The Rodriguez Affair (1970) (12 page)

C
ADE STOOD
there utterly motionless, looking down at the lovely, useless body of Della Lindsay. There was some blood, but not a great deal. One cruel thrust of that cold steel blade had been enough to stop the pumping of her heart for ever. Nor did it take any great powers of deduction to guess who had pushed the blade in. No wonder José had had that wild look in his eyes when he had come running from the house.

But why had he killed the girl? Was this the paying off of some private grudge? Cade did not think so. He had a shrewd suspicion that in killing Delia José had merely been carrying out orders, just as he had been carrying out orders when he had tried to send Cade to his death over the precipice. Behind it all was the sinister hand of Gomara. Gomara had heard too much of what had passed between Cade and Delia; he had discovered the girl’s treachery towards him and had taken his revenge—through José.

Cade suddenly began to move again. It was no use standing there; he had to find José. He felt a burning
anger against the man that was even hotter than the anger he had felt when José had made the attempt on his own life. Della had been amoral, fickle and dishonest, but she had not deserved this; not a knife in the heart. José had got to pay for what he had done; by God he had got to pay. Gomara too. But Gomara could wait. First it was José who had to be found.

He went out of the room and down the wide staircase and out of the house. The sun was hot; it spilled a harsh, bright light over the house and outbuildings; it wounded the eyes with its brassy spears. Cade stood on the portico steps and looked for José. He could not see him.

Then he caught sight of the old man who looked after the snakes. Andres was coming round the corner of the house. He looked startled when he saw Cade.

“Hey, you,” Cade shouted. “Have you seen José?”

The old man shook his head. “I see no one, no one at all.”

He turned and went back round the corner of the house like a rabbit bolting into its hole.

Cade thought of following him, abandoned the idea as useless and began to walk towards the gate. The gate was still open. José was not there.

Cade had almost reached the gate when he heard the car. He glanced back and saw the Mercedes in which Della had driven him back to San Borja. It had a different driver this time: José was at the wheel.

So José had decided that it was time to make a run for it. The arrival of Cade and Juanita before he had had time to dispose of Della Lindsay’s body must have upset his plans and sent him into a panic. Now he had
obviously come to the conclusion that he had better get out—and fast.

He was accelerating down the drive when Cade made a dash for the gate. It took him perhaps a second to get there and swing the gate across the path of the car. It was not the kind of gate you could drive straight through, not unless you were piloting a tank. José realised this and stood on the brakes. He was just a little too late. There was a screech of tyres, a cloud of choking dust, and the Mercedes hit the gate.

A lesser car might have crumpled. The Mercedes withstood the shock, the gate bent slightly and José was flung forward against the wheel.

But he recovered in a moment and was out of the car while Cade was still tugging at the revolver in his pocket. By the time he had got it clear José had disappeared inside the stable.

Cade went after him, the revolver in his right hand. There was a tall barn type of doorway in the end of the stable and it was through this that José had gone. The main door was shut but there was a wicket standing open and Cade went in by the wicket, stepping warily in case José should be lying in wait for him.

After the brilliant sunlight outside, the stable seemed gloomy. Cade’s nostrils caught the sharp, ammoniacal tang of horse dung mingled with the scent of hay. There was also the unmistakable odour of leather harness, and he could see some saddles and bridles hanging near the door. The stable was divided down the middle by a kind of working alleyway. On the right was a hay loft and under it were some bales of straw, corn bins, sacks, a work-bench and various implements, most of
them rusty and obviously seldom used. On the left was a row of loose-boxes, only one of which appeared to be occupied—by the black horse that Delia had been riding when he had first seen her.

He could not see José.

He stood by the door, searching the stable with his eyes. There were scores of places wheré Jose could have been hiding and the task of ferreting him out was not an attractive one; it was about as pleasant a prospect as going into the lair of a wounded tiger. In fact, when you came to think of it, José was himself a wild animal and as dangerous as any that walked on four feet. Maybe more dangerous.

Cade shouted: “Come out José. You can’t escape. You may as well give yourself up.”

There was no answer, but the horse whinnied and stamped its hoofs. Cade could see its head over the door of the loose-box; it was looking at him, mutely questioning. It had a diamond blaze showing up whitely between the eyes.

He shouted again: “I’m coming for you, José. Make one false move and I’ll shoot you.”

He heard a faint hissing sound, felt something flick his ear as though a wasp had stung it, and heard a thud behind him. He turned and saw a knife imbedded in the timber of the door. José appeared to be well supplied with knives and he was certainly an expert in using them.

Cade stepped swiftly away from the door. He wondered where the knife had come from. He had seen no movement to betray the thrower; there had just been that faint hiss, the stinging of his ear and then the thud
as the point had buried itself in the woodwork.

The horse moved again in its loose-box; it seemed to be nervous, too. José could see him and he could not see José. How many more knives had the man got?

It occurred to him that José might be hiding in one of the empty loose-boxes; perhaps that was one reason why the horse was nervous. The horse was in the nearest box. Cade did not think José would be in that one. He ducked below the level of the loose-box doors and crept past the horse, which shied back a little. He came to the next box and peered cautiously over the door. There was a scattering of straw on the floor, a drain in the centre and a manger at the far end. The manger was empty. So was the box.

He ducked down again and was creeping towards the next box when he heard a sound above him and on his right, a kind of rustling sound. He looked up just in time to see a baulk of timber hurtling through the air towards him. He dived forward and the baulk struck the door of the loose-box in which the horse was stabled, half-smashing the bolt holding it shut. The horse reared up and neighed, its eyes rolling in terror.

Cade knew where José was now. The baulk of timber had come from the loft. The loft was entirely open on the inner side; it was a large shelf with the hay piled on it, and there was a rough ladder at one end which José must have climbed immediately he entered the building. To get him Cade would have to climb it too.

He thought about it. And the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. There was really no reason, he told himself, why he should go up there after José. It was police work. Why not, therefore, go back to San
Borja and inform the police that there had been a murder at the Gomara place and that the murderer was holed up in a hay loft? Though, of course, by the time the police arrived he was not likely to be in the hay loft; he was more likely to be miles away and still moving.

Well, so what if he were miles away? Why should he, Cade, worry? It was not his duty to bring José to justice, not his duty to climb that ladder and tackle a man who was about as deadly as a jungle puma. Why should he not walk straight out of the stable and leave José to it?

But he knew the reason why he could not do that. It was lying on a bed in an upstairs room in the house; it was lying there very still with only a little blood on it; lying there open-eyed, but seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing; lying there so close to the dresses it would never wear, the cosmetics it would never use; lying there waiting for the men to come and put it in a box and take it away and bury it in the ground.

A good enough reason.

He looked up at the loft. The light was poorer up there. He could see some hay piled up unevenly, but he could not see José. He could not hear him either. José was lying low, not moving, just waiting for Cade to come up the ladder.

Cade looked at the ladder. It went up almost vertically, so that he would need to use at least one hand in going up. It was the kind of ladder you could fall off very easily—even without being pushed.

The horse had calmed down a little; it came to the door of the loose-box and looked at him. But it was still nervous, and when he started to walk towards the ladder
it backed away. He reached the ladder in five quick strides. He began to climb.

He was sweating now; the sweat ran down his face and he could feel his shirt sticking to him. He kept his right hand free while he climbed; the right hand was the one that held the .38 Colt. His hands were sweating too and affecting his grip on the butt of the gun, but he had to be ready to shoot at once if José appeared at the top of the ladder; he had to shoot before José could throw anything down on him.

He was half-way up when he heard the rustle of hay in the loft. He guessed that José was creeping towards the ladder and he did not wait; he started to fire the revolver. The horse neighed again and moved round in the loose-box, frightened by the sound, but the shots must have kept José back, for he did not appear at the ladder-top and in another moment Cade had climbed the last few rungs and had flung himself forward on the floor of the loft.

José was there sure enough. He was standing a few paces back from the edge with a pitchfork gripped in both hands. As Cade came off the ladder José lunged forward and downward.

Cade saw the pitchfork coming and instinctively rolled to one side. The tines of the fork straddled his left arm; he felt one of them graze his flesh as it pierced the sleeves of jacket and shirt, pinning them to the boards. The pressure of his finger on the trigger of the revolver was a kind of reflex action; he did not consciously take aim and the bullet went wide. José wrenched the pitchfork out of the floor and raised it for another thrust, but Cade was up on his feet in a moment and dodged in
under José’s lunge. The pitchfork passed over his head, and his shoulder took José in the stomach. José gave a grunt as the air was forced out of him and he went over backwards into the hay, still gripping the pitchfork.

Cade rammed the muzzle of the revolver into the base of José’s ribs. “Drop it or I’ll blow a hole clean through you. Drop it.”

José stopped struggling. He dropped the pitchfork and it fell with a clatter to the floor of the loft. His face was close to Cade’s and he was breathing heavily; his breath stank of garlic and strong tobacco; his body stank of sweat and unwashed linen.

“You damned murdering swine,” Cade said. “Why did you kill her? What had she ever done to you?”

José sneered. “That whore. She deserved to die.”

“You too,” Cade said, and he ground the revolver into Jose’s ribs. “Suppose I kill you now and save the law a job.”

“And Señor Gomara. Will you kill him also?”

Cade stared into José’s eyes. He saw no fear there; hatred, yes, but not fear. “Did Gomara tell you to kill the girl?”

“Who else? It was no concern of mine.”

He was a cold-blooded bastard, Cade thought. He could drive a knife into a girl’s heart and think no more of it than as a task that had to be done. Cade almost shot him then; his finger pressed on the trigger. José would never know how close he came to death in that moment. Or perhaps he guessed it, for he smiled crookedly, mockingly, despising the lack of ruthlessness that had saved him.

“Get up,” Cade said.

José got up.

“Turn round and go down the ladder. If you try to run I’ll shoot you in the back.”

“You are a marksman, señor?”

“I shall not miss you.”

José turned and walked to the ladder. He went down facing the rungs. Cade followed closely, gun in hand.

As soon as José’s feet touched the ground he made a break for the door. Cade, still on the ladder, had to twist his body in order to aim the gun at him. It was an awkward position and he missed. The bullet flicked the horse instead, ploughing a shallow groove through the flesh of its haunch. The report of the gun combined with the sharp lash of the bullet sent the already nervous horse into a frenzy. The bolt of the loose-box door, weakened by the baulk of timber, gave way under the sudden pressure of the frightened animal and the door burst open just as José drew level with it. It struck him in the side and sent him reeling. He lost his footing and fell full length on the floor.

The horse came out of the loose-box as though the devil were driving it. Its hoofs clattered on the hard floor, came down on José’s head, smashed it to a pulp and were gone. José’s body twitched convulsively and then was still.

The horse had been Della Lindsay’s. It had avenged her death.

Cade put the revolver back in his pocket and stepped down off the ladder. The horse had managed to squeeze through the wicket and had galloped off. Cade looked at José’s dead body and turned away; it was not a pleasant sight. He followed the horse out of the stable and
walked towards the house through the brilliant sunlight.

He caught a glimpse of Andres and a couple of women standing in a little group and looking in the direction of the stable. They had probably heard the sound of the shooting and had come from the back of the house to see what was going on. As soon as they saw Cade they hurried away and disappeared from view. They all looked scared. Perhaps they had already been scared when he had arrived with Juanita. Perhaps that was why they had not answered the door-bell. He wondered whether they had known of Della’s death.

Cade walked up the steps and into the house. He went straight to the snake room, pushed open the door and walked in.