Operation Stranglehold (9 page)

Its front consisted of a single-entry door and a narrow plate glass window. A variety of canned and bottled goods, tumbled clothing, and the inevitable rebozos and hand-woven rugs were displayed in the window in the manner of small-town rural America a couple of generations ago. “A gold mine,” Croswell whispered to me. “We should have brought a truck.”

“We’ve got to leave no sign of having been here,” I returned.

I’d already been studying the lock on the door. It was a simple spring type, presenting no problem, but through the window I could see a steel support with a bell attached to it. I couldn’t see to what the support was fastened, but the logical place would be the back of the door. If I opened the door and the bell sounded, it would be as effective as a fire alarm in the sleeping village.

It was noticeably warmer down on the floor of the valley than it had been up on the hill, and I was beginning to perspire. I motioned Walter Croswell around the corner of the building so that we could approach it from the rear. The depth of the Spanish buildings in contrast to their narrow frontage was surprising; the disparity could have been as much as ten or fifteen to one.

The area behind the store was a cluttered wasteland of discarded cartons, broken bottles, and damp excelsior. We had to be careful where we put our feet down. There was also an open, bricked-in well that could have been the town’s major water supply. The back door of the store was of sturdy-looking oak, but there was a small, four-pane window shoulder-high in the wall to the right of the door.

I stationed Walter, who was looking increasingly nervous, at the corner of the building. “When I get inside, if you hear anything suspicious, rap on the door once, but hard,” I instructed him in an undertone. A single sound doesn’t draw too much attention.

“Okay,” he gulped.

“And if you’re approached, hide your face and make like a drunk,” I continued. “But knock on that damn door first.”

“Okay,” he repeated.

I went back to the window. It was important that no evidence be left that strangers had been in the village; otherwise the railroad station would be one of the most closely watched places the next day. I took out the all-purpose hunting knife that was part of the camping gear and with its sharp point I pried away sun-seared, crumbled putty from one pane of the window. I applied careful pressure at one corner till the opposite corner bulged outward, and then I was able to take hold of the glass and lift the pane out.

I set it down on end at the back of the store. I reached through the opening and found the simple catch on the window lock. The frame was hinged at the bottom, and it had a restraining chain that permitted the window to lean back only partway. I went to the corner of the building and collected Walter and brought him back with me. I signaled to him what I wanted him to do, and he made a stirrup of his hands.

I stepped up into them, then placed a knee on his left shoulder. With that support I pushed the window open, leaned inside, and attacked the bolt of the restraining chain with the knife-point. By the time I pulled it free from the plaster and let the window down all the way I could hear Walter breathing heavily under my weight. I wriggled inside awkwardly, headfirst.

My questing hands contacted boxes. I couldn’t see, but it was plain that a pile of them was stacked under the window. I slithered down over them and then switched ends so I could put my feet on the floor. The silence in the black-dark of the interior magnified every little sound I made myself.

I waited till I felt my eyes had adjusted to the absence of light as much as they were going to adjust. I was just ready to start exploring when I became aware of a faint strip of light on the floor. After a moment I identified it as the gap of a door ajar between the storage room I had entered and the room beyond it. I stared at the strip of light, a comparative term since it signified only a lesser area of darkness. I looked away, then looked back.

There was no question about it.

The light strip was getting wider.

The door was opening silently.

I drew the Luger but reversed it so I could use its butt. I kept my eyes on the door-gap, but after widening to six inches the door’s movement stopped. The almost sepulchral silence was broken by a whirring rush of movement, and then a warm, furry body rebounded from my legs. A soft meow echoed through the storage room.

It was a damn good thing I hadn’t had my finger on the Luger’s trigger. Instinctive reaction would have fired it. I bent down and stroked the friendly cat for a moment, then picked it up and dropped it through the open window. I couldn’t risk stepping on it while I moved around inside. The resultant caterwauling could have been as disastrous as the bypassed bell on the front door.

I removed my shoes, widened the gaping door further, and eased through into the next room. The light was better, enough to determine that it was another storage room, but one in which items had been removed from boxes and stacked on shelves. Another door was at the far end of this room.

I approached it, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t, and I opened it with just a faint squeaking sound. I found myself in the store proper, with the cloud-shadowed moon through the front window giving enough light to enable me to really see for the first time.

Above one counter a row of hooks supported enormous sausages. A phallus-fetishist would have gone out of his mind. A battered refrigerated case contained bottled milk, eggs in a splintery wooden box, and several kinds of cheese, none of it appetizing. I scoured the department-store corner until I found two canvas carriers. I laid these carefully aside.

I emptied a crate containing two sad-looking heads of lettuce and began filling it from the shelves of canned goods. The majority of the Spanish-titled labels were also illustrated. I found two loaves of black bread about the size of flattened bowling balls. They weighed almost as much too, but their smell was delicious. When I had the crate filled, I started on the canvas sacks.

I took down a sausage about a foot-and-a-half long from a hook above the counter. It had a pungent, mouthwatering odor. I broke it up to fit it into a sack. Then I went back to the refrigerated case and threw in some cheese. Sustenance, that’s what was needed. I rearranged everything left on the shelves carefully to conceal the spaces left by missing items.

When I had the first sack full, I carried it and the crate to the rear of the building and left them against the inside of the back door. Then I went back to the front of the store to see what I could find for Erikson. One shelf proved helpful:
Aspirina
and
Linimento
didn’t require much translation.

Back in the dry goods section I found a rack of women’s clothing and threw two skirts, shawls, and head scarves into the sack. I took men’s pants from a pile on the counter after testing waist bands against my middle for size. The material was coarse, somewhat similar to denim. From a side shelf I picked out two wide-brimmed hats from a nested stack.

I carried the second load to the rear door. I slipped the bolt and opened it, then one by one put the crate and sacks outside. The cat reappeared at once, sniffing at the sacks. I tried to catch it, but it dodged away. I opened a sack, broke off a piece of sausage, then let the cat smell it. I tossed the piece of sausage inside, and the cat bounded after it, gurgling hungrily. I closed the door from the inside and bolted it again. I didn’t want to leave the cat outside since it was apparently an indoor pet, and suspicion might be aroused if it were found outside in the morning.

I closed the door from the inside and bolted it again. I climbed up on the boxes under the window and eased myself out, feet first. Walter Croswell materialized beside me as my heels hit the ground outside with a soft thud. “God, you were a long time inside there!” he mumbled. “Let’s get the hell out of here right now!”

“One more thing to do first,” I whispered. I went to the nearby well and made a mud pie mixture from the wet earth around it. I carried a double handful back to the open window and motioned for Walter to close it. I dumped the mud at the base of the wall below the window, then once more stepped up onto Walter’s cupped hands when he realized what I was doing.

I replaced the chain-latch bolt, working through the removed pane. I smeared it with the gooey mud, leveling it off with the surrounding plaster or clay. It wouldn’t hold for more than one more opening or two, but that would be time enough. It would appear as though natural wear-and-tear had taken place.

On the ground again, I replaced the window pane and smeared more mud around its edges to hold it in place until the mud dried and disintegrated. I kicked the remaining mud away from the wall and scraped loose dirt over the spot where it had been. It would take a fairly close inspection to determine what had happened, and by that time we’d be out of the territory. If we weren’t, a little B&E would be the least of our problems.

Walter had both canvas carrier sacks shouldered by the time I turned away from the window. I picked up the crate and we took off, keeping to the least populated area of the village as I remembered it from my reconnoitering from the hilltop that afternoon. The dogs picked us up, but they weren’t barking. They flitted around us, begging for food. When we were 500 yards from the village, I stopped and took out the sausage from one of the sacks Walter was carrying. I broke off pieces and scattered them around, and once again the dogs left us immediately to snap and snarl over the cherished meat.

Our only other stop was at the foot of the hill before we began the ascent, and Walter called that halt. I thought he wanted to rest before we began the climb, but he had something else on his mind. “I want to talk to you, Drake,” he said.

“You’re talking,” I returned.

“You’re still thinking of dumping Lisa, aren’t you?” he went on.

“She has no papers,” I pointed out. “If we get on that train tomorrow, we’re sure to have to show papers.”

“I just want you to know that if she doesn’t go, I don’t go,” he said doggedly.

“Don’t be a damn fool! Just because you’re intrigued by her underwear content right now doesn’t mean—”

“Shut up, you bastard! I’m going to marry her!”

“Oh? What do you think your old man will have to say about that?”

“Do you think I’m slumming? She has a better education than I have, and probably a better background. But I wouldn’t give a damn if she was a leper, you understand? My old man won’t have a thing to say about it even if he should be inclined to, which I doubt. What I’m telling you is hands off, Drake. You can wave that gun in your belt all you want, but the minute I catch you trying to unload Lisa you’ve got me to fight.”

“But our chances now are about zero minus, goddammit! We—”

“You heard me,” Walter cut me off. He picked up the canvas sacks and started up the hill.

I followed him, boiling.

Halfway up the steep ascent Walter stopped so suddenly I almost walked into him. “How would you feel if I suggested dumping Hazel?” he demanded. The intensity of his question indicated that he was doing a little boiling himself. He waited while I stared at him wordlessly. “All right then,” he continued triumphantly, “don’t give me any more horseshit about dumping Lisa.”

We continued the climb in silence. The kid’s last remark had put things in a different perspective, but common sense still dictated that the girl not accompany us. Without her, once aboard the train we’d be free and clear. Of the mountains, anyway; there was still the matter of getting out of the country.

Hazel met us in front of the cave. The burdened climb had been brisk enough that I was winded and sweaty. “I couldn’t sleep, knowing you were down there,” she said, kissing me impulsively. It was a warming touch that had nothing to do with passion. Long-sustained familiarity breeds its own special camaraderie.

We displayed our booty while Lisa built up the fire again. I tried to assess the girl from Walter Croswell’s standpoint. She was good-looking if not beautiful. She was quiet, always a virtue in a female. And she had courage, or she wouldn’t be here. But marriage? To a European for one of his background in the States? I shook my head.

Hazel heated canned soup while we all ate sausage and nutty-flavored bread. She tried to coax some soup into Erikson, but he had no interest in it. I’d given him aspirin immediately upon my return, but he remained hot to the touch. “Earl,” he said to me hoarsely when I removed his untouched soup so he could stretch out on the rope-bed again.

“Yes, Karl?”

“You can’t move—the way you have to—with me along. You’ve got to—leave me here.”

He had saved me the trouble of saying it to him, as I might have expected where he was concerned. There was no point in trying to pretend any longer that there was hope for immediate improvement in his condition.

Erikson nodded toward a corner of the cave where Hazel and Lisa were trying on the skirts, shawls, and head scarves I’d liberated from the village store. “Two Spanish-looking couples—will be a lot less conspicuous than—a group of five people including—an extra-tall blonde Swede with—a damaged arm.”

I didn’t even make a pretense of arguing the correctness of his statement. Erikson and I had worked too many times together for false protestations to be necessary. “I’ll send help as soon as we reach Madrid, Karl,” I said. “Unofficial help.”

“What are you going to—do in Madrid?”

“Use Croswell Industries’ facilities to get us out of the country.”

He shook his head. “Can’t keep lid—on something like this forever. Best have—alternative.” He began to shake with another chill. “We have standby system—set up long time ago—never activated.” He struggled to keep his teeth from chattering. “Hope you don’t have to use it because—all working parts might not still be in—place.”

“Take it easy, Karl.”

“Listen!” he said more strongly. “I checked before—I left Washington. First contact—okay. Name’s Guardoza, Mañuel—Guardoza. In Oficina de Correos—that’s Branch Post Office—on Calle de Dedillo. Little—Finger Street. Tell him you—want to buy Italian—brass candlesticks stored—in his Aunt Sophia’s trunk.”