The Big Bite (4 page)

“Is due,” Knox said, gravely correcting his grammar.

“Go to hell,” Chuco said with a grin. He left.

Knox dressed. Then he got out his glasses and had a look at Horsetail Island. They brought the low, wide house with its innumerable wings and verandas into view. He had a narrow glimpse of a patio set some distance oceanward from the house. The area was in shadow, but Knox could make out someone lying in a beach chair beside a pond. His attention was distracted by the sight of a cruiser moving rapidly from the town pier toward the island. When he looked back, he saw the person in the patio rise from the beach chair, turn to look briefly in the direction of the house, and then dive into the pool.

His glasses showed clearly when she faced in his direction that she had been enjoying the rays of the slanting sun without benefit of clothing. He had to admit, even though his glimpse had been brief, that, whatever her age, she was a handsomely endowed woman.

With the woman in the pool marked only by a bobbing white cap, Knox turned the glasses onto the boat. It was heading directly for the island, at such an angle that he suspected it would dock on the seaward side. It rounded the tip of the island and disappeared.

He became aware that someone was approaching and he lowered his glasses and resumed his chair. He sat and watched the newly arrived party—apparently what they claimed to be, three businessmen down for the fishing, with women so irritated looking that they could only be wives. Later, he saw the other guests: an American carrying fishing equipment, the Central American diplomat dressed in impeccable white and accompanied by a small dark man clad in the same fashion, and finally the lady etymologist.

She looked so much as Knox expected a lady etymologist to look that he wondered if he shouldn’t be suspicious of her. She came puffing into view, carrying a portable tape recorder with battery case slung over her shoulder. She was certainly not much older than he—if any—but she wore a dried-out air as though a determination to remain maidenly had put its stamp on her. She had a rather long but not unattractive face. Her skin had a leathery cast. He could not judge her eyes, hidden as they were behind large glasses. Her hair was drab and brown and worn knotted at the nape of her neck. The kind of hat that sagged all around was perched on the top of her head. Khaki shirt and khaki knickers—of a vintage Knox had not seen since he was a boy—completed her costume. She had nice calves, he decided, and let it go at that.

The sun was edging toward the horizon and Knox was on his fourth beer. He turned his attention to the telephone at his side.

The reception was a bit fuzzy, but the voice that came through was distinct enough once he got his call through. If phoning Horsetail Island was unusual, the operator had not revealed it. From the masculine voice that answered in a clipped British accent, Knox decided he was talking to the man called Forrest. “Miss Natalie Tinsley, please.”

“Who is calling, may I ask?”

“You may, chap,” Knox said. “The name is Paul Knox, of the Seattle-Biarritz Knoxes.”

“Quite.”

Silence, and then a slightly accented, very warm feminine voice. “Mr. Knox, this is Natalie Tinsley.”

She sounded faintly curious, no more. Knox said, “We have a mutual friend, it seems. I was asked to bring regards.” He paused. “From a man named Nivolo. We met in Tangier.”

The voice did not change inflection. “How kind of you—and how surprising this far from everywhere. Are you staying here, Mr. Knox?”

She was good, he thought. He said, “At the Viewhouse. I’m doing a bit of fishing.”

“Delightful. Perhaps you’ll come for coffee and brandy soon. Tonight, perhaps?”

“Tonight would be perfect,” he said.

He hung up after she told him that a man named Forrest would meet him at Marengo’s Cantina at eight and bring him out in the launch. He sat watching the shadows lengthen over the Gulf, darkening to a soft purple that faded finally to a steely gray.

The wind had shifted and the breeze felt cool and pleasant. The town was not a quarter mile from the Viewhouse and Knox did the last half of it on the packed white sand of the beach. The sea smelled good; he was in a pleasant, relaxed mood. He wished it would last—but he knew better.

When he reached the main street, his watch showed nearly seven. He strolled along, looking in the two flyblown shop windows the town boasted, nodded to a pudgy uniformed policeman who stared at him and at three small children coming from the grocery store. They were arguing vehemently about which one should carry the wicker basket. The last Knox saw of them, each one had a grubby hand on the bail.

Marengo’s Cantina had two glassless windows, shutters thrown back, and an open door. Inside, the long dim room reeked of pulque and beer. There was another door and beyond it a veranda with checked tablecloths on small tables set along a railing. From the tables there was an unobstructed view of the water.

A waiter moved toward Knox.

“Dinner, señor?”

There was one customer at the moment, a girl who was wolfing
paella
. He indicated her dish and spoke loudly enough for her to hear. “Is that good?”

She raised her head and turned. It was Nat, dressed much as she had been in Tangier, but not quite so blatantly and with a little less make-up. She had on the absurd foundation garment that made her look all hips and bust, and the blonde wig, but somehow she had managed to tone down the whole outfit.

“Good,” she said through a mouthful of food. “Handsome.” Her voice was hoarse.

Knox took a chair at the table behind her so that, they sat back to back.
“Paella,”
he directed the waiter. “A bottle of red wine.”

The waiter went away and for the moment they were alone. Knox leaned back with one arm draped over the top of his chair. He appeared to find the harbor with its scattering of fishing boats extremely interesting. He spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.

“There’ll be a boy down here tonight. Name of Chuco.”

Nat did not lift her head from her food or stop chewing, but her voice reached him distinctly. “I know him. He’s made two passes already.”

“Don’t let it flatter you,” he said. “Tonight you’ll end up in my room. Wait for me. I’m going out to the island.”

He could hear the sharp intake of her breath. “So soon?”

“Why not?”

There was no answer. The waiter had returned, bearing Knox’s plate of
paella
. It was a steaming mixture of rice and vegetables and small hulled shrimp and tiny clams still in their shells, all lightly spiced. It smelled wonderful and, accompanied by the heavy white rolls and the surprisingly good red wine, was as good as it smelled.

The girl finished first and without a glance in his direction rose and wandered off, a cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth. Knox smothered a grin in
paella
. She was really something, Nat Tinsley.

It began to grow dark. Knox could see the pinpricks of light on the water that identified the island. One of them detached itself and began moving at a steady, not too rapid pace shoreward. Soon Knox picked up the soft purring of a powerful motor burbling its exhaust into the water. The light became distinct; shortly a searchlight beam pinpointed itself on a nearby pier. Forrest had arrived.

Knox paid his bill, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He had the cigarette half-smoked when a tall blond man with clean, sharply delineated features came onto the veranda and approached him.

“Mr. Knox?”

Knox rose. “Forrest?” They shook hands.

Knox followed Forrest outside and into a sleek cabin cruiser. He needed but a cursory glance to tell him that this cruiser had not only cost a good deal of money but that it was very fast.

He listened with pleasure to the throaty purr of the engine. And he admired the way Forrest handled the craft, casually yet with full control. Forrest did not speak until they were well under way. Then he said, “We were surprised to hear that you knew Nivolo. Miss Tinsley understood that he was dead.”

“He is,” Knox said. “He wasn’t when I last talked to him.”

If he saw the bait, Forrest didn’t bother to rise to it. He said, “I think you’ll like the island. It’s as comfortable as the city and as isolated as a Scotch moor.”

“So I was told,” Knox said. “You’re quite the subjects of conversation in La Cruz, you know.” Forrest did not answer.

Knox was surprised when they reached the island. The cruiser was fast and had taken less time than the fifteen minutes he estimated for the trip.

Forrest let Knox tie up, made a quick inspection to see that everything was shipshape, and then led the way up a dark path toward the lighted house. The path had brought them to the side of the house facing the mainland, but instead of going onto the veranda there, Forrest showed Knox the way through an encircling garden to the far side. Under soft light in a screened-off portion of the veranda, a man and woman sat ending a leisurely appearing meal. A young Mexican girl in a loose cotton dress was removing dishes from the table. Another girl was bringing coffee and brandy. Knox saw that there was a place set for him.

He stood motionless just inside the screen doorway, looking at the woman who called herself Natalie Tinsley. Even had he not known the real Nat, he would have stared; this woman was one men could not help looking at.

Forrest said perfunctorily, “Miss Tinsley, Mr. Knox. And Tiber.”

The woman rose, coming forward. She was quite tall, with a long, finely shaped face. Her eyes were a deep green, and faintly slanted. Her hair was red, almost mahogany, drawn loosely back and knotted at the base of her neck with studied casualness. She had a superb figure, deep-chested and long-legged. Her blouse was of white satin, cut low in front to reveal the deep cleft of a truly magnificent bosom. The blouse was long, covering her well below the hips, and was nipped in tightly at the waist by a wide belt. Only the barest hint of the cuff of a pair of shorts indicated that she wore anything beneath the blouse. On her feet were thong sandals; her toenails were gilded.

She stopped before Knox, tilting her head slightly. A light smile hovered at the corners of her full, vivid red mouth. “How do you do, Mr. Knox?” She extended her hand.

He took slender, cool fingers lightly and made a half-bow. “This is kind of you—to a stranger.”

“It’s our pleasure.” She had a deep, resonant voice.

Going through the formality of a handshake with Tiber, who looked as Chuco had described him—a hood—Knox sat down. Natalie Tinsley was smoking a Turkish cigarette fitted into a long holder. Crushing out one cigarette, she fitted another into the holder and then leaned forward as Knox extended his lighter. Her eyes lifted over the flame to his and he was willing to swear that she was not mocking him.

And she should be.

Because if she had done any checking on Natalie Tinsley’s past, she would know who Paul Knox was. Perhaps not, he thought. Perhaps she thought that she was safe this far from the regular pathways. He sipped the brandy he had been served and waited.

“And now, Mr. Knox,” she murmured, “tell us about Nivolo.”

Knox said, “I ran across him some months ago in Tangier. I happened to mention that I was thinking of a vacation in Mexico; he said he thought you were here and, if I should meet you, to give you his regards.”

He spoke casually and he could feel three pairs of eyes on him, waiting for him to go on. He did. “Then, later, I heard he was dead—killed by an Arab fanatic.” He shrugged. “When I came here, I heard that you were on the island and I remembered.”

“Tangier,” she murmured. “Vacations in Mexico. You must lead an interesting life, Mr. Knox.”

Since his arrival, Knox had been debating how to handle this situation. Now he said ingenuously, “I suppose it is. But sometimes I get bored, sitting and waiting.”

“Sitting and waiting? Is that your occupation?”

He gave her an easy grin. “I’m a private detective.” He added quickly into the heavy silence that suddenly enveloped the veranda, “Not the kind who sets up divorce evidence and that sort of thing. I’m a missing persons man.”

“Ah, I see.” It was Forrest, his voice soft.

Knox nodded toward him. “That’s why I’m here. I intended to come to Mexico for a vacation, but certainly not to a place like La Cruz. To tell you the truth, I never heard of it until I got my orders.”

He was stretching, but from the way the tension had relaxed about him, he was willing to go ahead.

“Since La Cruz’s only excitement recently has been a missing person,” Forrest drawled, “I suppose you’re here about Orvil Curtis.”

Knox lowered his glass to let them see his surprise. “Why, yes. Did you know him?” He grimaced and shook his head. “But I didn’t come here—to the island—on business. I retract the question.”

Natalie Tinsley laughed, a pleasant, light sound. “There’s no need, Mr. Knox. Since you are here, why not find out what we know? It isn’t very much, I’m sorry to say.”

She might as well have said, “See how little
we
have to hide,” he thought. He said, “I don’t want to impose on your hospitality, but it would be unfair to disturb you again when you’ve been so kind.”

She spread her hands. “We’re open to grilling—if that’s the word I want?”

Knox smiled to show that he appreciated her feminine lack of worldliness. “You see, his brother hired me to find him. It’s a matter of the estate, as I understand it. Otherwise, I imagine the formal report the police here made would suffice. There seems no doubt from what I’ve heard that he was caught by the weather and drowned.”

“That’s the only conclusion,” Forrest agreed. “I saw him go out. It was evening and he went by the dock where I was polishing the cruiser. He waved. He wasn’t a hundred yards off the island. Then he went east by north. It was getting dark and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“Is there much night fishing in these parts?” Knox asked.

“You can get some very interesting catches at night,” Forrest assured him.

Knox nodded. “The natives seem to think he got too close to that other island—Fog Island, I think it’s named—and the spirits got him.”

“If anything got him there,” Forrest said, “it would be the current. It nearly took me one day when we were first here. I’ve learned to do as the natives do—stay strictly away.”

Knox spread his hands. “That’s about it, I guess. Unless some freak current should wash a trace of this Curtis ashore, I’m going back empty-handed.”

There was a moment of silence which Natalie Tinsley broke by rising. “Mr. Knox, perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the place. Even though I’m only renting it, I’m awfully proud of it.”

He rose, murmuring his delight at the prospect. They left the screened veranda and went into the garden which was lighted only by the glow that came from the house. It was a pleasant garden, and had been allowed to run riot, yet was without weeds. Beyond a screen of flowering bush, Knox could see moonlight on water.

She chatted as they walked, telling him about the book she was writing and how delightful a place this was to write in and what excellent assistants she had. Forrest not only typed rapidly and well but he ran all the errands and kept the launch in perfect tune, while Tiber—who, Knox recalled, had not said a word on the terrace—was an excellent research man and a fine gardener as well.

They went around the screen of flowering bushes and Knox recognized the pool he had seen through the glasses from his cabin.

The pool, Natalie explained, had been created by damming up a small inlet of the sea. It was screened at the far end to keep out dangerous fish and so was a very pleasant place to swim. Lowering herself into one of the deck chairs on the terrace, she invited him to take another. “Do you like to swim, Mr. Knox?”

“Very much,” he said. He took a camp stool, facing her at an angle. The lacy fronds of overhanging palms left her almost in darkness, cutting out the moonlight, but he could make out her expression well enough.

She lay with her arms extended upward so that her breasts thrust against the clinging material of her blouse. “Then you’ll have to come again and swim with me,” she murmured. “But I should warn you—I detest bathing suits.”

He was puzzled. He had sized her up as a subtle person, but she was not being at all subtle now. “I’d like a cigarette.”

He gave her one and leaned forward with his lighter. The small flame illumined her briefly. It came to his mind that she was not only beautiful but that she was cruel. There was a hint of that in the curve of her mouth, in the light in her eyes, in the depths of her husky voice. Suddenly, he was afraid of her. Not personally, but of what she represented and what she might control. This was her element. She had established prior right to this territory, and he had no doubt that she would protect it well.

She spoke lightly, settling back away from him. “Did you really come to find this Mr. Curtis?”

He said honestly, “Yes. Why else?”

“You don’t look like my idea of a private detective.” Her laugh was barely audible above the whisper of the palm fronds.

“And what is your idea of a private detective?”

“Not someone who wears three-hundred-dollar suits and drives a car like you do,” she answered. “I’ve been spying on you, Mr. Knox. I grow bored sometimes and I have some very powerful field glasses. I watched you drive into La Cruz today.”

“I like clothes and a car like I have,” Knox said. “I get bored, too. This job takes the edge from it.”

She said, “In your business did you ever meet my father?”

It came so casually that it almost took him off guard. “Your father?”

“Gerard Tinsley. He was—well, not always within the law.”

“The name doesn’t strike me,” Knox said. “But I’m fairly new in the field.”

“He was killed last year. One of his own men shot him.”

“I’m sorry,” Knox said.

“I thought perhaps you’d come here to see what his daughter was up to.”

“Have you been up to anything?”

“Just living my own life, doing what I’ve always wanted to do.” She stirred now, moving in her chair so that she was closer to him. “Will you be here long?”