The Rodriguez Affair (1970) (14 page)

T
HE CUSTOMS
officer at London Airport examined Cade’s luggage with particular care. At least, so it seemed to him. He was glad he had ditched the revolver before leaving San Borja. True, he might well have a need for something of the kind even in England, but a gun was not the sort of thing that was easy to explain away to an eagle-eyed customs officer.

Cade had nothing incriminating in his luggage and he was passed through.

London looked cold and dreary and uninviting. In the blistering heat of Venezuela he had thought of this city with a certain nostalgia; now that he was back he found it less attractive. There was no one in London he really wanted to see.

There were, nevertheless, people he would have to see. Alletson for one. He rang up the superintendent as soon as he got back to the flat As luck would have it, Alletson was in his office.

“This is Robert Cade speaking. I thought you’d be pleased to know I’m back in England.”

“Why should I be pleased about a thing like that?” Alletson sounded dissatisfied with life. Perhaps the villains were getting him down. Or it could have been the weather.

“No reason at all,” Cade said. “But you’d have cursed me if I hadn’t let you know.”

“You’re right there. I want to talk with you. When can you get round here?”

“I’ll have a shower to remove the grime of travel and then I’ll be right with you.”

Alletson’s face looked to Cade just a little squarer and paler than it had been when he had last seen it. He was sitting at a desk littered with manila folders when a young constable showed Cade in. He waved a hand in the general direction of a chair.

“Sit down, Mr. Cade.”

Cade sat down.

“Like a cup of tea?”

“Is it good tea?” Cade asked.

“It’s lousy.”

“I don’t think I’ll trouble then.”

Alletson grunted. He opened a folder, looked at the papers inside and seemed to be depressed by what he saw. He sighed. It was not such a wheezy sigh as Clavigero’s but he was not so fat. Perhaps sighing was an occupational disease of police officers.

“Have you caught those boys who killed Harry Banner?” Cade asked.

Alletson’s reaction appeared to indicate that it was not the most tactful of questions. He looked sour. “If I had a bit more information to go on, and if certain
people who might be expected to help didn’t go gallivanting off to distant parts of the world, I might stand more chance of laying my hands on them.”

Cade gathered from this rather lengthy answer that Alletson had not yet made an arrest.

“Don’t be so harsh, superintendent. My journey may not have been altogether a waste of time.”

“And what might you mean by that?”

“I picked up some information in Venezuela that could be a lead.”

Alletson raised his eye to the ceiling as though praying for divine guidance. “Amateur detectives. That’s all I need to make my day.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I discovered? If you don’t I won’t trouble you.”

“Get on with it,” Alletson said. “I’m listening.”

“Harry Banner spent some time in a place called San Borja, which is a one-horse town deep in the heart of Venezuela. He went to work for a man named Gomara on an estate about ten miles out of town. Gomara is now deceased.”

“What’s all that got to do with this case?”

“Listen,” Cade said. “Two men came to San Borja with Banner. South Americans, probably from Argentina.”

“Did they have names?” Alletson allowed himself to show a small amount of grudging interest.

“Manuel Lopez and Luis Guzman.”

Alletson made a note on a pad. “And then?”

“And then Banner suddenly left Gomara’s place. He left San Borja too—in quite a hurry. From all accounts Lopez and Guzman were mad as hell when they found
he’d gone. They went after him hot-foot.”

“And what do you deduce from that, Sexton Blake?” Alletson was mildly sarcastic.

“It seems reasonably obvious. Harry Banner and the other two were in some kind of racket together, perhaps involving this man Gomara. He pulled a fast one on his partners and they went after him. They caught up with him in London and killed him.”

“You have been busy,” Alletson said. “Did you find out what the racket was?”

“You can’t expect me to do all your work,” Cade said. “After all, I’m only an amateur detective.”

Alletson seemed inclined to make a sharp retort to that, but apparently decided it was not worth his while to bandy words with so unimportant a person.

“I have the descriptions of the two South Americans,” Cade said. “Guzman is thin and hard-faced. He wears a drooping moustache and has a small scar on his forehead. Lopez is shorter, thick-set, pockmarked, wearing a gold signet ring.”

Alletson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I seem to have heard the second description somewhere before. It sounds very much like the man who tailed you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Cade said.

“The question is why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he tailed you.”

“Could be because I was Harry Banner’s friend.”

“That’s hardly a good reason. Or are you suggesting that Lopez and Guzman are going round knocking off all Banner’s friends out of revenge for what he did to them?”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Cade. Do you know what I think?”

“No. Tell me.”

“I think you’re not coming clean. I think you’re not coming entirely clean. I have a nasty little idea at the back of my mind that you’re withholding some rather vital information.”

Cade looked innocent. “You know me, superintendent. I would never do a thing like that.”

“I hope not,” Alletson said. “I sincerely hope not. It’s an offence, you know. Now, Mr. Cade, I want you to tell me again all that happened on the evening when Mr. Banner came to see you.”

“I’ve told you.”

“You may remember something you forgot to mention on the previous occasion. Some little detail that slipped your memory first time round. Just go through it all very carefully from the moment when Banner rang you up.”

Cade went through it all very carefully.

“That’s the same as before,” Alletson said. He sounded a shade disgruntled.

“That’s the way it happened. Is that all you want from me?”

“It seems all I’m likely to get.”

“I’ll be on my way then. You’ve got my phone number in case you need to get in touch?”

“I’ve got it,” Alletson said.

Cade got up and walked to the door. He said : “You wouldn’t like to give me police protection, I suppose?”

“Why should you need police protection?”

“Lopez and Guzman could still be after me.”

“If they’re still in London.”

“I’d say they are.”

“I can’t give you police protection,” Alletson said. “We’re short-handed.”

“If I’m murdered my blood will be on your head.”

“I’ll try to bear it with fortitude,” Alletson said.

After leaving Alletson Cade made his way to a public house called the Sitting Duck, situated not far from Fen-church Street Station. It was one of those hostelries that have changed very little since Victorian times, full of mirror glass and mahogany and marble-topped tables with wrought-iron legs. The landlord was an ex-pugilist named Barney Logan and the pub was much frequented by others of that fraternity. The photographs of many past champions adorned the walls, and a pair of boxing-gloves hung symbolically behind the bar, inscribed with the date when Barney Logan had exchanged the ring for the less energetic profession of publican.

It was just a little before one when Cade called in at the public bar, and business looked meagre. There were two old women drinking stout at a table in one corner, a couple of men in the uniform of British Rail disposing of pints of bitter, and a seedy gentleman who was making a small whisky go a very long way indeed.

Barney Logan himself was polishing a glass and looking bored. He had the kind of face that could only have belonged to an ex-pug, all beaten-up and squashed-in and scarred, like something that had been inadvertently allowed to fall into a cement-mixer. When he saw Cade his eye brightened.

“Why, Mr. Cade. Nice to see you. Been a long time.”

“Been out of the country,” Cade said.

Barney looked envious. “You get around. Me, I don’t get around no more. Did once. You ever hear about that fight I had in Chicago?”

“I believe so,” Cade said. Everybody who had ever stepped across the threshold of the Sitting Duck had heard about Barney’s fight in Chicago. It had been the high-light of his career.

“What’s it to be then, Mr. Cade?”

“Scotch from the old square bottle. A large one.”

Barney got the drink and accepted Cade’s offer of one for himself.

“Good fighting, Mr. Cade.”

“Good fighting, Barney.”

They drank to that.

“Seen Percy around lately?” Cade asked.

Barney glanced at the clock behind him. “Another ten minutes and he’ll be walking through that doorway. You want to see him?”

“I’d like to have a talk with him.”

He was on his second whisky when Percy walked in. Percy Proctor had been a middleweight; he had in fact been a very good middleweight He would probably have had difficulty now in getting down to the eleven stone mark but there was still not a lot of surplus flesh on him. He looked hard, and his face was not beaten-up like Barney’s; Percy had been more skilful. He had once done a bit of wrestling too, but he seldom talked about that; he was rather ashamed of it

“Hallo, Percy,” Cade said. “I was looking for you.”

“You were?” Percy said. He had a snuffling intonation
that came from getting too much leather on the nose. “You wanter write some more about me?”

Cade had once done a feature on Percy for a magazine and had got to know him very well.

“Not this time.”

Percy looked disappointed. “I liked that piece you done las’ time. Classy, that’s what it was, classy. There was words in that there piece I never knew came in the English language.”

“I’m glad you liked it. This time I want you to do me a small favour.”

“Any time, Mr. Cade, any time. Jus’ you say the word an’ it’s as good as done.”

“What’ll you have, Percy?”

“I’ll have a dirty big pint an’ a glass of rum, seein’ as you’re payin’,” Percy said.

Cade gave the order and steered Percy to a corner table. “Now,” he said, “this is the set-up.”

Cade went up in the lift; it had been repaired during his absence in South America. He got out at the third floor and walked to the door of his flat. He opened the door and went in, and there was that odour of cigar smoke again, the odour he had smelt that day when he had come back from the hotel where Harry Banner’s dead body was lying.

If he had been quick enough he might have drawn back, but the men were quicker. One of them seized his arm and pulled him in; the other slipped between him and the door, closing it softly and slipping the catch. The one who had pulled him in was thick-set, pockmarked, wearing a gold signet ring; the other man was thin,
hard-faced, with a scar on his forehead above the left eyebrow.

“Manuel Lopez and Luis Guzman,” Cade said.

Guzman was holding a flick-knife in his right hand. The blade was clean and shining, but it could have had blood on it not so very long ago—Harry’s blood. Blood could be cleaned off.

“We will go in here,” Lopez said. “And then we will talk.”

He led the way into the sitting-room. Cade followed. With Guzman’s knife pricking him in the back, he had no alternative. It made him remember José Rivera, but not with any pleasure.

“Do not shout or do anything else foolish,” Guzman said. “Not if you wish to live,” He had a harsh, growling voice, and he spoke English with an American intonation.

“I wish to live,” Cade said.

“Good. Then do not try any funny business.”

“I don’t know any funny business,” Cade said. “I leave that to the TV comics.”

Guzman scowled. Lopez brought up a kitchen chair.

“Sit down,” Lopez said.

Cade sat down. Guzman stood on his left and Lopez on his right.

“Now,” Lopez said, “you will tell us where they are.” His voice was lighter than Guzman’s but it had the same American intonation. It had the same menace too.

Cade looked at him with utter innocence. “Tell you where what are?”

“Do not pretend ignorance. We know that Harry
Banner visited you the day he died. We know he left them in your hands.”

“Ah,” Cade said. “So it was you who searched the flat and threw things about?”

“Yes, we did search.”

“And did you find anything?”

“You know we found nothing,” Guzman snarled. “Don’t act so goddam dumb.”

“Then you must know Harry left nothing with me.”

“We know he did.”

“Did he tell you that before you killed him?”

Guzman pressed the point of the flick-knife into his side and reminded him even more of José. “Perhaps we kill you too, you goddam lousy English bastard.”

Lopez cut in sharply: “Wait, Luis. Remember last time.”

Cade felt the point move away from his side. He guessed that Lopez was reminding Guzman that they had been too hasty with Banner and that it had better not happen again.

“Take off your coat,” Lopez said.

Cade was wearing a raincoat. He stood up and took it off. Lopez snatched it and searched rapidly through the pockets, then threw it aside. He frisked Cade quickly but thoroughly.

“Sit down,” he said.

Cade sat down again.

“Do you mind telling me what you’re looking for?” he asked.

Lopez said evenly : “You know perfectly well what we are looking for. We are looking for the diamonds that Harry Banner left with you.”

“So they were diamonds, were they? Well, think of that. Harry Banner with diamonds. I wonder where he picked them up.”

“Never mind where he picked them up. You tell us where you put them.”

“I’m sorry,” Cade said. “I never had them.”

“I better get to work on him,” Guzman said. “I make him talk. I make him talk good.”