HAVE STARTED FULL INVESTIGATION. WILL FORWARD REPORT UPON COMPLETION.
— END MEMO—
I put down the two sheets of paper, then undressed and got into bed. As I lay in the dark, in the short time before I fell asleep, my mind went over the last line of the first page of the reports:
BEST INDICATIONS ARE THAT HERBERT DIETRICH IS NOW IN ACAPULCO.
Who the hell is Herbert Dietrich, I wondered, and what possible connection could he have with criminals like Stocelli, Michaud, Duttoit, Torregrossa, Vignale, Webber, and Klien?
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was at the pool the next morning when Consuela Delgardo came down the steps and walked across the grassy area surrounding the pool to join me. I was surprised to see how much more attractive she was in the daylight. She wore a loosely-woven, light beach coat that ended just below her hips, showing superb legs that swung in a rhythmic, lilting walk as she came toward me.
“Good morning,” she said in her pleasantly husky voice as she smiled at me. “Are you going to invite me to sit down?”
“I hadn’t expected to see you again,” I said. I pulled out a chair for her. “Would you like a drink?”
“Not this early in the morning.” She took off her beach coat, draping it across the back of a lounge chair. Underneath, she wore a dark blue maillot bathing suit, almost transparent, except at the breast and crotch. It looked as if she were wearing a finely meshed net body stocking over a minute bikini. While it covered more of her than a bikini would have, it was almost as revealing and was certainly much more suggestive. Consuela caught me looking at her,
“Like it?” she asked.
“It’s very attractive,” I admitted. “Few women could wear it and look as good as you do.”
Consuela lay down in the lounge chair that I’d pulled out for her. Even in the harsh direct sunlight, her skin showed up smooth and taut.
“I told them I was your guest,” Consuela remarked, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. But why? I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”
“You’re right. I have a message for you.”
“From?”
“Bickford.”
“About the bullfight at El Cortijo? I got the message last night.”
“I’ll be going with you,” said Consuela.
“So they’ll recognize me?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind taking me out so often,” she added, amusement in her voice. “Most men would love to “
“For chrissake!” I said, irritably. “Why can’t they just give me a simple yes or no? Why all the rigamarole?”
“Apparently, you told Bickford something last night about what you knew of their operations. It shook them. They didn’t think anyone knew so much about the operation they’re running. I think you’ve managed to frighten them.”
“And where do you fit into all this?” I asked her, bluntly.
“It’s none of your business.”
“I might make it my business.”
Consuela turned and looked at me. “Don’t I’m not important in the operation. Just take me at face value.”
“And what’s that?”
“Just an attractive woman to escort around town every once in awhile.”
“No,” I said, “you’re more than that. I’m willing to bet that if I were to look at your passport, I’d find it filled with visa stamps. Eight to ten trips a year to Europe, at the very least. Most of the entry stamps wouId be for Switzerland and France. Right?”
Consuela’s face froze. “You bastard,” she said. “You’ve seen it!”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It stands to reason. There’s a lot of cash involved in your business. They can’t let it float around here in Mexico or in the States. The best place to tuck it away is in Switzerland — or the Bahamas — in numbered accounts. Someone has to carry the money from here to there. Who better than you? An attractive, cultured, elegant woman. You’re an odds-on bet to be the courier for them, the one who makes all the lovely trips and who smiles so pleasantly at the Customs people as she passes into the country, and who’s known by half a dozen bank tellers in Zurich, Berne, and Geneva.”
“What else are you so sure of?”
“That you never carry narcotics. They’d never risk your getting picked up for dope smuggling. Then they’d have to find another courier they can trust with cash the way they now trust you. And that’s hard to do.”
“You’re damned right!” Consuela was indignant “They know I’ll never carry drugs.”
“Does it make you feel better to think you’re only carrying money?” I asked her, with the faintest tinge of sarcasm in my voice. “Does that make it all right? It’s heroin that brings in the cash, you know. If you’re going to be moral, just where do you draw the line?”
“Who are you to talk to me like this?” Consuela demanded, angrily. “Whatever you do won’t stand up to inspection, either.”
I said nothing.
“We’re not so different,” Consuela told me, anger coating her voice like blue-white midwinter ice sheathing a rock. “I learned a long time ago that it’s a tough life. You make out the best way you can. You do your thing and let me do mine. Just don’t pass judgment on me.” She turned her face away from me. “Take me for what I am, that’s all.”
“I make very few judgments,” I told her. “And none in your case.”
I reached over, catching her chin in my hand and turning her face to mine. Her eyes were chilled with the deep frost of resentment. But below the thin glaze of repressed fury, I sensed a maelstrom of churning emotions she was barely able to control. Inside, I felt a surging response to the sudden, sensual feel of the smoothness of her skin against my fingers, and an overwhelming need arose in me to unleash the turmoil that stormed within her.
For a long, interminable minute, I made her look at me. We fought a silent battle in the few inches of space that separated our faces, and then I let my fingers move slowly across her chin and slide across her lips. The ice melted, the anger went out of her eyes. I saw her face soften, thawing into a complete and utter surrender.
Consuela opened her lips slightly, catching at my fingers in gentle, nipping bites with her teeth, without once taking her eyes from mine. I held my hand against her mouth, feeling the sharpness of her teeth against my flesh. Then she let go. I took my hand away from her face.
“Goddamn you,” Consuela said, in a hissing whisper that barely reached across to me.
“I feel the same way.” My voice was no louder than hers.
“How do you know how I feel?”
The anger was now directed against herself for being so weak and for letting me discover it.
“Because you came here to see me when you could have telephoned just as easily. Because of the look on your face right now. Because it’s something I can’t put into words, or even try to explain.”
I stopped talking. Consuela got to her feet and picked up her beach robe. She slipped it on in one lithe movement. I stood up beside her. She looked up at me.
“Let’s go,” I said, taking her by the arm. We walked around the edge of the pool and along the gravel path, up the several flights of stairs that led to the terrace and to the elevators that would take us to my room.
We stood close together in the dimness and the coolness of the room. I had drawn the drapes, but light still came through.