“Army,” McMahon said, “four years in the MP’s.”
“Then you know the feeling of being a pawn. I endured it for most of my adult life, but no more. The difference between racing and collecting is the difference between being a chess-piece and a chess player. Or in being a sergeant,” he added slyly, “instead of an officer.”
McMahon didn’t rise to the bait. Galmont seemed a bit aggressive for a man discussing a hobby, but then it was a very expensive hobby.
“What about Morgans, colonel, do you have any in your collection?”
“Only one at the moment, and I’m afraid it’s not ready for viewing now. It’s in the drying vault.” Galmont indicated a garage door at one end of the showroom with a smaller door adjacent to it. “The car’s just been painted, and aluminum can be a bear to dry properly. Have to keep the humidity constant.”
“It’s not important,” Andy said. “You do your own restoration work here, then?”
“Most of it, yes. I have two licensed mechanics on staff, as well as a paint and body man. They work in a garage area on the far side of the building. I do most of my work in the office there in the corner, chained to a computer. I have complete files on most of the collectible cars in the world, who has them, and where, and their current market value.”
“The car Chris Wilde was driving,” Andy said, consulting his notepad, “the 1962 Morgan SS. Was it valuable?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of valuable. The market value of ah — a ’62 Morgan SuperSport could vary anywhere from ten to thirty thousand dollars, depending on condition.”
“Thirty grand? Could it have been insured for that much?”
“Probably,” Galmont said. “Do you think this may be an insurance thing? That perhaps Radmore overinsured the car, then lent it to Wilde hoping he’d crack it up? And maybe got a bit impatient?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Andy said. “Do you know Radmore?”
“Not well,” Galmont said, “but what I do know I don’t like. We’ve gone head to head a few times over auto deals, and he can be one ruthless sonofabitch. And he’s gay, of course. They’re everywhere, you know, the gays. They’re in government, in church, even in the military.”
“You sound as though that bothers you,” Andy observed.
“I’m not crazy about the idea,” Galmont shrugged, “but I’ve learned not to worry about what I can’t change. Was there anything else, sergeant? I really should—”
“Just one last question. Do you know a driver named Maraschal?”
“I know him,” Galmont nodded. “He owns several Alfa Romeos. Excellent racing machines for their time.”
“I was told he had trouble with Wilde in Nassau. Over a bet?”
Galmont shook his head slowly, smiling. “Do you know who Maraschal is, sergeant?”
“I — know of him,” Andy admitted.
“Then you know he’s reputed to be a heavy hitter in the cocaine trade, and you’ll understand why I’d rather not comment on that particular incident.”
“I’m surprised a man who soldiered for twenty-five years would be intimidated so easily.”
“Nice try,” Galmont grinned, “but no sale. If you’re interested, you can ask Maraschal yourself. He’s staying at the San Miguel, on Miracle Mile. And he’s easy to find. He always takes the whole seventh floor. He’s superstitious, they say, but then most gamblers are.”
“So I’ve heard,” Andy said. “Maybe I’d better get over there before he gets a hunch it’s time to move on. Thank you for the tour, colonel, and for your help.”
“My pleasure,” Galmont said, offering his hand. “I wish you luck. Just one thing, though, sergeant, take a little advice from an old soldier. Don’t knock yourself out on this thing.”
“No? Why not?”
“You draw the same wages either way, right? And nobody really cares about one queen more or less.”
“Don’t they?” Andy said.
The elevator hummed to a halt on the seventh floor of the Hotel San Miguel, the doors shushed open, and McMahon found himself staring into the muzzles of a pair of 9mm automatics. A heavyset Latin in a rumpled blue suit was facing him in a combat crouch, feet spread, his weapon gripped firmly with both hands. A second, younger man, wearing a khaki safari outfit, was slightly behind Bluesuit, backing him up. Both men looked professional, and very nervous. McMahon raised his hands slowly, to show he was unarmed. “Policia,” he said.
Bluesuit approached cautiously, shifted his weapon to his left hand, and patted Andy down. He found his.38 and slid it into his pocket. He also found the badge. He frowned at it, grunted, then tossed it back at him. McMahon made no move to catch it. The second man looked entirely too jumpy and his weapon was cocked.
“Okay,” Bluesuit said, “what you want?”
“Policia,” McMahon said, kneeling to retrieve his badge. “yo soy—”
“Speak English,” Bluesuit growled, “I unnerstand.”
“Good for you,” Andy said, straightening, “because after I finish talking to your boss, you and I are gonna have a nice chat downtown about pistolas y maneras.”
“I’m afraid not, señor. Luis has diplomatic immunity, you see.” A sleek, silver-maned Latin wearing an immaculate pearl gray pinstriped suit stepped into the hallway from the suite beyond. “Our embassy was good enough to send him over after the — accident yesterday. I apologize for his manners. I am Gerardo Maraschal. My man has seen your credentials, so perhaps you should see mine.” He handed McMahon an embossed leather I.D. folder. “You’ll note that I too have a diplomatic passport.”
“Very convenient,” McMahon said, glancing at it and passing it back.
“I find it so,” Maraschal said. “Your American legal system is incomprehensible, even to yourselves, and I prefer to avoid... misunderstandings. You’re here about the killing on the mountain?”
“That’s right. Why all the paranoia? What are you afraid of?”
“The killing was done well. Professional perhaps. I don’t think such skill would have been wasted on Wilde. I was following him closely in the race, and barely avoided a crash myself.”
“And you think maybe someone made a mistake?”
“It’s possible,” Maraschal nodded. “My ’59 Alfa does not closely resemble Wilde’s ’61 SS, but both cars are red, and to an untrained eye...”
“Possible,” Andy said, “but unlikely. As you said, the hit was well done. Professional. And forgive me for being blunt, Senor Maraschal, but of the people involved, you are the only one with—” he nodded toward the two gunmen “—credentials as a — professional. And I’ve been told you had difficulty with the victim over a bet, in Nassau. Twenty thousand, I think the figure was, against a car he didn’t own.”
“And you think I might have killed him?” he said, smiling with thinly veiled contempt, “at the risk of my own life? Over twenty thousand dollars?”
“Maybe not because of the money so much,” Andy said, “but perhaps because the car wasn’t his to wager.”
“What you imply might be valid if he’d lost and failed to pay off. But he did not lose. He won fairly, and I paid the bet. And I will tell you something else, sergeant. When I learned the car didn’t belong to him, I wasn’t angry. I was amused. Chris Wilde was not an ignorant man. He knew my — reputation, and took the wager anyway. Not many men would take such a risk. I felt contempt for him before, because of what he was, but afterward—” He shrugged. “He may have been homosexual, but he was no coward. I had no quarrel with him.”
“Twenty grand might be considered cause for a quarrel.”
“To some people, perhaps,” Maraschal said indifferently, “it is not an important sum to me. And if I had wished to — arrange such a thing, I would not have done it here. There are races in Nassau and Mexico City. Wilde could just as easily have died there, and I would not have been — troubled by the local policia. And now, if you will excuse me, sergeant, I have other business. Jaime and Luis will see you out. Your weapon will be returned to you in the lobby with, of course, my sincere apologies.”