Leaving her, Lepski ran down the stairs, reached his car and set off fast on his journey back to Paradise City.
Chapter Seven
With the help of Charley and Mike, Harry finished constructing a pair of foot-sockets with the cement they had ferried over in the dinghy to the coral reef. These sockets were to take the arms of the high dive board.
‘Okay, boys,’ Harry said after surveying the work. ‘We’ll let this lot set. Tomorrow, we’ll get the arms up.’
It was now after 11.00 and the sun was hot. Harry left the two negroes to row back and he swam to the shore, the warm sea washing away the sweat that had been pouring off him while he had been working on the reef.
As there were as yet only five or six sunbathers under the umbrellas he made his way to the bar, his throat aching for an ice cold Coke.
Joe, the barman, had the Coke ready as Harry slid onto the high stool.
‘I see you’ve been working out there, Mr. Harry,’ he said. ‘Plenty hot, huh?’
Harry drank, finished the Coke and pushed the empty glass towards Joe.
‘Sure was. Let’s have another, Joe. Solo back yet?’
‘Not yet.’ A second Coke slid across the counter. ‘Mr. Harry...’
Harry reached for the glass, then looked inquiringly at the tall, powerfully built negro.
‘What is it, Joe?’
Joe shifted uneasily. He looked around the deserted bar, then through the window at the car park, then back to Harry.
‘I once won a silver medal for the long jump at the Olympics, Mr. Harry.’
Surprised, Harry smiled.
‘Is that right? Congratulations, Joe.’
‘So I reckon we have something in common, Mr. Harry.’
‘Cut out the mister, will you? Of course we have a lot in common.’
Joe shook his head.
‘Not a lot, but the Olympics is something special.’
‘It certainly is.’ Harry was puzzled. He looked inquiringly at the big negro. ‘Have you something on your mind, Joe?’
‘You could say that.’ Joe again looked out of the window, then leaning forward, lowering his voice, he said, ‘You’d better get away from here, Mr. Harry. It’s not healthy.’
Harry regarded Joe who stared at him, his big, black eyes troubled.
‘Just what does that mean?’
‘It’s a friendly warning. Pack and go. You have no friends here, Mr. Harry, except me and Randy. No friends... I mean that, and there’s trouble coming for you.’
‘Come on, Joe. If you know something, tell me,’ Harry said, his voice a little impatient.
‘Mr. Solo is my boss. I owe him a living,’ Joe said, paused, then went on, ‘No one has ever knocked him off his feet and Mr. Solo is a dangerous man. That’s all, Mr. Harry. Just get away fast... don’t trust anyone, but me and Randy.’ Joe moved to the far end of the bar and began to busy himself preparing canapés for the noon hour rush.
Harry hesitated, then seeing by the negro’s expression he wasn’t going to tell him anything more, he finished his drink and left the bar. He started towards his cabin as Randy appeared from his. Seeing him, Randy beckoned, then stepped back into his cabin.
Harry joined him.
‘Shut the door.’ There was a quaver in Randy’s voice. ‘Seen this?’ He pointed to a newspaper spread out on the table.
Harry closed the door, crossed to the table and bent over the newspaper.
Staring up at him was a photograph of Baldy Riccard. The caption read:
A jolt shot through Harry. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and read the brief account that stated that late yesterday evening, the police, acting on information, had gone to Hetterling Cove, a well-known picnic spot, and had found the body of a man buried in a sand dune. Apparently the man had died of a heart attack, but there was evidence that he had been brutally tortured before he died.
The account went on:
It is believed the dead man was a criminal known as Baldy Riccard. Anyone who saw this man between May 10 and 11th is asked to communicate with Police Headquarters. Paradise City 00099.
Harry looked up at Randy who stared at him with sick, scared eyes. There was a long pause, then Harry took out his pack of Camels and offered it.
Randy shook his head.
‘Do you think they can pin it on us, Harry?’
Harry lit a cigarette.
‘Not unless we’re unlucky. They haven’t found the Mustang. If they do, then maybe we can start sweating.’
‘Do you think anyone saw us with the Mustang?’
‘There’s always that chance.’ Harry brooded for a long moment. ‘How could they have found him?’ he said as if talking to himself. He got to his feet. ‘Take it easy, Randy. Right now, we do nothing. We sit tight. Now come on, we’d better get back to work.’
‘I’m getting out of here,’ Randy said. His eyes showed his panic. ‘I’ll make for Los Angeles. I have a cousin there.’
‘What good will that do you?’ Harry said, scarcely controlling his impatience. ‘If the police want you, they will find you. You can’t hide from them forever. Use your head. Can’t you see our best bet is to bluff it out? So okay, someone tells the police they think they saw us with the Mustang: a tall guy with a rucksack and a little guy with long hair who was carrying a guitar. Now think... how many tall guys with rucksacks and little guys with long hair and guitars have you seen on the highway on your way down here? Dozens? Hundreds? So if we are unlucky and the police come here and ask questions, we know nothing about anything. We came down here on the thumb. We know nothing about a Mustang, and we know nothing about Baldy Riccard. They can’t pin anything on us unless one or both of us cracks.’ He stared steadily at Randy. ‘I’m not cracking... so that leaves you.’
Randy licked his dry lips.
‘It’s fine for you. You’re in the clear, but I’m a draft dodger.’
‘So what? So you get picked up for dodging the draft and that’s just your hard luck, but it’s nothing. You get picked up on a murder rap that sticks... that’s something. Right?’
Randy thought about this for a long, uneasy moment, then he nodded.
‘Yes... I guess that’s right.’
‘Come on, then; stop looking as if the end of the world’s arrived. Let’s get back to work.’ Harry paused to fold the newspaper and drop it into the trash basket, then he walked into the hot sunshine.
Reluctantly, Randy followed him. They walked along the path until they reached the bar entrance, then Harry suddenly put his hand on Randy’s arm and pulled him back into the shade as he saw the white Mercedes come into the car park.
A squat, heavily built man was at the wheeclass="underline" his round, fat face was swarthy and suntanned, his small eyes, black and glittering, his mouth thin. He wore a panama hat pulled down low on his face and a bottle green shabby suit. Mrs. Carlos, her face half hidden behind her sun goggles, was in the passenger seat.
The squat man stopped the car, got out, ran around the car and opened the offside door. Mrs. Carlos got out. She had on a white mother hubbard and sandals. The squat man handed her a beach bag, took off his hat, bowed, got back into the Mercedes and drove away.
Mrs. Carlos made her way down to the beach.
‘Who’s the fat man?’ Harry asked.
‘Fernando, her chauffeur,’ Randy told him.
‘Ever seen him drive a green and white Chevy?’
Randy stared at him.
‘That’s his own car. He drives it sometimes when he has messages for Mrs. Carlos. What’s with the questions?’
Harry was remembering the green and white Chevrolet which had followed him from the airport after he had collected Baldy Riccard’s suitcase. He was pretty sure this man, Fernando, had been the driver.