“I don’t want to talk about goats.”
“Yes, you do. You appointed me your assistant in charge of regenerative process, goat division... Well, I found out from a geriatric specialist at the County Medical Association that there are a couple of places where people can get injections of goat embryo glands to stay young. One is in Hungary, and that’s the extent of the information I could get on it. The other’s in Mexico, run by a Dr. Manuel Ortiz. Ortiz doesn’t advertise, but the word has spread around youth-oriented places like Beverly Hills. His clinic’s main attractions seem to be that it guarantees immediate results and costs a lot of money.”
“That’s the attraction?”
“It is for wealthy people who have only one thing left to spend their money on, turning back the clock.”
“Where does this Dr. Ortiz turn back the clock?”
“The clinic is a converted ranch in a small seaside village south of Ensenada.”
“Pasoloma.”
“That’s it. How did you know?”
“Just another lucky guess.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s kind of complicated,” Aragon said. “And as you mentioned a while ago, this conversation is costing twenty-four cents a minute. I figure we should save our money so that when you’re old and grey we’ll be able to send you down to Pasoloma for some of Dr. Ortiz’s goat glands.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“I come from a long line of thinkers.”
“Tom, you’re not going to tell me a thing, are you?”
“Just the usual. I love you.”
“Well, I love you, too, but it doesn’t prevent me from wondering why you’re suddenly interested in rejuvenation. Did Smedler put you on a case involving Pasoloma?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “Honest.”
“The last time you went to Mexico you got in all kinds of trouble.”
“Other people got in trouble. I didn’t.”
“The Mexican police aren’t normally interested in such fine distinctions.”
“Laurie, dear, I can’t tell you any more than I already have because I don’t know any more. I’m working on a hunch and it may be miles off the track. You’ve been a great help finding out about Dr. Ortiz. Tomorrow morning I’ll get Smedler’s secretary to call Ortiz’s clinic and see if our client is there. If she is, I’ll take the papers down to her for her signature and come home, mission accomplished. If she isn’t there, I’ll start thinking up another angle.”
It sounded logical, straightforward, easy. He wondered why he didn’t feel better about it.
Aragon arrived at the office shortly before nine o’clock and took up a strategic position at the door of Smedler’s private elevator. He was beginning to know Charity Nelson’s weaknesses and strengths, and one of them was punctuality. The bell in the City Hall tower across the street was striking the hour when she came in. In addition to her handbag, she was carrying a large canvas tote fully packed and showing a number of interesting lumps and bumps. Her wig had been anchored with a scarf tied so tightly under her jaw that her lips could scarcely move when she spoke: “Whatever you want, no.”
“I wasn’t asking for anything,” Aragon said. “I’m just reporting in.”
“Like on what?”
“Mrs. Shaw.”
“You found her.”
“No.”
“Then there’s nothing to report.”
“There may be.”
“Listen, junior, this isn’t the best time to mess around. Smedler spent the night in his office because he had a fight with his wife and he’d like her to believe he killed himself, which may not be such a bad idea, but who am I to suggest it. In here” — she indicated the canvas tote — “is his breakfast. Also mine. One thing Smedler and I have in common, we don’t like problems before breakfast, so bug off.”
Charity pressed the button and the little iron-grilled elevator came down from the top floor with the majestic dignity of a vehicle intended only for royalty.
When the door opened Charity said, “You’d better not come up yet, junior.”
“That canvas bag looks heavy. Let me carry it for you.”
“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Once in her office Charity untied the scarf anchoring her wig and filled the glass coffeepot from the water cooler. Then she began unpacking the canvas tote Aragon had put on her desk: cans of tomato juice, some fresh pears and oranges, a bag from a local doughnut shop, a plastic container of plant food, a bottle of leaf polish and a jar of instant coffee.
“I have to make a long-distance call to a place in Mexico,” Aragon said. “I thought you’d want me to do it from here.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it involves Mrs. Shaw.”
He explained. In spite of the early hour and lack of breakfast, she was pleased with his theory. It fitted not only the rumors she’d heard but also her own picture of Miranda Shaw as the kind of vain, stupid woman who would go to a clinic in Mexico to buy back her youth. Charity didn’t consider her own youth worth buying back.
She put the call in herself. Whether it was her crisp voice or just plain luck, the call was relayed through Tijuana to Pasoloma within five minutes. Almost immediately a woman answered in Spanish, switching to heavily accented English in response to Charity’s question. Yes, this was the Clinica Pasoloma but no Mrs. Shaw was registered.
Charity held her hand over the mouthpiece. “The lady says Mrs. Shaw is not there. That blows your theory, junior.”
“Let me talk to her.” He took over the phone and spoke in Spanish. But Mrs. Shaw wasn’t there in Spanish any more than she’d been in English.
The clinic, in fact, did not give out names or any other information over the telephone except to the proper authorities. Though Aragon tried to convince her that he was, as Mrs. Shaw’s lawyer, a proper authority, she didn’t wait for him to finish.
“You struck out,” Charity said. “Admit it.”
“Not yet. The woman was just following orders, no names over the telephone.”
“So?”
“Suppose I go down to the clinic and ask her in person.”
“Why don’t you take no for an answer, junior? You had a nice little idea that died. Bury it.”
Smedler came out of his office. He showed no signs of having spent a night involving any physical or emotional discomfort. He was freshly shaved and impeccably groomed. Even the frown he aimed at his secretary was normal for the time of day.
“I tried to use the phone, Miss Nelson, and it was tied up by a bunch of foreigners.”
“Sorry,” Aragon said. “I was one of them.”
Smedler ignored him. “I don’t like foreign languages spoken on my telephone, Miss Nelson. What if the CIA is listening? They might think I’m selling secrets to Cuba or something.”
“We don’t have any secrets to sell to Cuba, Mr. Smedler.”
“You and I know that but they don’t... Did you get the kind of doughnuts I asked for?”
“With jelly inside,” Charity said. “Mr. Aragon has a theory about Mrs. Shaw’s disappearance.”
“Cherry?”
“Yes, sir. It’s an interesting theory.”
“The strawberry ones have those irritating little things in them.”
“Seeds. Shall I authorize him to pursue it?”
“Use your judgment, Miss Nelson. You’ve shown excellent judgment in the past. Nothing has happened to warp it, surely? Then carry on.”
Smedler disappeared with the bag of doughnuts, two fresh pears and a can of tomato juice.
Aragon said, “Well, has it?”
“Has what?”
“Anything happened to warp your judgment?”