Honey in His Mouth hcc-60

by Lester Dent

  Harsh cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey, somebody! Vera Sue’s beat it!” He ran toward the four coming from the beach. “That was Vera Sue in the sports car. Who the hell told her she could clear out?”

  Brother ran toward the limousine. “Come! We must catch her.”

  Doctor Englaster piled into the limousine’s passenger seat, next to Brother, who’d pulled the pistol out of his shirt and was gripping it tightly it in one hand.

  Harsh gripped Mr. Hassam’s arm. “Hold it!” He kept his voice low. “Don’t go with them, for Christ’s sake.”

  For a moment, Mr. Hassam pulled against Harsh’s hand, turning to give Harsh a strange look. Suddenly he grunted in comprehension.

  “You two go on!” Mr. Hassam waved at the pair in the limousine. “We’ll follow in the station wagon. We can search more roads with two cars.”

  Miss Muirz arrived, and Harsh had the sudden feeling that she’d hung back on purpose, that she could have outrun any of them from the beach if she had wanted to but had held back out of caution. She was moving swiftly now toward the limousine’s rear door as it began pulling away. Moving even more swiftly, Mr. Hassam tripped her. She went down on the grass.

  “Go on! Hurry!” Mr. Hassam’s bellow was directed at Brother and Doctor Englaster in the limousine.

  The limousine had twin exhaust pipes. Blue smoke coughed out of both of these along with a powerful sound. The tires spun and shoveled gravel backward, and the limousine raced out of view through the gate.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Harsh watched the limousine vanish and inhaled with relief. Now if the Highway Patrol was on the job, the matter of the cop’s murder would be up to Brother and Doctor Englaster to explain. Brother was carrying the gun with which the cop had been killed and driving the man’s body down the highway at top speed. Even if Doctor Englaster was only mildly tipsy rather than out-and-out drunk, giving him better control of his faculties and his tongue, he wouldn’t have an easy time explaining the situation to the police, Harsh thought.

  Miss Muirz, sitting on the grass, looked at Mr. Hassam, who was still eyeing Harsh curiously. “You tripped me.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Hassam did not deny it. A thin line of blood was coming from his lower lip where a piece of driveway gravel must have hit it when the limousine was departing.

  “Why?” Miss Muirz’s voice was bell clear.

  Mr. Hassam started toward the carport. “If we are going to follow, we had better get going.”

  Miss Muirz moved swiftly. She was the first one to the station wagon. “I’ll drive.” She started the engine. “Meanwhile, you can answer my question.”

  She was a sharp one, Harsh thought, and a fast one when the chips began to fall. She knew something had gone wrong, and she was moving right to the front to find out what it was. Better stay close to this babe, he told himself, or she may manage to gum up the works.

  He got into the station wagon and Mr. Hassam slid into the rear seat beside him, fell back with him against the cushion and struggled to get the door closed as the car got underway.

  Miss Muirz was through all three forward gears before the station wagon reached the gate. “So. Why.” Her voice was even more calm, more bell-like. “Why did you stop me from going with Brother and Doctor Englaster?”

  Mr. Hassam winced as they grazed the gate. “I was afraid to ride with Brother. I thought you would be also, if you had time to stop and think. Do you blame me?”

  “You lie at the wrong times, Achmed.” Some distance ahead on the blacktop beach road there was a fast-moving bloom of light with two red taillights embedded in the lower center. “That was not why you tripped me, Achmed.”

  The blob of light ahead suddenly skated right and left as the road made an S curve. “That was not why you tripped me, Achmed. Right?”

  The ribbon of blood from Mr. Hassam’s lip reached his chin, a drop fell on his hand, and he looked down at it in amazement.

  “Well, I had some advice.” He reached for his handkerchief and applied it to his mouth. “It aroused a cooperative feeling toward you, Miss Muirz. I hope I did not act in error.”

  “Advice? Indeed?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Hassam’s handkerchief muffled his voice somewhat. “It came from Mr. Harsh here. I presume you’d want to know that.”

  “What?” Miss Muirz had not understood.

  “Mr. Harsh told me to stay out of the limousine, and I included you.” Mr. Hassam lowered the handkerchief.

  The station wagon negotiated the S curve and they were thrown to one side and then the other. “What are you pulling on us, Harsh?” Miss Muirz’s voice rang loudly.

  “Jesus, slow down, will you!” Harsh had been weighing the quality of Miss Muirz’s driving, and he was sure they would hold their own with the limousine, if not overtake it. “You don’t want to catch that limousine.” If they came up with the limousine as the police stopped it, there might be complications. He shouted over the roar of motor and wind, “Slow down! For Christ’s sake.”

  “Why?” Miss Muirz did not turn her head.

  “I got a damn good reason.”

  Ahead of them the limousine lights suddenly disappeared around a turn. Miss Muirz did not slacken their headlong speed. Harsh held his breath. He felt Miss Muirz would go into the turn wide open. Mr. Hassam thought so too, and he grabbed onto the door handle. “A turn! Watch it!”

  Miss Muirz’s voice was too high-pitched, too composed. “I will do the driving.” She braked and went into the turn with all tires shrieking; in a moment they were straightened out, headed for the causeway and bridge.

  “Oh, God.” Mr. Hassam had clamped his handkerchief over his forehead.

  Harsh saw there was no question they were gaining on the limousine. Desperation made his mouth dry. He took out Brother’s automatic pistol and brandished it over the back of Miss Muirz’s seat. “Slow down, goddamn it, I don’t want to have to shoot anybody.”

  Miss Muirz ignored the gun. “At this speed, shoot the driver? You are a fool, but not that big a fool.” She apparently had no concern about the gun.

  Mr. Hassam, however, had plenty. His eyes flew wide and he clutched the door handle again. “Harsh! That gun! Where did you get Brother’s gun?”

  Miss Muirz was crowding the centerline of the road. “Relax, Achmed. At this speed, he will not shoot anyone.”

  “That’s not the point.” Mr. Hassam did not take his eyes off the little automatic. “That can’t be Brother’s gun. He had his gun in his hand when he got in the limousine.” Mr. Hassam’s voice rose. “But it looks exactly like Brother’s gun. How in God’s name, Harsh? What’s going on?”

  “I took a gun off a guy who got killed.” Harsh’s voice shook. He was frightened by the insane driving. “I got the guy’s gun out of his pocket, swapped it for Brother’s on the beach.”

  They were well out on the dike-like causeway leading to the bridge, with the moon-bathed water of the Indian River rushing past on either side. The limousine lights were still well ahead and beyond the bridge. As yet there was no sign of Vera Sue in the pearl-colored sports car.

  “What guy, Harsh?” Hassam’s voice was frantic. “What are you talking about?”

  And still Miss Muirz had not slowed down at all.

  “You want to know what I’m talking about? There’s a corpse in that limousine. Do you hear me?” Harsh pounded desperately on the back of the driver’s seat. “This guy I killed, his body’s in the back of the limousine. The Highway Patrol has been tipped off to stop the limousine. Now, goddamn it, will you slow down? You want us all in jail?”

  The bridge rushed at them like a mouth of steel girders preparing to snap them up. It was an old-fashioned bridge with a tall black mesh of ironwork and a slight rise in the pavement at the entrance. The station wagon took off from this rise with a jerk downward at their bellies, then a long sensation of flying in space, and the shock of landing. The bridge passed them with a coughing sound, spat them out on the other side.

&n
bsp; “A body in the limousine?” Mr. Hassam gripped Harsh’s arm. “Man, are you making that up? Is it true?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Who did you murder, Harsh?”

  “I didn’t murder him.” Far ahead Harsh could distinguish a cluster of lights that would be the U.S. 1 intersection. “The guy got killed, sure, but it was an accident. He was a guy who was snooping around the car—a cop, I think. I had this locksmith in town make me a duplicate key for the wall safe, and this cop somehow got wind of it. This afternoon I was supposed to meet the locksmith to get the key while you were looking at suits in Leon’s, but when I went outside, it was the cop waiting in the limousine. He was all bundled up to disguise himself but I recognized him from the day before. And to be honest, I think he recognized me, too—he seemed to know my face, anyway, and seemed sort of shocked to see it. And he was full of questions, like what were we plotting—that was the word he used—and when I wouldn’t answer his questions, he tried to pull his gun on me. Then we scrapped over the gun, and he got shot. I left his body in the limousine and took his gun, the one that killed him, and on the beach I traded it for the one Brother packed. The reason I swapped them, the guns looked a lot alike to me, that’s all. I figured it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Better Brother gets nabbed with the murder weapon than me, right? Then to make sure he did get nabbed, I fixed up the rest, tipped the Highway Patrol to grab the limousine. And that’s why I didn’t want you to get in that car. Not with a dead man in the back.”

  Looking over, Harsh saw that Mr. Hassam had a horrified expression on his face. “Harsh, the gun Brother had in his hand just now, when he got into the limousine...it didn’t just look similar, it looked identical. And it’s not a gun you can buy just anywhere. It’s only made custom, for collectors.”

  Suddenly the station wagon went nearly out of control. Two wheels left the pavement, and it rocked crazily, bounced off a curb, began to skate from side to side. Mr. Hassam yelled and flung himself forward, reaching over both the driver’s seat and Miss Muirz’s shoulders to seize the steering wheel and straighten them out.

  Miss Muirz spoke over the roar of engine and tires. “Thank you, Achmed. Now I can handle it.” Her voice was even more odd than before.

  The limousine, traveling very fast into the intersection ahead, now had all four wheels locked with the brakes, and it was veering slowly broadside in a skid. It was not out of control, however, because suddenly it shot south out of the intersection.

  Harsh muttered close to Mr. Hassam’s ear. “What’s the matter with Miss Muirz? I thought she was gonna wreck us.”

  “Don’t you know who you killed, Harsh?”

  “Sure, some cop who was on our tail.”

  “No.” Mr. Hassam shook his head heavily. “No, it was El Presidente.”

  A Highway Patrol car moved southward out of a service station at the highway intersection, gathering speed, siren going, winking two red spotlights.

  Moments later, the station wagon approached the intersection. There were four large gasoline service stations, one at each corner, each adorned with vari-colored neon lighting, and the effect was somewhat like plunging toward a miniature sunrise.

  With a stomach-wrenching shock, Miss Muirz threw on the brakes and sent the station wagon into the same kind of skid the limousine had made. The car yawed wildly. Harsh and Mr. Hassam were pitched against the front seat, their breath driven from them. Harsh closed his eyes for the crash...

  However the station wagon, with a hard thrust from the engine, recovered in the turn and veered south. Harsh got a glimpse of pale scared faces watching them from the service stations. The police car and the limousine were ahead. And he got, for the first time, a brief glimpse of the pearl-colored sports car farther on.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Harsh pushed himself back on the seat. “I thought we were goners.” He tried to lick his lips and found his tongue felt numb. “What was that you said before we hit the corner?”

  “You killed El Presidente, Harsh.” Mr. Hassam’s voice was shrill with shock and nervousness.

  “Nah, it couldn’t be. I tell you it was a cop, some guy hired to snoop around.”

  “No. I am sure. The guns are identical.”

  “So what? Factories all make guns of the same model alike.”

  “I tell you, these are custom made, the only ones of their type. I’d recognize them anywhere. They were a diplomatic gift to El Presidente years ago. His brother took one, but he retained the other. Both men have always kept them.” Hassam reached out a hand, palm up. “The Uruguayan ambassador had El Presidente’s initials engraved on the underside of the butt. Look for yourself if you won’t hand it over.”

  “One of us is nuts.” But Harsh turned the gun in his hand, and with a terrible sinking feeling saw the monogram engraved on the bottom.

  “Look!” Miss Muirz’s voice was a bell pealing out horror. “Gunfire!”

  The Highway Patrol was traveling very fast. On the right side just under where the spotlight was mounted, muzzle flame from a firearm was winking redly.

  Beyond the patrol car, the limousine veered slowly to the left and began riding the highway shoulder; it rode the shoulder a short distance. It had been hit by the gunfire. Suddenly, like a running animal scared off its path, it plunged into a field. The limousine abruptly vaulted into the air, swapping ends as it went, the headlight hurling bursts of brilliance about like lightning flashes. Then the headlights suddenly went out and it was dark in the field.

  The Highway Patrol car overran the spot where the limousine had left the road. It went on about two hundred yards before it halted.

  The pearl-colored sports car, ignored by everyone, went on and soon its lights were no longer discernible.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Miss Muirz brought the station wagon to a stop. It stood on the highway just about where the limousine had left to go tumbling into the adjacent field. A soft and fragrant breeze cooled their faces and around them it had become very quiet. The Highway Patrol car, which was backing up, seemed in no hurry. Harsh suppressed an urge to get out of the station wagon. Mr. Hassam was leaning back on the seat with his face upraised and his mouth wide open.

  Miss Muirz’s hands moved slowly as if caressing the steering wheel rim while she stared straight ahead at nothing.

  “Well, I guess we’re all in one piece.” Harsh cleared his throat. “I never thought we would make it.” He looked at the approaching police car. “You people are crazy to stay parked here, you know that don’t you?”

  Mr. Hassam exhaled heavily and held out his hand again to Harsh. “Give me the gun. We must prevent El Presidente’s body from being identified.”

  “Are you nuts?” Harsh pushed his hand away. “The cops got their eye on us right now. That’s why they’re backing up so slow.”

  The Highway Patrol car swung sharply and came to a stop crosswise on the highway pavement a few yards ahead of the station wagon, blocking the way. There were two officers in the patrol car. One alighted, service revolver in hand, and approached carefully.

  “You folks get out and lie on the ground.” The officer sounded very nervous. “Whoever’s in that car that just went off the road is armed. They were shooting at us.” There was the web-like pattern of a bullet hole in the Highway Patrol car windshield.

  Harsh spoke quietly. “Okay, officer. We just stopped to see what had happened. We didn’t know what was going on.”

  The patrolman stepped toward Harsh, his eyes narrowing. “Do I know you? Your face looks familiar.”

  At that moment, the officer who had remained in the patrol car switched on a spotlight. It produced a long white rod of light with which he poked about in the adjacent field until he found the limousine. “Hey, Dick, look!” The wreck lay about sixty yards off the highway.

  Everyone stared at the wreck. Harsh felt he would not have recognized the jumble of metal as the limousine had he not known better.

  The patrolman standing beside the station w
agon called out to the officer in their car. “Nobody in that thing is gonna do any more shooting.” He crossed the highway and went down into the grader ditch. He moved sidewise going down and dug his heels in so he would not slide. He jumped over some water in the bottom of the ditch and went on toward what was left of the limousine. The other officer followed him.

  Harsh felt of his pockets, making sure he still had the money from the wall safe. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Before they come back.”

  Mr. Hassam shook his head. “No. Not without the body of El Presidente.”

  “You’re nuts, Hassam. That body is a cop. Maybe he got hold of El Presidente’s gun somehow, but it couldn’t be El Presidente. You heard the radio, El Presidente is on a gunboat in the harbor down there in South America.”

  “A false scent.” Mr. Hassam’s voice was bitter. “He suspected us, and he came here to spy on us. You remember we thought a car was trailing you and Miss Muirz a few nights ago? Well, one was, evidently, and no doubt it was El Presidente.”

  “How would he know where to look for you?”

  “You think he couldn’t find out where Brother’s estate is? He must have been watching it for days, following us any time we went out.”

  “Okay, but why would he jump on me, try to kill me? You four, sure, but me, I’m nobody to him.”

  “Nobody is the last thing you were to him, Harsh—and if you’d looked in a mirror lately you’d know why. The first time he saw you he must have thought he was looking in a mirror. Even with that bandage on your face, he’d have immediately known something was up.”

  Harsh frowned, then remembered something. “I know how to settle this. I took his wallet. The dead man’s. That’ll tell us who he was.” He felt hurriedly in his pockets. “I ain’t had time to look at it. Here.”

  Mr. Hassam seized the billfold. “A passport case.” He ignored some paper currency. “Ah! God!” Mr. Hassam closed his eyes tightly. “It was El Presidente. It is his passport.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Harsh seized the case and examined the passport. His hands began to shake. “Christ, let’s clear out of here. They find the body of an ex-president in that car, even a South American one, and there’s going to be a tall stink. What are we waiting on?”