"They're not following us," Deirdre breathed.
"No. They'll have to pull out of there now. All of them. They'll have to run for cover."
He was still not over his relief at finding Deirdre alive. Now he thought of Miguel, and Larabee's failure to appear. Something had gone wrong. But was it with Miguel or with Larabee? Dickinson McFee had been uneasy about the personnel at the Las Tiengas Base. McFee had told him not to trust anyone here. Larabee was hostile. And John Padgett, the broken eagle, the man in charge of everything? Padgett was hostile, too, making it plain he felt his brother must have been guilty of subversion. But Calvin was dead now. That part was over.
Yet he still felt that something was deadly wrong.
* * *
It was not quite four o'clock when Durell turned the Lancia into the street where Miguel lived. From the old Spanish church nearby came the dolorous clangor of iron bells, heavy in the afternoon heat. He parked the car near the corner and looked at the little Mexican fruit store across the street. Several people stood there, and included in the group was a black-garbed priest. Durell told Deirdre to stay in the car and then walked across the street to join the people in the shade of the awning. He looked back at Miguel's house, but the door was closed and it looked normal. He imagined that Franz and Cora Neville and Weederman were already flying from the ranch for the border. They were of less importance than what had to be done here.
The people outside the store were talking in Spanish. When the priest moved aside as Durell approached, a wide irregular stain was visible on the sidewalk.
Their eyes were flat and opaque, sensing he was a stranger. Only the priest seemed friendly. Durell spoke in Spanish. "Forgive me for disturbing you, but can you tell me what happened here?"
"A man was killed," said the priest.
"Some pistoleros shot him down," said a stout woman angrily.
"Miguel?" Durell asked.
"Ah. Did you know Miguel Santos?"
"We were friends," Durell said. "I am shocked and sorry."
"He is in the arms of God," said the priest.
"That is certain." Durell nodded. "Did anyone see the killers?"
"No one. Paco was inside. Then the shots came just as Miguel was entering the store. He had a coin in his hand. It is a great tragedy and an even greater mystery. Miguel never harmed anyone. He was a good man. Why should anyone desire his death?"
"What did the police say?"
The priest looked pained. "The police of Las Tiengas are not concerned with the death of a Mexican. I do not say this in anger, but in sorrow. They consider it as a feud between strangers. But who could hold death in his heart for such as Miguel?"
Durell returned to the green Lancia across the street. He knew now why Larabee had never come to Cora Neville's ranch. Life was cheap for those who had followed him and Miguel from the Salamander. They must have shot down the old man within moments after Durell had left to recover his car. He had not heard the shots because the bulk of the old mission church had intervened, muffling the sound.
Deirdre saw his face and said, "What's the matter, Sam? What happened?"
He told her bluntly, hoping it would help her to see her brother's death against the background of those they were fighting. She got out of the car and stood on the hot, sunny sidewalk with him. The group at the corner still stood there, and entry into Miguel's house from the front was out of the question.
Durell took the girl's arm. The priest was watching as they turned the corner and walked around the block. He felt uneasy about leaving the green sedan so prominently exposed on the street, but there was no help for it. He did not think West, or Weederman, would have anything on his mind except flight, with Calvin dead and Deirdre lost to them.
A narrow alley led them to the back door of Miguel's house. The lock to the little fenced yard was flimsy, yielding when Durell hit it sharply with his gun. He followed Deirdre across a neat little patio and then into the tiny house.
There were signs of disturbance that showed a search had been made, but nothing else. Durell went toward the old-fashioned iron stove and studied the floor boards for a moment, then used a kitchen knife to pry up the board he selected. It came up easily. Underneath was a sheaf of yellow pages, perhaps a dozen in all, every one covered with neat formulae, computations, equations. He turned them over and over in his hands. They meant nothing to him. Yet they could mean everything to someone who knew what they were all about.
Deirdre stood quietly with her hands at her sides, not looking at him. Durell found a bottle of red wine, uncorked it, and poured some into two glasses and handed one to the girl. She took it mechanically.
"Drink some," Durell said. "You need it. If you're thinking of Cal, you can still help him. You can tell me everything he said to you. Everything that happened since they snatched you away from my apartment in Washington."
She looked at him. "I thought that was a trap. I didn't trust you then, Sam. I acted like a fool and spoiled everything."
"It was a natural reaction. But I hope you trust me now."
"I do." She nodded slowly. "I wasn't going to tell them anything about my arrangement to meet Cal at the Salamander. Not at first. Franz was horrible. He was going to kill me. Then I thought that I had told you about the Salamander and I knew you would come here and I hoped that if I told them about it, you would be here to get them."
"Did Franz hurt you?"
"Not too much. They kept me in an empty house for that evening, then they blindfolded me and drove me out of the city to a farm, where there was a private plane. The other girl was there. She looked like me and I understood she was going to pretend to be me. Franz wanted to kill me then. There was a big argument and finally they telephoned to Las Tiengas and I guess they were ordered to bring me along to make Cal talk if the ruse with the other girl didn't succeed. Today, when Cal showed up at the ranch, he thought the Neville woman was his friend. She didn't like any of this, but I think George West has some hold over her. He made her obey him."
Durell nodded. "Yes, I gathered that much."
"When Cal saw me, tied and gagged, he almost broke down. Then they left us alone and he told me why he ran away from the base."
Durell waited. The girl walked around the room, holding the wineglass in both hands. Her face was pale. When Durell looked at her, he wanted to hold her and protect her against everyone in the world. The house was quiet. Then Deirdre turned to him and he saw a new look of determination and anger in her face, and it made him feel even better about her.
"Cal ran away from the base because he felt there was a plot to sabotage Cyclops and he wanted time to prove he was right. No one listened to him. He had the job only because John vouched for him and accepted responsibility for his security. John wouldn't listen, or Larabee, or General Aiken, when Calvin insisted that the launching of Cyclops should be delayed."
Durell nodded. "In what way was Cyclops to be sabotaged?"
"In the calculations that set the orbit, in what he called the brain. I couldn't understand it all," the girl said slowly. She bit her lower lip. "Some of the equations were juggled so that Cyclops, instead of breaking free of gravity, would traverse an arc and land somewhere in the eastern United States. He was terribly worried over it. He wanted to use the electronic computers to prove his case, but Larabee and General Aiken refused, and even John backed them up. Finally they decided he was suffering a nervous breakdown. That was the mild way they let him know they no longer considered him responsible."
"You knew Cal best," Durell said. "How was he?"
"Perfectly normal. Upset and worried, yes. He was afraid of what will happen when they fire Cyclops. He spent two days without sleep, computing manually the equations that would have taken only a few minutes on the electronic calculators. He proved to himself he was right."
"And he told you all this in that barn?"
Deirdre nodded. Her anger helped her recover somewhat from the shock of her brother's death. "Calvin didn't tell th
e woman or Franz anything, not even when they threatened to torture me. He was not a traitor. And I think he was right. Cyclops has been sabotaged."
"And these papers can prove it?"
"That's what he said."
Durell lit a cigarette. He believed Deirdre. Calvin had not been a traitor. But there was a traitor at the base, someone high up in power, with the authority to quash Calvin Padgett's protests and have him committed to the solitude of a hospital cell. Dickinson McFee, as far away as Washington, had sensed something wrong at Las Tiengas. Durell felt a sudden danger in the possession of Padgett's calculations. Somebody had to check them before Cyclops was launched. As far as Weederman's apparatus was concerned, their mission would be fulfilled if Padgett's work went ignored. Durell was suddenly sure that they must have somehow found out about Padgett's suspicions. So they might assume the existence of these papers and these explosive equations. They would stop at nothing to destroy them, to have the sabotage attempt succeed.
The silence in the little house was suddenly thick with tension. Durell started to fold the papers and put them away. And an angry voice spoke from the doorway:
"Hold it like that. What in hell do you think you've been doing today, Durell?"
It was Colonel Larabee. John Padgett stood behind him, leaning heavily on his knobby walking stick, his head thrust forward. Larabee had a service Colt in his hand and it was pointed at Durell's stomach.
John Padgett said mildly, "Deirdre, my dear, whatever are you doing in Las Tiengas?"
The girl looked at her older brother with nothing in her eyes at all, as if he were a stranger. She moved closer to Durell.
"Calvin is dead," she whispered.
"You found him?" Larabee asked sharply.
She nodded. Durell said, "How did you locate us, Mike?"
Larabee looked even angrier. "I just got the report on the little Mex shot down at the corner. It coupled up with the business of Cora Neville and the Salamander. Professor Padgett happened to be with me and we came to take a look. What's going on?"
Durell told him. He made it brief and succinct, wondering if this was a mistake, but seeing no choice with Larabee's gun probing his middle. He watched John Padgett as he spoke. The man's gaunt, predatory face was puzzled, then smooth and gently smiling. He made no gesture of affection toward Deirdre. When Durell stopped speaking, Padgett said quietly, "And those are poor Calvin's calculations?"
"They are." Durell nodded. "They should be checked."
"Nonsense. Calvin was not in his right mind. Getting mixed up with a bunch of spies is ridiculous on the face of it. I think your story is nonsense. I don't even believe he's dead. And certainly those equations aren't worth the paper they're written on."
"What makes you so sure?" Durell asked.
"I humored Calvin at first. We went over the problem together. He's lost his capacity for logical thinking."
Durell swung to Larabee. "Take that gun off me, Mike."
"I'm taking you into custody. I spoke to Swayney this noon about you. He says you've lost your head over this girl. He says you're not to be trusted. That's a pretty cock-and-bull story about Cora Neville and this Weederman, but Swayney says Weederman was executed a couple of years ago in the Soviet Zone of Austria, as a neo-Nazi. And Cora Neville is vouched for by very high sources. She couldn't be a Red or work with the Reds. Until we check out what you've told us, you're under arrest, Durell. The girl, too."
John Padgett picked up the pages of equations and was crumpling them, smiling, ready to put them to flame in the kerosene stove. In the moment's silence, Durell weighed his move swiftly. He heard Deirdre suck in an angry breath. Durell said, "One thing, Mike. Before you let Professor Padgett destroy those equations, let me call Dickinson McFee in Washington. General McFee has over-all command over the hardware being built here. Let's hear what he says about this. Telephone him now."
John Padgett went on crumpling the papers. Larabee shook his head. "I'm in command here. McFee wouldn't know anything about this. I reported to Swayney, and he told me what to do."
"Please," Durell said. "Call McFee."
"To hell with you," said Larabee.
But his glance shifted with momentary unease toward the gaunt figure of John Padgett at the stove. Durell had no choice. A match scratched and flared as Padgett crumpled more of the paper. Then Durell swung at Larabee's gun with his left, knocked it down, and hit Larabee's bulldog jaw with his right. The gun went off with a shattering crash, spanking a bullet into the floor. Larabee's eyes glazed and Durell hit him again. The gun fell and Larabee slammed into the wall, shaking the little house. Durell swung toward Padgett, snatched the papers from the flame, and shook off a charred corner. The gaunt man's face was yellow. His angry eyes touched Larabee, then Durell.
"You must be insane! You will regret this."
Durell scooped up Larabee's gun. "Get away from that stove." He squashed the papers into his pocket, jamming them securely, glanced at Deirdre. She had not moved. The echoes of Larabee's single shot still vibrated in the air.
Larabee was reviving. He sat up. His eyes fixed on Durell with hatred. "I'll fix you. I told you I didn't like prima donnas. You've gone haywire. What in hell do you think you're doing? You'll rot in a federal pen when I'm through with you!"
"Get up," Durell said.
Larabee started up slowly, then suddenly lunged in a low charge. Durell caught his chin with a sharply lifted knee. Larabee's head snapped back, his eyes rolled up, and he fell over heavily. Durell weighed the gun and looked at John Padgett. The other hadn't moved.
"Deirdre, come along," Durell said.
"Don't go with him," Padgett said. "He's a madman."
Durell would have felt better with Professor Padgett on the floor beside Larabee. But the man didn't move and he couldn't do anything about it. He took Deirdre's hand and she went with him without a backward glance.
They ran down into the narrow street, in the hot afternoon sun. How much time did he have? Five minutes. Maybe ten. Then every cop in town would be alerted for him. He had no illusions about Larabee. Larabee would never forgive him.
Deirdre ran with him until they passed the old mission church. There were people here on the sidewalk, and Durell slowed to a walk. Deirdre breathed with difficulty. He kept looking for a telephone as they walked toward the center of town. But because he needed one, because it was imperative to get on a line to Dickinson McFee before they were picked up, he couldn't find a public booth. As they neared Cactus Street, he heard the wail of sirens behind them.
Chapter Fourteen
The bar was named the Lucky Dollar, and there was a huge neon sign in the window, formed as a silver cartwheel. Inside, it was cool and air-conditioned, with dark oak booths and a long bar glimmering with dim lights behind the racked tiers of bottles. Music played softly somewhere. There were only a few customers. The long blinds in the window were tilted to shut out the hot glare of the sun. They also shut out the sight of traffic and pedestrians on Cactus Street.
Durell ordered beer and sandwiches and counted his money. Ninety-two dollars. Deirdre had no handbag. She was trying to straighten her copper hair with her hands. Even without lipstick or make-up, she looked wonderful. Durell got some change and went into the phone booth at the back end of the bar. A siren screamed past outside.
He got the operator, asked for long-distance. Sweat rolled down under his shirt. The receiver hummed. He wanted to jiggle the hook, but he waited. Finally the operator came on and he gave Dickinson McFee's private number in Washington, D.C. The operator asked him to wait. He waited.
He could hear the phone ringing two thirds of the way across the continent. The operator asked for money, and he dropped coins into the slot in a steady stream.
There was no answer.
The operator said, "I'll try again in twenty minutes."
"No, wait," Durell said. "There's got to be an answer."
"I'm sor-ry. I'll try again in…"
"Wait." He gave Swa
yney's number at 20 Annapolis Street. The booth was suffocating. There were clicks and buzzes on the line. Where in hell was McFee? Out of his ollice, maybe in conference somewhere. Just when you needed him. He hated to talk to Swayney. The phone began to ring again, and when he shifted his weight in the narrow booth, he felt Calvin Padgett's papers crackle thickly in his pocket.
The phone went dead. He jiggled the hook.
"Operator, what's the matter?"
"I'm sor-ry, the circuits are busy. I'll try again…"
"Never mind."
He hung up and left the booth. Their sandwiches and beer were on the table as he slid to the seat across from Deirdre. Her mouth was tense. "Did you get McFee?"
"No answer, busy circuits. It's a clutch. And every minute Larabee gets more and more stacked off."
"What will we do?"
"Try to keep out of Larabee's hands until I get McFee."
"In this town?"
"I've got to try," Durell said. "Your brother wants to destroy these papers." He looked at her. Her eyes were pained. "You didn't tell me everything, did you?"
"No," she whispered.
"You didn't tell me about John."
"No."
"Eat your sandwich," Durell said.
"I can't."
"Then pretend to. Calvin didn't trust John, did he? It was John who balked him, who put a bug in the medico's ear about Calvin being off his rocker. That right?"
"Yes."
"John designed Cyclops, but he's going to sabotage it That right, too?"
"Yes. That's what Calvin thought. He was sure of it. But he didn't want to do anything until he spoke to me. After all, our own brother…"
"He's our enemy."
"I'm afraid of him," Deirdre said.
"His word is law at the base. What he says goes. We can't argue with anyone here if John says no. It will be different when I get in touch with McFee."
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