Kiss and Kill (12 page)

“They'd try to shoot their way out … with Liz as a shield.…”

Barney nodded.

“Okay,” whispered Ed. “We'll do it your way.”

The first thing, said Barney as he drank his coffee, was to arrange for a watch on the border at Laredo.

“Why Laredo?” asked Claire. “There are a couple of dozen crossings.”

“We can't watch them all. It stands to reason they'd follow the same route your tour took. For the same reason, we have to assume they're going by car.”

“That's an assumption I don't understand,” Ed said.

“They've got Liz and the pooch. They can control her in a car; in a plane, she might kick up a storm.”

Ed nodded grudgingly. “Okay. Now what?”

“I'll use your phone.” Barney rang up the largest detective agency in the city. When a woman answered, he said: “Maureen? Look in your directory of private investigators for somebody in Laredo, Texas.… None listed? Then try San Antone.… Amado Diaz? Got his number?… Thanks.”

Barney hung up and dialed again. A voice answered in liquid Mexican-American accents:

“Diaz Agency. Amado Diaz speaking.”

“How many men in your outfit?” Barney demanded.

“There is only myself. My wife helps me.”

“Would you be willing to do a job for me?”

“I'm afraid there would be questions—”

“Ask all you want. Here's the deal. A woman with a little dog may enter Mexico at Laredo either today or tomorrow.” Briefly, Barney described Liz Tollman and Bogus. “She'll be with some men, probably in a black late-model Buick. I'm not sure about the car.”

“How many men?”

“At least two. Could be three or four.”

“Descriptions?”

“I'm afraid that's all I can give you on the men. The woman is the important thing.”

“Why?”

“Her husband is looking for her.”

“I see,” said Diaz. “I'll leave for Laredo
pronto
. What shall I do if I see her?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It's important that they don't know they're being watched,” Barney said. “Don't let them even suspect you're interested. Can you do that?”

“I'll try.”

“If you can't, forget it.”

“I can do it, yes. Definitely. Cross the river and hang around on the Mexican side. I will not be noticed. Where shall I meet you?”

He should have checked plane schedules before calling, but there was no help for it now. “There's a bus station in Laredo. Right?”

“Just up the hill from the bridge.”

“Be there at eight tomorrow morning. If we don't show, try us again at ten and at noon.”

“Very good. About the fee—”

“Whatever you think it's worth. This is Barney Burgess, Chicago. Check back with the Chicago police if you like. Put the call on your bill.”

“That won't be necessary, Mr. Burgess. Goodbye.”

Barney drove to Midway Airport, left his car in the lot, and learned that a plane for San Antonio would leave in four hours. He and Ed nodded off in the waiting room until Claire awakened them to say the flight was being called. Barney fell asleep again the moment he belted himself into his seat; the next thing he knew Claire was shaking him. “We're coming in. You're the dullest traveling companion I've ever had.”

“And you're the prettiest,” said Barney, spoiling the gallantry with a jaw-cracking yawn.

They rented a car and drove through a warm drizzle to Laredo. By 7:30
A
.
M
. they were slupping coffee in a booth in the bus-station restaurant. The overheated room made Barney sleepy again; his head bobbed several times before a whisper snapped him awake.

“Barney Burgess?”

The voice came from the next booth. Barney peered over at a skinny, olive-skinned young man in a khaki uniform. He wore a red cap.

“Amado Diaz?”

“I'm Diaz, yes.”

“I didn't see you come in.”

“Nobody sees a man in uniform; the baggage handlers wear these on the other side of the river.” Diaz's face fell. “But it was a waste of time and effort.”

“Why?”

“Your woman passed through at 10
A
.
M
. yesterday, five hours before you called me.”

Barney whistled. “They're flying low. Come around and tell me about it.”

The young man slid into the booth beside Ed and drew some notes from his pocket.

“I got descriptions of the men from copies of their tourist cards. There were three of them: Green, Brown and Garner. With them were the woman and the little dog.”

Barney read the neatly printed notes:

J
OHN
G
REEN
, age 38, businessman, Protestant, married, 1220 West Faro, Los Angeles. Birthplace: Chicago.

P
HILIP
B
ROWN
, age 41, businessman, Protestant, married, 1220 West Faro, Los Angeles. Birthplace: Denver.

C
HARLES
G
ARNER
, age 29, salesman, Protestant, single, 1220 West Faro, Los Angeles. Birthplace: Crescent City, Cal.

“I've never seen three more obviously phony names,” said Barney. “Didn't the authorities smell it?”

“They were suffocated by the twenty-dollar bill each man gave them.”

“Twenty dollars? They could have shaken our men down for ten times that much.”

Diaz raised his delicate brows. “Just for helping a woman run away from her husband?”

Barney decided there was nothing Diaz could do now to alarm the kidnapers. Besides, he had further use for the man. So, briefly, he outlined the story of the kidnaping and the murders. Amado Diaz looked thoughtful.

“This doubles the size of my fee, Mr. Burgess. It's dangerous business.”

“Don't add it up yet. I've got some more stuff for you.”

Barney studied Diaz's notes. The car had been given a temporary importation permit in the name of Philip Brown. It was a black 1964 Buick with a California license.

“I want you to check out this car. It may be stolen. If not, find out all you can about the owner. And check out Green, Brown, and Garner with the California police. Add another name to the list, John Torrance Talbot, height six-three, weight around one-eighty, straight black hair and—” He turned to Claire. “What color eyes?”

“Blue,” she said. “But with a touch of gray, like smoke haze.”

Barney looked at her for a moment. Then he turned back to Diaz. “That's an alias, too, but they may have something on him. Learn what ties the four of them together. There may be a girl named Mona involved. If you get a line on anybody who might be connected with them here in the States, sit tight. I'll be getting in touch with your office.”

The young man nodded. Barney instructed Ed to write him a check for five hundred dollars to cover expenses. Diaz took it and looked at Barney.

“You plan to go into Mexico after them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will need a special permit for your gun. I may be able to speed it up for you.”

Barney thought: I'll really give that lousy tailor a piece of my mind when I see him.

The little detective escorted him through a bureaucratic maze of weapon permits, greasing the way with a few small
mordidas
. Learning of Claire's gun, Diaz suggested that Barney carry it, too. There would be raised eyebrows, but Diaz assured him it was easier than getting a pistol permit for a woman in Mexico.

“The Mexicans do not feel it is ladylike for a woman to protect herself,” Diaz said, smiling. “Who am I to say they are wrong?”

By eleven they were speeding over the mesquite wasteland south of Nuevo Laredo; the highway was new, and Barney kept the speedometer hovering at ninety. The sky had cleared except for a low haze that trapped and held the midday heat like a shroud.

“So far,” said Barney to Claire, “they're following the same route your group took. We've got to assume they'll stay on it.”

“Why?”

“They're looking for something, I think. They've decided none of your group had it, so they're checking back on the theory that Johnny stashed it somewhere along the way. That's our working hypothesis, anyway. Claire, I want you to think back and point out every stop you made, every side trip you took.”

“All right.”

Her tone was somber, and he glanced over at her. Sweat prickled her upper lip; it was sticky inside the car. After leaving Nuevo Laredo, Claire had exchanged her blouse for a green halter that left her tanned midriff bare.

“Why so sad?”

“This excursion down Memory Lane,” Claire murmured. “It hurts.”

Barney scowled; the shade of John Torrance Talbot was beginning to pain. He snatched a Humble map of Mexico from the glove compartment and tossed it into Claire's lap.

“While you're mooning over the dear departed, you can be useful. Mark your route on the map. Put an
X
down wherever you stopped.”

Claire gave him a rather startled look. Then she spread the map on her lap, rummaged in her purse, came up with a ball-point pen, and began marking the map. Now and then she would squint at the seared landscape, glance at the speedometer a little nervously, and return to the map.

Ed fidgeted in the rear seat. “I'm beginning to feel like a third foot, Barney. I'm no use to you at all. Isn't there anything I could be doing?”

“Sleep while you can,” said Barney. “You'll have to spell me at the wheel. We won't be stopping anywhere.”

It grew more stifling as the sun climbed. Barney heard a long sigh beside him and glanced over to see Claire unbuttoning her skirt and pushing it down over her hips.

“I hope you don't mind, Barney.”

“You want me to run us off the road?”

“You don't have to look.”

She was wearing checked Jamaican shorts under her skirt. “You might have told me,” Barney said.

“And spoiled your lecherous moment?”

Barney chuckled and turned his eyes back to the road. She was all right, a good sport and a real woman. He suddenly wished there were no kidnapers, no Liz, no harried husband snoring fitfully behind them. That would leave him and Claire, driving along like honeymooners. My God, he thought, I'm getting sentimental about this dame!

“Here,” Claire said as they approached an adobe village. “This was our first stop.”

Barney stopped outside a long building which advertised beer, liquor and souvenirs. All the signs were in English. Leaving Ed asleep in the car, he and Claire went into the place. One side was lined with shelves and cases full of Mexican handicrafts. On the other side glistened a chrome-plated bar.

“What did you do here?” Barney asked Claire.

“Strolled around, looked at the trinkets. Some had beer. We all had refreshments.”

“What did Talbot do?”

“I don't know. I wasn't watching him then.” She reddened. “I couldn't say what anyone did, really. They weren't individuals to me yet, just a group.”

Barney strode over to the white-jacketed bartender.

“
¿No ha visto a tres hombres y una mujer con un perrito
?”

The bartender repeated Barney's words, paused a moment, then asked:

“
¿Cuándo
?”

“
Ayer. A mediodía
.”

The bartender turned away shaking his head. “
No me acuerdo, señor
.”

“He doesn't remember them,” Barney said as they pushed their way outdoors against a stream of passengers from a chartered Greyhound. “I doubt if they'd all come in, anyway. Probably leave one man in the car with Liz and the dog.”

As he drove on, Claire said: “You speak Spanish very convincingly. Where did you learn it?”

“A six-week cram course at the Army Language School did the trick. If you spoke one word of English, you got your mouth washed out with G.I. soap.”

“And then what?”

“Then you began spitting.”

“I mean, after the school.”

“They dyed my hair black, darkened my complexion, and sneaked me into East Germany.”

“Germany? After you learned Spanish?”

“The ways of the military are beyond understanding. I was posing as a Cuban revolutionary.”

“Really?”

“While in actuality I was a Russian agent who'd infiltrated the Army in order to steal the secret formula for G.I. soap.”

“Barney Burgess, you're a blowhard!”

Barney was glad to see her laughing. Johnny Talbot seemed far away.

In Monterey, he told her that she need not point out every place in town they had gone unless she could describe Talbot's movements exactly. Since she could not, they visited the hotel where the tour had stayed and made a quick run to Horsetail Falls. They passed up a brewery and a handicraft factory visited by the group. As Barney drove up the long slope toward Saltillo on the rim of the central plateau, he felt unreasonably optimistic.

“We should gain on them,” he said, squinting in the afternoon inferno. “We're looking for a black Buick with three men, a woman, and a dog in it. Unless I'm completely off, they're looking for something a whole lot smaller.”

“How small?”

“Smaller than a suitcase. Johnny must have been carrying it with him.”

Claire bit her lip. “That rings a bell.”

“What?” Barney sat up straight.

She was staring out the window. “We stopped somewhere along here. I remember seeing that hill with the pillar on top—” She pointed at a crumbling adobe wall fifty yards from the highway. “There!”

Barney hit the brakes and eased onto the shoulder.

“Johnny wanted to stop,” said Claire. “Said it was an emergency, and of course everybody thought … you know. He jumped out of the car and started toward that wall. Then he came running back, saying he needed something out of his suitcase. He fidgeted around while the driver unloaded his suitcase; nobody looked at him, not wanting to embarrass him. We were still strangers to one another. Then Johnny grabbed his suitcase and ran off behind the wall. He came back in about twenty minutes and said he was sorry for the delay, and old Maynard Barton came up with that oldie about the Aztec trots—”