“Lam,” I told him.
“Mr. Lam,” he said to the Mexicans.
“Please to come in,” the Mexican said.
We entered the house, a place which had been designed to shut out much of the powerful sunlight, and that was comfortable with the smell of cooking.
There was a fireplace with bricks built up so that a, iron pot could rest between the bricks. Underneath iron pot was a small bed of coals, and by the fire, there were some sticks with which to keep the fire going.
To the left of the fireplace was an oil-burning stove with a battered tin coffeepot and a covered cooking which a Mexican dish was simmering slowly, the cover lifting from time to time to let out a little spurt of steam.
The aroma of rich cooking filled the place.
Hale said, “My friend here wants to know about how you found me. Can you tell him the story?”
Chapalla said, “Sit down, sit down,” and then became embarrassed as he realized there weren’t enough chairs for all of us.
“Please to be seated,” he said. “I prefer to stand when I tell the story.”
We seated ourselves.
His wife, Maria, a heavily built Mexican woman with a chunky frame and a smile of good-natured hospitality busied herself at the stove.
“Would you perhaps have coffee?” Chapalla asked.
“We haven’t time,” I said. “We’re fighting against minutes. If you could just tell us how you found the car, it would be of great help.”
“It is muy mala,” Chapalla said. “Bandits have hurt this man very bad and left him tied up.”
“How did you find him?”
“I am going to get some food,” he said. “Our trips to the store are not many. When we go we take the pickup and we get much stuff.
“I am driving. I see this car off the road. At first I think nothing of it. I drive by it.
“Then I say to myself, ‘José, why should that car go over there and be left. If there is trouble with the motor the car would be on the road. If it is driven over there, what is there to make the driver go to that part of the country to stop his car?’
“I drive on.
“But I think. I think. I do more thinking. Then I stop, back up, I turn around. I go over to the car. At first I see nothing. Then I look inside. I see something that is light. It is the cloth that has been tied in your friend’s mouth.
“I say, ‘Caramba, what is this?’ I try the door of car. It is not lock. I open it. Your friend is inside. He been tied with a fishing cord in which knots are very tight indeed.”
“You turned him loose?”
“I turned him loose.”
“Did you cut the cords?”
“No, I am afraid. The cords are tied too tight. Maybe a slip of my knife and there is blood.”
“Did you have a hard time untying the knots?”
“Not too hard. My fingers are very strong, señor, have been a fisherman. I work much with lines. I know knots.”
“And you took out the gag?”
“The gag?”
“The cloth in the mouth,” I said.
“Oh seguro, sure. I take out the cloth and he speaks to me, but after some difficulty.”
“What does he say?”
“He says he has been held up.”
“And then?”
“So then the man is suffering. I invite him to come to my house.”
“Does he drive his car?”
“No. He goes with me. He cannot get in the driver’s seat of his car because he is sore in the sides of the stomach and his nose has bled and his eye is black.
“He had had a beating, that one!”
“And then what?” I asked.
“So we came to my casa and Maria she makes food — tortillas, some chile verde that we have some frijoles refritos, some cheese... He eats this man. He is sore, but he is hungry.”
“And then?”
“Then we have him lie down on that bed. He lies still and he sleeps. Then he gets up and he leaves. I drive to his car.”
“How long ago?”
José shrugged his shoulders. “I do not have the watch — maybe one hour, maybe two hours.”
“And that is all you know?”
“That is all I know.”
I nodded to Hale, “All right,” I said, “we’re going to Mexicali and I’m putting you in a good hotel. I’ll bring you a sports shirt and... Where’s your razor?”
“In my bag in the back of the car. It was in the back of the car. My God, do you suppose they took it?”
“Let’s look.”
He got the car keys and unlocked the trunk. A big bulging bag was there, together with a smaller suitcase.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Apparently so,” he said with relief. “You won’t need to get me a new shirt. I have clean clothes in my bags thank heavens.”
“All right,” I told him, “let’s go.”
“But there is a matter of money,” Hale said. “I am a writer and... I had gambled much on this story and...”
“Pay it no mind,” I told him. “The party is on me from here on.”
The expression of relief struggling with his black eye was ludicrous.
Maria continued to busy herself over the stove, smiling a farewell and saying simply, “Adios.”
I handed her a ten-dollar bill. “I make my thanks to you for the help you have given,” I said.
They didn’t want to take it, but it was apparent the money meant much to them. Maria finally took it with fervent thanks.
José Chapalla came to the door. He shook hands with all three of us. “Vaya con Dios — go with God,” he said.
12
We stopped at a service station where there was a hose with running water. Hale washed the most noticeable; bloodstains off his shirt and washed his face.
Nanncie tooted the horn of Hale’s car and waved as she passed us on her way to the hotel.
Hale was doing some thinking en route.
When we stopped he said abruptly, “You’re working for Milton Calhoun?”
“I’m working for him.”
“I’m not,” Hale said. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t like the bastard.”
“I’m working for him,” I repeated.
“And,” Hale said, “I’m not going to go out of my way to give him any help. He’s got money, he can hire lawyers and...”
“He’s already hired a lawyer. I want you to talk with him.”
“I don’t know whether I’ll talk or not,” Hale said.
“Suit yourself,” I told him, “only don’t forget one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m working for Calhoun.”
“Okay by me,” he said. “You can work for anybody, you damn please.”
We entered the hotel. I escorted Hale to the desk.
The clerk smiled and shook his head, put his hands on; the counter palms up. “I am so sorry, señors, but there are no vacancies. We are full and...”
“He is a friend of mine,” I explained. “He has been in an automobile accident.”
The clerk became all smiles. “Oh, in that case, seguro, yes, but certainly, we will take care of him.”
He pushed a pen and a card in front of Hale and Hale registered. I noticed that he gave his address as 817 Billinger Street.
I saw that he was fixed comfortably in his room, got the bellboy to bring in his big bag and suitcase from his car and said, “You don’t want these ropes that you were tied up with any more, do you?”
“I never want to see them again,” he said.
“I’ll get rid of them for you,” I told him.
I took the ropes and put them in the trunk of the agency heap, drove across to Calexico, telephoned the office of Anton Newberry and asked the secretary if Newberry was in.
“He’s just leaving for the day,” she said.