The Big Bite (8 page)

Adele Fisher said, “Hello, Paul. They miss you?”

She was clinging to the rock not two feet away. Her face was white and her gaiety was gone. “Are you hurt badly?”

“Not at all,” she said. “But if I’d been standing, that shot would have played hell with my figure.”

“I thought you were hit and I went after you.”

“This is safer than the beach right now.”

“I could have gone after him.”

She said practically, “With what for cover? What kind of detective are you?” She knew some strange facts for a schoolteacher.

She seemed to be regaining some color and at the same time her former manner. Ducking, she took water into her mouth and made a fountain. “Now you know why I wanted your help.”

“You didn’t expect this?”

“Not quite. But I’m not surprised.”

“I’m glad of that,” Knox said dryly. He looked around. They could try to swim north and make the town beach, or south and chance the beach they had just left. The water was warm enough. But he kept thinking of sharks.

As if following his thoughts, she said, “Got it figured out?”

“If we—” He broke off. A searchlight, not large but powerful, blazed up from the slope behind the beach and began a methodical sweeping of the water. With it, they could hear the hopeful zing of bullets.

“He must be desperate,” Adele observed.

Knox watched a bullet hit the water, ricochet up and nip off a piece of rock not three feet away. “I was going to say that we might swim up the beach toward the town, but I don’t think much of the idea now.”

“In my condition,” she remarked, “I shouldn’t meet any more citizens than necessary.”

The light went off and the shooting stopped.

“Maybe he thinks he got us,” Knox said.

“We can but wait and see,” she answered.

From behind them a bright, harsh light suddenly flared up over the island. Before it could fade, a burst of sound made their ears hurt. A second flash followed the first, the sound even closer than before.

“Storm!” Knox howled as a sudden wind struck him on the side of the face. “We have to get out of here.”

A third flash, closer to where they were, lit up her features. He saw the strain that she had kept out of her voice. Then it was dark again. “Lead on,” she said with her same cheerfulness.

Knox pushed himself away from the rock. The wind lashed out. Lightning and thunder came in swift rotation, and the rain began.

Where there had been a gentle sea before, now there was almost a maelstrom. It was a fight until they got close enough to the shore to be caught by a breaker. By then, he had her holding to one shoulder and so the wave caught them together. There was that moment of suspension, then the sensation of being nowhere and everywhere at once, of being arms and legs and head without any organization. And then the dizzying, uncontrollable speed that ended with the hard lash of sand as the wave gave them up to the beach.

Knox rolled and got to his feet and flopped down again. Adele lay beside him.

She sat up and blew out her breath. “That sand skinned me but good.”

“Get down!”

“Don’t be silly. Would you sit up there in this rain?”

Knox had to admit that he would not. It had strengthened and was now coming straight down. The wind had died, but suddenly it rose again. The lightning and thunder were passing on, leaving the rain and wind even more violent than before. He had to bend his head down to breathe without drawing water.

Knox stood, lifted his head at a fainter flash of lightning. Where he had thrown his clothing was only rain-lashed sand. Where her dress and shoes had lain was blankness. He swore savagely.

“Why, Mr. Knox!”

He turned almost viciously, stopped himself, and laughed. Having her like this was better than having her afraid. He said calmly, “If we don’t get some shelter, we’ll catch something. This feels like a norther coming and they can be cold.”

“Yes.” She was shivering now.

They ran, their heads down against that incredibly solid sheet of rain. The wind was becoming sharper; by the time they reached the protection of the cabins, it had raised goose bumps on them.

Behind the buildings, they slowed down. She said softly in his ear, “Didn’t we turn out my lights?”

He nodded. There was a light on now, showing dimly through drawn curtains. A touch on his arm stopped him as he started forward. She took the lead.

He noted with interest that whatever else she might be, Adele Fisher was no novice at this sort of thing. There were a good many yards to go, most of them lighted, but she managed to stay in shadow. And even if it hadn’t been raining and blowing, Knox doubted if anyone would have heard her, so softly did she move.

They were almost to her door when a gust of wind swirled over the top of the Viewhouse and slammed her door open and back against the inside wall. They could see in, and the room appeared to be empty.

“Wait for me,” she said. Before he could protest, she was inside, a flash of white against the light from the door, a lovely dryad framed briefly. She disappeared. Knox waited.

She called, “Come in.”

He ducked inside and she shut the door behind him and turned the night latch. She held a thirty-eight in one tanned hand. She pointed it wordlessly at the divan.

Knox looked. Spread out neatly to dry were their clothes. He walked over to them and reached into the pocket of his trousers. He could feel her breath on his wet, bare neck as he straightened up. His hand was empty. Then he saw the piece of note paper pinned to the bodice of her dress. There was one word, written in a sprawled, bold hand:

“Gracias.”

Knox, uncomfortable in his damp, sandy clothes, watched Adele Fisher transform a loaf of bread and the contents of her icebox into a platter of sandwiches. She served them with coffee.

Knox bit into a sandwich and leaned back so that he could see her sitting at the other end of the divan. She had changed into a deep blue hostess gown that molded itself as far as the waist and then flared into a wide, swirling skirt. Her hair was dry and in some semblance of order and she looked almost herself. But he saw that the whiskey had worn off. She was still an attractive woman, but now she showed little lines of harassment about her eyes and mouth.

“Who was he shooting at, you or me?” Knox asked.

“Why would he shoot at you?”

“Because I’m snooping around about Curtis.”

“He had a better reason to shoot at me,” she said. “I won three thousand dollars.”

Knox attacked a second sandwich. He said, “Could it have been Gomez or his little friend?”

“Continuing what they started when Gomez kissed me?”

“Gomez is supposed to have a weak heart,” Knox told her.

“No man with a weak heart would dare kiss me,” she said, a flash of vivacity coming back.

“I’ll remember that.” He finished the sandwich and reached for his coffee. “I have a theory. After you hear it, you’ll probably tell me to get out.”

“If it’s about this—trouble, I want to hear it.” She smiled. “And since I hired you, why should I throw you out for doing your job?”

Knox said, “If we assume it was Gomez and friend who were in on the kissing episode, can we also assume they were the ones who raided this room while you were at dinner tonight?”

“It would seem logical,” she agreed.

“But,” Knox went on, “he was at dinner before either of us arrived and still there when we left. He would hardly have had time.”

Her eyes lifted and met his. He could read nothing in them but weariness. “So?”

“So,” Knox said, “I see it this way: You returned from whatever trip you were on today and found the place all torn up. And you were frightened. Whoever is after you had begun to get serious. You needed help and you turned to me, either because you already knew about me or because you thought I’d make a good foil. So you put down your tape recorder and took it apart to make it look as if it had been there when the room was torn up—which, in that case, could only have been while you were at dinner.”

“Why would I do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Knox admitted. “Even so, you were afraid when you came here with me that someone had come in while you were at dinner, because the first thing you did when you could see was to check the tapes.”

There was a stillness in the room, a brittle expression on her face. But she said only, “Go on, Paul.”

“When you found out—or thought you’d found out—that you could trust me, you let yourself go and got drunk. You’ve been under a lot of tension lately and you needed that release.”

“That much is true,” she admitted. “I’ve been frightened.”

He nodded. “And one more thing—you aren’t a new hand at this sort of thing, Adele. When the first shot was fired, you went underwater and headed for the safest place about. When we were coming back here, you didn’t have to be told to keep in shadow and move quietly. And the way you came into this room was not the move of an amateur.”

She said simply, “I was studying in France when it fell. I joined the Underground, married an Englishman doing the same thing, and later joined our forces.”

“Then you aren’t a spinster?”

She grinned at him. “Hardly. He was killed, so I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That he was killed? I’m not. He wanted money and he was willing to sell out to get it. He cost us three good, clever young French partisans. One was a very lovely girl. After she was caught, she died the hard way.” She reached for the coffee pot and refilled their cups. Her hands were trembling slightly. “I killed him myself.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Did you ever read
The Ballad of Reading Gaol—
everyone kills the thing he loves the most? Well, I no longer loved him when I killed him. But he had been my husband. I was young and very romantic. It wasn’t easy. I—I killed him the only time I dared, at the moment when he was off guard.”

Knox looked at her, and beneath her attractiveness he saw the iron core of her. He said, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I like you,” she said. “I want you to know what kind of person I am.”

“Am or was?”

She shrugged. “Things that happen to us when we’re that age shape us pretty firmly, Paul.”

He had to agree with her. She was tired right now, he thought; otherwise he doubted if she would be saying these things so freely. Tired and frightened and a little sorry for herself.

“You’re sure that he’s dead?”

“I killed him—thoroughly.” She shook her head and smiled a little. “Were you thinking of Nigel Forrest—and that I came here seeking him out? Nothing so romantic. Besides, he’s too young.”

“Why did you come here then?”

“To gather my data as I told you. I
am
a college professor.”

He didn’t doubt that. She said, “I’m sorry, Paul. There’s nothing more I can tell you—whether my guard is up or down. That’s all there is to it.”

“You were shot at,” he said. “You may be shot at again.”

“I’m safe enough here. I have my gun.”

Knox rose. “Well, don’t be a damned fool and wander about alone like you have been. At least not until I’ve had a chance to find out who was shooting at us.”

“No,” she agreed, “I won’t. Whoever it was, was serious.”

Knox waited while she rose, and they went to the door together. There Knox took her shoulders and drew her gently to him and kissed her.

“Good night, Adele.”

“Good night, Paul.”

He stepped carefully into the still, dark night. The storm had passed and so had the threatened norther. It was no longer hot and humid, but it was very quiet, a waiting night. He was not surprised when he heard the soft footfall behind him.

But he was angry that his own weariness was so great that he did not react in time. A gun muzzle pressed his ribs firmly. “Let’s talk, Mr. Knox.” The voice was too low, too soft to identify.

Knox led the way to his cabin. Inside, he saw that his companion was the waiter, the stolid Indian waiter. Knox flopped on the divan, too tired to pay much attention to the gun the man held. He took a seat across from Knox, laid the gun within easy reach, and lit a dark paper cigarette.

“You know my name,” Knox said. “What’s yours?”

“Silac. It is an abbreviated form of an Aztec name which you could not remember if I were to tell you. I am Jose Silac.”

He spoke English well, but with a definite Spanish swing to it. Knox said, “Why should I talk with you just because your name is Jose Silac and you pretend to be a waiter?”

“It is not pretense. For years I was a waiter. Now I am one again.” He shrugged. “But your desires in the matter are of no concern, Mr. Knox. I wish to know why you are here. I must know.”

“I’m looking for Orvil Curtis.”

“And that is why you went to the island?”

“That’s right.”

“And had Chuco smuggle away the girl you kept here last night?”

“She just happened,” Knox said. “And I didn’t have Chuco smuggle her. They walked out openly.”

The shrug again. “Who is she?”

“Just an American dancer down on her luck.”

“Now you have made friends with the Doctor Fisher. Why?”

“Why? Hell, we’re both foreigners here. We enjoyed a drink together.”

“You also went to the beach with her.”

“She likes to sing dirty songs. Where would
you
sing dirty songs—in the Viewhouse lobby?”

“I do not sing dirty songs,” Silac informed him.

“It’s relaxing,” Knox said.

Silac ignored him. “You were also shot at.”

“You do get around,” Knox said. “Is that the gun you used?”

“I did not shoot at you, I assure you. Or at her—as the shots were aimed at the lady, I am certain.”

Knox could no longer stifle a yawn. “Now you know about me. Go away and let me get some sleep. I’ve answered all the fool questions I intend to answer.”

“I shall not go until I am satisfied. I think you and the doctor are working with that girl—the
puta
who spent the night in your room—and maybe with those on the island.”

“Nuts,” Knox said. “I’m looking for Curtis.”

Silac lighted a second cigarette. “If you are not more co-operative, I shall have to ask you to come to Mexico City with me.”

“Mexico City!” Knox stared at him. Then he grinned. If he hadn’t been too tired to see straight, he would have caught it sooner—the indefinable but definite mark of the law. “Sure,” he said. “And when we get there we’ll look up my old friend Martin Guzman Rodriguez Tomas. Then we’ll come back and both of us will have wasted our time.”

Silac smoked a moment in thoughtful silence. “Who is this man?”

“Who are you?”

Their eyes locked. Knox was as good at a stare-down as the Indian. Both men grinned at the same instant, and reached for their wallets.

Knox looked at Silac’s identification—the seal of the Mexican Secret Service. He needed more time to get at his own. Removing the cards from their pocket, he gave the leather a quick twist and slid out from between two apparently tightly sewn seams a thin plastic strip. It was his temporary identification—that given him for this specific job—and would have to be returned when he had succeeded or failed.

Silac looked silently at the tiny but clear picture of Knox, the World Circle emblem and the superimposed Federal Eagle. On jobs that might be concerned with the security of the United States—directly or indirectly—Knox usually carried the blessings of the Government.

“Thank you. I had to be sure.”

“So did I,” Knox said. He scarcely noticed that Silac had switched to Spanish and that he was answering in the same language. “And now, perhaps, you can explain some matters to me.”

Silac nodded. “My government does not care for what seems to be occurring here. They suspect, but they do not know for certain. I am here to find out what may happen.”

Knox did not offer Silac the same information. Mexico was generous in giving asylum to exiles, but her generosity ended when she found said exiles cooking up plots to raise merry hell in the country they had left. Although he admired the Mexicans, Knox did not always approve of the way in which they handled such cases. As often as not, they simply blew the whole thing apart and let the world into what had been going on. And in times as touchy as these, such an explosion could, in certain cases, spread its shock waves a long distance.

He said, “I came to find Curtis and—if possible—learn what I could. I haven’t found Curtis and I haven’t learned much.”

“I would appreciate knowing what you have learned.”

“Perhaps if I knew what you know, I could add to your knowledge,” Knox said.

They grinned at each other. Knox rose and got two bottles of beer and handed one to Silac. They drank thirstily and lighted fresh cigarettes. Silac was the first to give in.

“This trouble is connected with that in Cuba,” he said. “There is to be money shipped from here and Cuban revolutionaries as well.” Silac suspected not only those on the island of having a stake in the affair, but Gomez and Portales at the Viewhouse. He had no proof—only a hunch. He could not fit in Adele Fisher and that bothered him.

“I believe Doctor Fisher is what she claims to be,” Knox said.

“Perhaps. Do you plan to become her lover?”

“Must I?” Knox asked wearily. “I was hoping a mild flirtation would suffice.”

Silac grunted. “And the
puta?
”

“She slept in the other bed, I assure you.” Knox grinned at him. “If she returns, it will be because she is sent here. She is one of our operatives.”

Silac looked puzzled and then he smiled. “Ah, and if she returns, it will be she and not the Doctor Fisher who stays with you.”

“Neither one,” Knox said.

Silac looked disappointed. “Are you also flirting with the woman on the island?”

“Her, too,” Knox said soberly. “I’m quite a man.”

Silac looked relieved. He rose. “We must meet again, Señor Knox. Let me know the results of your amours.”

Knox watched him slip out, a silent shadow. He set the beer bottles on the drainboard and yawned mightily.