Carmody's Run

by Bill Pronzini

  He acquired more diamonds as the years passed—individual stones, rings, necklaces, brooches, bracelets, earrings. They were the only commodity he did not sell on the black market after the end of World War II. And as he grew more and more wealthy, he bought more and more diamonds, spending millions of pesetas annually, employing dozens of men world-wide. In the palacio he had constructed two large burglar-proof diamond rooms for the display of his collection, and lighted them so brightly that the dazzle of so many carats was like a fire against the eyes.

  The diamond rooms were sealed vaults to which he alone had the combinations; he had no fear of theft. But he had not taken into account the human factor. He had hired Allen Fanning as his social secretary because it was fashionable to have social secretaries and the man’s references were impeccable. He grew to trust the mild-mannered, servile Britisher as much as he ever trusted anyone, and it had made him careless enough to allow Fanning to handle some minor diamond purchases. And suddenly, for no reason that Miralles could fathom, Fanning had betrayed his trust and stolen twenty million pesetas’ worth of cut and polished stones.

  Now Fanning, the betrayer, the kidnapper, was dead. But the diamonds, the children, part of the life’s blood of Carlos Miralles, were still missing.

  It was intolerable. Men had died, at his hands and his direction, for less offense than this.

  More men than Fanning would die now if his diamonds were not found and safely returned.

  He sat stiffly in his presidential suite at the Hotel Mallorca Grande, still lean and powerfully built at the age of sixty-two, and glared at Diego Silvera with eyes as bright as the gems he coveted. “Tell me again, Diego:’ he said, “what you have done to find this woman, this Jennifer Evans.”

  Silvera shifted in his chair. “I called at the minimum of one hundred hotels, patrón . I spoke with realtors, with the employees of car rental agencies. No one knows of her. And I could not describe her because I have no idea what she looks like. Fanning carried no photographs. It is possible Jennifer Evans is not her real name, or if it is, that she is using another. It is also possible that she has already left the island, much as I do not like to say it.”

  “I would be very upset if she has left Majorca with my diamonds, Diego.”

  “Patrón , I have done everything possible–”

  “You should not have killed Fanning prematurely. You should have waited until you had the diamonds.”

  “It was unavoidable,” Silvera said. “He fought like a wild man, he–”

  “I want my diamonds. I do not want excuses.”

  Silvera spread his hands. “Tell me how to find them and I will do so. One man can only—”

  “Tell you how to find them!” Miralles was abruptly on his feet, his face darkening. “I told you how to find them, five days ago; all the arrangements were made and your assignment a simple one, so simple a child could have accomplished it. Son of a whore, I do not have my diamonds because of you and now you wish me to do the task for which you were hired and which you failed!”

  Defensive anger flashed in Silvera’s eyes, but it was as brief as the flare of a match; he lowered his gaze. “I am sorry, patrón . Truly sorry.”

  Miralles stood staring down at him, his hands clenched. He started to speak again, but in his chest there was a tightness, a vague ache—and he remembered his heart, the warning of his doctor to avoid undue stress. With effort he calmed himself, returned to his chair. He sat drawing deep, slow breaths until the constriction in his chest eased, the pain vanished.

  He said then, “Did you bring Fanning’s possessions with you as I asked?”

  “Yes, patrón.”

  Silvera had them in his coat pocket; he brought them to Miralles, laid them on the smoking table beside his chair. Miralles examined them carefully. He read each card in the wallet—his command of English was as fluent as Silvera’s—and peered at keys, comb, handkerchief. Then, frowning, he said in English, “The secretary.”

  “Cómo?”

  “Fanning’s notebook, a small leatherbound notebook,” Miralles said. “He called it his secretary—the secretary of a secretary, he would say. I never knew him to be without it; it contains telephone numbers, addresses, instructions, a memorandum calendar.”

  “I found no such notebook on his person.”

  “It might have fallen from his pocket.”

  “I searched the area before I buried him,” Silvera said. “There was no notebook.”

  “With Fanning there was always the notebook. He went nowhere without it—nowhere, Diego.”

  “But I searched carefully, patrón . I would have found such a book if there had been one.”

  “Would you? There is no possibility you might have overlooked it?”

  “None.”

  “I think differently.” Miralles said. “I think you are a fool and a pendejo. I would not hire you again to shovel dog dung from my patio.”

  Silvera’s lips thinned but he said nothing.

  “Unfortunately you are the only person available to me at this moment. I will give you one last chance to redeem yourself. You will return to Carmody’s villa and you will find Allen Fanning’s secretary. Do not dare to come back here until you do”

  “But what if Carmody has returned? He must surely have returned by this time–”

  “If he is there, do what is necessary. Kill him if that is the only way. I no longer care about Carmody, Carmody is your problem. I care only about my diamonds.”

  “Killing Carmody would not be wise, patron.”

  “Who are you to tell me what is wise? Kill him or do not kill him, but I will expect you to find Fanning’s secretary, find Jennifer Evans, and find my diamonds”

  “Even if I should find the secretary, there may be nothing in it to tell the whereabouts of Jennifer Evans”

  “You must hope that there is, Diego. You must pray to your God there is.”

  “Are you threatening me, patrón?” Silvera asked softly.

  “Yes, I am threatening you. Does this displease you, Diego? Do you wish to make an issue of it?”

  Miralles locked gazes with the younger man—and it was Silvera, as was always the case in a clash of wills with underlings, who looked away first. But there was still defiance in Silvera. Even though he stood and went to the door, he stopped with his hand on the knob and turned and looked at Miralles again. “I will do what you ask, patrón” he said, “but if there is nothing to be found, I will not be held responsible. I am not afraid of you.” He opened the door and went out, shutting it gently behind him.

  “Son of a whore;” Miralles said to the closed door. “Raper of mothers and nuns. If you fail me this time I will have you castrated, I will spit on your cojones and feed them to the gulls.”

  He took the huge diamond ring from his left index finger, held it close to his face, and caressed it. It burned him sweetly with its fire, and soothed him, and took away some of the ache that had come back into his chest.

  TUESDAY, EARLY EVENING JENNIFER

  In the hot, silent desolation of the farmhouse, Jennifer felt like screaming.

  It was her nerves and it was the waiting and it was the bloody deafening hush in which nothing moved and nothing happened. Sitting on an ancient string-bottom chair, she had watched the sun set the night before, and the darkness come; and after a short and fitful sleep fogged with nightmare, she had watched the sun rise, and the heat crawl in liquid waves over the landscape, and the sun drift again across the sky. Waiting for nothing; hoping with a feeling of hopelessness; afraid to stay here but not quite able to make herself leave.

  She clasped her hands over her breasts, bit down hard on her lower lip in an effort to still the inner jangling of her nerves. The silent scream lay heavy in the back of her throat. And yet, she felt none of the panic of the day before; her thoughts today were dull, sluggish, wrapped in a thick fabric of frustration and self-pity.

  Early that morning she had told herself: I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn
’t have got involved in a crime, I should have said no to Allen and gone straight back to England. Poor old Allen, poor lovesick Allen, I’m as big a failure as he. And there’s no sense in pretending any longer, I don’t care a whit for him, I ask myself over and over where is, what has happened to him, but I simply don’t care that much if he’s alive or dead. It was the security; it was what he could buy for me. But you know, Jennie, if you’d gone home you might have found someone well off in spite of past disappointments, you truly might have; if you can get to London you might still find someone like that But how can I go back now, with no money, trapped here and alone? Well, you can, you know, you can just walk out of here, hitchhike into Palma where there are jobs to be had, men to be had, you can get enough money to go home, Jennie. Then that’s just what I’ll do, I’ll pack my clothes up and walk out of here right now because there’s no point in staying, I can’t find the diamonds —

  –damn damn the filthy diamonds.–

  –but they might be here after all, I might have missed them somehow, if I can find them they’ll be mine, all mine...

  And so she’d stayed, alternately watching the day pass and re-searching the house, wanting to leave, not finding the diamonds, not leaving. And now another night was coming...

  Abruptly she stood and entered the bedroom for the fiftieth time, aimlessly, to stand among the strewn articles of clothing and furnishings she had examined and reexamined. The sheets on the old-fashioned, iron-framed bed were pulled away, and the jagged incisions she had made in the mattress with a. kitchen knife leaked stuffing like puffs of white blood. She stared at the bed and found herself remembering the last night she’d spent there with Allen.

  They had made love, and afterward he had said, “It won’t be long now, love. Our own bed in our own house, with everything you’ve ever dreamed of at your fingertips.”

  And she had said, “Silks and satins, laces and furs.”

  And he had said, “Anything, dearest, anything at all…”

  The memory made anger swell inside, then explosive fury. She picked up one of her blouses, one of Allen’s shirts, a pair of panties, tore them viciously into tatters, flung the remains onto the floor; she ripped an ancient picture off the wall and battered it against the chest of drawers and pushed the chest over on its side and then began clawing stuffing out of the ruined mattress, panting, sobbing. Then, as quickly as it had come, the sudden violence left her and in its place was despair so dark that she began to cry brokenly. Her legs felt weak, and weeping she sank onto the mattress and laid her head against the iron bed frame, one hand clinging to the ornamental knob that jutted up phallically from the corner.

  The knob turned slightly in her grasp.

  At first she didn’t notice it; then, as the sharp edge of her suffering dulled, she realized that the knob was loose. Her head came up slowly. She dried her eyes with a clump of mattress stuffing, and turned the knob and found that it was screwed into its base, and unscrewed it all the way until it came off in her hand. Quickly she scooted over and looked into the cavity.

  The leather pouch containing the diamonds was wedged inside.

  Jennifer stared at the pouch for several seconds, then made a keening sound in her throat and dug feverishly into the cavity, breaking one of her nails, pulling the bag free, fumbling it open, spilling the glittering stones into her palm. She began to laugh, a sobbing, hiccupping sound. Closed her eyes and pressed the diamonds against her breasts, rocking back and forth.

  Oh Allen, she thought, why didn’t you tell me, right here in the bed, right here all the time while we made love. You should have told me, pet, but I forgive you, I do forgive you. You stole them for me and now they’re mine, that’s the way you wanted it, isn’t it, pet? Wherever you are, poor Allen, it’s going to be just as you wanted it for me, everything I’ve ever dreamed of at my fingertips.

  After a time she stood up, her legs and arms tingling with relief and excitement. Carefully she fed the diamonds into the pouch again, tightened the drawstring at the top. She found one of her bras and put it on and then tucked the pouch between her breasts. It was like a lover’s hand, like Allen’s hand, caressing her.

  Now that she had the diamonds, the despair and the feeling of being trapped were gone. She felt euphoric, lightheaded, as if she were mildly drunk. She wanted to be free of this hellish place, to get back to civilization, and yet there was no longer any urgency. She could leave right away... but there were only a couple of hours of daylight left now, and cars on these backcountry roads were sure to be few and far between in the evening. And the last thing she ought to be doing was walking alone in strange surroundings after dark, carrying the diamonds.

  Wouldn’t it be better to spend another night here? After all this time she had nothing to fear; and she could pack a few things in one of the suitcases and then fix herself something to eat, she hadn’t eaten anything all day and she was suddenly quite hungry. In the morning, refreshed, with her hair combed and her makeup in place, she could walk away from here before it got too hot, all the way to Puerto Pollensa if necessary. A ride into Palma, a place to stay, a job or a man who would pay her for the use of her body...all the while guarding the diamonds until she could save enough for plane fare to England. Once she was in London she would find a way to sell the diamonds, all but one, which she would have made into a ring, a memento of Allen. Then another man, the right one this time, a rich one to marry a rich woman, and her future would be secure.

  Lord, how lovely it was all going to be at last!

  TUESDAY EVENING–CARMODY

  He stood on the balcony of his villa, smoking one of his short, thin cigars, watching a red sun low over the Mediterranean that was like a round spot of blood leaking crimson shadows into the sky around it. His lips were thinned into a razor-like slash. His thoughts smoldered darkly.

  He had been back on Majorca just over an hour, home for fifteen minutes. At first inspection it had appeared as if no one had been inside the villa since he had closed it up on Saturday. But on closer inspection there were small signs of intrusion: a few inches missing from his bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, rarely used; faint scratch marks on the balcony door lock; tiny particles of broken glass on the balcony floor. And out here, too, the residue of bloodstains that somebody hadn’t quite cleaned up.

  Someone—probably Allen Fanning—had been killed here. In his home. In his home!

  Miralles was going to pay and pay dearly for that. Using a man’s house for an act of violence was in itself an act of violence, a kind of rape. It couldn’t be forgotten or condoned. It had to be avenged.

  Even so, and even though this had been his base of operations for the past few years, he was going to have to give it up -find some other place to live on Majorca or in Spain or maybe in another part of Europe. Not because the villa had been violated; because too many people knew about it now. That was plain enough. He wouldn’t have had this trouble with Miralles and Alvarez if his home base was a more closely guarded secret. He liked this place as much as he could ever like any place, but there were other villas, and the area didn’t matter much to him, as long as it wasn’t Malaga or Torremolinos. And when he moved, nobody was going to be told his new location. He never made the same mistake twice if he could help it.

  From inside he heard the burr of the telephone. He had made a call to Majorca from the airport in Malaga and it was time for a response; he hurried in and caught up the receiver. “Yes?”

  It wasn’t the man he’d called from Malaga. But the voice was familiar; it said, “Ah, Señor Carmody, you are home—good. This is Pepé, in Palma Nova.”

  ‘Pepé, in Palma Nova’, was Pepé Vallori, owner of Pepé’s Spanish Bar. He was trustworthy; he took messages and looked after the villa when Carmody was away from the island. But he was still one more person who knew the villa’s location, one of too many.

  “What is it, Pepé?”

  “A young woman, Señor Carmody. She came here alone a few hours ago and
asked if I would contact you. She claims to know you and that her business with you is most urgent.”

  “Yes? She have a name?”

  “Sí, amigo Gillian Waltham.”

  “She still there?”

  “Sí. She is afraid, Señor Carmody, of that I am certain. That is why I agreed to call you. This is the third time I have tried.”

  “Put her on the phone”

  There was thirty seconds of silence; then Gillian’s voice said, “Oh, Mr. Carmody, thank God. I’ve got to talk to you—right away. Please, it’s important.”

  Now it was Mister Carmody. He said, “Yes? What do you want?”

  “Not on the phone. Can’t we meet? Here or wherever you say?”

  “Suppose you come out to my place. Or do you have objections to that?”

  “No, no, anywhere you say.”

  “Give me Pepé again” She put the bar owner back on the line and Carmody said to him, “You sure she came alone? Nobody else hanging around since she’s been there?”

  “I am sure she is alone, amigo.”

  “Put her in a taxi, then, and send her out here. Don’t waste any time. I expect to be going out pretty soon.”

  He hung up, poured himself a small Veterano cognac, sat with it in one of the heavy leather chairs. Twenty minutes crept away; the phone stayed silent. The sound of a car coming into the clearing in front brought him out of the chair. He drew the Beretta, peered through the louvered shutters across a front window. One of the gray Seats that served as taxis in Palma Nova had pulled up behind his Porsche 911-T Targa, and Gillian was just climbing out. She was alone.

  Carmody watched her come to the door, the taxi U-turn and start back down the hill. The bell was ringing. He went and opened the door. She started to say something when she saw him, but he caught her arm, pulled her inside, shut and locked the door again.