The Big Bite

by Gerry Travis

  “I’m the one,” he said. “Didn’t he tell you what to do?”

  “Of course. He said to do absolutely nothing until someone contacted me.”

  “Can I see your identity before we go further?”

  “My what? Oh.” Taking an evening bag from the coffee table, she worried the insides a bit and came up with a card. It read that her name was Meridee Simpson and she was a guest of the Republica de Mexico.

  “Not that,” Knox said impatiently. “Your World Circle card.”

  “My what? What the hell are you talking about?” she demanded. “I’ve got my Equity card, if that’s what you mean. And I’m paid up to date.”

  Knox did not need to digest this to understand it. The way she had used the word “contact” made him suspect. He tried to recall his letter to San Francisco. He had described Nat in disguise, mentioned that she was a showgirl, and asked for a replica. The fault, he realized, was partly his own. He had not specifically asked for an operative, simply assuming that Mike would have sense enough to send him one. Or maybe on such short notice this was the best Mike could manage.

  She was staring at him. “Don’t you think I’m the goods, mister? Mike said you might not. Here.”

  She dug in her purse once more and handed him an envelope. “He said to give you this.”

  Knox opened the envelope and removed a folded sheet of notepaper. His thumb went over the corner, seeking the embossed seal that would tell him it was a genuine communication. The seal was there. He read quickly. Mike had used one of the simpler codes and Knox translated as he read:

  “Sorry, but this is the best I could do so fast. Showgirl in the broad sense of the term. Okay, loyal, but not too long on brains. Don’t say more than you have to. Luck.”

  Knox burned the paper and the envelope in her ash tray. She watched him wide-eyed, gave a shake to her torso that settled her bosom a little into the dress and went to stand in front of him.

  “Say, what have I got into?”

  “What did you expect to get into?”

  She shook her head helplessly. “When I get offered fifty bucks a day, expenses, and a chance to lie in the sun and not have to fight off guys on the make, I guess I shouldn’t ask questions. Only—well, I want to know if I have to protect myself in the clinches.”

  Knox gave her a cigarette, waved her to the divan and then sat in the chair opposite. “The answer is yes,” he said. “Nothing dangerous for you,” he added hastily. “Just keep in the background at the party tonight.”

  “Oh, I thought maybe I was supposed to put on my act. Isn’t that why I was invited?”

  There was something about Meridee Simpson that Knox liked. She had a frank, forthright manner and obviously no exaggerated opinion of herself.

  “Just what is your act?”

  “Burlesque,” she said. “I do mostly club dates when I can get them. Ever since I made up my own act, I get quite a few. I peel doing a Highland fling—in kilts to bagpipe accompaniment.”

  “My Lord,” Knox whispered. “To bagpipes.”

  She nodded. “There aren’t many good bagpipers around, so I usually bring my own music.” Rising, she went to the desk and took a folder of EP records from the top. “Want a demonstration?”

  “Not before dinner,” Knox said.

  She seemed disappointed. “I ought to do something to earn that fifty a day. Maybe if I took the records and my costume to the party …”

  The thought of her performing at Natasha’s “party” entranced Knox. He grinned. “Sure, bring them along. You never know.”

  She returned to the divan. “I’m an artist,” she said. “When I do a good job, put on a performance that has them climbing the walls, I get satisfaction out of it—like a guy who writes a book or makes up a song or paints a picture. Here.” She put her hand to her bosom.

  “I understand.” Knox was wondering just how much to tell this girl. She would have to know something. He said, “You were invited because they can’t figure out what you’re doing here.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “The crew on the island,” Knox said. “And maybe some on this side, too. I’m not sure yet. But the party could get rough. If it does, just tell the truth. That you live in San Francisco and that I hired you out of a theatrical agency. You haven’t been told why.”

  She grinned wickedly. “I saw that outfit at the casino last night. Snobs. If they get nosy, I’ll tell them what I do for a living. That always gets a rise out of snobs.”

  “Yes,” Knox said. “If they want to know what you were doing here four days ago—”

  “Hell, four days ago I wasn’t here.”

  “Four days ago,” Knox said, “a girl who looked like a low-grade version of you was in La Cruz.” He told her about it.

  She had a shrewd look in her eyes. “So?”

  “So because she spent the night with me, she became suspect.”

  “And you sent to Mike for a double to throw them off the scent.” She nodded. “How much do I look like her?”

  “No one except Chuco really got a look at her and he tells me you and she are the same girl. He drove her out to the bus.”

  “Ah,” she said, “that’s why he thinks he can neck me every time he comes in here. He keeps telling me I liked the way his mustache tickled before.”

  Knox began to wonder what Mike meant about her lack of brains. He said, “You have the idea.”

  She said, “This French LeGage dame must have something to do with it.”

  “How did she get into this?”

  She said, “If you didn’t have someone here who could be that girl come back—disguised or undisguised—you wouldn’t need me to throw them off, would you? And since she arrived the day I did, and is about the same height …” She stopped and shook her head. “But how did a scrawny one like that ever look like me? It won’t wash, will it?”

  “It washes,” Knox said. “She has a foundation—a lulu.”

  “Gee. No foolin’?” she said admiringly. “So if they ask where I was four days ago, I say …”

  “Tell them the truth and stick to it.”

  She was examining her nails. “What if it gets really rough? Do I spill about Madame LeGage?”

  “Not unless you have to,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll get that hard with you. They may not bother you at all except to put Forrest or Tiber on you to do some pumping. Let them pump.”

  “Forrest—that’s the sleek one.” She shivered. “The guy gave me the creeps the way he ate me up at the casino last night. I liked that Tiber better—a big brute, but I think I could handle him.”

  Knox grinned. “Make a play for Tiber then. Maybe he’ll tell you something.”

  She was still looking at her nails. “About what?” She looked up. “I’m not just curious, mister. If I can’t peel for my fifty bucks, I should do something useful.”

  Knox said, “Somebody’s trying to start a revolution. If they do, it will embarrass a lot of governments and put a sticky crew right in our own backyard.”

  “Oh. Like that Guatemala deal a ways back?”

  “Yes, like that.”

  She nodded. “That gives me something to go on.”

  Knox got up to go to dinner. He said, “See you on board the cruiser then. And thanks.” He left, feeling very good about Meridee Simpson.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The trip over was a disappointment to Knox. With the three women cooped together in a small cabin, he hoped to see some kind of fireworks. But they disappointed him. Nat concentrated on charming Gomez, speaking in her fluent, Swiss-accented French. Meridee Simpson kept looking at Knox every now and then in a bewildered sort of way. Adele Fisher was seated beside her and spent the entire trip explaining her work with the tape recorder. Knox just sat.

  When it was time to land, he went forward and tied up for Forrest and then jostled for position in the line of guests going from the dock to the path. He managed to get next to Nat, to Gomez’ disgust, and halfwa
y along took her arm to help her over a rough spot.

  He said, “Did Chuco tell you that the man who flew in the day you did is known as Hans Kurath?”

  He could feel Nat stiffen beneath his grip. “But, Paul, he would have contacted me!”

  “Unless he’s been too busy,” Knox said.

  “Thanks for warning me,” Nat whispered.

  They went on around the house, as Knox had gone before, and into the screened portion of the veranda which, for the party, had been joined to the large, airy parlor by simply having light bamboo partitions removed. It made a very nice arrangement, Knox thought.

  Seated about the room were three persons: Natasha, the hulking Tiber, and a tall blond man with a face that seemed composed mostly of jutting bone, deep-set eyes, and a trap of a mouth. Knox still had a grip on Nat’s arm, and as they went up the steps together, he felt her stiffen for the second time. Natasha, as hostess, came forward.

  “Welcome, all,” she said brightly. “It grows so dull sometimes, I had an inspiration for a party. And even if we don’t know one another, we can get acquainted now.” She swept a hand out. “The bar is right over there.”

  Tiber lumbered forward, his eyes fastened on Meridee Simpson. “How about being bartender with me?” he asked heavily. He was about as subtle as a scow, but with a smile that intimated she had craved this all her life, Meridee tucked an arm through his and let him lead her across the room.

  Natasha shepherded the others into the room and introduced the man who called himself Kurath. He had a brief handshake for the men, a bow for the women. Knox watched him closely when Nat was introduced as Madame LeGage, but he showed no more than the polite interest of a man meeting an attractive woman.

  The party moved aimlessly back and forth for a time and then Knox found himself seated between Nat and Adele Fisher. Natasha was across the room. In a high-necked, high-backed dress, she wore at least twice as much cloth as any of the other women but still seemed at least as undressed as they. More than once, Knox caught her eyes speculatively on him, and he wondered if she was thinking of their still-unfulfilled swimming date.

  Knox turned to Nat and said very softly, “Go away for a while. I want to talk to Adele.”

  “Old-maid professor!” she whispered scathingly.

  “Did I claim that?”

  Nat drained her glass, rose, and with a sniff went off to where Tiber and Meridee presided over the bar. They appeared to be their own best customers and Knox hoped that Meridee had a good head for the concoctions she was pouring into herself.

  Someone had started a phonograph playing dance music and Kurath and Natasha moved onto the floor. Nat stood a little forlornly with her empty glass held out toward Tiber, but he had his eyes fixed just below Meridee’s face, seeing nothing else. Gomez’ companion, so self-effacing that Knox had forgotten him, rose, went over to Nat and bowed.

  She set down her glass and let him dance her onto the floor. Knox glanced about, noting Forrest deep in conversation with Gomez.

  He said to Adele, “Let’s go for a walk in the garden, shall we?”

  “All right. I’d like another drink, though.” Her voice was tight, higher than usual.

  He went to the bar, captured a bottle of dark, thickish rum—Adele had already had two drinks of it—and went back to her.

  Tucking her arm through his, Knox led her onto the veranda and out to the garden. They strolled toward the pool. When they were out of reach of the light flooding from the house, he stopped and handed her the bottle.

  She took a deep drink and said, “You sent your Madame LeGage away so we could do this, didn’t you?”

  Knox sipped the rum himself and led her onto the edge of the pool. “Yes. You’re scared about something.”

  “Am I so obvious?” She sounded faintly bitter.

  Knox sat her in one of the canvas chairs and took another. Adele had another drink from the bottle, lit a cigarette, and then looked broodingly at him. “I am scared, Paul. I thought I was smart enough to handle my trouble myself. Now I know I can’t.”

  He waited. She said, her voice low and unsteady, “I’m here for a reason, but I suppose you know that?”

  “I guessed.”

  “How much have you guessed, Paul?” She tipped up the bottle again.

  “The night your room was broken into started something, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Knox waited, but when she didn’t continue, he said, “My guess is that you’re some kind of messenger. I noticed the way you counted those tapes piled on your floor that night. There was one more than you’d started out with, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clever,” Knox said. “No open contact. Just a breaking into your room—apparently an attempt at robbery—but instead of anything missing, something was left. That was the tipoff, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Paul.”

  “What did you do with the tape, Adele?”

  “It was to be picked up,” she said. “I was to take it in my case and leave the case in the field, and someone would come and take the tape out. I thought that way I’d spot whoever it was and then I could do something. I’ve been working blind, not knowing who’s been watching me.”

  “Well?”

  She said, “It was Portero, the Viewhouse manager. Just another flunky! And now something is going to happen and I still haven’t any idea whom to watch out for.”

  Knox came out with it bluntly. “What kind of trouble are you in, for God’s sake, that you’re trying to outwit the ones who hired you?”

  Her voice was bitter. “Hired me! Blackmailed me!”

  “This is all over my head,” Knox told her. “If I knew what it was about, maybe I could help.”

  She returned the bottle, the level considerably lower. She seemed to be deliberately trying to get herself drunk. Knox took a healthy swig.

  She said, “I’m a fool. I’ve always been a fool, I guess. In the war—I told you about that—and then later in Cuba. I went down there to do some graduate study and—and I got mixed up in their politics.” She lit a second cigarette from the butt of her first. “Lost causes and all that sort of thing.”

  “You mixed yourself in Latin-American politics?”

  “Yes, and I was old enough to know better. But I—I fell in love again. And it did seem wonderful—world-saving—all that sort of thing. Then I found out it wasn’t just an anti-dictator party I was mixed up in. It wasn’t even home grown.” She stopped and reached for the bottle.

  Knox yielded it reluctantly. The rum was warming him inside, too. One-hundred-fifty-proof liquor did that in a hurry. He said for her, “It was inspired by the boys east of the Iron Curtain?”

  “Yes. I went home, and because I was out of Cuba, I forgot about it. I wanted to forget. Then a few years ago a man came to where I teach and he told me I was going to Central America during the summer to study. I was to do what I did here, be a sort of post office. I tried to refuse, but there were photographs of me with certain people in Cuba, some foolish letters I’d written. Any one of them, sent to the college authorities, would have had me fired and blacklisted. And I do like my work. It’s my life now. I—I did it.”

  “Guatemala?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, they lost.”

  “And now it’s Cuba,” he said.

  “You know about it?”

  Knox tried to curb his tongue, but the combination of rum and pity for Adele was more than he could handle. He said, “I know about it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you will help me? Don’t you see, that’s why I wanted to know you in the first place—to find out if you were someone who could help me. Tell me, please, who it is. Who is their—their man here?”

  “What good would that do?”

  She stood up, swaying a little, and threw her cigarette into the pool. It hissed softly. “I’d kill him. But first I’d make him tell me where the—the documents on me are.”

  Knox was on his feet, holding h
er. She had begun to cry, the helpless sobs of a person who looks at defeat and knows there is no escape from it.

  “Easy, easy.” Her head rested against his shoulder and the sobs quieted a little. He stroked her hair gently.

  She backed away enough to reach his handkerchief and used it to wipe her tears. “I’m sorry, Paul, but I don’t know what to do! Oh, Paul …”

  Her face was very close to his, her lips slightly parted. She wanted to be kissed, and he kissed her, comforting her. Only, somehow, the effect was wrong—on them both. Three minutes later when they drew away for air, he realized the effect had been very wrong indeed.

  “Paul, Paul,” she murmured. Lifting her hands, she clasped him about the neck and drew him toward her again. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, her breath quick. There was little resemblance to the dry, academic Doctor Fisher he had first seen.

  “We haven’t time for this,” he said as gently as he could.

  “Time enough,” she whispered, her lips fluttering against his.

  Inside Knox a tiny warning flared up, but it was quickly drowned by the rum. He pulled her to him. How long they stood together, he didn’t know. Only when a noise sharp enough to penetrate the hammering in his ears intruded did he break away. She stood, arms hanging, her eyes closed. He said, “Sit down,” in a low voice, and turned.

  He caught a glimpse of white as someone moved from the screen of bushes that separated the house from the pond. White meant nothing. All the men wore white jackets and Natasha wore a white gown. He wondered how long the listener had been there.

  “We’ve been spied on,” he said.

  It was like a dousing in cold water. The fear came again. He said, “Listen. Go in, keep hold of yourself, and circulate.”

  “Yes, Paul.” Her voice was dull.

  “And snap out of it. We all might be shot at any moment.”

  She started for the house. “They don’t work that way unless they have to. I doubt if they shot Curtis. They’d be more careful, make his death appear an accident.”