“Señor?”
Ross stopped, surprised the man would speak to him. “Yes?”
“You are Dr. Ross?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
“I’m afraid,” Ross said, “that I’m busy just now. I’m on vacation and very busy. This is the busiest vacation I’ve ever—”
The man touched his towel, moving the roll of cloth to show the gun underneath.
“Come with me, please.”
He gestured down a side street.
Ross walked.
“You are sensible,” the man said.
“I’m scared,” Ross said.
“That is sensible.”
“Now we are getting into a metaphysical discussion,” Ross said.
“Yes?”
“Yes. You see, metaphysically speaking—”
“Shut up,” the man said pleasantly. “Please.”
They walked: down one narrow, crooked street, then down an alley, and then left down another street.
“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
“Shut up,” the man said.
“Myself, I always prefer literate gunmen. Read any good books lately?”
“Shut up, or I will kill you.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
He was feeling stupid, giddy and stupid and absurd, walking down the street, dodging the running children and the chickens, with a man behind him who had a gun under a towel.
They came to the end of the street and made another turn.
“Down there,” the man said.
He pointed to a glistening black Rolls-Royce parked at the end of the block. The chrome shone brightly in the sunlight. They walked to it, and the man opened the door.
“Inside.”
Ross got in and found himself sitting next to an enormous man in a cowboy suit. He was at least six and a half feet tall and must have weighed three hundred pounds. His shirt and pants were tan leather, with fringes and lots of pearl buttons. Above the string tie and collar, a hearty red face was smiling.
“Howdy,” said the man.
“Hello,” Ross said. “Are you from the Pony Express?”
The man frowned. “The Pony Express? No. I’m—”
Then he stopped, and laughed. “Oh, I get it. A joke, eh? Pony Express, eh?” He laughed heavily, his voice booming inside the car. He slapped his knee. “That’s a good one, that is. A real good one.”
“Glad you liked it,” Ross said.
“I did,” the man said, slapping his knee again. He finally stopped laughing.
“What’s on your mind?” Ross said.
“Just a chat,” the man said. “No reason to be alarmed. Is there?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“No reason, no reason at all.” He chuckled easily. “Smoke?” He held forward a pack of cigarettes: Marlboros.
“Thanks.”
Ross did not usually smoke, but he felt it might calm his nerves. The cowboy lit the cigarette and sat back.
“Well now,” he said. “So you’re the doctor.”
“Just call me sawbones,” Ross said.
The cowboy chuckled. “Got a fine sense of humor, too.”
“I need it.”
“That’s God’s truth,” the cowboy said, nodding solemnly. “Want to tell me about it?”
“About what?”
“Carrini.”
“I don’t know anything about Carrini. Who wants to know?”
“I do,” the cowboy said.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I like to keep track of things.”
“That’s good.”
Ross sat back and smoked the cigarette. He wasn’t going to talk, not without an explanation first.
“So Carrini came to see you,” the cowboy said, “and asked you to do the autopsy.”
“Go on,” Ross said. “This is fascinating.”
The cowboy stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head, “Son,” he said, “you can try a man’s patience, you know that? Don’t you understand I’m trying “to help you?”
“No,” Ross said. “I don’t understand anything.”
“Well, look here, son. If you’re not careful, you could get killed. This is serious business. Now then: what happened when Carrini came to see you?”
Ross sighed. It was crazy. The whole damn thing was crazy.
“I told him no.”
“Why?”
“Somebody else had already offered to kill me if I did the autopsy.”
“Who was that?”
“A man on the beach.”
“Spanish?”
“Yes.”
“Go on,” said the cowboy in a neighborly drawl.
“So I refused when Carrini came.”
“You’re not doing the autopsy?”
“Well, later he called back and offered to kill me if I didn’t do it.”
“My,” said the cowboy. “You’re between a rock and a hard place, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Ross said.
“Better take my advice,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Be damned careful.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Yes sir, if I was you, I’d be damned careful.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Have you, ah … heard anything?”
“About what?”
“About this whole business.”
“No. Just that the stakes seem pretty high. Carrini offered me twenty thousand to do the autopsy.”
“Cheapskate,” said the cowboy. Then he frowned. “Of course, perhaps he intended to let you keep it.”
Ross said nothing. The man was thinking. At length, he shook his head.
“No, impossible. He couldn’t let you keep it.”
“Why not?”
“Listen, boy, if I was you I’d really be damned careful. You could be in hot water.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re involved, is all.”
“What should I do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. About the autopsy.”
“Perform it, of course. You thinking of doing something else?”
“I really wasn’t sure.”
“Wise up, boy. Perform that autopsy, and get the hell out of the country.” He scratched the back of his hand reflectively. “I think we can handle everything from there. Of course, it’d be better if you didn’t do the autopsy, but we can’t have you getting killed, can we?”
“It doesn’t strike me as a good idea.”
“No, no. All that investigation …”
The cowboy lapsed into silence. He smoked his cigarette, finished it, and threw it out the window.
“So nobody has told you what’s going on, eh?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s probably best. Little knowledge is a dangerous thing, eh?” He laughed.
“I’d like to know,” Ross said.
“’Course you’d like to know. Everybody’d like to know. That’s the point.”
“Yes.”
“Any fool can see that.” The cowboy sighed. “You just go on about your business, and do the autopsy, and clear out. That’s best.”
He nodded to the man outside with the towel. The door to the car was opened for Ross. Ross got out, and the other man stepped behind the wheel of the car.
The engine was started. The cowboy leaned out the window and looked at Ross.
“You seem like a nice fella. For a doc. Myself, I hate docs. Never could stand needles, you know? But you seem like a nice fella. Remember what I told you: be damned careful. Damned careful.”
And with that, the Rolls-Royce drove off in a cloud of dry, brown, impenetrable dust.
Sitting at a table in an outdoor café, he ordered a triple Scotch on the rocks, though it was only ten in the morning. The waiter, a tired, sad-faced Spaniard, was symp
athetic.
“Women?” he said.
“No. Thank God.”
“Not women?”
He wandered off, astonished.
Ross looked at the crowds passing by, the girls in stretch pants and bikinis, the men in casual pullovers and slacks. A resort crowd, on vacation. Just like he was. Having a good time, enjoying themselves, not a care in the world.
He wondered what he should do. He could, of course, call the police. But they would never believe him. He could call the consulate in Barcelona. But they wouldn’t believe him either. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he came to realize that nobody would believe him.
He hardly believed it himself.
A cheerful voice alongside him said, “Good morning.” He looked over and saw Carrini, dressed as he had been the day before—a dark suit, carefully tailored, a white shirt, and a silver tie. Christ, silver ties.
“I’ve been looking for you, Dr. Ross. Fortunately, it is a small town. I see you are already drinking.”
“Yes.” Ross turned the glass in his hand. “I got thirsty just now. Very, very thirsty.”
“Yes,” Carrini said. “The sun is quite warm, isn’t it?”
“Quite warm.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Carrini smiled reassuringly. “But there is no reason to be afraid. I have good news.”
“Oh? You’re not going to kill me after all?”
“Please,” Carrini said, raising his hand. “You must not misunderstand me. We never had any intention of killing you.”
“Reassuring.”
“In fact, what I wanted to tell you was that this will all be over in a few hours.”
“It will?”
“Yes.”
Ross frowned. “What will?”
“You see,” Carrini said, “One wants to work quickly in this heat. The Spaniards, you know, do not have much refrigeration.”
“I see.”
“It can be quite unpleasant, after a few days.” Carrini smiled. “But that will not concern us. The body has been refrigerated since a few hours after death. There is no problem. May I buy you another drink?”
“Why not?”
“Yes, indeed,” Carrini said. “Why not?”
Half an hour later, Carrini hailed a taxi, and they both got in. Carrini gave rapid directions in Spanish.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Ross sat back in his seat. “As long as I have no choice in this matter,” he said, “don’t you think you ought to tell me what’s going on?”
“Of course. It’s quite simple. My brother was a rather unsavory character—I hate to say gangster, it sounds so melodramatic. He was in Spain, working at a highly lucrative business. I regret to say—” he pursed his lips disapprovingly “that it concerned opium.”
“I see.”
“The opium was brought in from Bombay and Beirut and broken down here. Converted to heroin, I think. Or whatever it is one makes from opium. In any event, it was then transported to New York. I don’t know how. The conversion plant was located in the mountains north of Barcelona. It has now been destroyed.”
“And your brother was shot.”
“Yes. In a bar.”
“Was he working with Spaniards?”
“No. Greeks, I believe. I am searching for them now.” He said it mildly and lit a cigarette.
“Why was your brother killed?”
“I do not know. As I told you before, he was a violent man. Everything about him, and his life, was violent.”
Carrini took a deep drag of the cigarette and tossed it out the window.
“What’s your line of work, Mr. Carrini?”
“I am an importer,” he said slowly. “I deal in fine gemstones, for the American market. It has been my lifework for many years. I travel a great deal and am known throughout the world.” He smiled slightly. “For my scrupulous honesty.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I’m sure,” Carrini said, “that you don’t.”
He was silent then, leaning moodily against the seat and staring out the window. The car traveled north, away from the ocean to the foothills, and then beyond to the southern plains. The land was flat, ringed with blue mountains. It was a fertile, wheat-growing area.
The taxi drove on for several more minutes and then abruptly pulled over to the side of the road. Ross looked up in surprise. There was nothing but yellow wheatfields in every direction. Not a house, not a sign of life anywhere.
“Good,” Carrini said. He paid the driver and opened the door.
“We’re getting out here?” Ross said.
“That’s right Go on.”
Ross got out. Inland, the heat was devastating—dry, hot, merciless. He stood with Carrini at the side of the road and watched as the taxi turned around and headed back for Tossa del Mar and the coast.
“Now what?”
“Come with me.”
Carrini looked around to get his bearings, then struck off across one of the wheatfields.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re full of questions today.”
The wheat was crisp, dry, and waist deep. They walked several hundred yards away from the road, and then Carrini stopped.
“Here.”
“In the middle of the field?”
“We’re early. Have a cigarette and relax.”
They waited ten minutes in the hot sun. Ross smoked a cigarette and finished it. Carrini looked nervously around him the whole time.
“Worried?” Ross said.
“No. Careful. There’s a difference.” He smiled.
Then Ross heard the sound. It came from the east, a low, regular, sputtering sound, coming closer.
Helicopter.
Carrini checked his watch. “Right on time,” he said, nodding in satisfaction.
Soon they could see it in the distance, moving high, the bubble cockpit reflecting the sun. The helicopter passed over them, the shadow crossing like a dark angel; it circled, came back, hovered over them, and began its descent.
The wind was fierce, whistling, roaring, raising a storm of dust. Ross squinted and then covered his eyes to protect them from the dust. He coughed, the air was thick. The noise came closer, and then Carrini was tugging at him.
“Come on, come on.”
They ran to the helicopter, sitting a few yards away, and climbed aboard. It was a small, private model; seats for four. As soon as they were in, the pilot lifted off again.
One other man was sitting there.
Carrini said, “Where is Martin?”
“Waiting for us. At the hospital.”
“He has it?”
“Yes.”
Carrini nodded. “And who is with him?”
“He … he is alone.”
For a moment, Carrini seemed to get angry, but then he became very calm. “Alone?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. There was a last-minute problem, a difficulty. We tried—”
“He shouldn’t have been left alone,” Carrini said softly.
“It was the only way …”
Carrini looked at the man. “It would be a disaster,” he said, “if anything has happened.”
“I’m sure nothing—”
“Let us hope so,” Carrini said. He sat back and said nothing more.
Ross looked out the window at the harsh, dry landscape rushing past beneath them. He tried to make something of the conversation, but could not. It meant nothing to him, except that he was beginning to suspect Carrini was involved in his brother’s heroin operation.
By looking at the sun, he tried to determine the direction they were flying and decided it was west and north. They flew for twenty minutes, which meant they were headed north of Barcelona. Where the heroin plant was supposed to be.
He frowned.
“Worried, Doctor?” It was Carrini.
“I told you. I’ve never done an autopsy before.”
“I understand
,” Carrini said, “that they are not difficult.”
Ross shrugged. “You’re taking me to a hospital?”
“Yes. More or less.”
A few minutes later, they came over a short, rocky rise, and Ross saw it. At first, he thought it was a resort—an oasis of green in the midst of the desert. Then he noticed the buildings, which were solid, blocklike, and institutional. The helicopter banked, came around, and settled on an even green lawn.
They got out.
From the ground, the buildings were high, flat, and depressing.
“What is this, a penitentiary?”
Carrini laughed. “Close. A sanatorium, for tuberculosis patients. Germans, mostly. They come for the climate.”
Ross walked with Carrini toward the main building. They entered to find themselves in a broad lobby, with a reception desk to one side. Overhead, an old fan spun slowly, creaking. It reminded Ross of a dilapidated hotel, once luxurious, now faded and rather sad.
A short, kindly-looking man in a white uniform came up. He was bald and bespectacled, in his late fifties. He seemed to fit the surroundings, for his manner was gentle but rather melancholy.
“Ah,” Carrini said. “Dr. Garber. This is Dr. Ross.” To Ross, he explained, “Dr. Garber is the director of the Heitzman Sanatorium.”
“How do you do,” Ross said, shaking hands.
Garber smiled. “So you are the pathologist,” he said, in a thick German accent
“That’s right,” Carrini said, with a quick look at Ross. “Quite a stroke of luck to find a vacationing pathologist, eh?”
“Indeed, indeed,” Garber said. “Very fortunate.” He led the way down a corridor from the lobby. “Come along, gentlemen. You can begin immediately. Your cousins have already arrived, Mr. Carrini.”
“Excellent,” Carrini said.
Garber turned to Ross. “It’s not often that we get a pathologist here,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’ve fallen behind in my journals. I used to be quite interested in pathology. I even did research, for a time, on caseous necrosis. But that was many years ago. I imagine everything is different, now. I should like to talk to you about it.”
“Actually, Dr. Ross is on a tight schedule,” Carrini said. “He was kind to take time out to do the autopsy at all.”
“I see,” Garber said.
Ross said nothing. He was worried. Garber had obviously been told that he was a pathologist; if he stayed to observe the autopsy, he would recognize immediately that he was dealing with an amateur.
“I myself am a surgeon,” Garber said. “From the old days, when there was no INH and strep. But it was challenging. Thoracic work was so new.” He sighed. “My assistant will help you with your work,” he said. “I myself must make rounds in a few minutes.”
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