Love Me and Die Read online

  I said, “Yes, of course, I can spare a few moments. Go ahead and talk.”

  The redhead’s voice dropped a few decibels. “Are you drunk? No, not this early in the morning.” Her words began to tumble over one another. “You can’t talk, is that it? Someone’s there?”

  “That’s right.”

  She said, “Do you know where Art is?”

  I said, “No, I’m sorry. I don’t think we could handle that type of work.”

  She said, “Oh my God. Jojo, listen. I’m in Lozano. It’s in Mexico, right across the border from Ramiera. That’s about a hundred and fifty miles from Tucson.”

  I said, “I’m familiar with that phase of the project.”

  “You bastard, shut up and listen.” She was excited; she only swore when she was excited.

  She said, “I’m in Cottage 7, Frontera Motel. Get down here right away. And bring your camper. Don’t go through Ramiera with it. Cross the border at Sonoyta and come to Lozano by Mexico Highway 2.”

  The words were jerking out of her with some kind of frantic urgency. I didn’t answer. I was trying to make some logical connection between the rugged boy’s picking me up at the airport, Toby Jessup’s being here, and the redhead’s unusual behavior. She was usually in full control of any situation she might be in.

  She said, “Don’t you understand? Art hasn’t reported for two days. I can’t find him anywhere. And he’s in trouble.”

  I tried to keep my voice impersonal. I said, “Can you give me a few more details on that?”

  She said in a despairing voice, “I think it’s murder.”

  3

  THE PHONE went dead. I was conscious of Toby Jessup standing in the doorway between the offices.

  I said into the mouthpiece, “I’ll have my partner contact you.”

  I hung up and walked back to Toby Jessup. She edged toward the reception room door as if she thought I might make another pass at her.

  She said, “I have to go. I know Bonita thinks I suspect her. If I’m gone too long she’ll be sure of it. I won’t get home until afternoon as it is.”

  I figured that if it was going to take her until afternoon to get home she must live at least a hundred miles away. I angled toward the door to block her. After the redhead’s call, I was in no mood for any more of Toby Jessup’s games.

  I said, “You took the time and trouble to drive up here to warn me about this Bonita. You can stay long enough to finish what you started.”

  “I told you,” Toby said. “She sent Turk Thorne to find out how much you knew about her. He must have been the one who made such a mess in here.”

  I tried to keep my patience. I said, “And who is Turk Thorne?”

  “The night traffic manager at Jessup,” she said. She sounded like a third grade teacher talking to the class dunce. “And I’m sure he’s her latest boyfriend.”

  I said, “And after Turk found out—if he did—then what?”

  Toby said, “Then Bonita will know how to handle you when you have your meeting with her.”

  The way she said “meeting” warned me that I was supposed to know what she was talking about. I tried to look as if I did.

  I said, “Just what’s your stake in this? Did Bonita steal Turk from you?”

  It was meant to be nasty and to get a reaction. It succeeded. Toby Jessup’s cheeks flamed. She said stiffly, “That was unnecessary, Mr. Ditmer. I’m just trying to protect Jessup Company, and keep you from getting into bad trouble.”

  I remembered what she had said earlier about having a way for me to make an investigation without anyone knowing I was a detective. I said, “And you want me to do some undercover work for you, is that it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How else can you find out what Bonita’s up to before you have your meeting with her?”

  I wanted to yell, What meeting, damn it? But I said, “Let’s hear your idea.”

  She opened her purse and pulled out a thick envelope. She said, “Every busy season we have to hire a lot of extra girls for the office. It just doesn’t seem to work out very efficiently, and I said so in a board of directors meeting. Uncle Chester told me to see what I could do about the problem, so I wrote to West Coast Industrial Advisors.”

  She pushed the envelope at me. She said, “This is the information they sent back. It came yesterday. I thought you could pretend to be their representative. Then you could talk to everybody without arousing any suspicion.”

  I took the envelope. She said, “Now, please let me go. You can call me as soon as you get to town. I’ll be in the office until nine o’clock tonight, except between five and six-thirty.”

  I stepped aside. She skittered for the door and got it open. She said, “And use another name, of course. At least until after your meeting with Bonita.”

  She paused and stared at me. The ice was gone from her eyes now. They were pleading. She looked very young. She said, “You will help, won’t you? You won’t tell Bonita I came to see you?”

  I was looking at the envelope she had handed me. It was addressed to Mr. T. Jessup, Office Manager, Jessup Trucking and Industrial Supply, Ramiera, Arizona.

  I thought about Art Ditmer and about the redhead being in Mexico, across the river from Ramiera, Arizona. I said, “Yes, I’ll help you. I’ll call you sometime tonight. I’ll use the name Joseph Brogan.”

  She said softly, “Thank you.” Then she went through the doorway. I stood and listened to the click of her footsteps fade down the hall.

  I opened the envelope. I found a letter and a thick pamphlet inside. The letter advised T. Jessup that the enclosed material would answer all questions pertaining to West Coast Industrial Advisors’ methods of operation.

  Toby Jessup had given me a pretty good cover, I thought. But there was one hitch. If the rugged boy I had dragged in here last night was named Turk Thorne, he would spot me as soon as I showed up at Jessup.

  I decided I would take that up with Toby Jessup when I got to Ramiera. Right now something else was nagging at my mind. The redhead had said that Art hadn’t reported for two days. That could only mean he had been on a job for her—a job connected with Jessup Trucking.

  And Turk Thorne had tried to swap me information about Art for something he called the Jessup file. It was my guess that before he had picked me up at the airport he had ripped apart our offices looking for it. So it seemed pretty obvious that the file wasn’t here and probably never had been.

  That left the redhead’s office. If we were lucky, rugged boy probably didn’t know the connection between Ditmer and Coyle and E. Lucas, Industrial Insurance.

  I picked up my suitcase and hurried down to the second floor. I used my special key on Ellie’s door—her whole name was Elisa Lucas, but she didn’t like it. So Ellie it was.

  Her office was as neat and immaculate as the redhead herself. It consisted of one room containing a filing cabinet, a desk, and a table that held a telephone with a private number and a tape machine hooked up to record the telephone conversations. Art and I always put our reports on tape for her when we worked away from the city.

  She was an insurance broker. She had a handful of good-sized industrial firms for clients and she placed their business with a number of major companies. She fought off the pressure from the high-powered insurance representatives by providing her clients with a good deal of service. That’s where Art and I came in. If the redhead thought there was going to be trouble some place, she sent one of us to check it out. As a result, she stopped a lot of problems before they could get into high gear. She had pipelines all over the state.

  I sat down in her chair and took the cover off the tape recorder. I turned on the machine and listened to the tape on the spindle. It gave nothing but soft sighing sounds. I set it aside and opened a drawer in the table. I pawed through the cardboard cartons each holding a used tape. I located one marked Jessup, July 17, 18, 19.

  I was pretty sure that the redhead had sent Art to Ramiera to do some undercover checking on Je
ssup Trucking. And if Turk Thorne’s visit meant what I thought it did, Art hadn’t been far enough undercover.

  I put the tape on the machine and pressed the Listen button. Art’s rusty voice came booming out at me. “Baby, this is ye olde operative broadcasting from the hubs of hell, better known as Ramiera, Arizona.”

  The redhead’s recorded voice said tartly, “I’m paying long distance rates for your guff, remember?”

  Art said, “Here goes. Report one, date July 17th, time 9:45 P.M. I just wound up my first day as a warehouseman for Jessup. And I’m charging you for a visit to a muscle doctor. I can’t get my biceps unkinked.”

  After that he settled down. He reported how he had applied for a truck-driving job and had been put in the warehouse temporarily. He figured a driving job would come up soon. Jessup was in the middle of the busy season and running around the clock. He said that he had picked up a lot of gossip but no rumbles as to any trouble.

  I wondered what kind of trouble the redhead was expecting when she sent Art to Ramiera.

  His report didn’t help me. He said, “This Bonita Jessup is a living dynamo. She took over the presidency of the company when her husband, Thaddeus, was killed two years ago. Since then she’s doubled the volume of business, built a new terminal and a new office, and bought a lot of new equipment. According to the rumors I picked up in the bar and grill across the street from the plant, she works her boy friends as hard as she works the help. They tell me it’s just like the army. You stand in line and wait your turn.”

  The redhead snarled, “Keep your pants zipped and get on with the business.”

  Art laughed. He said, “Here’s a rundown on the others who count at Jessup. Chester Healy is a little dried-up guy who looks like he was left too long in the sun. But he has a lot of power at Jessup. He owns thirty per cent of the stock. He calls himself the comptroller. And when Bonita has a decision to make, I hear she bounces him on her knee while they talk it over. But I don’t buy that. Not when she has all these big-chested truck drivers built like Joe Coyle to play with. And Healy couldn’t wear over a size thirty-four coat. And he’s running somewhere in the fifties. Bonita is a gorgeous thirty-five.”

  He paused. He said, “Then there’s Toby Jessup. That’s a female name, by the way. She’s a blonde dish of twenty-four. Looks like a scatterbrained sorority girl. But they tell me she’s only hot for company efficiency. Inside she’s stuffed with ice cubes. She’s old Thaddeus Jessup’s niece. She’s Chester Healy’s niece too, on her mother’s side. She owns ten per cent of the stock. Bonita owns the sixty per cent that’s left. Toby Jessup runs the girls in the office. I hear that she and Bonita don’t make music together. Toby is always running to Uncle Chester and crying.”

  The redhead said, “What’s the trouble between the two women?”

  Art said, “If Toby wasn’t a perfect specimen of frigidity in action, I’d say the trouble was men. Two men in particular—Rod Gorman and Turk Thorne. But I don’t think Toby has found the boy who can thaw her out yet.”

  He paused again. He said, “Gorman is the traffic manager. Bonita brought him from San Francisco a little over a year ago. That’s where she came from too. Old Thaddeus met her there five years ago at a convention when she was working for some high-powered trucking outfit. He married her and took her to Ramiera. She worked as his assistant until he got killed in a plane crash. Then she took over. She reorganized the whole operation. Gorman is one of the new key men. So is his assistant, Turk Thorne. I haven’t found out where he came from. But I’m working on it. Get your contacts in San Francisco to check out Bonita Jessup, Gorman, and Thorne. Okay?”

  That ended Art’s first report. The second one added nothing new except that he had established a hideout at the Frontera Motel in Lozano, Mexico, under the name of Carl Parker, but he was still keeping a room in Ramiera at 412 Smelter Avenue. In Ramiera he used the name Chuck Parks.

  The third report was different from the other two. Art wasted no time. He said in a machinegun voice, “I’m calling this one in from Lozano. Last night and tonight I was tagged by somebody. And listen to this, both nights I’ve seen Chester Healy making like a tourist in the Lozano honky-tonks. I’m going after him again tonight. Tomorrow I hear I get a relief job, so maybe I’ll have something concrete to report.”

  A pause for breath. “This being tagged is bugging me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep under wraps. I figure two or three more days at the most. I tried coppering my bets by making an anonymous contact with Bonita Jessup. I told her I had some information about her company that she could buy cheap. She agreed to meet me at ten Thursday night at a spot about fifteen miles east of town on the river. So my Thursday night call will come in late.”

  There was a click, indicating that he had hung up. The tape rolled silently for a minute and came to the end. While I rewound it, I kept busy counting days. July 17th, the date of the first report, was last Friday. That dated the third report Sunday. Today was Wednesday, so there should have been reports for Monday and Tuesday nights.

  Only the redhead had told me that Art hadn’t reported for two days. I could feel nervous sweat working loose under my armpits. What had happened to Art that he couldn’t make his Monday and Tuesday reports? He had said in his third report he was being followed, and that he was starting a driving job the next day—Monday.

  And why had the redhead suddenly left town to go to Art’s hideout in Lozano? For that matter, who had put the mickey in my rum? If the rugged character I had almost decided was Turk Thorne had done it, what was he trying to gain? Assuming he really had thought I could get him the Jessup file, that is. And if it hadn’t been him—then who?

  I didn’t like the answers I gave myself to those questions. I liked even less the answers I couldn’t give.

  I wasted a minute, swearing at the redhead for not filling me in better on the telephone. I wasted another minute trying to figure out Toby Jessup’s real purpose in coming to Tucson to see me—well, actually to see Art Ditmer. I didn’t get anywhere with that, either.

  I got up and prowled the redhead’s filing cabinet. I found the insurance policy file on Jessup. I let out a surprised whistle. I could understand the redhead’s concern with the account. The policy was comprehensive and big. It covered fire and theft in the plant and office, and it protected Jessup trucks and their drivers against everything from motor breakdowns to ingrown toenails. The size of the premium the redhead took a percentage on made my wallet feel very flat indeed.

  I made a fast trip through the rest of the file. The redhead had carried the policy for six years, since before I met her. A year and a half ago the coverage had been increased sharply. Six months later there was another increase.

  I was about to close the file when I spotted the small slip of pale green paper. I recognized it as coming from the redhead’s desk notepad. She had a habit of writing memos to herself. It helped her operate without a full-time secretary.

  I looked at the slip of paper. The writing was the redhead’s. It was dated six weeks before. I read: Check rumor Jessup might sell. If so, try to carry account over to new owner.

  Under that remark she had added in heavy pen strokes, Lose this account and you’re dead.

  4

  I SPENT THE first hour on the road trying to pretend that the scrap of paper the redhead had written to herself meant nothing. But I couldn’t shrug it off. Not after the visit of the character I was pretty sure was Turk Thorne. Not after Toby Jessup’s visit today. And not after the redhead’s telephone call and her despairing words: I think it’s murder.

  I was sweating hard, from nerves and from the heat. I had left Tucson at noon and started southwest across the desert. I took the microbus camper as the redhead had instructed. It wasn’t fast transportation, but I figured she had a reason for insisting I bring it. I kept the little rig to use on weekends when the redhead wanted to go prospecting or sight-seeing. It was always equipped for travel with a cupboard full of food and the ic
ebox stuffed with beer.

  I followed her instructions and dropped down through the broiling desert to Sonoyta on the border. I crossed there and picked up Mexico Highway 2. I turned west into the glare of the slanting sun. Finally I saw the barren mountains that marked the beginning of the Lozano-Ramiera country. I reached a stretch of desert that spread flatly north to a line of willows revealing the river that marked the U.S.-Mexico border. After the desert, I climbed low hills. I dropped down then to green fields under heavy irrigation. I could see men and trucks moving about in the near distance. I wondered if any of them were Jessup trucks.

  I began to climb into the mountains. I left Highway 2 and took a narrow branch road that wound up to the four thousand foot valley in which both Lozano and Ramiera were located on their respective sides of the border. The altitude took little edge off the blistering heat. I was seeing spots when I came to Lozano’s main drag.

  It was a typical Mexican town. An international bridge ran over a deep gully with the river almost out of sight at the bottom. Ramiera was at the north end of the bridge. Lozano stretched a dozen blocks south from the bridge. The first block was strictly tourist stuff—honkey-tonk cafes, bars, floor shows. Then there was a run down, semi-industrial belt. Beyond that was the real city with its cathedral built on the plaza, and its handsome homes hidden behind high adobe walls.

  Signs in English directed the tourist to the Frontera Motel. It lay two blocks east of the honky-tonk strip. It perched on the lip of the gorge with a view of Ramiera and its big smelter to the north. The decor told me that the Frontera was strictly for the norteamericano tourist; few Mexicans would be able to pay the tariff.

  The motel was built in a sweeping crescent with the cottages separated by carports. The office was at the west end of the crescent. I could see Unit 7 up along the curve of the driveway. The tail end of the redhead’s bright magenta Mercedes stuck out of the carport.

  I started to turn into the crescent and then swung away. The redhead hadn’t wanted me to drive the camper openly through Ramiera. And she might not want me to advertise myself by parking it openly at the motel. I went on up the street, made a U-turn, and parked at the curb a quarter block from the east end of the motel driveway. I locked up, got my suitcase and hiked through the dizzying heat to Unit 7.