But here in this resort town he could be just another American tourist. It shouldn’t be too hard to act like one. He would have to hole in somewhere, find a house. A hotel, any hotel, was too exposed and dangerous.
Suddenly he went to the door, ran downstairs and out to the car. When he returned a gun was in his pocket, a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight. He did not leave his room again that night, and when he fell into a restless sleep the revolver was on the table by his bed.
He was lucky. The hotel proprietor owned a small house in the hills above Caleta. It was for rent and Martin, his young son, drove Pete up to see it. They climbed a steep road scarred with chuckholes and stopped before a green, heavily padlocked gate. An old man opened the gate and they drove into a car port, parked beside an open porch. Beyond the porch, a footpath ran through a garden to the edge of a steep cliff. From there it zigzagged down to the sea two hundred feet below. The green gate, Pete had noted coming through, was strong, and the house was surrounded on three sides by a high wall.
“The old man came with the house?” he asked.
Martin nodded. “Pedro. He is gardener. Also he sleeps here on the porch to guard. Juanita, his wife, is cook.”
Juanita came out of the tiny servants’ quarters before Pete went upstairs. She was as old and withered as her husband, and very deaf.
The second floor consisted of another porch and two bedrooms. It was a good, safe house. The only other residence of any size was halfway down the hill. Pete took it, paying three months in advance.
That night he stood on the upstairs porch and looked through darkness toward the sea. The electric bulb that was the porch’s only illumination was colored a dull orange. He turned it off.
Going back to the rail, he leaned against it and let the quiet of the night seep into him. Here, this house, was where he would start to live again. No one knew him in Mexico. There would be no more starting awake in the middle of the night, no more bad dreams—
Nice, isn’t it Dick? a woman’s voice said quietly from behind him. So peaceful. But do you think you really deserve peace?
It was Mary’s voice. He turned, almost expecting to see his wife standing there.
But of course she wasn’t. She was dead. Murdered, according to the police.
4
Mary...
He had been deeply in love with her when they had married. He’d worked hard for eight years to give her security and a home. So that today, coming home unexpectedly, he could see a familiar Cadillac on the drive, and hear Bob Cunningham talking in the living room.
He heard his partner’s voice the instant he opened the kitchen door. “Damn it, Mary — I don’t want to go! You know that. But what excuse could I give Ethel?”
He stood motionless and listened to her more softly voiced reply. “Is that important? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I’ll be left here for six months — alone with Dick?” Silence, followed by a penetrating whisper. “Oh, for God’s sake — there’s his car!”
Maybe he still loved her, in a way. She could hurt him, certainly, if that is any proof. He opened the kitchen door again, and slammed it shut. He walked into the big front room that stretched the full length of the house. Mary sat in a window seat and Bob Cunningham stood facing her. They both turned.
“Forget something, darling?” Mary jumped up and came toward him. She was blonde with a complexion so clear it seemed translucent. She looked delicate and pliable, but so does a blacksnake whip.
“That’s right. Forgot the specifications for the new drive-in.” He crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Drink, Bob?”
“Why not?” His partner was a big man, an ex-athlete who had put on weight. He had a booming voice.
Mary frowned. “Liquor at ten in the morning?”
He looked at her expressionlessly, poured two drinks and handed one to Cunningham. “To you and Ethel, and your trip.”
Bob choked on the straight whiskey. “Doesn’t seem right, going off to Europe while you stay here and do my work. Well!” He shrugged, reaching into his pocket for an envelope. “Here’s that power of attorney. That’s why I came by — to drop it off.”
He opened the envelope and glanced at the paper it contained. “Looks okay.”
“What’s this power of attorney business?” Mary asked.
“Let Bob tell you.” Stairs led up to a narrow landing where the bedrooms were. He climbed them as Cunningham fumblingly explained.
“Well, I won’t be here to sign contracts and such for this new restaurant, so now Dick can do it for me. It’s legal and—”
Dick Hammet closed his bedroom door and leaned against it. Anger, too long repressed, tore loose in him. Oddly, it was triggered less by this evidence of Mary’s cheating than by Cunningham’s bungling explanation. The man was nothing but a stupid slob. It had been Dick’s brains and work that had prodded the firm of Cunningham & Hammet to success. Cunningham only shared in the profits and, it now appeared, in the favors of Dick’s wife.
He got a bottle from his dressing table, went into the bathroom, poured a drink. Swallowing, he remembered that Mary had once called him a bathroom drinker. Mary was right. She always was.
She had been right eight years ago when, before their marriage, she had introduced him to Cunningham and urged the two to go into partnership. It was a good deal, for her. Bob had just married an enormously wealthy woman. This business arrangement had kept him handy. Dick knew the restaurant business. She’d figured he would make out all right. He had. Cunningham & Hammet owned six drive-ins now.
His glass was empty. He slammed it against the wall. It broke and the pieces tinkled to the floor. Unconsciously he must have known of this affair between his partner and his wife for a long time, and unconsciously he had prepared for it. He had Cunningham’s power of attorney and knew exactly what he was going to do.
His headaches had always been bad, but they were getting worse. He had found a buyer for the drive-ins but negotiations were slow. A doctor told him that he was suffering from a walking nervous breakdown, gave him some pills and advised a long rest. Well, he would be taking a vacation soon.
The chain was finally bought by a man named Wallace for a hundred and fifty thousand. Wallace knew there was something shady about the deal, but he also knew that he was getting a bargain. Once he had assured himself that the sale would stand up in court, and that any repercussions might hurt Dick Hammet but not him, he handed over the money.
The night for leaving California was chosen carefully. Mary was having dinner in Pasadena. The house was empty when he got home at six o’clock. He put five thousand dollars in the wall safe of her bedroom, went to his own room and packed. He didn’t hear Mary when she came in. He didn’t know she was in the house until she spoke.
“Going somewhere, Dick?”
She was standing in the doorway. Behind her he could see the railing of the balcony. Frustration rose in him. He gagged on it, bitter, greenish-yellow, in his throat.
“Yes, I am — permanently,” he said. “I’ve left some money in the safe. With your talents, and a little help from Cunningham, you’ll get by.”
She ignored his reference to Cunningham. “How much did you leave?”
“Five thousand.”
“Five thousand,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder how many thousands you’re taking with you. And where you got it.”
Her voice was a painful, gradually increasing pressure on his ear drums. He turned to face her. “I sold the business. I built it, and I’m entitled to anything that I can get.”
“You don’t call that stealing?”
He shook his head. “I figured the same way Cunningham did when he started sleeping with my wife.”
She winced as though he’d slapped her. Then she caught hold of his arms. “Don’t do it, Dick. You’re making a terrible mistake. Don’t leave me!”
“Why not?”
“Bob means nothing to me; he never did. They’ll arrest you. What will happen to me then?”
“You may find it hard to believe, but I don’t care. Now, shut up and get out!”
He pushed her from the room, knowing that he’d lied — knowing that he did care — and locked the door. She pounded on it, but he paid no attention. He went on packing — frantically.
The pounding had stopped but she was still outside the door. He could hear her talking, partly to him and partly to herself. The words came in disjointed phrases. He tried to stop his ears.
“What can I do? What can I do? If only you hadn’t been so hard! They’re sure to catch you, and it will be too late—”
He heard a far-off roar that rapidly came nearer. Her voice grew louder and had an hysterical undertone.
“The police will stop you. I’m going to call the police—!”
The roar was deafening. He unlocked the door and ran out on the balcony. She came back from the stairs, held out her arms.
“Oh, darling — please!”
He pushed her. She fell against the flimsy railing. There was a splintering sound. She screamed once as she fell.
It was an accident. That’s what he told himself as he went down the stairs. She lay on the tiled floor, her neck flung back at an impossible angle. He looked at her, and knew what had happened — and somewhere, something burst...