Luac sank back into his chair, racked his cane on the arm, indicated a similar chair across from him.
Garson sat down. His wet clothes squished.
“The goatee doesn’t change your appearance much,” said Garson. “I’d have known you anywhere.”
“How did you get so wet?”
A smile touched Garson’s lips. “Maybe I swam.”
“As the Pharaoh said to his daughter when she explained about the baby Moses: ‘Possible but not probable.’ Now, while you’re busy composing suitable epigrams to record this historic moment, I believe I’ll . . .”
“Antone!” It was a man’s voice calling from the house.
Luac frowned, said, “There you are, Raul. Come here. We have a visitor.”
A thin, dark man moved catlike around the bushes that hid the house, stopped outside the screened area. His face was oval and with an even regularity of features that was almost feminine. The eyes were wide, limpid with a look of softness. His black hair was combed straight back and with two symmetrical curls, one at each temple.
“Raul, this is the American journalist, Mr. Hal Garson. Mr. Garson, may I present Raul Separdo?”
“How do you do?” asked Garson.
“How did he get here?” asked Separdo.
“He says he swam.”
Separdo smiled, displaying even teeth.
Garson had a feeling that the symmetry of this man was a mask to conceal something dangerously out of balance.
“We had best dispose of him immediately,” said Separdo.
“Do not be a complete ass!” said Luac.
“Antone! You are playing with something that . . .”
“I play with nothing, Raul! Until we are certain of exactly what he is, we keep him in good condition!”
Garson experienced the chilling realization that he was listening to a discussion of his own life and death.
“Where did he come from?” demanded Separdo.
“That is one of the things I have not yet determined,” said Luac. “Until I . . .”
“Did El Grillo bring him—or one of the others?”
Luac looked at Garson. “Who brought you, Mr. Garson?”
“The stork!” barked Garson. He felt the anger dangerously close to the surface of his mind.
Luac chuckled.
“A wit!” said Separdo. “What a pity that the world must lose this!” He moved around the screened enclosure, entered, took a position beside Luac’s chair.
“He does present some problems,” said Luac.
“Could he be a member of the American secret service?” asked Separdo.
Garson stared at him.
“One of the thoughts I have considered,” said Luac.
“Why would I be a member of the secret service?” asked Garson. And he felt that he had been suddenly immersed in a cloak-and-dagger situation that somehow lacked reality.
Separdo’s hand went to his belt, came up with a Luger. “Has he been searched, Antone?”
“Of course not! He just arrived.”
“Where’s Choco?”
Garson stiffened. Choco?
“Inside somewhere,” said Luac. “I heard Nita ask him to play a game of cards earlier.”
“I don’t like keeping this man around,” said Separdo.
“But you do not give the orders, Raul. You’re just the watchdog. So be careful with that weapon. It . . .”
“Don’t bait me, Antone.”
“I would hate to have to turn in a bad report on you, Raul. Olaf is subject to such sudden anger.”
The hand holding the Luger trembled.
Garson looked from one to the other, spoke through dry lips. “Look here! The American Consulate will know by eight o’clock tomorrow morning exactly where I am! If you two think you can . . .”
“How will they know?” demanded Raul.
“They’ll . . .” Garson stopped, realized that he could be signing Villazana’s death warrant. “I sent them a letter.”
“The mail is not delivered at eight o’clock,” said Luac.
“He’s bluffing,” said Raul Separdo.
“You expose your foolishness more and more,” said Luac. “Garson spoke of the time with a certainty. He is merely concealing his messenger.”
Separdo turned toward the house, still keeping his eyes and the gun trained on Garson. “Choco!”
Presently, they heard the outside door slam. Choco Medina appeared outside the screened enclosure, the pockmarks of his evil face like harsh black spots under the gas lantern’s glare. He touched his mustache with a forefinger, nodded to Garson.
Garson glared at him. “You . . .”
“You know each other?” asked Separdo.
Luac spoke quickly. “I’ve had Choco keeping watch on Mr. Garson.” He looked at Garson with an odd attitude of suspense.
Garson had the feeling that the situation had taken a peculiar turning.
Separdo looked from Luac to Garson. “Do you recognize Choco, Mr. Garson?”
“He looks like my Great Aunt Nellie on my mother’s side!”
“What a calamity!”
“She was hung for treason!” said Garson.
“Every family has its secret shame,” said Separdo. He raised his voice: “Choco! Come in and search Mr. Garson.”
Medina entered the enclosure, came up behind Garson, bent over the chair and patted him with professional thoroughness.
“Where is the gun you were carrying earlier, Mr. Garson?”
“I lost it in the lake.” He bit the words off, suppressing his anger, trying to see through the cross-purposes here. And abruptly he recalled Medina’s warning at the car to conceal their relationship.
Could Medina still be with me?
“He’s clean,” said Medina.
“You have been watching him, Choco?”
“Yes.”
“He says the American Consulate will know where he is by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea how that could be?”
“Maybe he sent a telegram.”
“Did you send a telegram, Mr. Garson?”
“Several of them.”
“Why did you come here, Mr. Garson?”
“To find Antone Luac.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. He’s copy.”
“What led you to believe you could find him?”
The threat of the Luger, the flat questions, the puzzle of this situation became too much for Garson. His anger boiled over.
“None of your damned business!”
Luac stiffened, put a hand on Separdo’s gun arm. “Put away the weapon, Raul.”
Separdo’s eyes had lost their softness, had taken on a wild light.
Garson suddenly recalled El Grillo’s comment on a man named Raul, and on Raul’s anger.
“Put the gun away, I said!” repeated Luac.
“He will not talk to me that way!” said Separdo.
“Olaf will not like this when I tell him,” said Luac.
Again the gun trembled.
“What led you to believe that Antone Luac was here?” asked Separdo. His eyes seemed to bore into Garson.
Luac said, “That would be the piece of manuscript Nita mentioned.” He pressed down on Separdo’s arm. “Now put away the gun.”
Slowly, as though moving against pressure, Separdo lowered the gun, returned it to his belt.
“But where did he get the piece of manuscript?”
“Perhaps Eduardo,” said Luac.
Separdo nodded. “Of course.” He laughed, a brittle, chilling sound.
Garson swallowed, realized that he had been closer to death than ever before in his life, that Raul Separdo’s symmetry of features concealed madness.
“We’ll lock him in the end room under guard for now,” said Luac.
“Perhaps in the morning we should let him swim back across the lake,” said Separdo. He bent forward, staring at Garson, who was reminded of a jungle cat watching its prey.
“Take him, Choco,” said Luac.
Medina touched Garson’s shoulder. Garson arose, surprised at the trembling in his knees. He felt wrung out, without emotion. And his mind went back to Luac’s words: “Perhaps Eduardo.” Eduardo Gomez? Again he was touched by a sick premonition about the little Mexican.
Garson’s prison was a square room of high ceiling, whitewashed beams. Tall windows looked out on the night. He could see light reflected from exterior bars. A heavy wooden bed jutted from the wall opposite the windows, a low nightstand on one side, a leather chair on the other side. Across the bed lay a red serape with a black eagle design worked in its center. A single yellow light dangling from a cord above the bed illuminated the room.
Raul Separdo followed them to the room, waited in the doorway. He stared from Garson to Medina with a look of questioning suspicion.
Medina crossed to a second door in the corner, opened it. “This is the bathroom,” he said. And while his face was concealed from Separdo by the door, he winked.
Garson nodded, longed for a moment alone with the evil visaged Medina to unravel this mystery.
“That’s enough, Choco,” said Separdo. “Let’s go.”
They left the room. Garson heard the click of a key in the lock. He crossed to the dangling light, turned it off, checked the windows: heavy frames cemented into adobe. The bars outside looked even more secure. He crossed to the bathroom: no window, only a vent above the shower.
He paused, thought: Am I trying to escape? Damn! Wild horses couldn’t get me out of here before I’ve solved the mystery of this place!
And he wondered then where they had secreted the queenly daughter, and if she knew of the hacienda’s prisoner.
Garson slipped off his wet clothes in the dark, draped them across the chair and the foot of the bed. It was a soft bed, and he felt deep fatigue, but he could not sleep. He stared at the faint moonglow on the ceiling.
They don’t dare kill me! But that Separdo’s crazy! What game are Luac and Medina playing? Does Separdo have some hold on them? Who’s this Olaf that Separdo fears?
He clasped his hands under his head, coughed, heard the cough echoed by someone outside his door.
Medina? Separdo? Medina would make himself known. He knows I’m popping with questions!
The warmth of the night was oppressive. Garson threw the serape off his bed. He recalled his agent’s telegram.
Anita Peabody was involved with a Communist front. Does this really have something to do with the Reds?
Somehow, that idea didn’t fit with Antone Luac’s personality.
And where is Anita Peabody? There’s something more here than a desire to remain hidden. Why would they think I’m with the secret service? What’s Luac’s secret—and why would they kill to keep it?
He saw the flare of a match through the crack beneath the door, again heard someone cough.
Garson stared at the ceiling, his thoughts clogged with questions.
The sleep of exhaustion overcame him. He slipped down into a dream peopled by a succession of Raul Separdos. The dream people appeared like stick figures parading past his eyes. A voice out of an echo box kept repeating: “To kill or not to kill? That is the question.”
***
Chapter 4
Garson awakened to the crystal chime call of a turtledove, heard a parakeet answer. He lifted his head, looked out the tall windows at the lake. A morning mist clouded the far shore. The lake appeared to be about a half mile wide. He could see the corner of a dock on this side, a boat chained to it, another dock directly across the lake.
He sat up, looked around his prison. The bed, chair and nightstand were the only furniture. His wristwatch on the nightstand showed 6:40 a.m. Garson picked it up, examined it to see if it had been damaged by the dunking. The watch appeared to be bearing out its waterproof guarantee. He strapped it to his wrist.
The door rattled, swung open. An ancient woman, skin almost black, hobbled into the room. She carried a tray containing a steaming pot of coffee, a tall glass of fruit juice, two fried eggs, beans and tortillas.
“The service in this jail is better than most,” he said.
The old woman ignored him, placed the tray on the nightstand, turned.
“Do you speak English?” asked Garson.
She returned to the door, left the room without answering. He heard the lock click.
The food smelled delicious. He was surprised to find that he was ravenously hungry, pulled the tray onto his lap, began eating. The sun came over the hills beyond the lake, began burning away the mist.
Garson finished eating, found that his clothes had dried. He dressed, crossed to the barred window, stared out. To the right he could make out the barrio where he had waited in El Grillo’s hut.
The daylight made the events of the previous day and night assume a sense of unreality. Garson wondered when he would see Luac’s queenly daughter. He found this thought more absorbing than worry about himself or how he would escape from the hacienda with his story.
What had Villazana called her? A mango.
Garson smiled. He rubbed his chin, felt the stiff bristle of his beard, longed for a razor before encountering Anita Luac. There had been no shaving equipment in the room’s bath.
Choco Medina opened the door at 7:45, put a hand to his lips, shook his head. “Good morning,” he said.
Garson looked down the hall behind Medina, saw no one.
Again Medina shook his head.
Someone’s listening.
“Is it a good morning?” asked Garson.
“Who knows?” said Medina. He stood aside, motioned for Garson to precede him down the hall. “Come on along.”
The hall emerged into a large, cool room—high ceilings with hand-hewn beams that appeared smoke stained. The room’s furniture was massive. Brightly colored rugs littered the floor, serapes on the walls. A fireplace in the far wall seemed designed as a base for the giant bull’s head mounted above it. To Garson’s left were low windows that opened out onto a terrace, a view of the lake and hills beyond.
Luac arose from a chair near the windows, leaned on his cane as he faced Garson. The remains of his breakfast were spread on a tray beside his chair.
“I trust you slept well?” said Luac.
“You’re very trusting,” said Garson.
Luac coughed. “You have rare insight.” He nodded to Medina. “You may go now, Choco.”
“Sí, Patron.” Medina returned to the hallway.
“So, our indomitable American journalist—fearlessly plunging onward against all odds—comes finally to the lion’s den. It is just like the movies, Mr. Garson, no?”
“No.” Garson sensed that they were playing a waiting game, talking for the benefit of someone else. He glanced around the room, saw no one else.
“Perhaps there is hope for you,” said Luac. “Do you have a price?”
“It’s a popular belief that everyone has a price.”
The older man cocked his head to one side. “What’s your price, Mr. Garson?”
“The story of your life!”
Luac’s eyebrows raised, giving him the look of a quizzical demon. “Ahhhh! We are still in character. And what should I demand for this melodramatic price?”
Garson studied him. Why this cat-and-mouse game? He wants something from me. That’s obviously the only reason I was permitted to come here. Is he at cross purposes with this Raul Separdo? Am I supposed to take sides?
He said, “You’ll want me to keep your secret—where you and Mrs. Peabody are hiding.”
Luac’s face clouded, bringing sharp lines to his wide brow. “She is no longer with us.”
“Oh. Where is she?”
“She is buried out there.”
“What happened? Did something heavy drop on her?”
Luac’s face darkened. He took several quick, short breaths, slowly regained control, spoke in a low, tight voice: “That is a course you should not pursue, young man.”
“Sorry. I guess I let myself get carried away by the pleasant surroundings and pleasant company.”
“You have received no more than a fool deserves!”
Garson nodded. “Whereas you are beset by unfair circumstances.”
Surprisingly, Luac smiled, then chuckled. “You’ve spilled a bit of Mexican pepper on your tongue, eh? Well, this is no way to settle our difficulties. Now, if I permit you to do your story, how do I keep the tourists from climbing all over my hacienda?”
“You could mount a few tourists’ heads on your fence posts.”
“The thought has already occurred to me. Should I begin with yours?”
Garson stared at him. “What . . .”
“Enough!” Luac turned his head sharply, looked out the front windows.
Garson saw the old crone cross the terrace, go out of sight to their left around the building.
“We have only a moment,” said Luac. “Please be quiet while I give you the essentials. You are in deadly danger from Raul Separdo, but I believe I will be able to hold him in check for awhile. We will try to help you escape. If you do get away, make no effort to help us. Just write your story about us. The publication . . .”
“But, what’s . . .”
“We do not have much time, Mr. Garson. The old woman spies for Raul. Now, in my study, which Nita will show you later, you will see some manuscripts in a bookcase. Several have green bindings. One of those with a green binding had been torn slightly near the bottom. Take it out to read. Near the center of it you will find several pages that will help you do your story.”
Garson nodded. His head was crowded with questions. He wondered if he’d have time to ask any of them. “Is Choco with you?”
“Yes. Trust him.”
“What if I don’t like the set up and just go away and forget you?”
Luac’s eyes became slits. “Are we bargaining?”
“You mentioned prices.”
“Do go on.”
“I’ve nowhere to go.”
Luac’s glance darted to the hallway behind Garson. He raised his voice. “This has all been very pleasant, Mr. Garson, but I do not see how you could write your story and conceal our hiding place at the same time.”
Someone is listening!
Garson coughed into his hand. “I could take a grand tour of Mexico, stop at many places. Ciudad Brockman would get lost in the itinerary.”
A Game of Authors Page 5