That was all. Fiala left. As he stepped from the hotel, he walked into Captain Meza.
“Checking on Valdez,” the captain said, displaying his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “Did you pick up anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And you won’t. Better not waste your time on the fellow.”
Fiala shrugged off the remark and Meza, giving him another toothy grin, went on his way.
It was the next day before Fiala was able to return to the de los Reyes and question Valdez. The bellhop was reluctant to talk. He’d already been questioned by Captain Meza and claimed he knew nothing.
“You may know more than you think you know,” Fiala informed him.
“My wife’s dead, and nothing can bring her back,” Valdez snapped.
“Nevertheless, I think we’ll have to talk about it.”
Valdez nodded, obviously appeared frightened, but what did he know? “When your wife was missing, where were you?” Fiala asked.
“Working here.”
“You came home, she wasn’t there and didn’t appear. Why didn’t you report her missing?”
Valdez let out his breath. “As I already explained to Captain Meza, we had an argument and my wife left the house. I thought she went to her mother’s. She did that before, so I wasn’t worried about her.”
“And the argument, what was that about?”
“Money.”
“Not unusual with young people. You don’t make too much on the job?”
“I depend on tips, and sometimes they don’t come as they should.”
Fiala nodded sympathetically. “A nice wristwatch you’re wearing,” he noted.
“Yes, I hit the lottery last month.”
“You must have hit it big. Well, someone has to be lucky. No?”
Valdez nodded, flushing, and Fiala left him standing there and went for black coffee in the Blue Moon. He drank two cups while he weighed the issues. The bellhop was frightened, and he’d lied about the wrist-watch. Money made “running” for Escobedo had paid for that. And the argument with his wife, that too was a lie. But to cover what? Valdez was a jittery fellow. He’d have to work on him more.
Returning to the hotel, Victor Fiala sat in the lobby and Valdez noticed him at once, then avoided his gaze, but the detective’s presence was disturbing and finally he approached him. “You want to see he, senor?” he asked.
“No, I’m watching for a tourist who may check in. He’s wanted in the States,” Fiala explained. It was a lie, of course, a tidbit of bait. Valdez swallowed it, smiled in relief and started back toward the desk when Fiala pulled the hook.
“One moment, senor,” he said. “Do you happen to know Juan Escobedo?”
The question took Valdez by surprise, but he shook his head. “No, no, I don’t know any Escobedo.”
“That’s all. Thanks.” Fiala left the hotel and returned to headquarters to confer with Lopez. The Chief wasn’t in his office, but Meza was at his desk.
“Lopez is having coffee with the Mayor in the Blue Moon,” he informed Fiala. “I wouldn’t disturb him unless it’s important.”
“I’m afraid it’s not important, Captain.”
“I see. Nothing on the murders yet?”
“Nothing.”
“But, of course,” Meza said. “You’re following the wrong lead.”
“The story of my life. If I had a peso for every wrong one I’ve followed...”
“I know. You’d retire, which wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, Victor, you’re getting old.”
“I admit it.” Fiala shook his head. “I can’t work the way I used to. I can’t even think straight any more.”
“And you’re wasting your time trying to link the Valdez-Martinez murders.”
“Perhaps I am. Have you any suggestions?”
Meza splayed his hands and shrugged. “None, but the one I already mentioned. Look for another lead.”
“Perhaps I will,” Fiala said, and left.
He returned to his favorite bench in the plaza under the sour orange tree and waited. Finally Lopez and the Mayor came out of the Blue Moon and separated. The Mayor walked away, and Lopez crossed the gutter to the bench.
“That’s all you’ve got to do, Victor?” he snapped. “Two unsolved murders and you sit here.”
“I was waiting for you,” Fiala told him. “If you don’t want to listen, that’s up to you.”
“You mean...”
Fiala held up a hand. “One moment. Nothing’s happened yet, but I’ve learned that Valdez works for Escobedo.”
The mention of Escobedo brought a frown to Lopez’s face. “So?” he said.
“So Valdez isn’t clean. That’s number one. Number two: Martinez also worked for Escobedo, which proves nothing, but suggests a lot. For instance, that Senora Valdez and Martinez probably knew each other, and that Senor Valdez isn’t the good citizen he appears to be.”
Lopez shrugged. “So where do these tid-bits lead us, Victor?”
“To the murderer.”
“And that is Valdez, I suppose?”
“The jealous husband who kills, is much too simple. Besides, Valdez isn’t a killer. He’s a mouse. He couldn’t have handled Martinez.”
“He could have with a gun,” Lopez said.
“True, but if he put a gun on him, he couldn’t have tied him up. Someone else had to do it. That person also tied up Senora Valdez. Yes, at least two men were involved.”
“An assumption, Victor.”
“Not if you consider that both victims were carried from a car. I admit that one man could have lifted Senora Valdez, but Martinez? At least two men had to carry him to the place where he was found.”
“This is confusing,” Lopez said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Probably because you’ve been listening to Captain Meza.”
“I have, and his theory about the murders differs from yours.”
“As usual,” Fiala smiled, “and, as usual, he’s wrong.”
“That’s still to be seen. But theories and words aren’t going to settle anything.” With that, Lopez turned and walked away.
Fiala shrugged and lit a cigarette. He’d gotten nowhere with Lopez, but that was understandable. Two unsolved murders. Valdez is the key to the whole business. Squeeze him and perhaps he’ll panic, he thought, tossing away his cigarette and getting up.
The Hotel de los Reyes stood at the far-end of the plaza. In the burning sun it was a long walk, but there was no need to hurry. Valdez would be there.
Reaching the hotel, Fiala paused and eyed the rickity screen door. Two holes had been punched in the mesh, a convenience for pesty flies. The place had gone to seed, but it was better than the fancy modern contraptions going up in the city. At least, it was comfortable and cool enough without air-conditioning to give one pneumonia.
Fiala pushed open the door, crossed the lobby, found a chair facing the desk and put on his dark glasses. They might help make Valdez nervous. The bellhop, standing by the desk, noticed him and looked uneasy. Watch a guilty man and he begins to sweat, Fiala thought.
For an hour he sat there, then went for coffee and returned to his chair. Thereafter, on the hour, he left and came back to watch Valdez. At five minutes of eight, Valdez stepped out, saw him and hurried off.
Fiala took off after him. Two blocks away on a dark street Valdez turned about, white in the face. “Why are you following me?” he demanded to know.
“What about Senor Escobedo?” Fiala replied. “You still don’t know him?”
“You’ve already asked me that, and I gave you my answer.”
“The wrong one. You work for Escobedo. So did Martinez. You were the last person to see him alive. You met him at Rios to pick up a load of smuggled cigarettes, no?”
Valdez stood mute, then finally shook his head and denied knowing Escobedo and Martinez.