I turned and saw the driver hunkered down under a tree. A motionless car under the Mexican sun quickly becomes an oven. He held the door for me and my pores opened wide. To save fuel we coasted down the long hill.
“Would you know a girl named Maria Sanchez?”
“Si, Senor. She is the friend of my daughter. They walk together on the paseo.” He explained that most of the town’s younger population congregated there on Saturday evenings in the traditional ritual of circling the Jardin, boys strolling in one direction, girls in the other.
“This is the same girl who worked for Senor Rhodes?”
“Si. But no longer. She was — how you call it? — fired.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Less than a mile away, Senor.”
“Please take me there.”
At the bottom of the hill he turned onto a rutted road and presently pulled up at a cluster of adobe structures. Two goats and a cow wandered aimlessly on the unpaved street. Largeeyed, impassively solemn children gathered to watch us. My driver entered one of the houses. In a moment he emerged, trailed by a young girl, exuberantly healthy, who acknowledged my bow with an ear-to-ear smile.
“This is Maria Sanchez, Senor. She does not have much English.”
What she had was about four words, so I drafted the driver as an interpreter. He rattled my inquiries in Spanish and got back rapid-fire replies. They raced their words as if the devil were chasing each phrase.
“Maria says that Senora Hull arrived two days ago. Solo. Alone. Senor Rhodes did not come with her. She told Maria that he had remained in the states because he was too ill to travel. Maria was not surprised. She says the patron was very sick when they left here to go to the states. We have many fine medicos here in San Miguel, but Senora Hull did not trust them.” He shrugged. “For one person a maid was not necessary, so Maria was dismissed.”
I produced a twenty-dollar bill. “Mr. Rhodes would like Senorita Sanchez to have severance pay.”
When the girl understood, she put her hands behind her back, shaking her head.
The driver apologized. “She says it would be charity, Senor. She has not earned the money and she will not take it.”
I did not offend her by insisting. “Muchas gracias, Senorita,” I said gravely and climbed back into the cab. The driver looked at me. “The office of el abogado, Ignacio Arruza,” I told him. “And where did you learn your English?”
“Migrant farm worker in the states,” he grinned. “And driving a hack in El Paso.”
When I added a tip to his fare, an unusual procedure in Mexico, he shook my hand gratefully. I found Senor Arruza dozing at his desk. I sat across from him and waited quietly. In five minutes one eye opened and the eyebrow above it lifted inquiringly.
“Would it be possible to find out whether Senor Rhodes arrived in this country on a specific day earlier this week?”
“There are many points of entry, Senor Jordan.”
“He would have flown from Miami to Mexico City.”
That simplified it. Arruza spread his fingers. If modest sums of money were to change hands, he explained, the money to be judiciously distributed, certain bureaucrats would undoubtedly be inclined to cooperate. He gave me an approximate total figure and I placed the cash on his desk. He had a contact in Mexico City who would take care of it at once.
Outside, the sun was now directly overhead and stores were shuttering for the — afternoon siesta. I crossed the Plaza to my hotel and stretched out to indulge in the local custom. Before sleep came I pondered the situation. Burt Hull had claimed Amos Rhodes was in Mexico. Mrs. Hull had tried to give the impression he was in seclusion in his villa. But according to what she had told Maria Sanchez, Rhodes had never arrived in San Miguel. So somebody was lying. And I didn’t think it was Maria.
Afternoon shadows had darkened the room when Senor Arruza’s call awakened me. He’d heard from his contact at the capital. Mrs. Alma Hull, he told me, had flown down by herself from Miami via Aero de Mexico. Amos Rhodes had not been on the plane and there was no record of his arrival.
That was all I needed to know.
So it was time to leave. I now had plenty of assumptions and a few conclusions, but nothing solid enough to assure Lieutenant Ritchie’s cooperation. What I needed was a court order. But no judge in his right mind would sign the necessary papers based only on wild speculation.
From behind his desk at the First Florida Trust in Palm City, Mr. Briscoe regarded me without pleasure. As I spoke, he went through a whole series of emotional changes — annoyance, resentment, uneasiness, and finally irresolution. It took me nearly a half hour to convince him that his records were not sacrosanct, that sooner or later, one way or another, if not at my request, then at the request of the local prosecutor, he would have to comply.
Ultimately he called a filing clerk and gave instructions. Records were brought. Amos Rhodes had received a monthly check from an insurance company in payment of his annuity contract. A number of these had been deposited to his account at the First Florida Trust. Before clearing, they had been microfilmed. Briscoe had enlarged copies of the first two and the last three.
I brought them back to my room at the Everglades. I am not a handwriting expert, but in a recent case involving a forged will I had been carefully coached by one of the best. I placed the last three checks on top of each other and held them flat against a window pane, shifting them until the endorsed signatures of Amos Rhodes were precisely superimposed. An expert would have used an oblique sheet of glass illuminated from behind by a bright lamp. The windowpane was primitive but adequate.
I knew that it is impossible for anyone to sign his or her name twice in exactly the same way. Yet in each of the three superimposed signatures I could not detect a single millimeter’s difference in the shape or size of the letters.
So they had all been traced from a single writing, probably an authentic one, in the hand of Amos Rhodes.
The next step called for a search warrant on the application of a law-enforcement official. I took my theories and the copies of the canceled checks to Lieutenant Ritchie. He listened without expression. His narrowed eyes studied the checks. It changed the shape of his mouth, pulling it tight. “I’m calling the county attorney in on this,” he said. “Any objections?”
“It’s your bailiwick.”
He stood up. “We’ll get a court order and go over there tomorrow morning.”
“Am I invited?”
“Be On deck here at ten A.M. sharp.”
“Would it be possible to release Mrs. Faber?”
“Not now. She stays on ice until we see what turns up.”
There were five of us in the official car — myself, Lieutenant Ritchie, two of his deputies, and an eager young assistant county attorney. We drove past marshland to the Amos Rhodes estate. Burt Hull’s sports car was parked in the courtyard. No one answered the doorbell. I imagined him peering through a window, hoping we would depart.
Ritchie nodded to one of his deputies. “Hit it, Bruback.”
The deputy backed up and launched 200 pounds of bulk at the door. On his second try it flew open, splintering wood around the lock. They drew their guns and went in at a crouch. No one was at home.
I went out to the terrace, sat on a canvas chair, and watched the deputies remove two sharp-edged spades from the trunk compartment of Ritchie’s car. The lieutenant was prowling the grounds like a bloodhound. Finally he paused near one of the hedges and gestured. The men began to dig. They got down pretty deep. Ritchie peered sourly into the hole and then indicated another spot. An hour later the deputies were leaning On their spades, looking discouraged.