“But you think she’s in Miami or Cuba. Why?” I wanted to know.
“A corpse turned up in Miami. A man’s corpse. There were two bullets in it. The man was an anti-Castro Cuban, a leader of the resistance fight. There is evidence tying this corpse in with the German scientist Miss Winters was seeking.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“Besides the two bullets, this man was a victim of the formula of which I spoke.”
“What did it do to him?”
“I’m sorry again, Mr. Victor. I cannot tell you that.”
“Oh, great. Go on. Tell me what it is you can tell me.”
“Of course,” Putnam resumed. “Now, this man had a girl friend, a stripteaser named Ophelia Tietz.-— Where do they think up these names?” Putnam grim- aced. “Now, the Cuban didn’t know it, but according to the CIA, this Ophelia Tietz is in the pay of Castro. Because of the way the Cuban died, we now fear that the German scientist and his formula may have fallen into the hands of the Cuban Reds. Believe me, Mr. Victor, no worse catastrophe could befall the United States.”
“But even if that’s so, you have nothing to indicate that Vickie went to Miami or Cuba,” I pointed out.
“Nothing except the fact that her last report indicated she was hot on the scientist’s trail. If he’s there, my guess is that she’s there.”
“That’s pretty slim.”
“Yes, it is,” Putnam admitted. “But it’s all we’ve got to go on. Our information is that the place where Ophelia Tietz works in Miami is a front for all sorts of illicit flesh traffic. Because of the nature of it, I naturally thought of you as the perfect man to investigate it. If you’re caught, you can always fall back on your professional curiosity as an excuse. Will you go to Miami for us, Mr. Victor?”
“You know damn well I will. When do I leave?”
“Right away. There’s a private plane waiting at the airport to take you. And I’ve made reservations for you at the hotel in which Ophelia Tietz resides.”
“You sure didn’t have any doubts about me, did you?”
“No, Mr. Victor, I did not. The car is waiting at the side entrance where you arrived. It will take you directly to the airport.”
“Wait a minute, I have to stop and pick up some clothes.”
“That has all been taken care of, Mr. Victor. While we were chatting, one of my men went to the home of Miss Nisah Leyah and packed your things. Your luggage is already on the plane.”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
“No, Mr. Victor, I do not. Bon voyage.”
“So long. And keep out of the way of those flying bricks,” I called over my shoulder as I left.
And so I’d hopped the plane to Miami to begin my search for Victoria Winters. It had begun well. I’d latched onto Ophelia Tietz real easy. Too easy. So easy that now I was flat on my back with a half-naked girl perched on my chest and picking my nails with a Cuban stiletto.
“What are you after, Mr. Victor?” Blood spurted from a second and then a third finger. “What are you after?”
I gritted my teeth against the pain. I wished to hell I knew the answer. I wished to hell I knew!
CHAPTER THREE
OPHELIA WASN’T much for thumbs. When the four fingers of my left hand looked like maple tree spiggots spouting red sap, she switched over to my right hand. Or maybe she was only saving the thumbs for last. I don’t know.
By this time I was desperately trying to hold onto a Yoga technique I’d picked up in Pakistan. I was concentrating all my attention on the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, then on an infinitesimal fly-speck on the surface of the bulb. The idea was that by focusing all my powers of concentration in this fashion, I’d be able to blot out the pain. It was only partially successful, but at least it kept me from screaming.
I was yanked out of this semi-trance by the sudden crash of glass and the blur of a guy scampering across the ceiling. I did a double take, but it was all happening so fast that it took my mind a moment to catch up with what my eyes were seeing. When it did, I managed to separate the images and slow down the action until I could make some kind of sense out of it.
What had happened was that this agile youth had swung through the window and allowed his momentum to carry him across the ceiling and down one of the walls. There was a strange-looking sort of scoop attached to one of his arms. As he’d moved, an object had hurtled from this scoop, thudding off the skull of one of the hoods and ricocheting to catch the other plug-ugly in the belly. It was a carom shot any billiard player might have envied. The first strong-arm man hit the floor like a sackful of lead pipe; he was out cold. The second one simply sat down and held his belly; his eyes were blind with pain.
By then Ophelia had whirled around and was face to face with the intruder, who had finally come to earth. She lunged for him with the knife the way an enraged tigress strikes out to claw her prey. His arm moved fast to catch the knife-blow on the paddle attached to it. The dagger stuck there and his other hand snapped out to chop her wrist as she tried to pull it free. Then he spun around to swoop down and snatch the gun attached to the end of the unconscious hood’s out-stretched arm. The safety clicked off and he hopped back to cover Ophelia and the other heavy. The whole thing had been like a ballet performance, carefully choreographed, beautifully executed.
“Good morning, Mr. Victor,” he said with just the hint of a Spanish accent. His white teeth flashed a smile at me from the deep tan of his face, but his deep-set jet-black eyes never wavered from Ophelia. It was partly that she was still in a crouch of feline fury, set to pounce if she saw an opening, and partly that he was admiring the quick breathing of her naked breasts.
“Good morning, whoever you are,” I answered. “You’re as welcome as the horse marines.”
He circled over to me, moving like a panther. Then he changed hands so that the gun nestled inside the scoop, pulled the dagger free and began cutting me loose. “I am sorry you had to suffer so much pain, Mr. Victor. But I had to wait for just the right moment, when their attention was distracted, before making my play.”
“You mean you’ve been outside a while?”
“Si. Is there much agony in the hands?”
“Well, I’ll never play the violin again,” I told him, sucking at my bleeding fingertips. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but to what do I owe the honor of the Doug Fairbanks routine?”
“Doug Fairbanks?”
“Skip it. It was before your time, anyway. What I mean is, how do you happen to be here? Who sent you? Who are you?”
“I am Pedro Estalita.” He bowed with a flourish, the gun never wavering from Ophelia’s naked charms. His manner said that I should know the name.
I didn’t. “Hi, Pedro,” I said. “Glad to see you. Very glad!”
“You do not know me, Mr. Victor?” He sounded disappointed.
“Sorry. I’m afraid not. Should I?”
“You are not a jai alai fan?”
“No. I’m afraid I’ve never even seen an exhibition. This is my first time in Miami.”
“Then that explains it. I am number one scoop on the Miami courts. Maybe in the whole world. You have heard of Willie Mays?”
“Sure.”
"Well, I am to jai alai what Willie Mays is to baseball."
Maybe he wasn’t long on modesty, but after the dazzling rescue he’d staged, I wasn’t about to low-rate him for bragging. “Then I really am honored to meet you, Senor Estalita.” I hoped the formality would satisfy his yearning for homage.