Delta Factor, The Page 12

  “Yes, we Latin types are very hot-blooded and it has been much too long for me. Much too long.” She held out her hand and I took it without realizing it. “Another time, Morgan. Now you must leave. There is much to be done.”

  8

  THE NIGHT HAD a funny feeling to it. Maybe it was the hurricane that was being birthed somewhere in the moist air of the Caribbean, but the oppressive finger of danger was still there, reaching out to touch something. Trees that were normally still cast shadows against the greater darkness, their movements suggestive and capable of concealing any other slight motions.

  I picked my way and time as carefully as I could, skirting lights and other people until I had covered a mile, picked up a cab that took me within a few blocks of the hotel, then retraced my course into the hotel.

  Kim answered my knock and I stepped inside, expecting those big dark eyes to wipe me out with one suspicious glance. But they didn’t. They had a funny, twinkly look of don’t-give-a-damn resignation, and when I saw the empty magnum of champagne I knew why.

  “Have a happy night?” I grinned.

  She took a deep breath and almost burst through the lapels of the royal-blue housecoat that made an hourglass of her magnificent figure. “I have been simply drowning the speculative thoughts of what I would say if you had showed up dead or not at all.”

  “You have a receipt for my body,” I laughed at her.

  “A live body,” she reminded me. “Besides, the department takes a dim view of an uncompleted mission.”

  “And I’m not to be trusted,” I said.

  “Naturally. Why should you? That’s why I have the dubious pleasure of this assignment.”

  “So give up on me.”

  “I can’t. You’re the X factor. The unknown quantity. I can’t stand to see a problem unsolved.” She picked up a half-full glass and wrinkled her nose at the little bubbles that atomized at the surface of its pale contents. “Possibly because I was a psychology major at the university.”

  I brushed past her and uncorked the other bottle, filled a glass and downed the wine.

  Kim said softly, “You smell funny.”

  “What?”

  “You were with a girl.”

  “Knock it off.” I filled the glass again and turned around. Her eyes weren’t twinkling anymore. The cold was back and something more.

  “I made a mistake. It isn’t the X factor at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “The delta factor,” she said.

  “It’s all Greek to me,” I told her.

  There was something in her expression I couldn’t quite read. “Delta,” she repeated, “the phallic symbol for a woman. The triangle. The personal little geometric design that identifies the female from the male. The eternal triangle.” She looked at me long and hard. “You and your damn broads.”

  Slowly, the implication came to me. “Quit blowing smoke,” I said. “It’s all part of the job. Besides, what the hell do you care?”

  The eyes changed, but again, I couldn’t read their meaning. “I don’t, really,” Kim said. She sipped at her glass, watching me over its rim. “I’d like a report.”

  So I gave it to her. She listened, committing it to memory, then said, “That’s all?”

  I had to grin again. “That’s all I’m going to tell you. The delta factor is my own business.”

  “Not if it interferes with the project.”

  “Then maybe marriage should have its own responsibilities.”

  Her eyes glared at me this time. “Go screw yourself, Morgan.”

  “It isn’t physically possible,” I said and finished the champagne. “Anything new around here?”

  Those eyes ran up and down me before they cooled off, then she set the glass down and curled herself into a chair, folding the housecoat over her legs with an unconscious gesture. “I had an agency contact.”

  I felt myself stiffen. “You nuts? We’re supposed to be olo. . . .”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Morgan. It was prearranged in case of an emergency with a selected code so the conversation couldn’t be understood.”

  “There wasn’t any emergency,” I said. I felt like belting her right in the mouth.

  “There was an exigency, then.”

  I waited.

  “The exploits of you and your wartime associates set a pattern for that forty-million-dollar robbery. I wanted a check on the one you called Sal Dekker.”

  “So you’re back to that again. Did you get it?”

  “With no trouble. Your old buddy is dead. He was killed in an automobile accident in Sydney, Australia, over a year ago and his body shipped back to his parents, who had it buried in their family plot with military honors.”

  “And what’s all that supposed to indicate?”

  “It throws the whole affair right back in your lap, doesn’t it, Morgan?”

  “Go screw yourself,” I said.

  “It isn’t physically possible,” she told me flatly.

  My tone was just as flat. “Too bad,” I said. “Why the sudden renewed interest? I was tried and sentenced. They can’t add to it.”

  “Serving the sentence doesn’t give you proprietary rights to Federal money. This mission completed reduces your jail term; restitution of the funds might help some more.”

  I let her see all my teeth in a great big grin. “Horse manure, lovely doll. Any aces I have up my sleeve I keep there or play out to take the pot. You never did get to know me very well.”

  “Nor do I intend to.”

  “Maybe now it’s time for the rape job.”

  The little gun was in her hand without any noticeable movement. “Don’t try it, Morgan.”

  “Someday I’m going to take that away from you and you know what I’m going to do with it?”

  “Tell me, Morgan.”

  I let out a low laugh. “Nah,” I said, “I don’t think that’s physically possible either.” Instead of the expected cold flooding her eyes again, there was that little twinkle and I said, “Get dressed. I’d like to make an appearance downstairs.”

  “Wouldn’t that be strange for a honeymooning couple?”

  “There’s been time enough to do what we were going to do. They’ll think it’s a ten-minute break.”

  “Male pride,” she said scornfully.

  “Masculine surety, kid,” I told her. “On me it sticks out all over.”

  The gaming rooms of the hotel casino weren’t as crowded as usual. Conversation seemed to be smothered by an unseen haze and the play at the tables was almost lackadaisical. Winning streaks generated only a polite show of interest and more people were at the several bars than had been previously. A crowd was grouped around the desk checking out, another making airline reservations back to the mainland and when I asked a bellboy about the situation he merely shrugged and said the weather had something to do with it.

  Angelo was a little more specific. He indicated some of the maintenance crew lugging four-by-eight sections of half-inch plywood to the front of the building and told me that the weather advisory reports positioned the hurricane five hundred miles out and moving toward the island faster than expected. There was a possibility of it swinging northwest, but a lot of the guests weren’t taking any chances. They were leaving while there was still time.

  You could smell it even inside. It was all there. Everything piling up at once. That moving finger was preselecting its targets, lining them up, then withdrawing to deliver the full impact of a lethal punch.

  I split with Kim, leaving her to play out a streak at the roulette wheel while I roamed between the aisles looking for the action. I stopped at the crap table, the only place that had a crowd and edged myself in when a player left in disgust. I threw a brace of chips on the field numbers and the dark-haired guy with the lopsided grin who was rolling the dice looked up at me with a challenging glance, spun the dice out, then grimaced when I picked up my winnings. Everybody but me was playing the lines so he simply smiled, said, “Lucky,” and to
ssed the cubes out again. This time he made his point.

  The next two rolls I lost on the field, made part of it back while the shooter was still trying for his six, then held back while he made it and raked in his chips.

  He looked up with another of those crooked grins and said, “You ought to play on my side, feller.”

  “I’m a lousy gambler,” I told him.

  “Not from what I seen,” he laughed. “I was there when you stopped the table the last time, remember?” He picked up the dice, shook them and threw his roll with a practiced toss and came up a three. The next pass he sevened out and said, “Well, you can’t win ‘em all,” and crinkled his face in a laugh that threw his features out of shape. “Easy come, easy go. You going to roll ’em tonight?”

  I shook my head. “I know when I’ve had it,” I told him. I stepped back and let the sequin-gowned fat dame beside me take the dice.

  “It’s the weather,” the guy told me and stuck out his hand. “Marty Steele, in case you forgot.”

  “From Yonkers,” I answered, remembering him.

  He offered me a cigarette and when I turned it down stuck one in his mouth and lit it. “You cutting out with the rest?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hell of a way to wreck a honeymoon.”

  “Yeah. I saw your bride. Quite a woman, that one. You sure got the luck. Me, I always wind up with some twist who cleans me out and takes off.” He shrugged and grinned again. “Maybe I’m better off at that.”

  He tried to keep his tone light, but there was a reserved growl behind it and the remnants of the grin had lost its humor to an expression of near hate that lasted a split second before it came under control. Whatever bugged this guy was going to explode someday if he couldn’t keep a lid on himself. He yanked the cigarette from his mouth with a peculiar arm motion, grimaced, then looked at me again. “Guess this damn storm coming in got everybody edgy.”

  “The planes are still leaving,” I suggested.

  “I’m not that edgy. Let the tourists blow. The big money boys are sticking it out and I plan to make a little loot at the tables. I waited a long time to see some of this action I’ve been hearing about and no damn storm is going to blow it on me.”

  “Well,” I said, “hope you make out.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I walked off toward the roulette wheel where Kim was losing her chips one at a time, saw her frown of annoyance when she missed by one number and the grim determination of the amateur gambler when she placed another chip on the same digit.

  With the crowd thinned out the security personnel were even more noticeable. The tension had touched them too and they stood in small groups eyeing the guests nervously. The sight of money leaving Nuevo Cádiz was going to leave a lot of tempers short.

  I angled over toward the bar, ordered a cold beer and had it halfway down when I spotted Lisa Gordot down at the other end. She sat on a stool against the wall, her fingers curled around the glass so tightly her knuckles showed white and every few seconds her shoulders would tighten with some pent-up emotion. She raised her head a moment and I saw her eyes, filmed and red-rimmed from crying.

  Carrying the beer, I walked around the bunch at the bar and came up behind her. “Why the gloom, kitten?”

  There was no warmth in her smile; despair had wiped it out. “Morgan,” she said hoarsely, “I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”

  “You were happy when I left you, girl. What’s got you down?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought you’d be leaving.” I finished the beer and slid the glass on the bar top. “You could lose yourself in the rush.”

  She answered with a dismal shake of her head. “No use, Morgan. My fat little protector thought of everything.”

  “Russo Sabin?”

  “My protector,” she nodded slowly. “He has my passport.”

  “Money can buy another one. Hell, you can get political asylum in some other country.”

  “You touched the sensitive nerve, Morgan. Money. He knew about my winnings. He had it confiscated under a dubious pretext of me being held at the request of another government until my legal status has been cleared. I’m a damn prisoner in this stinking hellhole.”

  “Suppose you had a ticket out?”

  She picked up her glass, studied it a moment and drained the drink without pause. When she put the glass down she shook her head again. “What good would that do? You think his men aren’t at the airport? They have their orders.”

  “There’s got to be some way.”

  “I’m afraid not, Morgan. Not until Sabin is finished with me. It isn’t a very pleasant thought at all. I have heard of others who came under his ... paternal protection.”

  “But if there is a way? Would you take it?”

  A glimmer of hope came into her eyes, faded, then brightened again. “Is there?”

  “Let me think it out.”

  Her hand came out and lay on top of mine. “Why, Morgan?”

  “Because I’d like to see that fat little bastard take a fall.”

  “Not just for me then?”

  “For you too.”

  “I pay back my debts, Morgan.”

  “No payment expected, Lisa.”

  “I’ll insist on it. I can be very persistent. There are things I know that come only to the most fortunate of women and. . .”

  I grinned at her. “Don’t tempt me. Go to your room and stay there until I contact you. If I call I’ll ring once, hang up, wait a minute, then ring again. Make it look like you’re sulking. At least Sabin will understand that. Meanwhile with this hurricane playing around and all the suck-. ers evacuating, there will be plenty to keep him busy.”

  “Morgan ...” She breathed in so that the swell of her breasts firmed the folds of her dress suggestively. “Thank you. Even if you can’t ... arrange things I’ll still be grateful. Anytime.”

  The management had posted a hurricane tracking chart on the wall beside the desk, positioning the site of the storm, but optimistically had indicated probable course changes that might follow the path of previous blows that bypassed the island, each of the others traced in various colored lines. There were positive assurances that there was no immediate danger, that buildings were hurricane-proof and storm shelters were available and well stocked. All flights were on schedule if there was any trepidation on the part of the guests, with the airlines confirming extra flights if there was any danger whatsoever.

  Maybe nobody but me noticed, but somebody had taken down the ornate brass-bound barometer that formerly occupied the place where the chart was. When I finished reading the report I went to turn around and a chill voice said, “Leaving, Señor Morgan?”

  “Ah, Major Turez,” I said. It was the first time I had seen him since he and Carlos Ortega paid us a visit. “No, I’ve weathered out hurricanes before.”

  His tight smile meant nothing. “That simplifies matters, señor. Perhaps you have a few minutes?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” Then I saw the other two moving in at a minute nod of his head. “Maybe I do at that,” I told him.

  “Good.” He waved his hand to one side. “This way please.”

  Carlos Ortega was behind the desk, Russo Sabin beside him and four uniformed soldiers stationed impassively beside the two doors of the office. A blue haze of acid cigar smoke hung in the air like smog, coming from the thin black twists in the pair at the desk.

  An empty chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the major, looking crisp and efficient, nodded toward it. “Please be seated, Mr. Morgan.”

  I wasn’t going to let these slobs fake me out. I didn’t know what the hell they wanted and didn’t much care, so I slouched in the chair and swung one leg over the other. Before they could ask I said, “What’s the pitch? I’m getting a little fed up with all the attention.”

  Ortega looked at me, amused, like a wild, vicious cat playing with a moth. There was little subtlety in the man. There was that inborn
savageness in him that made him enjoy any excuse to bring it out and now he was liking what he was doing. But I knew what he was after and knew he’d have to stay cool if he expected to get it.

  “There is no reason to be defensive, Señor Morgan,” he said. “No accusation has been made against you.”

  “Why should there be?”

  He turned to face Russo Sabin. “It is that our Director of Police would like to ask you some questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I was a little too calm and flippant to satisfy Sabin. His eyes half closed in his fat face and his little mouth pursed in an unspoken obscenity. Then he said, “You can account for your whereabouts tonight?”

  “Sure. If you can’t you got a bunch of nitheads watching me.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  I made a disgusted gesture. “I was in my room enjoying my honeymoon.”

  Sabin nodded ponderously, then laced his fingers together and asked smugly, “You can prove this, of course?”

  This time I gave him a look of contempt. “Yeah, I had six witnesses watching me consummate my marriage.”

  One of the uniformed guards snickered and Ortega withered him with a glance. When he turned back to me his face was rock hard. “This is not a time to make jokes, señor.”

  “So who’s joking? The bellboy brought us up supper and champagne, my wife and I had a ball for a few hours, then we came downstairs and dropped some money in the casino.”

  “Isn’t that unusual for a honeymooning couple?” Sabin asked.

  “There are times when too much can be enough,” I told him. “Anybody who ever had a woman knows that.”

  I watched his face get red and his fingers squeeze together.

  “What’s this about?” I said.

  Sabin didn’t answer me. Instead, he stated, “Earlier you and your wife visited a certain restaurant. There you had supper, spent money lavishly and foolishly and entertained a dancer at your table.”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  There was a pause of several seconds, then Sabin bobbed his head again. “Inasmuch as that young lady was found dead a short time ago, yes.”