I started up the dirt road toward Vicaro’s house, my shadow slanting across in front of me from the fire’s glow. My head ached and my mouth felt like I’d been eating chalk. I’d suffered a lot of punishment at the hands of those men. Enough to last a lifetime. It didn’t seem possible they were dead. So much poison eradicated in one dramatic burst of fire. Manuel had taken poor aim in the darkness and hit the gas tank. Poof! They had gone up like Roman candles.
I limped onto Vicaro’s front porch and rang the doorbell, my revolver in readiness. Nothing happened. No sound came from within. I banged at the door several times, then tried the knob. It responded to my hand’s turn. I entered the house slowly, legs taut, revolver clutched in my fingers.
I found the housekeeper in a back room. She had been strangled and dumped on a bed. Her neck bore the savage imprint of harsh fingers which had gripped until her breath was gone.
Vicaro lay a few feet away, a crimson stain in his nightshirt. The dark-haired impresario had been shot in the back. I rolled him over and examined his mouth. Blood was dried in the corners. He’d been dead for hours.
Unsteadily I went into Vicaro’s library, limping on bare feet, and searched through his desk. Light from a small lamp cast grotesque shadows along the walls as I rummaged through the drawers. Finally, I found what I was looking for. Another ledger. This one kept in Spanish. Then I came across something else. A photograph of Pete Freckle in color. He wore his matador’s outfit and beneath his montera glinted angry fixed eyes. The picture reminded me of the weird painting in Luis’s suite at El Puno. I shoved the photo inside the ledger and turned out the light. In Vicaro’s room I found a set of keys on his dresser, then continued out a side door to the garage.
Flames still licked a red strip in the night sky near the training arena. I shuddered, climbed inside a black sedan and started the engine. As I drove up the road leading to the main highway, I tried to iron out some of the wrinkles in my thinking mechanism. Vicaro was dead. Pete was dead. Two ledgers. Two separate operations. That was the key. It had to be the only answer.
I turned south at the fork and continued to the turn-off near Rosarito Beach. This time I recognized Jay’s car parked near the sand. I pulled up beside it and climbed out, still rocky from the knocking around I’d taken.
I banged on the door until a light sprang on, and Jay came outside, rubbing his eyelids.
“Honey,” he said, squinting at my bloody forehead and torn dress, “you’re a mess. What happened?”
“Plenty,” I said, stepping inside the trailer.
Big Bass got up out of bed, staggering in the aisle, stretching. He wore a long nightgown and it looked ridiculous on his massive frame.
“You’re hurt,” Bass said, examining me in the bare glow of a candle.
“Not badly,” I said, clutching Vicaro’s ledger. “Just a scratch. I did sprain my leg tumbling over the arena wall.”
“What arena?” barked Jay, eyelids narrowing.
I told them how Luis, Punta Punta and Manuel jumped me at the trailer earlier. How they took me to Vicaro’s and locked me in the training ring with a mad bull. How I escaped and Juanito was killed chasing me. And how the other three died when the gas tank exploded.
When I was finished neither man spoke, until Jay slumped into a chair and said, “I can’t believe it. Four people dead, including that little pipsqueak Punta Punta, hut—”
“Six people,” I added. “They must have killed Vicaro and his housekeeper earlier. It was a mess. Vicaro had been shot in the back.”
“Why, Honey?”
“Vicaro got it for the same reason Pete did.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Did you find a bullet?”
“Sure,” Bass answered, crossing to his trousers and extracting a battered piece of lead. He tossed it to me. “We had a helluva time staying alive ourselves. This little joker Punta Punta was loaded for bear. We finally had to run for it.”
I accepted a cigarette from Jay and drew smoke into my lungs. “What took you so long getting back to the trailer?”
“We stopped again at the jail to see Fred Sims and tell him about the bullet. He didn’t seem too excited about it.”
I examined the battered slug. “Chances are pretty slim we can prove anything with it, but we can try. Listen, will you two do me one more favor?”
“What’s that, Honey?”
I doused my face with water in the sink, then talked through a towel. “Could you meet me in about an hour at the matador Rafael’s house?”
Bass split a beer can open with a knife, took a swig and asked, “What for?”
“I’ll need your help.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ve found something that will answer a lot of questions after a medical and dental examination.”
“Where are you going in the meantime?” Jay asked.
“As soon as I change clothes I’m stopping off at the jail to see if this bullet won’t take Fred off the hook. Also, I want to report what happened out at Vicaro’s ranch.”
“But they’ll arrest you, Honey,” Bass said. He glanced at Jay. “We can’t let her do that.”
“I’ll be all right.”
The dark-eyed surgeon picked up Vicaro’s ledger. “What’s this?”
“Part of my coup de grace,” I said, straightening my hair. “You’ll learn about it at Rafael’s.”
“Where’s he live?” Bass said, with irritation in his voice, apparently not happy with his middle-of-the-night chore.
I gave them the address, then ducked behind a screen and slipped into a fresh skirt and blouse. While I was dressing Jay got his medical hag from the car and touched up the small cut on my forehead.
As I was leaving, Jay caught my arm and said, “Now set us straight. We’re to meet you at Rafael’s in one hour. That would be three a.m.”
“Right,” I said. ‘When you arrive, just park in the driveway with your lights out and wait for me, understand?”
“Why so mysterious?”
I winked, tucked the ledger under my arm and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I leaped out the door and jogged through deep sand to Rafael’s Mercedes-Benz, which was still parked alongside the road. On the way to town my heart pumped furiously in anticipation of things to come. I could hardly wait to reach Rafael’s now. If everything worked out things were going to pop. All over the place.
I parked opposite the police building in downtown Tijuana and walked into the building, limping a little. The red-cheeked man at the desk had a surprise for me when I asked for Fred.
“Senor Sims is not here.”
“Where is he?” I said, blinking.
“He left a message for you to meet him at Las Tunas Hotel.”
“But—but I don’t understand,” I stammered.
The Mexican officer grinned. “The two other girls in that act at La Tita, they come in tonight and they tell the Capitan the true story about the shooting. Your friend has been cleared.”
“Thanks,” I said, dumping the .45 slug on his desk. “Here, give the Capitan this with my compliments. And tell him to take a squad of men out to Vicaro’s ranch tomorrow morning. I’ll explain later.”
I left the police station hurriedly and drove around to Las Tunas. Fred was waiting for me in his room.
“Now what?” he said, scanning the cut on my head.
“The dog died,” I said.
“What dog?”
“Punta Punta, and his playmates. Vicaro, too. Listen, Fred, have you heard anything tonight from Rafael, the bullfighter?”
“No.”
“You’re certain? No phone calls, or messages?”
“Of course.” His forehead ridged. ‘Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now we have an appointment with an undertaker.”
“A what?”
I grabbed his hat and poked it on his head. “Come on!”
We drove the shor
t distance to Rafael’s house quickly. Jay and Bass were waiting in their car. Their eyebrows lifted when they saw Fred. I explained about the two girls’ appearance at the police station, then we crossed over the bridge to Rafael’s front door and rang the bell.
After a minute, a low voice called, ‘Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” I said. “Honey West. Open up!”
A bolt slid back and Patty Robinson, alias Rafael, appeared in a shallow cast of light wearing a black silk dressing robe and slippers. Her face paled when she saw the others.
‘What is this?” she demanded, in that husky, masculine tone.
I shoved my way past her and invited the three men into the house. I could tell Patty was all shook up by the look on her face, but I couldn’t slow down now. I took a cigarette from a canister in the living room and lit it, then turned toward the blond surgeon.
“Did you bring your medical kit?”
He nodded.
I glanced toward the pool area, my skin crawling just thinking about that wormy grave.
“You’re probably wondering what this is all about,” I said, surveying each face carefully. “As you know I’ve been searching for nearly a week for an elusive man named Zingo. My biggest problem was that he didn’t seem to exist. Not as a separate entity. He was two people. One by day and another by night. Or so it seemed.”
Patty Robinson’s expression darkened.
“I was after him,” I continued, exhaling smoke, “but likewise he was after me. Or at least his henchmen were. They assumed I knew something about his operation, which includes vice and dope.”
“Dope?” Bass murmured, shooting a glance at Jay. “Apparently they have been receiving from ten to twenty pounds of heroin a week, if records mean anything. On the open market, say in the United States, that would amount to many thousands and thousands of dollars. Enough to make a small fortune.”
Jay whistled.
Patty Robinson leaned over for a cigarette and whispered, “Why are you doing this?”
I didn’t answer, but continued, “My interest in Pete Freckle’s disappearance stirred them up. First, they tried to warn me off by tying me to a tree. Then they got tough and went after me with a machine gun.”
“They were versatile to say the least,” Fred cracked. ‘You can say that again,” I added. “Most disturbing of all was the fact that while I was hunting for Zingo I was also searching for Pete Freckle. And neither one could be found. That is until tonight.”
“What do you mean, Honey?” Jay demanded.
“Just what I said.”
“But—”
“We found Pete Freckle.”
‘Where?”
I gestured. “There’s a shovel in the garage, Jay, would you get it for me.”
He hesitated, then disappeared out a side door. While he was gone, Patty whispered, “Is this necessary, Honey? This way?”
I nodded.
When Jay returned with the spade, I led them around the swimming pool to the shallow grave. As I suspected, the earth had been moved since I’d last covered the hole. Digging under the illumination of Patty’s flashlight, I watched the various faces out of the corner of my eye. They stared, faces white in the glow. They gasped as the corpse was uncovered.
So did I. The face was battered now beyond any possible recognition.
The four of them stood opposite me on the other side of the grave. I removed my revolver and leveled it in their general direction.
“Honey!” Fred blurted. “What are you doing?”
“One of us is Zingo,” I said, waving the gun at them. I studied their frozen expressions for a moment. “Is it you, Fred? You’re a newspaperman. You get around a lot. Could you possibly have been in contact with hoods in Mexico? No!”
I shifted the gun down the row to Bass. “Is it you, Dr. Summit? You with those big sheepish eyes and grinning face? You have a trailer near Rosarito Beach. You come down to Mexico often. Often enough to deal in drugs and Bass’s cheeks reddened and his fists clenched.
“No,” I said, “it isn’t you, Bass. You’re not clever enough to run such an operation.” I turned the snout on Jay. “Or you, Dr. Hook. Are you clever enough? You seem to be. You operate an exclusive clinic in the Valley, and still manage to make Mexico often enough to handle other kinds of business.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Honey!” the blond surgeon blurted.
“No, I won’t, Jay,” I said, softly. “Because you’re not Zingo either.” I pointed the revolver at the last figure in the row. Rafael. Patty Robinson.
“Don’t, Honey!” she pleaded, huskily.
“And how about you, Rafael,” I said, harshly. “You live in Mexico. You own a lavish house and an expensive car. You could be Zingo. You could be almost anybody—” I paused. “But you’re not!”
“What?” Patty cried, half in relief.
“No,” I said, a catch in my voice. “There’s only one of us who is—or was Zingo. There were two men missing. Pete Freckle and Zingo. But what I didn’t know was—”
My revolver aimed toward the grave.
“Honey!” Fred spat. “You don’t mean that—”
“That’s right, Fred. Pete was Zingo. He was Zingo all the time.”
EIGHTEEN
We stood over the open grave, peering down in the pale glow at the remains of Pete Freckle.
“He—he was Zingo?” Fred questioned.
I nodded.
“But I don’t understand—”
“Pete was a fiercely ambitious young man,” I said, searching their faces. “With a very sick mother. It took a lot of money to keep her alive. More than the average man can make. He came to Mexico four years ago with what his father had left him. He apparently bought La Tita, hired some small-time hoods and branched out into dope traffic.”
“Haw’d you figure that, Honey?” Fred demanded.
“I found a ledger hidden behind a wall panel at El Puno. It listed the dates and amounts of drugs received over a period of three years. The entries were all kept in English.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
“I found a similar ledger in Vicaro’s desk. This one in Spanish. It told a different story. About payments received from toreros and ganaderos. He apparently ran a lucrative business on the side, using his position as impresario as a wedge. Pete Freckle’s name never appeared in that ledger.”
“So what?”
“So, Vicaro must have known about Pete and vice versa. They operated independent syndicates, but didn’t cross swords.”
“Then why were they killed?”
“Somebody decided to muscle in,” I said, glancing at Patty Robinson’s stunned face. “Somebody wanted more money. And the only way to get it was to knock off the two top men. Pete must have suspected it was coming. That’s why he contacted me. But I arrived a little too late to do him any good.”
Fred stared up in the cone of light. “Whoever did the muscling must have tried to cool you, Honey.”
“That’s right,” I said, holding the revolver loosely in my palm. “Being afraid I’d discover Pete’s other identity and crack the syndicate, he tried to get me out of Mexico. When that didn’t work he used unfriendly persuasion.”
“Was it Luis, Punta Punta or Manuel?” Fred asked, lifting on his cane, straightening beside me.
“Neither. They just did the dirty work. In exchange they probably got what they wanted. Luis had already moved into Pete’s suite at El Puno. Punta Punta was collecting the receipts from La Tita. And Manuel, no doubt, was next in line as the plaza’s impresario. They were the small fish.”
“You mean there are others, much bigger?” Fred asked.
“Sure. What about the ones who handle the drugs in the United States. They take all the risks and were probably dissatisfied with their cut. So they promised the little fish a larger chunk and got Punta Punta to shoot Pete.” I suddenly lifted the revolver at Jay Hook and raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you tell us about it, Doctor?”
<
br /> “Tell you what?” His mouth sagged a little and he swallowed hard.
“How you and Bass Summit took over in Tijuana.”
A chalky look came into his face. “Took over what?”
“The syndicates.”
“Are you crazy, Honey!” Bass roared, Hexing his ponderous shoulders.
“Not half so crazy as you. Tell me something!. How long have you two had that trailer parked near Rosarito Beach?”
Jay’s handsome face was white as he answered. “About a year.”
“And how long has that float been anchored out in the water?”
“What float?” The surgeon’s head jerked like it was on a string.
“The one I was sitting on when the Hoy Joy took those pot shots at me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jay said.
“And I suppose you’re not aware that that particular boat has been delivering large quantities of heroin for the past year.”
“Well, no, I—” Jay stammered. He shot a frantic glance at Bass.
“How many deliveries have been made there to your float? How many hundreds of pounds of heroin have you two smuggled across the border?”
Jay lurched unsteadily on his feet. “You’re all mixed up, Honey. We’re just a couple of weekend bachelors who come down to Mexico to rest and relax. We don’t know about any illegal drugs.”
“No? You were the only ones who knew where my car was parked. Bass planted heroin under the hood on his way into San Diego that morning. Then you notified the border authorities.”
Bass rubbed his thick neck angrily. “That’s ridiculous, Honey!”
“Sure, just about as ridiculous as the night you strung me to that tree, pretending to be Zingo and Punta Punta, and then came back and cut me down a few minutes later. It was a neat scare, but it didn’t work.”
“Honey,” Jay pleaded, “I’m a surgeon, a member of the California Medical Association. Why would J be mixed up in anything like this?”
“You answer that one, Jay,” I said, holding the revolver on him. “Money, some queer kind of kicks—I don’t care why, now. I know how and who; and that’s you.”
Dig A Dead Doll Page 14