Hard Case Crime: Honey in His Mouth (11 page)

Benedictine at ten o’clock in the morning, my God, Mr. Hassam was thinking. But a well-stacked little trollop.

Doctor Englaster smiled with superior amusement. “Why did you bring her here, may I ask?”

“She knew a little, and I was not sure when a little might become too much.”

Doctor Englaster suddenly looked appalled. “Do we have to cut her in on the loot?”

“Are you mad?”

Miss Muirz had said nothing, just looked Vera Sue over speculatively. “Having seen this Harsh’s taste in girlfriends, I have a suggestion. I believe he is susceptible. Suppose I see him first.”

An exchange of glances passed among the three men. It was a hell of a good idea, Mr. Hassam thought. One encounter with Miss Muirz and Harsh would have difficulty knowing whether he was coming or going.

Miss Muirz left them to visit Harsh.

Mr. Hassam heard Brother cursing softly in Spanish, his eyes closed, his voice low and furious. He was calling Miss Muirz all the Spanish words that even remotely meant bitch.

Except to serve him breakfast, no one had visited Harsh that morning, not that he cared. He was watching the wall safe with the dull malevolent fury of a lion in a trap. He had been able to think of no way into the safe. Repeated efforts to pick the lock had failed. Now he was lying back glowering in what amounted to a self-induced trance.

When the door opened and someone came in, he did not look around. He thought it was Brother until a whiff of excellent perfume touched his nostrils, when he concluded it was Vera Sue. The greedy little slut!

“Listen, Vera Sue, get the hell out of here—”

His visitor laughed, and he turned his head. He sat erect as if he had been lifted by the eyeballs.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Miss.”

“Good morning, Mr. Harsh. You are Mr. Harsh, I presume.”

“Uh-huh. I thought you were somebody else.”

“I am Flor Muirz.”

“Well, I’m Walter Harsh, Miss Muirz, the pieces that are left of him. And say now, I can see where the pieces might grow back together in a hurry now you’re here.”

He was taking Miss Muirz in from head to toe. She was a long graceful girl with a big roll of hair on the top of her head that was so blonde that it had a neon light quality.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Harsh?”

“Why, yes, sure, thanks. Say, I don’t see how on earth I mistook you for Vera Sue.”

“Don’t let it bother you, Mr. Harsh.”

He grinned. “Well, making a mistake like that would indicate I was going blind or something, but I’ll try not to let it worry me.”

Miss Muirz smiled and brought him a cup of coffee on a tray with sugar and cream. He held his head up off the pillow, watching the skirt skate around on her hips. It became some trouble for him to keep the coffee cup in place on the saucer.

“Say, you’re not going to be my nurse, by any chance?”

“I’m not a nurse, Mr. Harsh.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t have that kind of luck, anyway.”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe I could be your part-time nurse, if you need one.”

“I’m not sure if that would kill or cure me.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on the edge of his bed. She drank with him. The expensive odor of her perfume affected his breathing. From the corner of an eye he could see where the cloth of her skirt was drawn tightly across her thigh a few inches from his face, and he began to think what a hell of a place that would be to take a good bite. His chest felt tight.

“How is your arm, Mr. Harsh? I believe I was told it was broken.”

“Yeah, it got mashed between two cars.”

“How is it mending?”

“All right, I guess. Nobody has said different. You say your name is Muirz? How do you spell that?”

She gave him the spelling. “I’m pleased you are on the mend.”

“What kind of name is that, Muirz?”

“I am South American.”

“I figured. You had a little bit of an accent or something.”

“Would you like me to read aloud to you, Mr. Harsh?”

“Huh? Read to me?” Being read aloud to might have been the one thing farthest from Harsh’s thoughts. “Read to me? Well, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You look tired, and being read aloud to is often soothing.”

“Sure, read to me if you want to.” Harsh could not remember anyone ever having read to him aloud.

Miss Muirz began reading aloud to him from Spinoza, which proved baffling for Harsh. He had never heard of Spinoza. Miss Muirz took the book from her purse. It was
Ethics, First Part, Concerning God, with Definitions.

“I. By cause of itself, I understand that, whose essence involves existence; or that, whose nature cannot be conceived unless existing. II. That thing is called finite in its own kind which can be limited by another thing of the same nature. For example, a body is called finite, because we always conceive another which is greater. So a thought is limited by another thought; but a body is not limited by a thought, nor a thought by a body. III. By substance, I understand that which is in itself and is conceived through itself; in other words, that the conception of which does not need the conception of another thing from which it must be formed.”

Harsh listened with a blank expression. Jesus, he thought, who had ever heard of such stuff being sprung on a man. However, Miss Muirz had a reading voice that was low and cultured and musical, and her dress had an interesting way of snuggling up when she took a deep breath so that her nipples stuck out at him. But he did not care greatly for Spinoza.

Mr. Hassam jumped to his feet in the library when Miss Muirz joined them. He was irritated because she had been gone nearly an hour. He was tired from the trip, and he wanted to have a look at Harsh himself, then get some sleep. Doctor Englaster had expressed himself as feeling the same way. Neither of them hated Miss Muirz the way Brother did, but neither of them liked her much either.

Doctor Englaster spoke with sarcasm. “Really, you take longer to weave your spells nowadays, don’t you?”

Miss Muirz shrugged. “I weave well-made goods, Doctor.”

“So I have heard.”

Watch out, Doc, Mr. Hassam thought, watch what you say to her. She is not a patient soul like I am and if she should get her fill of you, then you are likely to be in trouble.

“How did Mr. Harsh impress you, Miss Muirz?” Mr. Hassam spoke hastily.

“Perfect.”

“How did you get along with him? Can he be handled?”

“I think so. He reacts normally. I gave him an overdose of sex, followed by an overdose of culture—in other words, I waved my bottom at him, then read to him aloud from Spinoza. Yes, I would say he reacts normally.”

Mr. Hassam considered the combination of Miss Muirz’s bottom and Spinoza, and he wondered how Harsh had survived.

Doctor Englaster spoke sharply. “And you think this man will do for our purpose?”

“Perfectly.” There was a strange look in Miss Muirz’s eyes. “He even has
El Presidente’s
dirtily eager way with women.”

Walter Harsh took a quick liking to Mr. Hassam and oddly enough it was for reasons which Mr. Hassam preferred to be appreciated. Mr. Hassam walked into the room and Harsh looked at him, seeing a roundly firm short man with pale coffee skin and a large nose the prominent item in a set of homely features. The full-blown mobile lips, the large innocent eyes, were not impressive.

But Mr. Hassam at once did a thing which set him in solid with Harsh. What Mr. Hassam did was give the wall safe a knowing glance, then wink at Harsh. He did this so the others did not observe. It had the same effect on Harsh that an orator is striving for when he opens his speech with a gut-buster joke. It warmed up the audience, got it interested. The little smoky guy might be an operator, Harsh thought.

Brother made introductions. “Señor Hassam. Doctor Englaster.” He shrugged and added, “My associates.”

The first impression Harsh got of Doctor Englaster was the same one that Mr. Hassam had formed after long acquaintance. The man liked to smell of himself. Harsh noted Doctor Englaster was impressive physically, a man taller than himself by several inches, with well-proportioned shoulders and arms, and smooth flexible looking hands. The well-fitting clothes, the good grooming, meant the man had been successful for a long time. Harsh did not think he would ever be buddy-buddy with the man.

Doctor Englaster did the talking.

“How are you, Harsh? Physically, I mean.”

“Okay, I guess, considering. Making progress, anyhow.”

“I should like to examine you.” Doctor Englaster’s English was good, very Oxford.

“You’re a real doc?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a head-shrinker?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you a psychiatrist or whatever they call it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Doctor Englaster, who was indeed a practicing psychiatrist, wondered how Harsh had guessed it. Brother had indicated Harsh was a mental oaf, which could be an error. “Psychiatrists are, as you may know, also medical doctors. It is as a medical doctor that I wish to examine you.”

“You mean my arm?”

“Well, yes, the arm. But a complete physical inspection also.”

Doctor Englaster was
El Presidente’s
personal physician, and the purpose of going over Harsh was to search for scars, old bone fractures, or other items which might indicate Harsh was an imposter. But Doctor Englaster was not going to tell Harsh this was his reason.

“Are you going to be my regular doctor?”

“Conceivably so, if I decide you are acceptable.”

The remark made no hit with Harsh. He had decided he did not like Doctor Englaster.

“Well, goddamn it, you don’t need to act like it was veterinary work.”

The three conspirators conferred with Brother in the second floor solarium following Harsh’s physical examination.

“Well?” Brother looked to them for opinions.

“I could swear the man is
El Presidente.”
Miss Muirz seemed dazed. “It is literally inconceivable.”

Doctor Englaster fitted a cigarette in a very long platinum holder. “The man does not speak a word of Spanish.” He was not very fond of Harsh either. “That is a serious obstacle.”

Brother shrugged. “Nothing.”

“The exiled president of a South American country who cannot speak a word of Spanish?” Doctor Englaster’s eyebrows shot up. “That is nothing? Why, it is preposterous, man.”

Miss Muirz was shaking her head. “No. Harsh can manage. When
El Presidente
goes into exile, he will be afraid of assassination. He will allow no Spanish-speaking strangers near him.”

Mr. Hassam thought the same thing.
“El Presidente
is sure to take another identity, pretend to be someone else, when he first goes into exile. That is where Harsh can step in. We can get away with it.”

Doctor Englaster frowned. “What about the teeth? Dental records are a means of identification, just as are blood types and fingerprints.”

“They made X-rays of Harsh’s teeth at the hospital. Those X-rays are no longer in the hospital’s files.” Brother smiled at Doctor Englaster. “It will be very simple.
El Presidente’s
personal dentist is connected with your clinic, is he not?”

“Yes, but—”

“You will substitute Harsh’s X-rays for the genuine X-rays of
El Presidente’s
teeth.”

They fell silent. Mr. Hassam imagined each of them enjoying the same greedy line of thinking. They had worked for years falsifying those signatures on
El Presidente’s
investments abroad, working with the open-faced daring of a traveling salesman juggling two wives, hoping they could eventually find a man to serve as a figurehead for
El Presidente
long enough to enable the conspirators to liquidate the foreign deposits, now amounting to some sixty-five million, and make off with the money. It was a fabulous scheme. The possibility of its imminent fruition filled them all with the same heat.

“He still speaks no Spanish.” Doctor Englaster moved the flame from a jeweled lighter in front of his cigarette. “It is a liability.”

“Did you know, Doctor, I was once a language professor?” Mr. Hassam got to his feet. “Suppose I test his linguistic aptitude. Who knows? If it is favorable, I may be able to cram enough Spanish into him to get him by.”

Harsh’s initial good opinion of Mr. Hassam improved further when the fat man wheeled in a cart on which was an assortment of liquor bottles, ice, seltzer. Mr. Hassam, a man who noticed things, had remembered that Vera Sue Crosby had been drinking Benedictine and he had included a squat bottle of this, but Harsh said he preferred bourbon, straight. Mr. Hassam poured a pair. They clinked glasses.

“Harsh, I am going to ask you some questions, and have you make some sounds. If you wish to think I have a hole in the head, just go right ahead and think it.”

“All right by me, Hassam. Thanks for bringing in something to drink.”

“What I am actually going to do is test your aptitude for learning the Spanish language, Harsh. Do you know what vowels are?”

“Vowels? You mean A, E, I, O, U? I got that crap in school.”

“Good. You are familiar with what consonants are?”

“I guess.”

“Give me some examples.”

“I guess I ain’t that familiar with consonants, Mr. Hassam.”

“Did you graduate from college, Harsh?”

“Not exactly.”

“From high school?”

“Not exactly that, either.”

“The eighth grade?”

“I got four months into the eighth grade. Me and the teacher didn’t seem to jibe.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now, you will repeat after me:
La cabeza es para pensar.
Will you repeat that? Get the sounds as nearly the same as mine as you can.”

“Law caboose is a pair pants, sir.”

“Come come, Harsh, no joking. This is important. It is in the nature of an important test. I can tell you that you have passed nearly all other requirements. This is the one remaining test, and believe me, Harsh, it is an essential one. Now say after me:
La boca es para hablar.”

“La boca es para hablar.”