Love Me and Die Read online

  She was still trying to defeat me with that cool, controlled surface she showed. She said, “I’d like to hear your guess.”

  I said, “My guess is that someone is trying to force this company into a bad financial spot so they can buy it up cheap.”

  She stood up. She said, “I think it’s time you talked to Mr. Healy. He’s our comptroller. He can show you exactly where the company is financially.”

  She walked toward the door and opened it. She went on through, leaving me to follow. I realized that she had caught me off balance with her first remark and that she hadn’t let me get my footing again. I had handed out a lot of information, but I hadn’t gotten much in exchange. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was smart too.

  I hadn’t been so thoroughly suckered since I had tried to move in on the redhead on our first date.

  I watched Bonita’s back as she moved ahead of me down the hall. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t do it.

  I thought of a number of cracks I might make to try to destroy her poise. I didn’t get the chance. She turned to a door with Comptroller on it and rapped.

  A dry masculine voice said, “Come in.” She opened the door and went in. I stayed right at her heels.

  I would have known Chester Healy even without the sign on the door. He was everything Art Ditmer had described him as being, and a little more. He sat behind a half-acre of desk. The top was covered with piles of invoices, bound ledgers, scraps of paper with a fine, crabbed scrawl on them. On one side of the desk was an electric calculating machine. It was whirring and jumping when we came in.

  On the other side was a small tray. It held a glass and an ashtray. The ashtray had a dollar’s worth of cigar butt balanced on it. The glass was about half full of something that looked like very good whiskey.

  Bonita Jessup said, “Chester, this is Mr. Brogan, the man Toby brought from West Coast Industrial Advisors. Mr. Brogan, our salvation, Mr. Healy.”

  The calculating machine took that moment to stop snapping and jumping. Healy looked at it, scribbled a row of figures on a scrap of paper, and punched a button that set the damn thing grinding its gears again. He laid down his pen and stood up.

  He held out his hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Brogan.” I shook the hand. It was thin-fingered and ink-stained. It was also sinewy. And strong.

  He took the hand back and brushed it over a thin layer of pale brown hair. He had the same color gray eyes as Toby. But his looked too large for his thin, almost fleshless face.

  Bonita Jessup said, “Will you give Mr. Brogan a minute and show him our balance sheet, Chester? He seems to feel we may be in financial trouble.”

  She handed me a smile that had enough horsepower to drive one of her big semirigs. She turned and walked out. I watched her go and tried to hate her again. But I still couldn’t. She was just too much woman.

  6

  HEALY WAITED until Bonita shut the door behind her. He said, “So you’re an efficiency expert, Mr. Brogan. Sit down. You can be just as efficient on your tail as on your feet.”

  He stopped, picked up the glass, and drained it. He smacked his lips with a sound of genuine satisfaction. He picked his cigar up from the ashtray and tried puffing on it. He located a trickle of smoke and worked until he had a full-fledged coal going.

  He said, “Have a cigar? They’re good. I get them in Mexico for less than half of what they’d cost here.”

  I took out my cigarette. “No thanks.” I lit a cigarette and tried to figure a way through the front he was putting up.

  He opened a desk drawer and lifted out a bottle. The label said the contents were Scotch, twenty years old. “How about a drink? I get this in Mexico too. Save over fifty per cent on the bottle.”

  I watched him pour three fingers of Scotch in his glass. I said, “No thanks again. It slows down your reflexes.”

  He lifted the glass and looked at me over the rim. I couldn’t quite tell what the glint in his eyes meant. I had a feeling he was laughing at me the same way Bonita had. I wondered if Toby had filled him in on my real identity.

  He said, “I’ve got perfect reflexes, Brogan.” He turned to his machine, jotted down a number, and set his pen aside.

  “My books always balance,” he said. “And I haven’t been stone sober between noon and midnight for years.”

  This was something Art Ditmer hadn’t mentioned in his report. I filed it for future consideration. I said, “Do you keep all the books? I should think you’d have a staff of subordinates and some bookkeeping machines.”

  He glanced at the piles of paper on his desk. “Certainly I have a staff. And if you’d have looked on your way through the outer office, you’d have seen the bookkeeping machines. But it so happens, I like to keep a check. I don’t trust machines. I learned to make my entries by hand. I still do. Then I know where I stand.”

  I said, “And where do you stand?”

  He said without hesitating, “Jessup has assets of two million dollars. Our total outstanding indebtedness is—as of today—seventy-eight thousand, six hundred and forty-one dollars and eighteen cents. Our reserves are—”

  I said, “I get the picture. I was apparently under a misapprehension concerning your financial standing.”

  He gave me a scathing look that put me in mind of Toby Jessup. “A misapprehension concerning your financial standing,” he said with dry savagery. “Do you think those big words make you sound like a big, busy organization man, Brogan? Why don’t you say what you mean—that you’re fishing for information!”

  If he’d sprung that line on me when I first sat down, he’d have had me on the ropes. But I was braced now for anything he might say.

  I said, “Why should I fish for information? I assume that my being hired to do a job will give me access to what I need.”

  He took the cigar out of his teeth. He stuck his thin brown neck out of his collar like a turtle. He said in a raspy voice, “You’re no efficiency expert. “You’re a damn spy for the outfit that’s trying to break us so it can buy us up cheap.”

  Sometimes the gods must get tired of watching a man take a whole raft of kicks in the groin. Then they change sides. They did for me right then.

  I was trying to get my mouth closed and look as if I thought Healy might be a little drunk when a telephone rang. The sound was muted, but loud enough to hear.

  Healy took his eyes off my face. He opened a desk drawer and lifted out a telephone handset. He said, “Hate the damn things. Ugly, noisy, demanding—invented by an efficiency expert.”

  He put the mouthpiece in the general direction of his face. “Yes? What is it?”

  A voice made squawking sounds. He said, “Who would call me from San Francisco?” More squawks. He glowered. The tone of the squawking changed. His glower disappeared. His eyebrows went up.

  He said, “He’s here.” He pushed the phone in my direction. “West Coast Industrial Advisors calling from San Francisco,” he said.

  He looked almost hurt. As if my being what I claimed to be had destroyed one of his favorite illusions.

  I took the phone. I said, “Brogan talking.”

  The redhead said, “I thought you were going to call in for a briefing, Mr. Brogan. The boss is irritated. He’s missed a bridge date waiting for you.”

  I could feel Healy’s eyes on me. There was a faint gleam of hope in them. It faded when I said, “I’m in conference, Miss Bascomb. Tell the boss I’ve already started work. I’ll report as usual.”

  The redhead grunted. And hung up. I gave the phone back to Healy. He shoved it back in the drawer. He looked at me for a minute, shrugged, and got out his Scotch bottle. He poured himself four fingers this time.

  He said, “Let’s say I’ve had a long day, Brogan. Or that I’ve been watching too many late shows on TV.”

  I said, “Think nothing of it. I know what pressure is.”

  He downed his drink. “Now if you’ll let me get back to my work …”

  I took the hint. I couldn’t think of
any way to handle Healy yet. I decided to postpone that until tomorrow—when he was less full of Scotch. If he would see me, I thought.

  He surprised me. He said, “Have lunch with me tomorrow, Brogan. I’ll be more sociable.”

  I took it for an apology. I said lunch would be fine. I left the office. I hiked down the hall past Toby Jessup’s door. It was closed. I kept on going. I wanted to talk to her again, but I had a feeling I should phone the redhead first.

  I left the building and walked into the blast of heat. My watch read 9:00 P.M. The air felt like high noon. I crossed the street and went into the coolness of the bar and grill.

  It was a medium-sized place with a string of tables parallel to booths lining the wall. A bar with purple neon lights over the mirror was across from the booths. A telephone hung on the wall by a coat rack. The rack was empty. I wondered if anyone in Ramiera ever needed to wear anything heavier than a shirt.

  I looked over the crowd. The bar was half filled. The tables were empty. I could make out a few couples in the nearer booths. The back booths were in shadow and anyone in them was out of my range of vision.

  I fed a dime into the phone and dialed the City Center Motel.

  A tired female voice told me I had called the right number. I said that I wanted to speak to Miss Lucas.”

  I heard a sound as if the woman was consulting a list of cards. Then she said, “No one by that name registered here.”

  I said, “I was told she registered about an hour ago.”

  The woman’s voice was positive. “Nobody’s checked in but a Mrs. Brogan lately.”

  I thanked her and hooked the receiver into place. A Mrs. Brogan. There couldn’t be a fake Mr. Brogan and a real Mrs. Brogan registering at the motel the same night. That was asking too much of coincidence.

  I found another dime in my pocket. I dialed the same number. When the woman answered, I pitched my voice up a notch and talked with my teeth clamped shut. It’s surprising how much that simple trick can change a voice. I asked for Mr. Brogan.

  I could hear the telephone ringing. The ringing stopped when the redhead said, “Hello?”

  I said, “I called to tell you that I’m still busy but you can catch me at”—I paused and looked at the number of the pay phone—“Ramiera 4321, in a few minutes.” I hoped she would take the hint and go out to call me back.

  She said in a cooing voice, “You’re so considerate, darling.”

  I hung up. She hung up. I moved away from the phone to a magazine rack. I stood and spun it. I didn’t pay much attention to the titles of the magazines. I wasn’t in the mood for reading.

  The phone rang in just under five minutes. I crossed to it. “Brogan here.”

  “This is Miss Bascomb, you cabrón,” the redhead said.

  I said, “Watch your language. It might not be me at this end—Mrs. Brogan.”

  The redhead said, “What’s wrong with my registering as Mrs. Brogan? The room has twin beds, for heaven’s sake. Remember, I’m paying the expense account, and one room is cheaper than two.”

  Her voice was a little thick with laughter. And with rum, I suspected.

  I said, “Where are you calling from?”

  “A drugstore,” she said. “The same one I made the other call from. You don’t think I’d give the old battle-axe in the office the fun of listening in, do you?” She added, “It was all right to make that other call, wasn’t it?”

  I said, “Your timing was perfect. Old man Healy was busy accusing me of not being from West Coast Industrial Advisors. You really hit him where it hurts.”

  She didn’t laugh at that. She said in a worried voice, “Did he act as if he knew who you really were?”

  I said, “He thought I was a spy for some outfit he claims is trying to buy Jessup cheap. But Bonita knows who I am.”

  The redhead said softly, “Damn!”

  I said, “She knows about Art too. Turk Thorne recognized him and tipped her off.”

  The redhead said, “What do we do now?”

  “We keep working,” I said, “until I find a way to crack Bonita’s shell. She’s tough.”

  The redhead said, “God, what a mess!” and hung up.

  I hooked the receiver back, wondering what she had meant by her last remark. I stopped thinking about it in a hurry. I turned away from the phone just in time to see Rod Gorman slide out from a booth at the back of the room. I made a hurried move to the magazine rack so I could keep my back to him.

  If he recognized me, he gave no sign. He walked past me and out the door without any hesitation. I glanced toward the booth at the rear. I wondered if he had been alone in there or if his taking time off the job in the middle of the evening rush had any meaning.

  I decided it did have meaning. Toby Jessup came sliding out of the booth. She took a few steps my way, saw me, and went back into the booth like a crab running for cover.

  I walked back to her. She was sitting motionless, both hands gripping an empty coffee cup. She stared at me in silence. A look of strain showed around her gray eyes and at the corners of her primly set lips.

  I said, “Imagine meeting you here.”

  She said stiffly, “I’m not in the mood for humor, please.”

  I sat down. “What are you in the mood for? You said you had to see me when you were through tonight.”

  “I’m not through,” she said. “I still have a good deal of work to do. And I don’t think it will be necessary to see you.”

  I said, “Earlier, you were insistent about it. What changed your mind? Gorman?”

  She said coldly, “Rod and I were having a cup of coffee while we discussed business.”

  I said, “You had something on your mind—about me or my investigation. I want to know what it was.”

  She started to slide out of the booth. I said casually, “Of course, I could ask Bonita if she knows what’s bugging you.”

  Toby stopped sliding. She said, “I resent being bullied.”

  I said flatly, “I resent being kept in the dark. You asked me to help you. But when I want information, you’re quick to duck out. Today, you were in a hurry to get back here. Tonight, in your office, you were afraid of being overheard. Now there’s another reason.”

  She was silent a moment. Then she said, “All right, meet me after I’m through tonight. About ten o’clock,” she added.

  I said, “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Not here,” she said quickly. “We shouldn’t be seen together too much. And I prefer more privacy.”

  I said, “How about your place?”

  She said frigidly, “I’m not accustomed to entertaining men in my apartment at that hour of the night.”

  I wanted to ask her at what hour she was accustomed to entertaining them, but I didn’t think there was much humor in Miss Toby Jessup. In a way, I thought, it was a shame. She had so much to offer a man on her small frame.

  I thought a moment. I said carefully, “How about over in Lozano. The Frontera Motel.”

  If I startled her, she kept it well hidden. I had deliberately tried to jolt her, but I had missed my target. She said, “It is secluded.” She sounded as if she might be arguing with herself. “Is that where you’re staying?”

  I said, “You could say that.” She made a move to leave the booth. “Come to Unit 7,” I added.

  She nodded slowly. She said, “It will be a little after ten before I can get there.”

  She got to her feet. I said, “Do you have any little pearls for me to think about while I’m waiting? Like what you started to tell me earlier when Gorman interrupted.”

  She said in a low voice, “I was going to tell you that someone shot at me when I was coming home from Tucson today. They hit my front tire. I was nearly killed.”

  7

  I WONDERED IF Toby Jessup’s nerves were making her imagine things. She might have had a blowout and jumped to a conclusion.

  Then again she might be right. I couldn’t deny the possibility. Not with Turk Thorne’s
body in Art Ditmer’s motel room.

  I was in a taxi, on my way to take the redhead out for a meal. I had over an hour to kill before I met Toby in Lozano. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time than with the redhead.

  The taxi dropped me at the motel. I paid the driver and hiked to the garage. I skirted the Mercedes and climbed the stairs. I opened the door with my key.

  I called, “Get your girdle zipped. It’s time for chow.”

  My voice echoed emptily back at me. I stared stupidly around the room. The redhead’s suitcase was on one of the twin beds. She had put mine on the other bed. It was open and my robe and slippers were laid out with the kind of mocking touch she had such a knack for.

  I snarled at the beds and looked in the bath. It was empty. I went back to the bedroom. I spotted the glass on the nightstand between the two beds. It was empty but I could see traces of rum in the bottom. There was no bottle in sight.

  I wondered if she had gone out to eat. I checked her suitcase. No bottle. The used glass made it obvious she had one when she came. I hunted down the wastebaskets. They were empty. So was the dresser.

  She hadn’t gone out to eat. Not even the redhead would take her own fifth of rum to a restaurant. But she had gone somewhere with the bottle to keep her company.

  I swore at her. Then I felt a cold nudge of worry. Maybe she hadn’t ‘gone’ anywhere. Maybe she had been taken away by someone. After all the Mercedes was still in the garage.

  I tried arguing myself out of the idea. I wasn’t very convincing. I thought of all the places the redhead might go, either on foot or in a taxi. The only one that could be a possible answer was the Frontera Motel back in Lozano.

  And that made sense only if the redhead thought Art Ditmer might show up.

  I felt a surge of excitement. Or if she had learned he was going to be there.

  I hurried out and down the stairs. I opened the garage doors and warmed up the Mercedes. I backed it out and drove to the street. I started for the border.

  I was leaving Mexican customs when it occurred to me to wonder why she hadn’t taken the Mercedes.

  I had no answer for that, and no time to find one. The traffic at this time of night was a maze of taxicabs, tourists, natives coming from the other part of Lozano to gape at the tourists, and pedestrians, few of them sober.