Love Me and Die Page 3

  I found a bell and put my finger on it. I heard chimes go off, but no sound followed them up from inside. A car went by in the near distance. Its motor racket faded and I pressed the button again. I heard more chimes but nothing else.

  I glanced at the windows of the cottage. They were covered with drawn draperies hanging quietly. I glanced at the carport. I couldn’t mistake that magenta monster. There was nothing else like it closer than Las Vegas.

  I rapped a quick tattoo on the door panel. I counted three and rapped again. I got a response this time. There was a sound as if somebody had fallen off a bed. Then the redhead’s voice belted out thirty seconds of high grade swearing in a mixture of Spanish and English.

  I heard footsteps. They moved slowly and carefully toward the door. “Jojo?”

  I said, “Right.”

  The night latch rattled back. The door opened about an inch. One green eye framed itself in the gap. There was a deep sigh of relief. The door opened wider.

  “Get in here fast,” the redhead said.

  I carried my suitcase into air conditioning that felt like a walk-in meatbox after the heat outside. The room was dusky with the draperies drawn. It turned duskier as the redhead shut the door.

  She said, “What did you do, walk?” Her voice was brittle with nerves.

  I scarcely heard her. I was staring at the pale green rug on the floor. At the far end of the room was a closet with its sliding doors open. Half in the closet and half on the rug was a man. He was lying on his back. His eyes were wide open and staring at nothing. He wore a knife sticking out at an angle just below his breastbone.

  I recognized him. He was the hard-faced boy I had tangled with last night.

  I set my suitcase down. I said, “What did he do, pinch you?”

  The redhead said in a tight, thick voice, “Don’t make funnies, Jojo. I found him this way. I’ve been sitting here with him since nine o’clock this morning.”

  I stared at her. She was a handsome, streamlined woman, with a flare for being sleekly groomed and businesslike without losing her femininity. She had a narrow face with a fine nose and eyes and a strikingly mobile mouth. She wore her red hair in two carefully shaped braids on top of her head. I had never seen her looking any way but immaculate, cool, and completely in charge of all situations, even when she was excited.

  But now she wasn’t immaculate. Her cream-colored suit was rumpled. Her eyes had a red, gritty look about them. She needed a good workout with lipstick and a powder puff. She was as close to being haggard as her natural good looks would allow.

  And she was close to the shakes. I could see hysteria crawling into her green eyes.

  I glanced around the room. It was like any other first class motel room. Except that it had a corpse on the floor.

  And it had a bottle of 151 proof rum sitting on the stand beside the bed. There was a glass beside the bottle. I took a close look and decided the redhead had taken about three good shots. But it took more than that to give her an edge. She had a head as hard as a sun-baked desert rock.

  I said, “You got here at nine and found—this? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  She said, “Because Art rents this place. His clothes are in the dresser. His suitcase is in the closet.”

  I saw what she meant. I took her arm and led her to the bed.

  I said, “Did you find out why he didn’t report Monday and Tuesday nights?”

  “That’s what I wanted you to tell me,” she snapped. “Why do you think I came here—to play footsie with him? I came because he hadn’t reported. I called here and I called his rooming house in Ramiera. I even called Jessup. They told me he didn’t work there any more. So I came here.”

  I said, “How did you get in?”

  “The door was unlocked,” she said. The key’s still on the inside of the door. I barely beat the cleaning woman.” She made a face. “I told her to go away, that I was busy in here. So she probably thinks Art and I were making it in the hay. And I don’t dare leave or she’ll come in to clean up—and find that.”

  I took another look at the body. I got a towel from the bath to drape over the still face. I would feel better when I couldn’t see those eyes staring at nothing.

  I took a good look at him before I dropped the towel. Suddenly I didn’t think hiding him would make me feel better. I could see a bruise on the skin over his hard jaw. I lowered the towel and turned away.

  I said, “His name is Turk Thorne, right?”

  The redhead sat up straight. “How did you know that?”

  I told her how I knew. I gave her a blow by blow from the time Turk met me until I drank the rum and passed out.

  I said, “There’s a bruise on his jaw. I put it there. And Mrs. Gomez saw me dragging him down the hall.”

  The redhead said, “So what? You didn’t kill him, did you? You were in Tucson all night, weren’t you?”

  I felt cold air along my spine. I said, “As far as I know I was.”

  She said in a frantic voice, “Were you or weren’t you?”

  I said, “How would I know? I was out cold until ten this morning.”

  “What kind of an alibi is that, for God’s sake?” she demanded.

  I reached for her rum bottle. I said, “That’s a good question. The cops will certainly ask it.”

  I took a deep pull at the dark, powerful rum. It didn’t do a thing for me. I said, “It looks as if Art isn’t the only member of Ditmer and Coyle who’s going to be in trouble.”

  The redhead and I just looked at one another for a few minutes. I knew we were both thinking the same thing—somebody had slipped a frame around Art and another one around me.

  I said, “You’d better tell me the whole thing—when it started and how.”

  She said, “About six weeks ago, I heard a rumor ‘that Jessup Trucking might be selling out. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Then last week I got a phone call. It tied in with the rumor I’d picked up, so I sent Art down here to check out Jessup.”

  I said, “A phone call from whom?”

  “The usual anonymous voice strained through a handkerchief,” she said. “And it came from here, not from Ramiera. I think the speaker was male, but I can’t be sure. He didn’t talk very long. All he said was, “If Jessup keeps on having trouble and has to sell out cheap, you’ll still be stuck with a big insurance claim.”

  “A claim for what?” I said.

  “That’s what I asked,” she replied. “All I got for an answer was a dead line.”

  I said, “What kind of trouble is Jessup having?”

  “That’s what I sent Art down here to find out,” she said. “He didn’t get much chance to find out anything,” she added morosely.

  I said, “Why didn’t you ask this Bonita Jessup about the rumors?”

  “I wanted to be sure of my ground first,” the redhead explained.

  That seemed logical. I got up. I said, “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t.” I headed for the shower. “I’ll fill you in when I get washed up.”

  The redhead wasn’t the type to be coy. She followed me right into the bathroom. I stepped into the oversized Mexican shower and drew the curtains. I peeled my clothes off and tossed them over the curtain to the floor.

  I said, “Bring my suitcase in, will you?”

  A minute later I heard the suitcase thud on the floor. “Anything else, sahib?”

  I grinned and turned on the water. It sluiced over me like lukewarm soup. But it was wet and cleansing. The redhead shouted, “Who was in the office when I called, Jojo?”

  “Toby Jessup,” I shouted back. She didn’t say anything. I turned down the volume of water so I could talk above the noise. I filled her in on Toby Jessup.

  I turned off the water and reached for a towel. The redhead said, “It sounds as if she knew about Art’s plan to meet Bonita on Thursday. But she couldn’t have known Art was working undercover at Jessup or she wouldn’t have mistaken you for him.”

 
I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out of the shower. I said, “Go pack up Art’s stuff.” I waved the redhead into the other room and started to dress.

  I said, “Somebody knew or Art wouldn’t have been followed. I wonder if Art’s being tailed while he was following Chester Healy means anything?”

  “What difference does it make now?” the redhead called from somewhere near the closet.

  I said, “Everything makes a difference. I’m giving Toby Jessup a call tonight. And I’m going to the plant tomorrow. The more we’ve thought this out beforehand, the more I’ll be able to ask sensible questions.”

  I finished dressing. I transferred my keys and wallet to my clean suit. I put the one I’d been wearing into my suitcase. I carried that back to the bedroom. Art’s suitcase was near the door.

  The redhead was sitting on the edge of the bed and sipping rum. I said, “Lay off that stuff. At least until you do a little more talking.”

  She scowled at me. “You try corpse-sitting alone for eight hours and see if you don’t need a drink.” She scowled harder, but she set the glass down.

  I said, “Tell me everything you can think of about the Jessup deal—facts, ideas, hunches, the works.”

  “What’s there to tell?” she demanded. “You know as much as I do.”

  I said, “Did you check out Bonita, Gorman, and Thorne when Art asked you to?”

  “I called San Francisco,” she said. “There’s probably an answer waiting for me now. It’s been long enough.”

  I said, “I didn’t see any mail in your office this noon.” I lit a cigarette. “How many of the people at Jessup do you know?”

  “None of them,” she said promptly. “Why should I?”

  “You sold them a lot of insurance.”

  She said, “I sold Thaddeus six years ago. He came to Tucson. Everything else has been by mail.”

  “Even the extended coverages they got last year?”

  “That’s right. Bonita Jessup simply wrote and told me what she wanted done. I made out the policy and sent it to her with a bill.”

  I said, “How badly will you be hurt if you lose the Jessup account?”

  She said sarcastically, “It pays most of my expenses—including those steaks I’ve been feeding you twice a week.”

  I let that remark pass. I went to the telephone book and flipped it open to the yellow pages. The book covered both Lozano and Ramiera. I ran my fìnger down the list of motels in Ramiera.

  I said, “Here’s a place that sounds good—the City Center Motel. It advertises privacy. And that’s what we need right now.”

  She said, “My God, at a time like this you want to shack up.”

  I said, “Behave yourself and listen. It’ll be dark in a few minutes. I’m going to drive the camper to a parking lot. There’s probably one near Mexican customs. There usually is in these border towns. Then I’ll come back and get your car. I’ll take it across the border and register at the City Center Motel as Joseph Brogan. You give me an hour or so and then take a taxi across the border. Get a room at the same place. As soon as I arrive, I’ll call Toby Jessup. Then maybe we’ll learn something so we’ll know what to do next. Give me your car key.”

  “And what about the body?” the redhead demanded. She fished in her purse and gave me her key case.

  I said, “Let the cleaning woman find it. There isn’t anything else we can do now. You waited too long to call the cops. They’d be sure to hold you.”

  I took a deep breath and tried my punch line. “You should get out of here and go home and make like you never left Tucson.”

  The redhead didn’t like that idea. She told me clearly what I could do with it. She said, “I sent Art down here and now he’s in trouble. I called you and you’re in the same trouble. And you want me to go home and dust my desk or something.”

  I sat down on the bed beside her. I said, “You pay Art and me to handle trouble and to keep your clients out of it. You’re not responsible for what happens to us.”

  She looked at me with her enormous green eyes. She said with sudden sadness in her voice, “Jojo, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life!”

  The redhead and I had never been much for being tender with one another, but I couldn’t help giving her shoulder a pat. It was the kind of gesture that usually brought out all the crusty armor she hid herself under. But now she gave me a weak smile and burrowed her head into my shoulder.

  She said, “I thought it would be so damn simple. You would bring the camper and we’d find Art and hide him out in it.”

  I said, “What makes you so sure he needs hiding out? You don’t think he killed Turk and ran in panic?”

  “Art isn’t the kind to panic,” she said flatly. “But you know the cops. As soon as they spot this body, they’ll look for him. This is his room, and he was working for Jessup.”

  I said, “At least he’s under an assumed name. That helps.”

  She said, “And you had a fight with Thorne. If the police can’t find Art, they’ll dig around and learn that.”

  I gave her another pat and took her head off my shoulder. I got up. I said, “I’m going to park the camper. You write me a note as my boss so I can get the Mercedes across the border. And pack your bag. I’ll take it with me.”

  “It’s still in my car,” she said.

  I took Art’s bag and went outside. I ran the camper down to the honky-tonk district. I found the parking lot where I expected it to be. It was one of those where you feed a meter for as many hours up to twenty-four as you want. I bought the full treatment. I hid Art’s bag under the bunk.

  I hiked back to the motel. I moved slowly because of the heat. It was fully dark by the time I arrived. I rapped and the redhead let me in.

  She said worriedly, “That cleaning woman came again. She said she was going off duty and would I let her in. I gave her a dollar and told her the place was fine until tomorrow.”

  She paused to take a drink from the glass in her hand. “That wasn’t very smart, was it? Now she’s bound to remember me.”

  I said, “Forget it. At least she won’t find the body until tomorrow. That gives us a good twelve hours. Maybe a little more.”

  I did what I should have done before. I slid the body into the closet and shut the door. I carried the towel that had been over Turk’s face to the bath and tossed it into the shower. I brought out a hand towel and gave it to the redhead.

  I said, “Amuse yourself by wiping up prints—hit every place any of the three of us might have touched. Art’s and mine are on file in Phoenix, so it’s better to play this safe.”

  She held the towel and looked at me. “What does this Toby Jessup look like?” she asked suddenly.

  Her voice was a little thick. The rum was beginning to get to her.

  I said, “Short but very well distributed. Terrific legs. Silver-blonde hair with a pony tail.”

  “An office manager with a pony tail!” the redhead snarled. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go call her up. Go make passes at her while I sit with that—that thing in the closet.”

  I hid a grin. She was in no mood to be laughed at. I took the key out of the door and pocketed it. I said, “When you leave, punch the night latch so the door’ll be locked.”

  I picked up my suitcase and went out to her car. I stowed the suitcase alongside hers and warmed up the motor. I backed out of the stall and started driving.

  There’s no sensation on earth like that of handling a car with enough horses under the hood to give it a crusing speed of a hundred and forty. But with evening, the traffic between Lozano and Ramiera was thickening fast. I had six gears to play with and I only got out of second once.

  The border cost me fifteen minutes. I left U.S. Customs and Immigration and crawled up a hill into Ramiera’s plaza. I found the American style main street a few blocks to the east. The City Center Motel was located at the far end of the three block string of neon lights. It was the o
ff-season and I had no trouble getting a room.

  I parked in the private garage and climbed a flight of private stairs to the unit located above the garage. It was a great place for privacy, I thought. Perfect for a guy with another man’s wife. Or for someone wanting a hideout.

  I had the feeling that someone might be me by morning.

  I carried both suitcases into the room. I locked the door and picked up the phone book. My watch read six-forty. Toby Jessup should be back at the plant by now according to the schedule she had given me. I turned to the J’s in the book.

  I closed the book. I had thought of something better than telephoning. I took the West Coast Industrial Advisors’ pamphlet out of my pocket. I gave it fifteen minutes of my time.

  I put the pamphlet away. I used a piece of motel stationery and scribbled a note for the redhead. I put the note on the outside of the door. I went out to the street and signaled a taxi.

  I climbed in. I told the driver to take me to Jessup Trucking. I used the five minute ride to review myself on what I had learned from the pamphlet. I decided I could pass as an efficiency expert—at least for as long as I needed to.

  And that wouldn’t be very long at all. It was fine for Toby Jessup to plan for me to start my snooping tomorrow. But I wasn’t in the mood for waiting.

  Not when Art Ditmer was missing. And not when Turk Thorne was dead with my fist mark on his jaw.

  5

  THE JESSUP PLANT wasn’t easy to miss. It was on the main highway east, about a mile from town. It occupied a full block, with a big, sprawling warehouse and a wide turnaround area taking up most of the space. The low, white stucco building that held the office was at the near end of the warehouse. A line of cars was parked alongside the office building.

  Every part of the plant was lit up. Three big semirigs were backed up to the loading platforms. Men moved briskly under the glare of floodlights. I wondered how they could generate so much energy in the heavy heat.