“Slept right through an earthquake once. Door’s over here, hon. Anyhow, the kid’s too young to know—”
He was not too young. He lay on the couch after they had gone into the bedroom, shivering. He stared through down-pressing gloom, telling himself it hadn’t happened, that what he’d seen and heard had been a dream. Across the room his father muttered in his sleep. The bottle beside him reflected the light from the street.
He got out of bed, tiptoed to the big chair. When he returned he had the bottle. It was sherry. He lay in bed and sucked the strong, sweet wine. It made him warm and comfortable. His body was so light it seemed to float. He giggled quietly.
In the morning everything was as it had been before. His mother was in the kitchen, his father in the bathroom. The bad things he had dreamed had been just that, parts of a bad dream. Everything was exactly as it had always been except that under his bedclothes he found an empty sherry bottle.
He got rid of that by putting it in the trash. Then the memory of it, too, assumed a misty quality. It had never happened...
Pete started the convertible and ran it into the car port. He climbed out, nodded stiffly to the police lieutenant on the porch. “Just a minute, please.” He went upstairs. When he came back he was smiling and at ease.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Mr. Welles, my name is Gomez. I must ask you a few questions.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
Gomez sat on the far side of the table. He was about thirty, slender and with thin hands. “I have come to inquire why you did not report the robbery of last night.”
Pete took a chair opposite him. “How did you hear about it?”
“One learns these things. Is it true your house was robbed?”
“It’s true. My gardener—”
“Pedro was asleep when these men came. His identification would be worthless. His wife describes ten giants. And you?”
“They’d cleared out by the time I got home.”
“What did they steal?”
“A little money,” Pete said. “Some clothes. That’s all.”
“How much money?”
“Approximately five hundred pesos. Not a great deal.”
The policeman shrugged. “Not to you, perhaps. To many of my countrymen it represents two months hard work. This money was in pesos?”
“All pesos. Why?”
“A man was arrested this morning,” Gomez said. “A known thief. In his possession we found money. Hundred and five-hundred dollar United States bills. But that, of course, could not be yours.”
There was only the slightest hesitation before Pete shook his head. “Afraid not.”
Gomez produced a manila envelope. He held it upside down above the table. A pocket knife dropped out. “Did you ever see this before?”
Pete quietly said, “No.”
Without touching the knife the policeman scooped it back into the envelope. He got up briskly. “I thank you for your help.” He started for the car port, stopped, turned back.
“It now occurs to me that there is one thing more. It is in connection with the murder of a waitress.” “Yes?”
“Road blocks were established immediately after the body was discovered. All cars were stopped and their license numbers taken. One of them had an Arizona license, as yours does. I do not have the list—”
“As far as I know,” Pete said, “mine is the only Arizona car in town. And I was stopped by a road block.”
Gomez made a little bow. “You save me the trouble of a second visit. Where had you been before you were stopped?”
“Some night club. Couldn’t tell you its name. A blue building on the other side of town—”
“I know it well. How long had you been there?”
Pete frowned. “Quite some time. Long enough to order and eat dinner. This tied up in some way with that knife?”
“Who knows? The knife was found in the pocket of the thief. If the blood on it is of the same type as that of the young woman — then we have learned a little something, yes? Also there may be fingerprints.” Gomez bowed again. “Muchas gracias.”
“Por nada.” Pete watched him walk toward his car, hoping that the policeman would not look back. He was breathing heavily, and was in no condition to answer further questions. A shadow fell across the road. He looked up. A dark cloud had obscured the sun. Far away to the west, the sky was black. There was a rumble of distant thunder. The rainy season had begun.
15
The rain fell almost vertically at first, but at half-past two the wind rose and the heavy drops came slanting out of the Pacific and across Acapulco Bay from the southwest. The zócalo at three o’clock was an island in the middle of a lake. There were few cars on the streets. Pete jumped from the Buick and ran into a cafe. He called Karen from the telephone on the bar. It was the fourth time he had called.
A servant answered. “The señorita is no here.”
“Will she be there for dinner?”
“I don’t know. Tonight is dinner party at the house of Señor Pascault. You talk with the señora?”
He banged the telephone into its cradle. Two American women were sitting near him at the bar. As he walked toward the door, one of them let her handbag slip down on the floor. Pete stopped, looked at the bag and at the woman. Then he deliberately brushed it aside with his foot and went out in the rain.
He walked to the boulevard, entered a small cantina and ordered Scotch. “Bring the bottle.” An hour later, he was wandering up and down the sidewalk. His clothes were soaked and he couldn’t find his car. He stopped looking after a while, went into a grocery store and used the telephone.
He opened his eyes on a world of whispers that he could almost, but not quite understand. Wind and rain beat against the window. It was night. Getting up, he felt along the wall until he found a light switch, flicked it on.
He was naked and in a strange, elaborately furnished room. Women’s clothes were scattered about. He found his own clothes and put them on.
A woman’s slip was lying across a chair. He finished buttoning his shirt, not taking his eyes off the undergarment. He picked it up, methodically twisted it into a nylon rope. He looked at his watch before he went out into the storm. It was twenty after seven.
Passing the kidney-shaped pool, the wind blew him to a stop. He had to take shelter behind a palm. It was then that he realized that he was still holding the slip. He had meant, he thought, to leave it on the chair.
Thirty yards away a light flashed on. He looked through a window, and saw the woman. She came to the window, peered out, and disappeared. Lightning flashed as he took a forward step — and he saw with no particular surprise that he had left the palm tree far behind. He was crossing the terrace; french windows were directly ahead. There was a crack of thunder as he pushed them open and went in.
She was in the library. She was reading, and her back was turned. He crossed the room and raised the twisted slip. A rug muffled any sound he might have made. He took the final, cautious step—
And stopped, knowing with sudden certainty that he was being watched. He looked up. A young man with blondined hair and a white jacket stood in an open doorway.
“You want something, señor?”
Pete shook his head.
“On your feet again?” The woman looked over her shoulder, put down her magazine. “Eddie, get us a drink.”
The white jacketed young man backed out reluctantly.
She chuckled. “Still carrying a load, aren’t you? Thought you’d have slept it off by now.”
“How did I get here?”
“You telephoned me. Anyway, I got the call. I picked you up in the zócalo. Passed up a dinner date to do it, too. Hey—!” she said. “You’re twisting hell out of my slip.”