a bad temper. She drinks too much. Pretty soon she gets fat.”

  “And she doesn’t give you a percentage for customer referral,” Simon suggested.

  Paco shrugged. “If that’s the way you feel, señor, okay. I know where the woman lives. Get in the taxi.”

  A waterfront area that was picturesque and mysterious after dark was shabby and miserable by daylight. Like every other large metropolis, Buenos Aires was a city of contrasts: wealth and elegance, poverty and wretchedness. Maria’s address was a good deal less than halfway between the extremes. She didn’t live in a shack. She had escaped the misereres, but her tiny apartment was in an aging building in need of paint and repair. A few potted plants at the windows showed a flickering desire for beauty. The shutters were cracked and peeling, the hallway was barren but clean. Simon knocked at her door and waited. A weary voice spoke from behind the door.

  “Que quiere?”

  “I want to see Maria Sanchez,” Simon said. “I’m a North American.”

  “No Maria Sanchez here,” the voice answered. “Then somebody else gets my twenty dollars.”

  “Un momento.”

  He heard a scurrying noise as if someone inside the apartment was doing a quick clean-up job and then the door opened. The woman who opened it didn’t look 24; she looked nearer 30. Dark, loose hair framed a face that might have been pretty if it wasn’t puffed and swollen. She was knotting the belt of a cheap housecoat. Her legs were bare and her feet looked uncomfortable in high-heeled red sandals. She smiled encouragingly.

  “Perdona, señor,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today. Usually an arrangement is made before calling. Entrar.”

  Simon stepped into a small room dominated by a bed. One wide window faced the street. The shutters were open and a warm breezle was blowing off the sea. He opened his wallet and took out a $20 bill.

  “Put it on the table,” she said. “You like a drink first? I have some bourbon.”

  “No drink,” Simon said. “I only came to ask a few questions. Don’t look frightened—I’m not official. I’m looking for a friend and I think that you may have seen him.”

  “Norte Americano?”

  “Yes. A tall man. Dark hair, dark moustache. He walks with a limp.”

  A quick fire lighted her eyes. “No!” she cried. “I won’t see this man again. I have no more to do with Miguel.”

  “Miguel? Is that what he calls himself?”

  “Calls himself, si. Miguel Torres. But he’s no real Spanish. He’s a pig.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “When?” She pulled back the hair from the left side of her face and revealed a purplish bruise running along the cheekline up to her eye. “When he did this to me!” she exclaimed. “I have pride, señor. I don’t need the money of some big mouth who is also a big pig.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “What you think? That I walk into a door? This man comes to me driving a big white car. He makes a big smile. He shows me lots of money and says: ‘You like to have a good time?’ “

  “When was this?”

  Maria grew pensive. “Four—no, three days ago. At first it’s all right. We have dinner and drive to some nice places. Then we make love. Only this pig makes love like a pig. I tell him, ‘Don’t get tough and push me around. I’m not your wife!’ But what he wants is not to make love but to make pain. ‘A woman isn’t beautiful until she cries,’ he said. Look—” Maria ran to a small closet and pulled out a flowered silk dress that hung in shreds. “He tore my best dress. Why? He didn’t have to do that. He ripped the dress to pieces and laughed. ‘I’ll buy you a better one,’ he said.”

  “Did he?”

  “No! I wouldn’t go with him any more. Every time he was more of a pig.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I told you—to dinner, driving, to a night-club. Then to his hotel.”

  “Then you do know where he lives. Maria, I have a taxi waiting. Put something on and take me to that hotel and I’ll replace your dress.”

  She didn’t believe him. “You want to take me to Miguel?”

  “No, I want you to take me to Miguel. Show me where he lives and I’ll have the taxi driver take you straight home. You don’t even have to get out of the car.”

  “That’s all yo
u want?”

  “That’s all. You won’t even see him—I promise. Will thirty dollars pay for the dress?”

  Maria watched Simon take the money out of his wallet. By this time her fear was under control and she could notice such things as the expensive cut of Wanda’s gift jacket and the fine leather in his custom-built shoes. “It was my best dress,” she said, “and I can’t work with this—” She showed him the bruise again.

  Simon added two more tens to the $30 and she smiled.

  “Gracias, señor. You are a gentleman. You like whisky? I have whisky in the kitchen. Get yourself a drink while I dress.”

  • • •

  Paco drove them to the address Maria Sanchez supplied. It was closer to the downtown area than the waterfront in a district of small hotels not recommended by any tourist agency. It was an old colonial building with a picturesque stairway leading up to a second-floor lobby that was probably less picturesque than shabby. Paco parked across the street from the entrance and the woman sank back in the seat cowering away from the window. Pointing upward, she said, “Up there—the top floor. Miguel said he likes always to be on the top floor so he can look down and see what’s happening below.”

  Simon got out of the taxi and gave Paco his instructions.

  “I don’t like to leave you here,” Paco protested. “I can park further down the street and wait.”

  “Take the lady home,” Simon insisted and handed him a $10 bill.

  “I can come back for you, señor.”

  “No need. It’s broad daylight. Keep the change, Paco. You’ve done a good job.”

  The taxi drove away and Simon walked across the street and up the curving stairway. It wasn’t the kind of place a man with almost a million dollars would go to enjoy his wealth. The lobby was clean with a few leather chairs and a sprinkling of potted plants that failed to give it charm. There was another stairway leading upward and one old but automatic elevator. There was no one on duty at the desk. Failing to get a response when he rang the bell, Simon entered the elevator and took it up to the sixth and top floor. The room Maria had indicated was at the front of the building. He walked over a well-worn carpet through a narrow corridor that was silent until his ears picked up the familiar whine of a vacuum cleaner. He followed the sound to its source: the open doorway of a room being prepared for occupancy. The cleaning woman, a buxom peasant with her hair caught up in a dark scarf, turned off the machine as he asked for directions to Miguel Torres’s room. Smiling warmly, she replied in Spanish that she spoke no English. Simon was groping for an adequate translation when an ear-splitting scream from the front of the building put an end to conversation. The scream was wild and animal-like—a scream without gender followed by a silence so intense Simon could hear his own breathing. A door slammed. Heavy footsteps came running towards him along the corridor. A young man with bushy black hair and frantic eyes exploded out of the shadows, started at the sight of Simon and slashed out with a knife that was already dripping blood. Simon raised his left arm as a shield. He felt no pain when the knife struck his flesh—only the warm trickle of his own blood on his arm. The act was done so quickly the running man didn’t break his stride. He reached the elevator and found the door closed. The indicator showed that the cage had been brought back to the lobby level. The young man turned away and disappeared down the stairwell.

  The scream was still in Simon’s ears. He swung about and ran in the direction from which the assailant had come. At the very end of the corridor a door stood open and a long shadow fell across the carpet. Framed in the doorway was the man Simon had seen at the race-track, but now his plaid jacket was torn and soaked with still-flowing blood. There was only a dim light in the corridor but sunlight streamed through the windows of the room. Simon glimpsed a scene of wild disorder: a brown leather suitcase open on the bed and American currency spilled out on the floor.

  “Barney?” Simon cried.

  The dark glasses were gone. The man’s eyes were blue but his face was twisted with pain. He staggered forward and Simon grabbed him as he fell. For a moment their bodies were locked together like two prizefighters in a clinch.

  “Let me go,” the wounded man gasped. “They’re going to kill me. For God’s sake, let me go.”

  “Barney, you’re hurt.”

  All Simon’s strength wasn’t enough. He saw the head lower and the shoulders hunch forward. The full force of a body powered by panic lunged forward hurling him back against the opposite wall. Simon lost his footing and crumpled to the floor. He heard a muttered curse as the man ran limping down the hall. The whine of the elevator signalled that the cage was rising quickly. The wounded man ducked into the open room where the cleaning woman was still frozen in mute terror. Simon scrambled to his feet and followed. When he reached the room the window was open and a splash of blood stained the sill. He ran to the window and looked down. The roof of the adjoining building was about six feet below and the man who called himself Miguel Torres had landed on his feet. He fell forward, catching himself with his hands, regained his footing and stumbled towards the metal railing of a fire escape on the far side of the roof. Behind him, Simon heard the elevator door open and the cleaning woman, suddenly vocal, shouting something in Spanish.

  The woman was like a magnet. Simon looked back as a uniformed policeman, gun in hand, ran into the room. Knox Reardon was only a step behind him. As the armed policeman reached the window, Simon shouted: “Don’t shoot! He’s the victim! He’s the man who was stabbed!”

  Reardon elbowed his way to the window. He watched as the man limped the last few steps to the fire escape and began to climb down. Reardon turned to Simon without a word of greeting or a sign of surprise. “Is it Barney?” he asked.

  “You saw him. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s Barney. Is he badly hurt?”

  “I think so. He yelled something about somebody wanting to kill him. He has a car.”

  “I know. A white Buick. That’s how we traced him here.”

  Reardon spoke rapidly in Spanish to the police officer who had preceded him into the room and then gestured to Simon. “Come with me,” he ordered. They ran back to the elevator and started down. It was then that Reardon noticed blood on Simon’s jacket. “What happened to you?” he demanded.

  “I tried to stop a man running down the corridor with a knife in his hand and got slashed in the arm.”

  “In the arm? Man, there’s blood all over you. You look like you’ve been in a slaughter-house.”

  Simon looked down. He had grappled with Barney and now the whole front of his jacket was saturated with blood. “He must be bleeding to death,” Simon said.

  The lobby was no longer deserted. Two armed policemen were standing over a very dead body. It was the bushy-haired man with a red-stained knife still grasped in one hand. Reardon spoke rapidly in Spanish and translated for Simon as they ran down the stairs to the street. “The police shot the assailant as he came down the stairs. They say he’s a known hoodlum—killer, thief, smuggler. He must have seen Barney flash a bankroll somewhere and come after him.” Reardon had a rented car waiting at the curb. He spoke rapidly to some of the people who were beginning to gather in front of the hotel and then motioned for Simon to get into the car.

  “They said a white convertible just pulled out of the alleyway and headed downhill. Let’s go.”

  While Reardon drove Simon unknotted his tie and made a tourniquet for his arm. His own wound was merely a scratch. The blood was mostly Barney’s. They sped down the street towards the waterfront, watching for a big white convertible. With the estuary in sight Simon cried: “There he is! He’s turning left towards the port area.” Reardon hit the brakes and made a screaming turn against trafile. The street widened and they could see the Buick ahead racing wildly, unevenly, weaving through traffic as if the driver was barely conscious. Reardon’s foot floored the accelerator while Simon cranked down the window on his side of the car. As they came alongside the Buick the ch
ocolate waters of the estuary lapped the pilings of the highway embankment.

  “Barney!” Simon cried. “Stop the car. We want to help you.”

  The body slumped over the Buick’s steering wheel straightened. He caught a glimpse of sheer terror on the pain-wracked face as the white car shot forward in a new burst of speed. Half a block ahead a huge trailer van was inching its way out of the loading docks. Reardon saw it and brought the sedan to a screeching stop but the Buick sped on. When the wounded driver saw the van it was too late to stop. He spun the wheel towards the right and the huge car leapt over the curbing, hung momentarily on the narrow embankment and then, imbalanced by the heavy motor, plunged into the wide waters of the estuary. There was a flash of bright plaid against the sky as the driver catapulted over the windshield into the water. The heavy car sank quickly. Reardon had parked by this time and both he and Simon ran to the edge of the embankment. A puffing tugboat veeered away from the sinking car without cutting speed and when it had passed nothing appeared on the surface of the churning waters. No plaid jacket, no bobbing head or flailing arms. Indifferent, the great estuary flowed seawards taking its grim cargo with it.

  • • •

  The body was never recovered. The white convertible was dredged up in due time but what was found in the room occupied by one Miguel Torres was more significant. Simon saw the entire display when he accompanied Reardon to police headquarters the following day. The brown leather bag, manufactured in the United States, contained (including what had been picked up on the floor of the room) almost $30,000 in United States currency. A packet of new $100 bills was recovered from the body of the slain assailant. In the closet was found a man’s garment bag containing a dark-blue suit, a pair of grey slacks and a brown tweed jacket, plus all accessories. On one of the hangers was a new black trench coat. All tailor markings were from California shops. A United States passport issued to Barney Amling was found in the pocket of the trench coat. A wallet with Amling’s identification, driver’s licence and credit cards was found in a desk drawer along with his reading glasses and a .38 Smith & Wesson police special. When Simon saw the gun Reardon had already made telephonic verification of its registry to Bernard Amling.