In my mind, I went over all the possibilities until I narrowed them down to three. It took me two cups of coffee and half a dozen cigarettes before I finally folded up the map and left.
The first street tried wasn’t a dead end as the map showed it to be. It had been extended to join another, so I turned back and tried the second. This one was a dead-end street but there were too many houses on it, all jammed as closely together as they could be built.
I made another attempt. This one was wrong, too, so I drove back to the highway and pulled the car off the road. By now, it was getting on toward ten-thirty. I turned on the dome light and spread out the map again, trying to discover where I’d gone wrong. Finally, I found it. I’d made my turn at the wrong traffic circle. I turned off the light, folded up the map and pulled back out onto the road.
This time, I found the street on my second attempt. Four widely separated houses were spaced along its length. Bickford’s house was the last one on the side toward the bay; A high, adobe brick wall with an ironwork grilled gate faced the street. I didn’t drive down to it. I left the car out of sight around the corner and walked down the unpaved road to the gate which was secured with a chain and padlock. I pressed the bell and waited. In the darkness, I heard the chirp of insects and the clacking rustle of palm fronds rubbing against each other in the gentle, moist sea breeze.
It was several minutes before the gateman showed up, an elderly, gray-haired mestizo with a bristling stubble of whiskers, tucking his shirt into his baggy trousers as he came padding up the path.
I gave him no time to think.
“Hurry up, viejo!” I snapped curtly in Spanish. “Senor Bickford is waiting for me!”
The old man stopped a foot away from the gate, peering at me, his brows wrinkling in thought.
“I know nothing—”
“Open the gate!”
The old man took a flashlight out of his pocket He turned it on my face.
“Not in my eyes, you old fool! Turn the light on my hand.”
Obediently, the old man pointed his flashlight down. He saw the blued steel of the Smith & Wesson .38. His eyes still fixed on the gun, the gateman took a fat bunch of keys from a pocket of his worn trousers. His fingers trembled as he selected the key and inserted it The padlock snapped open. I reached in with my left hand and unhooked the chain. I pushed the gate open, still pointing the gun at the old man, and moved inside.
“Close the gate, but don’t lock it.”
He did as I told him.
“Who else is here?” I motioned with the gun to step off the path.
“Only the senor and the senora,” he answered nervously.
“Your wife?”
“Mi mujer es muerta. She’s dead, there’s only myself.”
“The other servants?”
“Gone. They do not sleep here. They will not be back until morning.”
“Has Senor Bickford gone to bed yet?”
The old man shook his head. “I do not think so; The lights are still on downstairs.”
He lifted watery, frightened eyes to me. “Por favor, senor, I am an old man. I want no trouble.”
“There could be much trouble here tonight,” I said, watching him.
“I can be very far away in a very short time,” the old man said, pleading now. “Especially if the police might come.”
“All right,” I said. I reached for my wallet and took out four hundred-peso notes — about thirty-two dollars.
“To make your trip easier. For your inconvenience.” I pressed the bills into the gateman’s hand.
The old man looked down, then thrust the bills into his pocket “I may go now?”
I nodded. The man opened the gate a hand’s breadth and slipped through. He was running down the dirt lane immediately, his huaraches flapping against his heels and making soft, scrabbling sounds in the gravel as he ran. He turned the corner and was out of sight within seconds.
I pushed the gate shut and moved into the darkness of the landscaped grounds toward the house.
From the doorway that led from the kitchen into the dining room, I watched Bickford and his wife. They both sat in the part of the living room that I could see across the dining area.
Bickford put down the magazine he’d been holding and took off his heavy-framed reading glasses.
“You want a nightcap before we turn in?” he asked Boris.
Doris was sitting on the couch painting her toenails with intense concentration. Without looking up, she said, “Make it a double.”
I walked into the dining room and stopped in the archway that separated it from the living room. “I suggest you save it for later,” I said.
Bickford looked up in surprise. Doris dropped the bottle of nail polish on the white couch. “Oh, shit!” was all she said.
I stepped into the living room and let Bickford see the gun in my hand.
“What the hell is this all about?” he demanded.
“Your friends don’t want to do things the easy way.”
He wet his lips, nervously looking at the gun. “Why me? I did what you asked.”
“As you once said, you’re just the guy in the middle. I guess that means you get it from both ends.”
“What do you want?”
“Not much. You and I are going to take a little ride together.”
“Hey, wait a second!” Doris cried out.
“He won’t be hurt if he does what I tell him to,” I reassured her.
“What about her?” Bickford was still nervous about the gun.
“She stays behind.” I took the vial out of my pocket and shook out two capsules onto the top of the bar.
“Mrs. Bickford, I’d appreciate it if you’ll just take these pills—”
“No!” Bickford burst out, getting to his feet “Leave her out of this!”
“That’s just what I’m doing. I’m not foolish enough to tie her up. There’s too much chance of her getting free. And I’d rather not hit her on the head.”
“What — what are they?” he asked.
“Sleeping pills. They won’t hurt her.”
Doris rose from the couch and came over to the bar. I noticed that she wasn’t frightened at all. She even gave me a quick smile that Bickford couldn’t see. She picked up the pills and poured herself a glass of water.
“You’re sure they won’t hurt me?” There was a tinge of amusement in her voice, her heavily lashed green eyes stared boldly into mine. She put the pills in her mouth and washed them down, then stepped closer to me. “All I’m going to do is fall asleep?”
“Go sit down, Mrs. Bickford.”
“Doris,” she murmured, still staring boldly into my face, the tiny smile locked on her lips.
“Back on the couch.” Doris turned away from me slowly and walked back to the sofa, deliberately putting a swing into her hips. Bickford crossed to her and sat down beside her. He reached solicitously for her hand, but she pulled away.
“For Chrissake, Johnny. I’m all right, so calm down, Will you? If he wanted to hurt me, you couldn’t stop him.” She turned her face toward me. “How long does it take?”
“Ten to twenty minutes,” I said. “You might just as well stretch out and relax. We’ll wait.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Doris closed her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell in the easy rhythm of sleep. I waited another five minutes and then motioned Bickford away from her.
“Let’s go.”
Bickford got to his feet. “Where?”
“We’re going to pay a visit to a tuna boat,” I said “The one tied up down at the malecon—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“—and once aboard,” I went on as if Bickford hadn’t said a word, “you’re going to get hold of the captain and give him a package. You’ll tell him that it’ll be picked up in San Diego in the usual way.”