“Twenty percent.” Peterson shrugged hopelessly. “All right, Dort — half a loaf and all that.” Then he added hastily, “but you got to pay your own expenses.”
Dort rose to his feet and walked to the door. “It’s a deal, but you’ve got to permit the Professor to return to the States, and agree to drop all charges and prosecution.”
“You get the twenty-five thousand back, and I’ll agree to anything,” Peterson replied, heavily.
On the phone to South America, Dort dropped Ills conversation with the stewardess long enough to read again the letter which he had received from Herman K. Berman. For the second time, he observed the envelope had been slit neatly, then expertly re-glued together. Someone had obviously read Berman’s letter before Dort had received it. The letter was written in a sprawling hand:
Dear Mr. Dort:
As your name is the only one which I can recall who can help me, I am writing to offer you a business proposition. Presently, I am living in Castelonne, San Salvador, at the Copabonga Hotel, and am in possession of twenty-five thousand dollars which I borrowed without authority from funds belonging to someone else.
Unfortunately, I am extremely warm and uncomfortable, bored, and probably homesick. I would like to return to the United States. If I agree to return the money, can you arrange for the insurance, or bonding, company to drop charges. The insurance company
involved is the NACI.
Sincerely,
P.S. I should also mention my life has been threatened, and I’d appreciate your prompt attention
The plane landed on a field outside Castelonne. When it had bucked itself to a stop, Dort untangled his seat-belt, reassembled his nerves, and limped forth to locate a taxi to drive him into town. The assembly of adobe houses, plazas, and narrow streets which made up Castelonne pulsated in the afternoon sun, and was shrouded in a dry-mist of dust.
The taxi, a thirty-year-old Stearns-Knight, had determined on a gait similar to a canter on its two remaining cylinders, and it slid into a stop before the Copabonga Hotel like a Dodger sliding into third-base. The hotel was a two story structure with the second story projecting over the first to afford a balcony which completely encircled the building. When Dort registered at the desk, the clerk admitted, indifferently, that he hadn’t seen Berman in four days. Berman’s room number, however, was 217. This total amount of information cost Dort twelve pesos.
While the lock on the door of 217 was strong enough to withstand any sly drafts or idle breezes, it gave way before Dort’s pocket-knife in considerably less than thirty seconds. He sauntered into the room and looked around.
It was similar to the one he had been assigned. Square in shape, it contained a hammered-brass bed, two horse-hair upholstered chairs, a wardrobe standing in one corner, and a large wooden ceiling fan which didn’t work. A series of folding doors opened to the balcony. In the wardrobe was a leather suitcase, a pair of shoes, and two seersucker suits. A large number of books scattered around the room stood in short, irregular stacks and piles against the walls and beside the bed.
Dort’s examination of the room was interrupted by a voice inquiring, from the door to the balcony, “Are you back, Hermie?” The voice spoke with a pronounced French accent, and its tone was unquestionably feminine.
Straightening up, Dort swung around to face an attractive, although weathered, red-headed woman. She was wrapped in a flaming red robe spotted with yellow butterflies. “No,” Dort told her, “I’m not Hermie, and I’m not back. I just arrived.” He closed the wardrobe door, while asking, “Where’d you come from?”
“Oh, I thought you were Hermie.” The woman nodded toward the room to her right. “I have a room next door. I am — what you call — a friend of his.”
“That makes it convenient,” Dort commented. “When did you last see Hermie?”
She cocked her head and considered. “Not for four days.” She stepped into the room. “Have you a cigarette?”
“Sure,” said Dort. He lit one for her and passed it over.
“Are you planning to steal something?” she asked.
“No,” Dort replied. “It’s more in the order of repossessing.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Who’re you?”
“My name is Mimi,” she trilled, rolling her name in accents of French. “Mimi... St. Laurent... de Valliers.” Dort nodded, and she continued, “I am an artiste. I sing in le bristro in the hotel.”
“How long have you been here?”
Mimi paused, momentarily, before admitting, “Over three years.”
“That’s quite a run,” Dort said. “What part of Iowa are you from?”
Mimi sat down in the chair, crossed her legs, and replied. “Not Iowa. Nebraska,” She took a drag on the cigarette, and remarked, “Jeez... it’s hot. I used to think Nebraska was hot in August, but you’d have to add two feet to a Nebraska thermometer to even get it to register in Castelonne.”
“It must get hotter somewhere,” Dort agreed, “but I can only think of one place.” He started probing the mattress and pillow. “Why the French act?” he asked.
“Oh, the locals think it’s great. ’Course they can’t understand French, but they still think it’s the most,” Mimi replied wearily. Rising from the chair, she sauntered to the balcony. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, mister,” she said, “but if it’s dough you won’t find it.”
“Why not?” Dort asked.
“Because Hermie was the slowest man with a buck I ever saw.” She turned away, “See you around.” And walked down the balcony towards her own room.
Dort didn’t find the money. He didn’t find Herman K. Berman either. Although it came as no surprise to Dort that the citizens of San Salvador spoke Spanish, it did surprise him that most of them spoke what they insisted was English as well. Dort had little difficulty in asking questions, but he had great trouble in deciphering the answers. However, they all narrowed down to one point: no one in Castelonne had seen Berman in “it makes four days.”
A realist to the ends of his square white teeth, Dort settled for a mixture of rum and tequilla when he couldn’t locate Scotch, Bourbon, Rye, Irish Whiskey, or Gin — in that order. He contemplated, without pleasure, his glass, glowering at the prospective loss of five thousand dollars.
He considered the situation with sweat dripping from his ears, which added little to his comfort. If, Dort thought, Professor Herman K. Berman had written to him urging him to hurry to San Salvador — then why wasn’t Professor Herman K. Berman on hand to greet him when he arrived?
The answer, Dort assured himself, would be found in one of two reasons. A., Berman didn’t want to meet him, having possibly changed his mind about the deal or B., Berman couldn’t meet him, because if the threat in his letter had materialized, he might very well be dead.
Finishing his drink, Dort calculated that the elapsed time between the liquor sliding down his throat and gushing from his pores was a mere matter of six seconds. He walked across the plaza to the department of police, Captain Hernando Lorca in charge.
The captain’s desk was at one end of a squad room which resembled a pool room with the tables removed. Racks at the walls held a number of ancient carbines, many of them with parts missing. In the waste-basket, by the captain’s desk, a large cat with matted fur was nursing a litter of extremely small kittens. The cat looked suspiciously at Dort, but the kittens didn’t.