by Jack Higgins
Hernandez stood by the window cleaning his nails with a knife. He paused and looked across. Dillinger was aware of the Indian behind his chair, of the faint creaking of the fan in the silence.
Santos said, 'You know that there is a government tax on foreign currency brought into this country?'
'No, I didn't know that.'
'Strange. According to your passport, you crossed our border at Solernas. One would have thought the customs officials there would have made this plain to you when you declared the money.'
There was another slight silence. Hernandez finished cleaning his nails, snapped the blade shut and slipped the knife into his pocket. Outside, a bugle sounded and the cavalry clattered across the cobbles into the plaza.
They seemed to be waiting for him to make the next move and Dillinger said, 'No one is sorry about this little misunderstanding more than I am. I'll be glad to pay the necessary tax to the proper authorities.'
'Unfortunately there is the question of the fine,' Santos said.
'All right, I'll pay the fine and put it down to experience.'
'I'm afraid that won't be possible, senor,' Santos said patiently. 'In such cases it is usual for the entire sum involved to be forfeited and then, of course, there is the question of a fine.'
Dillinger thought, these guys are thieves in uniform. He could feel the blood rising to his face. He had to keep his control.
'And how much would the fine be?' Dillinger asked.
'A difficult question in your case, senor. You see there is also the matter of certain firearms discovered under the rear seat of your automobile. Another serious infringement of our laws almost certainly leading to their confiscation and also of the vehicle itself.'
That hit Dillinger between the eyes.
He managed to keep control of his voice as he said, 'Folks, we have a saying in the States. You can take everything away from a cowboy except his horse. That automobile is my horse.'
There was a pause.
Then Santos said, 'Perhaps you don't realize the position you are in. A prisoner at present in custody here, an American just like you, insists that your name isn't Jordan at all. Does that surprise you?'
Dillinger managed to look astonished. 'You've got my passport, haven't you?'
'Passports, senor, may be bought. Oh, I'm sure this is a nonsense, of course. The man concerned is an old drunk. He insists that you are the bank robber, John Dillinger, who recently escaped from prison in Indiana.'
Dillinger worked his way from an expression of total bewilderment to one of outraged laughter. 'Jesus, this guy must be out of his head.'
Santos laughed sympathetically. 'A drunken old fool, as I said. I foresee no problem in clearing the matter up, but you will, of course, have to remain in custody until we have an opportunity to check our compadres to the north.'
There was silence. Santos lit a cigar and nodded to the Indian. The Indian touched Dillinger on the shoulder and motioned him toward the door.
The Indian took Dillinger out and along the corridor and down a flight of stone steps to an iron door outside which a guard was sitting reading a newspaper. He unlocked the door.
The room was about forty feet square, with only one small window high in the opposite wall, and contained twenty or thirty other prisoners. Through the door came the strong odour of urine, human excrement and stale sweat. The Indian pushed Dillinger inside and shut the door with a clang.
Most of the prisoners were Mexicans in ragged trousers, shirts and straw sandals. Several of them came crowding round to look at the strange new prisoner. Someone touched his jacket. He felt a hand slide into his pocket. Dillinger grabbed for the wrist and twisted it with an easy strength that sent the man staggering across the cell. The others moved back a respectful distance. He pulled a drunk from a bench against the wall, sat down and lit a cigarette, hoping it would counter the stench around him.
There was more to this situation than met the eye, he thought, more even than Santos confiscating the money to keep for himself. If he'd wanted to do that, it would have made more sense to let him go.
A man got up to relieve himself in an overflowing bucket in the corner. The stink was terrible.
'Spare a butt, Mr Dillinger?'
Fallon eased on to the bench beside him. A livid bruise stretched from the corner of one eye to the edge of the jaw.
Dillinger shook a cigarette out for him. 'What did they use, a sledgehammer?'
'Sergeant Hernandez has an Indian sidekick called Valdez.' He rubbed his jaw. 'Built like the side of a house.'
'You told them I was John Dillinger.' It was a statement of fact, not a question. Dillinger sat there staring at Fallon calmly and the old man said, 'They made me tell them, Mr Dillinger, beat it out of me.'
Suddenly there was a scuffle between two prisoners on the bench next to theirs. Dillinger stood and with a voice that cut through the commotion like a sword shouted, 'Shut up!' Nobody needed to know what the words meant. The two scuffling prisoners returned to their places. The others stared at the gringo who spoke with an authority not even the chief of police had. Now when they talked, it was in whispers.
'That's better,' Dillinger said.
Fallon coughed. 'I saw you with that man Rivera. Do you know who he is?'
'He offered me a job at his mine.'
'He's the original walking bastard, that guy. When I first skedaddled into Mexico one step ahead of the cops, I went to work for Rivera.'
'You told him who I was.'
'I kind of let it slip that there was more to you than the name Jordan, but I wouldn't tell him no more than that.'
'Then the cops picked you up?'
'They sure did. Beat the hell out of me, then Rivera came in the cell and Hernandez said I'd better start talking or else. I had to agree to go back on the payroll at Hermosa, too. I didn't have a choice.
'That's OK, old timer.' There was one more cigarette in the pack. Dillinger broke it in two and offered him half.
Fallon put his half in his wallet.
'Saving it for later?'
'Saving it forever. What a souvenir, half a cigarette given me by Johnny Dillinger.'
'What's that?' Dillinger asked, pointing to a picture postcard that came partway out of Fallon's wallet as he put the cigarette half away for safekeeping.
Fallon unfolded the card. It was an advertisement for a hotel called Shanghai Rose. Standing in front of it was the most exotically beautiful woman Dillinger had ever seen.
'Who's that?'
'That's Rose herself. Runs the hotel in Hermosa now that her mother and father are both gone.'
'What makes her look that way?' Dillinger asked.
'You mean the eyes? She's half Chinese, half Spanish.'
'Is she as good looking in person as on that card?'
'Better. And a nicer woman you never met. It's hard to believe she's Rivera's niece. Her father and Rivera never got on. Rivera didn't want his kid brother marrying a Chinese woman. If he hadn't, there wouldn't have been Rose. Last year when her father died, Rivera wouldn't go to the funeral. You know what she did, just to rub his nose in things? She had a new sign painted. Had them hang it above the front door of the hotel.'
'What's it say?'
'Shanghai Rose.'
Dillinger laughed out loud.
'Every time Rivera goes into town he sees that sign. Oh that Rose, she's something special.'
'You're not sweet on her, are you now?'
'Me?' Fallon said. 'She's a lady. Sides, she wouldn't look at anyone as decrepit as me. In Hermosa, she's like a princess waiting for a prince to come along.'
Dillinger thought they'd have come for him by now. Fallon had dozed off. Now that he was waking up, Dillinger asked him, 'Why does Rivera have such trouble getting help for the Hermosa place?'
'The mine's a death trap. Least five cave-ins I know of. Christ knows how many dead Indians. He uses Apaches up there.'
'Apaches? I thought they went out with the old West.'
'Not in Sierra Madre. That was their original stronghold. Still plenty around up there.'
'If it's that bad, why'd you agree to go back? Why not cut and run when they let you out?'
Fallon shrugged. 'I don't have a centavo more than the change for the five dollars you gave me. In this country a gringo without money in his boot ...' He shrugged.
The door opened and Hernandez looked in. 'Senor Jordan, will you come this way please.'
Dillinger picked his way between the Mexicans and followed Hernandez. They mounted the stone steps, passed along the whitewashed corridor and paused outside the office. Hernandez knocked and motioned Dillinger inside.
The air was heavy with the aroma of good cigars. Santos had one clamped firmly between his teeth. He took it out and grinned cheerfully. 'Ah. Senor Jordan. Sit down. I am happy to tell you that your troubles are over.'
Dillinger hardly noticed him. He had eyes only for Don Jose Manuel de Rivera as he turned slowly from the window and smiled. 'We meet again, Senor Jordan.'
'Seems so.'
'I am pleased Don Jose has employment to offer you,' Santos said, smiling. 'He has agreed to pay the balance of your fine out of his own pocket.'
'I came the moment I heard at the hotel that you'd been arrested,' Rivera said.
'That was real kind of you.'
'After speaking with Senor Santos it occurs to me that you may now review my earlier offer of employment in a somewhat different light.'
'I think you could say that.'
'Then you will be prepared to accompany me to Hermosa on the evening train?'
'What about my car?'
Rivera turned to Santos. 'It is his pride.'
'Mexico,' Santos said, 'has a generous heart. Senor Jordan may have his beautiful white automobile, without its arsenal, of course.'
Rivera picked up the passport. 'I will see that this is returned to Senor Jordan at a more suitable time.'
'Of course, Don Jose. I regret, however, that in the matter of the confiscated money, the law must take its course. However, in the circumstances and as Senor Jordan is now, as it were, in your custody, we will say no more about the fine.'
'How will I get my car to Hermosa if I go with you?' Dillinger asked.
'As I do with mine,' Rivera said. 'It travels on the flatbed railroad car reserved for automobiles. You are then prepared?'
Dillinger thought, I am prepared to see if Shanghai Rose is as beautiful as her picture. If she hates this son-of-a-bitch as much as I do, we ought to get along real fine.
5
Dillinger was amused by the idea that, for a change, he was being taken for a ride. With all the coal he'd stolen from the Pennsylvania Railroad, he'd never travelled any distance on a train before. Just an hour out he'd had the crazy idea of getting into his convertible on the flatbed and staying in it for the rest of the train ride because a car was a natural place for him to be.
The train was fun. He was following the conductor along the narrow corridor of the Pullman car and had to brace himself every couple of steps as the train swayed and rocked. The attendant knocked on a compartment door, opened it and moved inside.
There were two bunks, but Rivera had the place to himself. A small table had been pulled down from the wall and the remains of the meal were on it.
'Come in, Jordan.'
He obviously intended a master and servant relationship and the dropping of the 'senor' was merely the first step. Dillinger leaned against the door and took out a packet of Artistas. The Mexican poured cognac into a glass, held it up to the light and sipped a little.
'So I'm Jordan again?' Dillinger said.
'I should have thought that the sensible thing for everyone concerned,' Rivera said. 'Your true identity is of no consequence to anyone but me.'
'Fallon knows.'
'Fallon will do exactly as he is told.'
'And that chief of police, Santos?'
Rivera smiled faintly. 'He has the money. I have his silence.'
'The money was mine,' Dillinger said.
'And from whom did you appropriate it? Let us concentrate on the future, not the past,' Rivera said. 'I needed a man to take charge of a rather difficult mining operation. A hard man to keep those Indians of mine in order. A man who is capable of using a gun if necessary. I should have thought you and your experience would fit the bill admirably.'
'Has it occurred to you that I might have other plans?'
'Hermosa is twenty miles from the nearest railway and there is a train only once a fortnight. The roads, I am afraid, are the worst in Mexico. However, we are linked to civilization by an excellent telegraph line and Santos did assign you to my care. If you misbehave, Santos is prepared to fill the last part of our bargain.'
'And what is that?'
'To turn you over to the American authorities at a border crossing - under your real name, of course.'
Dillinger dropped his cigarette into Rivera's brandy glass.
Anger flared in Rivera's eyes. 'Do your work, that's all I want from you. Do it well and we shall get along. Do it badly ...'
Dillinger opened the door and went out. In a way, he'd won. In the end it had been the Mexican who had lost his temper.
The second-class coach was crowded, mostly peasant farmers going to market, and the great heat, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, was not the way Dillinger liked to travel.
He spotted Fallon in a corner by the door, playing patience with a pack of greasy cards. Fallon looked up, his face wrinkling in disgust. 'It's enough to turn your stomach in here, Mr Dillinger.'
'Which explains the second-class tickets,' Dillinger said. 'He wants us to know exactly where we stand.' He pulled his two suitcases from under the table. 'Let's get out of here. There's plenty of room in the first-class end. Another thing, it's Jordan, not Dillinger. Remember that.'
'I'll try,' Fallon said.
They went into the first empty compartment they came to. Fallon produced two bottles of beer from his canvas grip, and sprawled in the corner by the window.
'This is more like it. What do we do if the conductor comes?'
'What do you think?'
Fallon opened one of the bottles and passed it across. 'What did Rivera want?'
'Mainly to let me know who's boss.'
'He must be the great original bastard of all time.'
Dillinger tried the beer. It was warm and flat, but better than nothing. He put the bottle on the floor, lit a cigarette and placed his feet on the opposite seat.
'How come Rivera survived the revolution? I thought men like him were marched straight to the nearest wall.'
'I guess some did, some didn't. Some fish always escape the net.'
Dillinger awakened with a start. The train had begun the cautious descent of a narrow canyon, the coaches lurching together as the engineer applied the brake. Dillinger's watch said 4 a.m. He got up quietly and went past the sleeping Fallon into the corridor.
He stood by the window and shivered slightly as the cold mountain air was sucked in. The sky was very clear, hard white stars scattering towards the horizon, and a faint luminosity was beginning to touch the great peaks that towered on either side. A moment later the canyon broadened and he could see the lights of a station.
He heard Fallon behind him saying, 'La Lina - only a whistle-stop for mail and passengers. Another couple of hours to where we're going.'
'I didn't even know we'd passed through Chihuahua.'
'Didn't seem any point in waking you. We were only there for twenty minutes while they changed the engine.'
La Lina swam towards them out of the darkness as the train coasted in and slowed to a halt. There was a small station house with a couple of shacks behind it and nothing more. The station-master came out carrying a lantern, and three Mestizos in straw hats and blankets, who had been crouching against the wall, got to their feet and came forward.
Fallon and Dillinger jumped to the ground and walked towards the rear of the trai
n. A couple of box cars had been linked on behind the flat car on which the Chevrolet had been roped into place. When they paused to light cigarettes they heard a low whinny and the muffled stamp of hooves.
'When did they join us?' Dillinger said.
'Chihuahua. The guard told me they were thoroughbreds going up to Juarez for the races next week.'
When they turned to retrace their steps the three Mestizos were standing patiently beside the train, hands in the air, while the station-master and guard searched them thoroughly.
'What's all that about?' Dillinger said.
'They say that the train's been robbed three times in the last four months,' Fallon told him. 'Bandits get on at way-stations dressed like dirt farmers. Last year in Sonora they shot the engineer of the night express and left it to freewheel down a gradient. Ran off the track after five miles.'
They boarded the train again and the guard closed the door. He turned and said in English, 'I notice, senors, that you have moved into a first-class compartment.'
Dillinger replied, 'It's too crowded in the other coach.'
'It is also cheaper, senor. You are prepared to pay the necessary addition?'
'Now there you put me in a delicate position,' Dillinger told him.
The guard shrugged and replied with perfect politeness, 'Then I'm afraid I must ask you to resume your former seats. I have my duty - you understand?'
'I knew it was too good to last,' Fallon said.
They got their cases from the compartment and moved back into the second-class coach. Most of the occupants were sleeping and they sat down in their original seats in the corner by the door which led to the luggage van.
Fallon laid his head on his arms. Dillinger tilted his hat forward, saw a young Indian girl in a red skirt, a large cloth bundle on the floor between them. She stared past him into the wall, blindly, as if in a trance.
He finished his cigarette and closed his eyes. A few moments later he was aware of the girl moving. He glanced up and saw that she was looking back along the coach at the three Mestizos who had boarded the train at La Lina. One of them nodded briefly.
The man removed his blanket and stood up. He was of medium height, broad shoulders bulging beneath the faded khaki shirt, and the Indian blood showed in the high cheekbones and broad nose.