Love Me and Die (9 page)

He said, “Not enough to commit murder.”

“But enough to condone it?”

He looked at me levelly. “If you mean would I hide you here to protect Jessup, the answer is yes. And that goes for anyone else as well.”

I
DIDN’T
stay around after the coffee. I wanted to do some thinking and to frame the questions I was going to ask Bonita Jessup. By the time I had made a six block safari to the top of the hill, I had the questions pretty well arranged in my mind.

But I wasn’t in the best shape to ask them. The broiling sun had taken care of all the liquid I’d drunk. I was wrung dry and beginning to see dancing spots in front of my eyes.

Bonita herself answered the doorbell. It was a relief to step into the coolness of her thick-walled, high-ceilinged house. I followed her into the living room and collapsed gratefully on a couch.

She took a quick look at me and disappeared. She came back with a pitcher of water and two salt tablets. I washed the tablets down with three glasses of water and began to come back to life. The spots went away from my eyes and I took a close look at Bonita.

She looked different and I could see why. She was wearing a cream-colored lounging robe with a low-cut bodice and a loose, flowing skirt. It was made of some cool-looking material that hinted she was wearing nothing underneath it.

She said, “The maid is out for the day but I can get you anything you want.”

I told her I was fine now. She said that she was too and sat at the other end of the divan. “How did you make out with Chester?” she asked.

I said, “I learned a lot from what he didn’t say. I expect you to make it easier on me.”

She said, “Now that I know who sent you, I’ll be glad to co-operate.”

I had a sudden premonition that the redhead was trying to help out again. I said, “Ellie Lucas called you?”

Bonita smiled the same kind of secret little feminine smile the redhead did when she was about to spring something on me. She said, “She called just a few minutes ago. She wanted to speak to you. She sounded rather excited.”

I got to my feet to find a telephone. Bonita said, “She won’t be in her office. She’s already left for here.”

I sat down again. “I said, “Just what girlish confidences did you two exchange?”

“She told me about the anonymous telephone call and she admitted that she sent Mr. Ditmer here last week.”

I said, “Do you have any idea who could have made that phone call?”

She said, “Nobody could have. Nobody could know that much about the company but me. And I certainly didn’t make it.”

She got up and walked to one of the French windows that overlooked the rear garden. Bright daylight silhouetted her body against the thin, cream-colored cloth. I lit a cigarette and reminded myself that I was here only to get information.

I said, “The person who wrote that letter offering you ten cents on the dollar for your sixty percent must know a good deal.”

She turned to me with a worried frown. “I thought of that. But there’s one thing the letter writer didn’t know—that I don’t own my stock any more.”

I listened quietly while she told me substantially the same story Healy had. I tried to act as if this was all new information.

When she finished, I said, “Why haven’t you put in claims for the damage to those truckloads of produce?”

She walked back to the couch and sat on the cushion next to me. She said, “I borrowed the money to pay my last insurance premiums. And I’m on the verge of having my notes called in, of losing the company to the creditors. If I put in claims for so many failures, there’d be an investigation. Then my whole financial problem would come to light, and any chance I still had of being able to recoup would go up in the smoke of publicity.”

She lit a cigarette nervously. “After all, when I borrowed on the equipment and buildings, I was also borrowing against Chester’s and Toby’s interests. That isn’t exactly legal.”

I said, “How did you ever keep all this from Healy?”

She said, “I made out the insurance claims but I never sent them in. Chester will find out when payment doesn’t come through, of course, but I’ve been hoping something would happen before he does.”

“Something did happen,” I said. “Turk Thorne was murdered.”

She moved closer and put a hand on my arm. I could feel her warmth and catch the subtle scent she wore. She said with soft pleading, “I’ve told you all this without asking for a promise of silence. I’ve hoped for your understanding.”

I didn’t say anything. I was watching her warm mouth and those tremendous, luminous eyes. She leaned forward and dropped her cigarette into an ashtray. She didn’t move as far back on the divan as she had been.

She said desperately, “I need someone to understand, to help me. Do you know how it feels to have everything you possess either mortgaged or bought on credit?” Her voice turned bitter. “I don’t even own the piece of cloth I’m wearing.”

I put my hands out to touch the piece of cloth. Somehow it wasn’t there to touch. I could feel only Bonita. Her eyes and mouth grew larger until they swallowed me.

• • •

I thought idiotically, “The redhead wouldn’t like this.” We were on Bonita’s big soft bed.

Bonita seemed to catch my thought. She stirred against me. “Miss Lucas called at one-fifteen. How long will it take her to get here?”

I managed to focus my eyes on my watch. It was three straight up. I said, “In her car, another half to three-quarters of an hour. It’s only a hundred and forty miles.”

I added reluctantly, “But if you don’t get back to the office, Farley will be the one who comes here first.”

Bonita moved an arm languidly to the night stand and captured two cigarettes and the lighter. She said, “I called in before you came and said I was going out to check some farms.”

“I thought Lerdo had that job.”

She lit two cigarettes and slipped one between my lips. “Only in Lozano,” she said. “Rod Gorman or I check those on this side of the river.”

A thought struck me and I laughed. I said, “Speaking of Lerdo, I feel sorry for him. I think he’s interested in Toby.”

Bonita said without rancor, “Why shouldn’t he be? She’s cute and she has money.”

I said, “Is that the reason for the chilly façade? To protect herself from fortune hunters?”

Bonita rolled over so that she could rub her mouth against mine. “Are you interested in Toby or are we talking business again?”

I said, “Sorry. It’s business. I was wondering if her dislike of Gorman is because he made a pass or two at her.”

“It isn’t dislike,” Bonita said, “it’s hate. At least on Rod’s part. Yet I’m sure they’re sleeping together.”

I said, “Back up and try that one again. I thought Toby only slept with ice cubes.”

“It’s very simple,” Bonita said. “When Toby first came home from college—that was just after Thaddeus died—she carried a hundred and sixty-five pounds on her five-foot-two frame. You can imagine what she looked like, and how she felt. She’d never had a date, and she’d built up a protective front against men that was almost pathological. I took her to a diet specialist and a psychiatrist. You can see the result.”

I said, “Are you trying to tell me that Gorman batted his eyes at her, and she flipped because she didn’t know how to handle men? Then she decided she’d been done in by the dirty villain and started hating him?”

Bonita laughed and said, “I’d better start at the beginning and fill you in. I brought Rod here because he’s the best traffic manager I know—and because I was interested in him. And I
wasn’t
the woman who furnished him information in San Francisco,” she added. “I didn’t know him that well then.”

She paused to take away our cigarettes and put them in the ashtray. “When I saw Turk—well, to be frank, he appealed to me. So three months ago Rod faded out and Turk stepped in.”

“So Gorman turned to Toby?”

Bonita said, “It was exactly that simple. They kind of turned to each other.” She paused and said earnestly, “You see, I honestly didn’t realize that Turk and Toby were lovers when I—attracted him. He was the one who took advantage of her ignorance about men. I didn’t mean to hurt Toby. But it was too late when I found out. So she and Rod turned to one another.” She shivered. “She never did like him. It’s rather ghastly to think of taking someone you dislike as a lover just out of spite.”

I found the idea of Toby taking a lover for any reason hard to swallow. But I said, “Maybe Toby and Gorman are working together to ruin you—he for money and revenge; she for simple revenge. That would explain Turk’s death.”

Bonita said thoughtfully, “Rod is capable of it, and he knows enough about the company to do it, I suppose. But if Toby is involved, she doesn’t realize it. She just isn’t that kind of person.”

I thought about that. Toby providing her lover with information and not realizing what she was doing. It was a theory that also explained her being shot at. Gorman could have been trying to get rid of her to keep her from tumbling to the truth.

But in a way the theory fit Bonita too. And it wasn’t past logic to consider that Healy could be trying any means to save the company from scandal and failure.

The sound of a car roaring up the driveway broke into my thoughts. Bonita gave me a wide-eyed look and rolled off the bed. She hurried to a window and drew back the drapery. She turned, her face white.

“It’s Farley,” she whispered. She got her robe and slipped into it. “I’ll tell him you’ve already gone.”

I watched her hurry out of the bedroom. I got my clothes on and went to the window. I could see the tail end of a black car parked by the garage. Bonita had left the door open and by straining I could hear what she was saying.

Then I heard Farley. He said, “We’ll need any information you can give us, Mrs. Jessup. We’ve discovered that this man Brogan is really the Joseph Coyle who owned the camper that carried Thorne’s body to the river. We’re looking for him and for the woman who stayed with him at the City Center Motel last night. She registered as Mrs. Brogan.”

I wondered if there was a way out of here. I peered out the window again. My breath stopped somewhere between my chest and throat. I could see down the sweeping driveway leading to the street.

I could see very clearly. I thought that Farley probably could too. And he wouldn’t miss the big magenta Mercedes that I could see turning into the driveway.

I
SWUNG
the drapery aside and opened the French windows behind it. I stood in full view of the driveway. I held my hands up and made a pushing motion in the direction of the redhead.

A car door slammed. A man in a gray suit came running in my direction. Farley’s partner, I thought. I had taken the gamble and rolled snake eyes.

I did the only thing left to do. I went through the windows and down into a bed of some sharp-leafed desert plant. I stumbled forward onto a narrow strip of grass. Farley’s partner was fumbling for his gun when I reached him.

I heard the motor of the Mercedes coming closer. I swung my arm. I said, “Sorry,” and brought the edge of my open hand slanting down across the man’s nose.

He grunted and put both hands to his face. I caught his shoulders and swung him to face the house. I pushed him into the sharp-leafed shrubbery. I turned and ran for the Mercedes.

The redhead had the right-hand door open. I jumped into the bucket seat. She went into reverse and shot backward. I slammed the door and looked toward the house. Farley was running for the black sedan. His partner was pulling himself out of the weeds.

And Bonita Jessup stood on her front steps waving good-bye to me!

I didn’t get a chance to see any more. The redhead backed into the street, swung the nose of the Mercedes upslope, and tromped on the throttle.

We went over the crest and out of sight of the house. The redhead said, “Where does this damn road go?”

I didn’t have to answer because there was no more road. The pavement ended just past the top of the hill. Nothing but twin tracks winding down a barren rocky slope lay ahead of us. The redhead swore in lusty Spanish, shifted down, and hit the tracks.

I grabbed for the edges of the seat and hung on. She drove with her teeth clamped together. Sweat beaded on her forehead. One braid began to jounce loose. Dust squirted from under the wheels and sifted through the open windows and rained a fine film onto the windshield. The redhead took it all like a champion.

Once we stopped bumping enough for me to look back. Farley’s black sedan was just edging off the pavement above us. I said, “Find some place where you can open this up. If he makes radio contact with the local gendarmes, we’re done.”

The redhead said, “There!” and swung the Mercedes sharply down a thirty-degree slope. We lifted twice on head-sized rocks. Then we were back on pavement with a great stretch of irrigated valley spreading north before us.

I took my hands off the edge of the seat. The redhead shifted up two gears and began to make the Mercedes move. I watched the speedometer needle start its climb. I didn’t say anything. I was too busy praying we hadn’t damaged the tires back on those rocks.

When we hit a hundred and five, the redhead stopped accelerating. The Mercedes was supposed to have a top of a hundred and sixty and a cruising speed of close to one-forty. I was glad she had enough sense not to try to find out how true those figures were.

Wind whipped in and finished the job on the redhead’s braid. It flopped against the side of her neck. She took a hand casually off the wheel and pinned the braid loosely back into place. The car didn’t even waver.

I looked back. As far as I could see, we were all alone.

I said, “Slow down and start talking.”

She didn’t slow down, but she said, “I finally got the address where letters addressed to Box 8 were forwarded.”

She paused and added, “Numero 13, Avenida Rio Seco, Lozano, Mexico.”

I said, “That’s where Art is supposed to meet Bonita tonight!”

“I know,” she said. “What does it mean, Jojo?”

I didn’t answer that. I said, “It’s also Healy’s favorite hangout. Carlotta, the landlady, is a particular friend of his.”

She said, “Oh, and was silent.

I gave her a quick rundown on what I had picked up since our last conversation. She listened intently. Then she said, “I’m worried about the meeting. It could be a trap.”

“For Bonita?”

“She could have set it—she and Healy.”

I said, “It’s a possibility.” I was silent, thinking about it.

We began to pass trucks loading produce and men working in the green, irrigated fields. A narrower road took off to the south. I pointed. The redhead swung into the side road with a scream of tires.

She dropped the speed to ninety. “Now we can relax,” she said cheerfully.

I said, “Why did you come to Bonita’s?”

“Where else was I supposed to go?” she demanded. “The City Center Motel comes complete with a stake-out these days. A better question is, what do we do now?”

I said, “Find a telephone.”

“To call Bonita?” I nodded. The redhead said, “Is she attractive? Her voice sounds as if she is.”

I said, “She can’t complain. Now shut up and slow down. That looks like a gas station up ahead.”

It was, at a triangular junction with the border highway running east. The redhead eased up behind a battered old wooden garage building. I went into the ancient, tired station and found the telephone. From where I stood, I could look over a quarter of mile of hill to the green line of trees marking the river, and to Mexico on the other side.

I found Bonita’s home phone in the book. I dialed. She answered after three rings. I said, “Can you talk?”

She said, “Yes. I had some boring guests, but they left in a hurry. Where are you?” she added abruptly.

I described the station. Then I said, “I called to find out how I get into Mexico without getting picked up at the border.”

She said promptly, “Come back about fifteen miles toward Ramiera.” I listened while she gave me a detailed description of what was obviously a wetback crossing. I wasn’t surprised; there’s at least one near almost all border towns.

She said, “Are we meeting at Carlotta’s at ten?”

I said, “That’s right. But first I want you to do something for me at your office and then phone me.”

I outlined what I wanted her to do. She said when I finished, “How do you know you can trust me, Joe?”

I said, “If I can’t, I’m dead. But there’s no other way to get answers to my questions. Call me at nine sharp.” I gave her the number of Unit 7 at the Frontera Motel.

She repeated the number.

I said, “And after that, Carlotta’s at ten?”

Bonita was silent a moment. Then she said, “There’s an alley behind Carlotta’s. The fourth gate down from the corner leads into her garden.”

I said, “All right. We’ll meet there. If Farley doesn’t pick you up for harboring a criminal.”

She said, “Good heavens, how was I supposed to know you were hiding in my house?”

I laughed and told her thanks again. I heard a kissing sound from her end of the line. She murmured, “Take care of yourself,” and hung up.

I went back to tell the redhead what she could look forward to until ten o’clock.

An old man had been asleep when we drove into the gas station. We woke him up to fill the tank. He was asleep again before we left the pumps. I hoped he stayed that way if the police came to see him.

I said, “Go back fifteen miles, and watch out for cops.”

The redhead peeled off her gears and floated up to eighty. It felt as if we were crawling after that other ride. I leaned forward the last few miles, my eyes out for a sign Bonita had told me about.

I saw it on our left. I said, “Turn there where it says
Picnic Ground.”

The redhead turned. We went along a cinder road toward the line of trees marking the river. We reached a fork. I said, “Left, and slow down.”

She turned left and slowed down as the road became twin ruts carved in the dry earth. We followed it to the river. I said, “Just keep going. It’s supposed to be only a foot deep or so here.”

“You hope,” the redhead said. She kept going. We eased into the water. It came up to the hubs as we reached the middle of the stream. Then it began to recede. We bounced up onto the flat Mexican desert.

“Can you think of any laws I haven’t broken lately?” the redhead demanded.

I pointed to a large overhang of willows to the left. “Put the car under those and we’ll break another law.”

“Jojo, darling!”

I said, “The law I refer to concerns our taking a swim in public without proper attire. It’s too hot to just sit and pant.”

The redhead said, “Oh.” She put the car under the trees. I got out and walked away from them. I looked hard but I couldn’t see any sign of the Mercedes. Satisfied, I went back to the redhead.

She had taken me at my word. Her clothes were on the seat of the car. She was sitting in water that reached her waist. In one hand she held a fresh bottle of rum. What with one thing and another, it looked as if it might be an interesting afternoon.