I said, "Some bargain. You've got instructions to assist me. I've got no instructions to assist you-" It hit me belatedly, and I stopped and stared hard at her. "Just what do you know about Nicholas, sweetheart? As far as we know, he's never been connected with dope, so where did you get the name?"
She looked down, clearly embarrassed. "Well, I… I just heard something…"
"Heard?" I said grimly. "Oh, I see. Over the phone." After a moment, I couldn't help grinning. "Charlie, I'm surprised and shocked at you, eavesdropping like that. And there I thought you were being so kind and cooperative, saving me from wearing out my dime in a public booth."
She said without meeting my eyes, "All our phones are monitored, naturally."
"Oh, naturally."
"You asked your chief to check up on me. I heard you. Did you think I wouldn't check up on you?" She forced herself to look at me defiantly. "Do we have a deal, Matt? Frankie for Nicholas and whoever else was involved in killing your girl-as long as it isn't Frankie." I said, "Hell, I'm not a homicidal maniac, doll, whatever you may have read in my record. If it is Frankie, and you put him away on drug charges, that'll serve our purpose just as well as shooting him. It's a deal." I held out my hand and she shook it. "Okay," I said, "that's settled. Now you'd better give me some license numbers and descriptions. Did you recognize the man who ran you off the road?"
"Yes, it was the ugly one who was driving you around earlier in that beat-up old station wagon."
"Willi Keim?"
"Willy Hansen is the name we know him by."
"What model jeep?"
"It wasn't the little Universal, but the longer one, kind of fancy, they call a Jeepster. White. California plates." She gave me the number.
"And Blame's wheels?"
"A sporty convertible, gold with a black top, that she picked up at the airport. She had the top up, of course, in this weather. One of the Pontiacs. I can't remember all the jazzy names. A Firebird?" She gave me that number, too, and said a little warily: "You sound as if you were planning to take off after her by yourself and leave me here."
"That's right," I said. "Somebody's got to keep in touch with home base, in case the police report a bad accident involving a gold convertible, or a dead redheaded female body, or something. And you were going to do some research on Sorenson, remember? I'll head south and check back with you. Have you got anybody at the border to see who goes through?"
"We've always got somebody at the border to see who goes through, Mr. Helm. And in answer to your next question, yes, they've been alerted and given all available information. But they can't take action without bringing in the police officially; that's not their job."
I regarded her for a moment. I would have been happy to trade her for a certain tough, unscrupulous, hot-tempered, redheaded little girl with whom I'd once worked, but that girl was dead. What I had to back me up now was a lady dope cop with ideals, and in this business nothing will kill you faster or deader than ideals. It wasn't a happy thought.
"No," I said, "it's my job, Charlie. And yours."
X
When I came outside, the mist was just as thick as it had been, or a little thicker, and it smelled just as bad, or a little worse. I went over to the new rental car that had been brought to me by Devlin's people after I'd explained to the guy on the phone that I'd ditched the other one, because somebody might have seen the license plate at the scene of the shooting and mentioned it to the police. He'd promised to deal with the problem, if it turned out to be a problem.
I'd already driven the replacement far enough to know that it was never going to become my favorite vehicle: a commuter's special with too many power gadgets and too little character. It had one of those space-age names- Satellite-that they like to give to cars nowadays when they're not naming them after animals, birds, or poisonous reptiles.
Getting into the shiny sedan, I heard a siren on the freeway and saw an ambulance go by up there, heading for Los Angeles. It was the third such emergency vehicle I'd encountered since starting south. Well, it was a bad night for driving. There was bound to be some breakage. With that thought, I slid behind the wheel, swung the car around jerkily-a sports car man at heart, I'm not at my best with automatic transmissions and power brakes-and headed for the nearest on-ramp to join the fun.
Southern California drivers are a courageous lot. You might even call them reckless-perhaps life has lost its meaning down there without real air to breathe. By the time I'd raced that headlong, suicidal traffic through the gradually lessening fog to the outskirts of San Diego, I was happy to pull off the freeway and find a phone. When I called the garage, Charlie Devlin answered promptly.
"McCrory's Motor Service."
"Hi," I said.
"Oh, it's you. Where are you now?" I told her, and she said: "No farther than that? Well, your subject crossed the border at Tijuana, some twenty miles ahead of you, almost an hour ago. She headed south towards Ensenada, our people report. The white Jeepster was two cars behind her going through the international gate."
"Your people couldn't stick a pin in his tire to stop him, or plant some marihuana under his seat, or something?"
"Don't be silly, nobody cares about marihuana smuggled into Mexico. And I told you, these are information people, not action people. When they need muscle they call the police. Or us. Did you want the police dragged into this?"
"I guess not." Obviously, if I'd wanted the police, I should have made up my mind earlier. "You're sure she's on her way to Ensenada?"
"No, of course I'm not sure. She could have doubled back, although she wasn't seen recrossing the border. But she could have swung east towards Mexicali; there's a good highway just south of the line that runs well over by Arizona. However, when last seen, she was barreling out on Mexico Highway 1, the road that'll take you clear down Baja California to La Paz, if you and your vehicle are tough enough to make it. It's about eight hundred miles. The pavement ends about ninety miles south of Ensenada at present. After that, things get pretty rough."
I'd heard about that rugged peninsula road before- they run well-publicized races down it for trail-type vehicles, and a lot of them fall by the wayside-but I let her finish the geography lesson anyway.
Then I said, "Well, Beverly's not likely to try the Baja boondocks in her flossy convertible, but Willy's all set to make the run with that four-wheel-drive heap, once he does his job. Maybe that's the idea."
"Or maybe we're just supposed to think that's the idea."
"I'll keep both possibilities in mind. How's your car coming?"
"It'll be another hour or so. I had them wake up somebody to get the parts in L.A. and run them down here…"
She stopped abruptly. I heard some odd, choking sounds over the phone.
"What's the matter?" I asked quickly. "Miss Devlin? Charlie?"
Her voice came back on the line sounding kind of hoarse and strangled. "Just this damn allergy. Don't get excited. As I was saying, we've got the parts now, but the man's just started putting them in. As soon as he's finished, I'll come after you."
"Name a rendezvous," I said. "I don't know the area."
"The Bahia Hotel in Ensenada. It's on the main tourist drag, on the right-hand side of the street going south; you can't miss it."
I said, "Okay. Incidentally, I've switched cars. Look for a Plymouth Satellite four-door, kind of reddish-brown. If the sun visors are down, you make contact with me as soon as possible. If they're up, stay clear and wait until you hear from me. Watch that allergy, Charlie."