by Jay Flynn
He checked the fit of his gun in its holster and walked down the curving drive. It amounted to a little more than a pair of ruts worn into the ground cover, switching back on itself three or four times before leveling off. Through a gap in the trees he saw the house. It was a good-sized split-level, built to fit the contour of the hill. He moved off the drive, circled through the brush. The mountain air was dry and surprisingly hot for this time of year. His throat burned, and he wished he had a beer. When he was halfway around the house and about twenty-five yards below it, he saw the open doors of the garage.
The blue and gray Chev was parked beside it.
Inside was the red and white station wagon, its rear end blocked up in the air. He could see the figure of a man crawling around underneath it, examining it with the aid of a flashlight.
A woman’s voice called from inside the house, in Spanish.
The man in the garage shouted back something that McHugh could not make out.
He squatted, waiting, wondering whether he should go back to the village for help, deciding against it. There was no way of knowing when these people might decide to move out. He cupped a cigarette in his hands, then smoked it halfway down. The woman came out of the house then. It was Carlotta Artellan.
She was tall, leaner in the face than her picture had suggested, but definitely a good-looking woman. Her black hair swirled around her shoulders, and her skirt tightened around her hips as she bent to look under the car. He heard her speak to the man again, saw her shrug and return to the house through a side door.
That accounted for two of them. There could be two more inside.
He crushed his cigarette in the hard ground and kept under cover as much as possible while he ran for the house. He reached it without hearing any sound of alarm, hesitating briefly at the door before twisting the knob. His gun was drawn as he shipped inside.
This was the kitchen. Through a partly opened door he heard the woman speaking, heard another male voice reply. He took a step forward. His view through the door widened, and he saw a short hallway and a sunken living room. He eased through the door and stepped into the carpeted hall. Carlotta Artellan was at one end of a long sofa, her legs drawn up. There were two men, one standing, one sitting.
He stepped into view, the gun held ready. Speaking rapidly in Spanish, he said, “Nobody moves, nobody speaks.”
The woman gasped and brought her clenched fist to her mouth. She looked at his face, and her eyes blazed. The man who was sitting in the overstuffed chair leaned forward, caught himself and returned to his original position. The one who was standing whirled, froze.
“That’s right. Now—slowly and no funny business—climb the wall.”
Following his gesturing gun, they lined up along the far wall of the room and leaned against it, arms and legs spread. He searched them, took automatics from the two men and a long, thin knife from the one who had been sitting. The woman muttered something under her breath when his hand moved over her.
“Sorry. I didn’t exactly have a chance to bring a matron along to frisk you. Now go sit down on the sofa again. Lean back, lock your arms behind your heads and keep your feet out straight in front. Do you speak English or should I keep it up in Spanish?”
“We all speak English,” the woman said bitterly. “Why are you here?”
McHugh sat on the arm of a chair, worked a cigarette from his pack with one hand and got it going. “Why waste time, Señora Artellan? I’m here because you’re here. The name is McHugh. I know the names of the men with you, but not which—”
“I am Carlos Real,” the man who had been standing said.
“Juan Quesada,” the second one muttered.
They were all about his height but slender, with fine-boned faces and eyes that were dark and angry.
“That would make the gentleman under the car Miguel Olivera,” McHugh said.
“And just who are you, señor?” Quesada demanded.
McHugh chuckled. “Just a saloonkeeper who happened to have murder done on his doorstep.”
“Lie! You are from the Secret Police,” Carlotta snapped.
“There are no Secret Police in this country,” McHugh retorted. “But there are police who would like to talk to you folks. The FBI and the Treasury agents and the San Francisco Homicide Squad. And the local cops, who don’t think much of breaking and entering and car theft and bank robbery.”
“What’s your game, then, McHugh?” the woman demanded. “Maybe you aren’t a cop. You wouldn’t have come here alone if you didn’t have to. Are you one of Girolamo’s men?”
“Girolamo gave me this face. Girolamo is a dead man. Soon.” McHugh spoke quietly. He fixed her with his good eye. Take my word for this—I know what was supposed to happen in Mexico. I know why Dant went there, what he did, how he did it and how he got out. I know exactly what part each of you played in the operation.” He put a slight stress on exactly and nodded imperceptibly at Carlotta Artellan. He saw the white crescents at the corners of her mouth. “There are a couple of things I don’t know. I would like to be enlightened.”
This is the wrong way to do it, McHugh thought. This babe has conned these characters. They haven’t the slightest idea she was the one who set them up for the heist. I should get her aside and give her a chance to spill it. If she doesn’t, I should lock her in a room with the men and let them get it out of her. He pushed it from his mind. He did not believe in beating on women, and it was just as bad to let somebody else do the job for you.
“Ask your questions,” the woman muttered.
“You had some Cuban pesos you wanted to dump. Roughly three million.”
“Approximately,” Quesada said.
“One Deane Dant was an expert in the matters of international finance. Arrangements were made for him to buy them in Mexico City. What were you getting out of it?”
“Securities,” Carlotta Artellan said.
“Now you have neither the pesos nor the securities.”
“That’s right. Exactly right,” Carlotta Artellan said quickly.
“Dant double-crossed you. He grabbed the pesos—a couple of suitcases full, as I understand—and skipped. The Mexicans twisted your wrists a few days, then booted you out of the country. You traced him to San Francisco.”
The woman shrugged. “You seem to know a lot.”
“A lot more than I’ve mentioned so far. Anyway, you found out he’d been in contact with a woman by the name of Cecille Harnois. Thought she was an accomplice, perhaps?” McHugh let a thin, mocking smile cross his lips as he watched the woman. “You searched her home in Carmel and her studio at Big Sur. Whatever you were looking for, you didn’t find. Now you’ve stolen her car, and Olivera is giving it a real shakedown. Maybe we’d better call Señor Olivera in and ask him just exactly what he’s looking for.”
“That won’t be necessary, McHugh,” Carlotta said.
“No?”
“He’s at the window behind you. With a gun pointed at your head.”
McHugh did not turn. If it was true, Olivera would announce himself. Olivera did.
“The gun, señor. Please drop it. Stand up slowly, with your hands away from your sides.”
McHugh stood. He turned his head. A swarthy man in coveralls was climbing through the window, a Colt .45 in his hand.
Carlotta Artellan leaped from the sofa, scooped the gun from the floor at his feet and stepped back to cover him. “I think it might be a good idea to kill you,” she said through clenched teeth. Her hand flashed out, and the stubby barrel of the .38 raked across McHugh’s face, dislodging the eye patch.
He raised his hand and touched the trickle of blood. “That wouldn’t be wise.”
“No?” Her eyes burned at him.
“You’ve broken a few laws. So far you haven’t killed anybody—I guess. And that’s something that’s really frowned upon.”
He waited, the muscles of his stomach knotted tight, knowing the thoughts in her mind. He had not told these men that
she had been in on the robbery. If he did, what would happen to her would not be pleasant. If she killed him and was caught, the gas chamber would not be pleasant either.
“I came here alone. But some people know where I came, and who I was looking for. It’s a long way to run, from a murder rap. You’d never make it.” He glanced at the men. “There are only two chairs in the gas chamber. They’d have to run you through in shifts.”
There was a long silence, while Real and Quesada collected the weapons he’d taken from them. Real went to Carlotta Artellan and wrested McHugh’s gun from her hand. He flipped the cylinder out, tossed the shells through the open window and threw the gun on the sofa.
“You are right, Señor McHugh,” he said. “We want only to recover what was stolen from us. We are foreigners, and under something of a cloud. We have broken some laws, but we haven’t hurt anyone. There is no need to start at the moment.” He turned to Olivera. “Miguel—was there anything?”
Olivera reached into a pocket and brought out a small metal case. “This was clinging to the frame. It had a magnet attached to it.” He slid it open and dumped two keys into the palm of his hand. “I found these. I believe they would fit a locker somewhere.”
“Where?”
Olivera shrugged eloquently. “There is nothing on them to show. Only the numerals, five-twelve and five-thirteen. Dant would have known, and there would be no need for anyone else to know.”
“You might ask the lady,” McHugh said.
“Listen, you—” Carlotta shouted.
“Quiet,” Real snapped. “What is the meaning of that remark, señor?”
“I think she knows,” McHugh said quietly. “She knew how to find the box in the Monterey bank where the securities were left. She visited Dant at least twice in his motel in San Francisco.”
“Liar!” Carlotta threw herself at him. McHugh caught her across the mouth with a backhand slap that slammed her down on the sofa. He stood quietly then, under three guns held by the Cubans. The woman sat up and wiped blood from her face, glaring hate at him.
“It’s true. As a matter of fact, she and Dant set up the whole thing. Dant got out of the country with the suitcases and the securities. She knew just where to meet him in San Francisco. But before they could split it up, Girolamo, the man with the boat, tried to cut himself in. Dant wound up dead. Girolamo didn’t get the stuff, but he’s still trying. Dant had stashed the stuff, apparently planted the keys to the lockers on the girl’s car when he gave her the securities to hold. You just found the keys today. But Carlotta frisked the Harnois’ girl’s cottage, found the keys to the safety deposit box and managed to get the securities out of there.” He looked at her mockingly. “I guess you told your partners all about that.”
“There’s no truth—” she blurted.
Carlos Real pocketed his gun. He crossed the room, caught the woman’s face in his hands and twisted it upward until he could look into her eyes. After a moment he nodded.
“There is truth. It shows in your eyes. It would be wise for you to tell it all to us.”
“No. I—”
Real’s hand flicked out, and a gold signet ring bit deep into her flesh. She screamed and slumped on the sofa.
She held out for five minutes. Once McHugh had involuntarily stepped forward to help her, at the moment when Real had stripped the blouse from her, caught a full breast in his fingers and squeezed until the cords stood stark and white against the back of his hand. She had screamed then, screamed in terrible agony, and words gushed through her torn lips.
“In L. A.,” she blubbered. “The boat stopped there and he hid the money.”
“Where?” Real demanded.
“I don’t know! He just said he hid it there!”
Real studied her as he had before. “I think it is the truth. So we will go to Los Angeles.” He turned to McHugh. “I suppose we should thank you, señor. I hope this has not distressed you.”
“I’ve seen worse. I didn’t enjoy it. I’d like to have my hands on you.”
Real smiled. “There is nothing personal.” He nodded to Olivera. “All right, Miguel.”
The .45 in Olivera’s hand crashed against the side of McHugh’s head. It was so expertly done he never felt it.
CHAPTER 14
MCHUGH WOKE UP with water in his face and a throbbing in his head. He blinked at the deputy sheriff who was pouring the water from a bottle. The man was wearing an expression that implied that some people did not have good sense. The water puddled on the rug beneath him and soaked his shirt.
“‘Nuff...cut it out,” McHugh muttered. He rolled on an elbow and sat up. He wondered if there would ever come a time when his head or some part of him wouldn’t ache. It seemed a very remote possibility. He wished he had taken up a more peaceful profession. Something like boxing, where a man didn’t get his lumps except every few months. He got his legs under him and stood.
“You feel okay?” the deputy asked.
“Hell, no.” His fingers explored the place where the gun had connected. There was a lump that was tender to the touch, but no blood. He swayed momentarily, then got his balance. “I’ll survive. What time is it?”
“Almost five in the afternoon.”
McHugh tried to think back. He guessed he’d been out about two and a half hours. “I suppose there wasn’t anyone else around when you got here.”
“No. They left that station wagon. Your car is down the road where I guess you left it.” He pushed his cap back on his head. “Why in hell did you have to try it alone? If I hadn’t checked back at the Cup, you’d still be sleeping.”
“Guess I’m just in the habit of doing things alone.”
“It’s a bad habit. Now we’ve got to catch them all over again.”
“True. Let’s get with it.”
The deputy used his radio. He broadcast a description of the car the suspects were using and asked for a check of train stations, airports and bus depots. He hung the mike on its hook and said, “Doubt it’ll do much good. They’re probably long gone. You want me to drive you into town?”
McHugh searched his pockets. “They left me my keys. If they didn’t bugger the car up, I’ll make it.”
The car started easily. McHugh held it to a crawl until he was off the mountain and back on the valley road. He parked at the first bar and had a double shot of straight bourbon, a beer and three aspirin tablets contributed by the management. He felt considerably better. He ordered a steak.
“Better have two,” the bartender advised.
“Why?”
“One cooked for your stomach. The other raw for your face.”
“You’re cute. Gimme the phone.”
He called the communication center at Monterey Police Headquarters and gave the operator the number of the phone he was using.
“Good you called in. Some people have been trying to reach you. I’ll give them the word.”
He ordered another drink and waited for the phone’s ring. He scooped it up before the bartender could reach it, grunting when he heard Hudson’s voice.
“Don’t you ever win a fight?” the FBI agent said.
“Not lately. You know our birds up and flew.”
“That they did. Couple of hours ago, on a United flight from Monterey. It was on the ground in L. A. half an hour before we started looking.”
McHugh scowled. “I hate to breathe the air in that town.”
“So don’t. The bureau has enough men to handle it without you smashing the operation again.”
“I know where to look. They don’t.”
“Give.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not sure yet. I’ll check in with your chums when I’m on the scene.”
“You’re too old to change your ways now. I shouldn’t give you this, but I will.”
There was silence, broken by a slushy sound that McHugh thought was Hudson chewing his cigar. “Give what?”
“Girolamo was on the same plane. Also Pastori. They had a confab with the Cuban
gents before it took off. Our man hasn’t been able to find out what about.”
“The woman with them?”
She was there. Not looking too good, according to the airline agent. Dark glasses and a fat lip. One of them was with her every time she moved.”
“Yeah.” McHugh’s steak arrived. He cut a chunk, put it in his mouth and talked around it. “They just caught on to the double cross. I wouldn’t want to be Carlotta.”
“I wouldn’t want to be any of these birds, once we get through with them. But times like this, I wish I was working your side of the street instead of with the bureau. You bust in, knock people around, get the job done. You don’t worry about being polite and making a case the U.S. attorney can take into court.”
“Put in for a transfer. Look, I’m feeding my face now. I’ll want the first plane out for L. A. How soon?”
“Hour and a half. But you won’t need it. Your chum Chapman roared in this afternoon, and he’s got a Beech Bonanza at the airport. Also a slinky blonde with a strange name.”
“Loris?”
“That’s the one. You overstay your leave or something?”
“Guess I must have. You can find Chapman?”
“He’s in the bar at the Mission Inn.”
“Check. See you, buster.” McHugh hung up. He got the phone book and called the Mission Inn. Chapman was in the bar.
“There’s an airstrip in the valley,” McHugh said. Can you pick me up here in twenty minutes?
“Can do, dad. Where we going?”
“L. A. Loris with you?”
“Yeah. In the can at the moment.”
“Flee. Right now. I don’t want her along.”
“I got you. Twenty minutes.”
The airstrip was close to the village. McHugh bought a fifth of Scotch and a box of aspirin. He tapped into the bottle before the plane touched the runway.
Chapman spun the plane around and revved the engine as McHugh strapped himself into his seat.