He could not see the actual driveway into Yarnell’s place, but he could see where the mews opened south on Q Street and fifty yards north on Reservoir Road. Anything or anyone coming or going then, would be visible at either end of the lane. Of course there could be a back way for a man on foot, or even a front way across the mews into a fronting building, then through its rear door onto 32nd Street. Somehow McGarvey didn’t think it would be necessary this evening to go down onto the street. At least not until Evita called. When she called. If she called. The night had deepened. Black clouds had rolled in from across the river, and a mist hung over Georgetown.
It was possible, of course, that Yarnell wasn’t at home this evening. In fact, considering the Mexican crisis, he might already have cut and run. But for some reason McGarvey didn’t believe it. Yarnell was there. He could feel the man’s presence out ahead of him in the darkness, just as iron filings can feel the effect of a hidden magnet. The power was there.
Yarnell’s telephone rang. The reels of the tape machine began to turn. McGarvey looked away from the window. Trotter’s eyes were wide. The telephone rang again, the sound from the speaker soft, muted. “Have you got a gun with you?” McGarvey asked. Trotter nodded. The telephone rang a third time. “Maybe he’s not home—” Trotter started to say.
“Hello,” Darby Yarnell’s calm, cultured, self-assured voice came from the machine. They could hear the hollow hiss of the long-distance connection.
“Darby?” Evita said. She sounded very far away. Frightened and very much alone. “Is that you? Can you hear me?”
“You just missed Juanita. She’s off with her friends.”
“I didn’t call to speak to her.”
“Oh?” Yarnell said without missing a beat. McGarvey could understand already, at least in a small measure, what they’d said about him. “Are you in New York, darling? The connection is awful.”
Evita didn’t answer. Come on, McGarvey said to himself.
“Evita?”
“I’m in Mexico City. We have trouble. You and I, you know.”
“What in heaven’s name are you doing down there, especially now? Are you at your sister’s?”
“The Del Prado. Downtown. You remember it?”
“I think you should go to Maria. If you want I’ll telephone her for you. Or at the very least get yourself over to our embassy and stay there.”
“Darby, you’re not listening to me,” she said, and McGarvey could hear that she was trying to be strong, trying to hold on, but he could hear the fragility in her voice. She was on the verge of breaking.
“What is it?”
“You’re going to have to come down here.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Do you, darling?” McGarvey could almost hear him smiling. “Whatever it is you’re doing down there in Mexico City, I’m sure that I can’t help you by joining you. Why don’t you take the first plane out in the morning. You can spend the weekend up here with us. Your daughter would love to see you.”
“Goddamnit, you’re still not listening,” Evita shrieked. “You never listened. Just like Valentin. The two of you were quite the pair.”
“I’m going to hang up now,” Yarnell said patiently. “I’ll telephone our embassy and tell them that you need assistance. Take care of yourself—”
“Don’t you dare hang up, you bastard,” Evita interrupted. “Because I’m not down here to see my sister. McGarvey brought me here.”
“What are you talking about? McGarvey who? Is he someone from your club? What?”
“Ex-Company. He was hired to assassinate you.”
“Good God almighty,” Trotter said. “What did you tell her?”
McGarvey motioned for him to be quiet.
“Are you drinking?” Yarnell asked, and McGarvey could hear genuine concern in his voice. “Or are you taking something else?”
“He knows everything, Darby. I swear to God. I’m not here alone. He brought someone else with him. Someone from the old days.”
“I think you should go to bed and get some rest.”
“Don’t you want to know his name? He was the one who blew the whistle on you.”
“For God’s sake, Evita.”
“That is, before I told McGarvey everything I knew.” She laughed, the sound was brittle. “All about you and Valentin in the old days. And now you’re in big trouble. You won’t be able to talk your way out of this one so easily.”
“You need help. Let me call someone.”
“His name is Artime Basulto. Remember him? The little scumbag. Says you killed a man named Roger Harris. Shot him dead. And now he wants to get back at you. He told someone in the Justice Department, who told someone in the FBI, who hired McGarvey to kill you. Just like the old days, Darby, lots of helpers.”
Trotter had stepped away from the tape machine as if it were about ready to explode. “On an open line,” he said in amazement.
Again McGarvey motioned him to keep quiet.
“Honestly I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yarnell said, not so much as a waver in his voice. McGarvey had to admire the man’s presence of mind and control.
Except for the hiss and pop of the imperfect connection, the line was silent for a pregnant second or two.
“Evita?” Yarnell prompted again.
“Valentin came to New York nine months ago. Said McGarvey or someone like him would be coming asking questions, snooping around.”
“Valentin who?”
“Come off it, Darby. I know everything now. I mean everything.”
“Good-bye.”
“I saw you and him that night,” she said. Her voice was shaking badly now. “You didn’t know it, but I walked in on the middle of your … lovemaking with Valentin. Oh, God.”
For the first time Yarnell was at a loss for words. McGarvey turned and looked toward the man’s house. He could imagine him holding the telephone to his ear, his mind racing to all the possibilities that he was suddenly faced with.
“They know it all, Darby,” she cried. “I’m sorry. They know about Valentin and they even know about the one from the party that night in Ixtayopan. They know he’s still with the Company and that you’re working together. I swear to God, they know it all. You’ve got to get out of there. You can come down here. McGarvey will make a deal. Valentin will help us. It’ll be just like the old days. Oh, God, please, Darby. You have to listen.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Evita. You always did have a wild imagination, but now I think it’s finally gotten the better of you. I honestly think that you need professional help now. If you come back here, I’ll arrange something for you. I promise …”
“You promise?” she cried, half laughing. “You’re a traitor. A goddamned spy. And you promise? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”