Then he was lying in a pool of frozen redness as I came up to him.
It was Alfreddo Moscato.
The Mosquito.
Swat!
The rifle that had shot at me and that was intended to kill Rico Corelli in the gondola was a Winchester Model 70 Super Grade calibrated for 30–06 Springfield cartridges and mounted with a Bausch & Lomb Balvar variable power Lee dot telescopic sight It was a beautiful rig.
A 30–06 Springfield Hi-Speed bronze point cartridge can deliver a 2960 feet-per-second muzzle velocity and a 2260 feet-per-second velocity at 300 yards, with a hitting power of 2920 foot-pounds muzzle energy and 1700 foot-pounds at 300 yards. The Bausch & Lomb variable power scope is adjustable from 2 1/2 power to 4 power with windage and elevation controllable by only two moving parts.
If anything could do the job of killing a man from a remote firing site, that combination could.
I leaned down over the dead man. He carried a wallet and papers, but they were obviously fraudulent. The name said Natalio Di Caesura, and the papers said he came from Bari, Italy.
He had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and a closely-shaven blue chin and cheeks. His sideburns were lower than ordinary, but did not seem too long.
He was dressed in a good windbreaker and tight-fitting ski pants.
I turned at the sound of sudden footsteps on the rocks. One of the Guardia Civil had skied down to the spot, taken off his skis, and was walking toward me, holding a notebook in his hand. I noticed he had the holster of his gunbelt unbuttoned.
Glancing at me, he said nothing, and then he walked over to the rock where the dead man lay. He bent down, glanced at the body, then studied him carefully and made a few notes.
He touched the corpse's neck and felt for a pulse. I could have told him it would not be there. He reached in and removed the papers, studied them, and then considered the Winchester 70 and the scope sight.
He stood and turned to me.
"Excuse the intrusion, Señor," he said in English.
I smiled. "How did you know I am English?"
"I know you are American," he corrected me with a smile. "By your skis."
They were Austrians, but I had bought them in Sun Valley. And it was stamped on them.
"You were a witness to this — trouble?" he asked, phrasing it delicately but obviously.
I shrugged.
"Perhaps you are more than a witness. Perhaps you were involved in the man's death?"
I said nothing. When was he going to read me my rights? But of course, in Spain they did not read you your rights at all.
I started to unbutton my windbreaker to get out my wallet.
The Guardia's weapon, a.45 Colt American, was instantly in his hand and covering my stomach.
"I very much beg your pardon, Señor, but please do not take anything out of your pockets."
"I merely wish to hand over my identification," I smiled. "I come recommended to you by Señor Mitch Kelly of Malaga."
There was a flicker of recognition on his face. "Ah. So I see. You have his card here. Also one of your own." He stared at it and slowly put it back in the plastic folder. He handed back the wallet, flipping it shut with a smart smack.
I took it and put it away.
"I beg your pardon, Señor. I do not need you for any questioning at all. If you wish to depart?"
Ah, that wonderful little AXE emblem in the corner of Mitch Kelly's card that everyone in authority seemed to know and love.
I turned and indicated the dead man. "Is he known to you?"
The Guardia shook his head. "I do not think so. But I will soon find out."
"A polite tip," I said. "This man may be wanted for a crime in Malaga, too. A homicide."
"Ah."
"And for the murder of a boy last night right here on the Prado Llano."
The Guardia's eyes narrowed. "You know a great many things, Señor."
"That is my business. Knowing many things. And photographing them," I added with a smile.
He saluted. "Accept my apologies for detaining you. I think it would be well if you were not here when my colleague arrives. He is a bit young and impulsive."
I looked up the slope. Another Guardia was on skis and coming down the run.
"Thank you."
He bowed at the waist and saluted. "I shall tell Señor Kelly that we have met."
I slipped into the clamps, picked up my poles, and went down the rest of the run to the Prado Llano in a quick schuss.
Within a half hour I was back in the hotel. Juana was waiting for me in the lounge by the big fire.
We were alone.
Her face was glowing with excitement. "I have it," she whispered to me.
I nodded.
"What was all that commotion?" she wondered.
"I flushed out Moscato and killed him."
Her face went pale. "How did he know we were meeting in the cable car?" she asked. "Nobody knew but you and me — and Parson."
"Do you think Parson's really Corelli?" I asked.
She shrugged. "He certainly knows a lot about the drug chain. And he's willing to give it to us on a silver platter. I'm very encouraged."
"Were you ever discouraged?" I asked with amusement.
"Very much sol As soon as we began playing games with that first substitute Corelli."
"We'll get the stuff down to Granada this afternoon."
"I can't really be sure that the information is authentic, Nick," she said, as if she had been thinking about it for some time and had finally made up her mind. "It seems unfortunate that I was brought this far and am not able to say Corelli is authentic or not."
"Don't worry. AXE's memory bank will know."
"But I wonder why I was sent here, really." She was pouting now.
"Forget it It's all part of the job."
The mechanic at the Prado Llano garage was apologetic. "I'll have it by two o'clock. Is this soon enough for you, Señor?"
I shrugged. "It'll have to be. What was the matter?"
"The fluid in the brake drained out, Señor."
"For what reason?"
"A break in the pipe line." He was reluctant to talk much.
"A break?"
"Very strange, Señor," he admitted. "It is not often that the line for the fluid wears out that way. In fact, it is not possible."
"Then what did happen?"
"The line is severed."
"Cut?"
"It looks like, Señor." He was uneasy now. This type of thing was not comprehensible to him.
"Someone cut it deliberately?" I asked.
"I do not know. I would not like to say. It is a serious charge to make."
"But there is no one to charge, so why not let's say it?"
He saw me smiling. "Okay. I say that someone did cut that line, Señor. Snip! Does that make sense?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "It does make sense."
The boy looked serious. "You have some enemy then, Señor. The husband, perhaps, of some woman?"
Spaniards are such incurable romantics!
"Yes," I said. "I have a feeling it may be. But she is worth it, you know?"
He beamed. "Good, then. Good!"
"I'll be by at two."
"Oh, there is one other little thing," he said.
"What?"
He was hesitating again, looking around to see if anyone might be listening.
"Do you know what this is?" he drew something out of his pocket and held it in his hand.
I picked it out of his palm. It was a beautiful bug. A magnetic transmitter combined with a direction finder. Beautiful model! Thoroughly professional. Probably Japanese or German.
I stared at it. "I have no idea what it is."
"Nor do I, Señor."
"Where did you find this — this gadget?"
"It was attached to the underside of the Renault, Señor."
"How interesting. I suppose it is something that just flew up from the highway when I was driving along."