Milo March #3, page 8
“Señor Soltero Sansón Carrasco,” he said aloud, “que opina usted acerca de eso? … Vaya con el mozo! Muchas felicidades!”
At the sound of his voice, he could feel the last vestige of Samson Hercules Carter slipping from him. It was almost a physical act. There was a fleeting moment when he thought the mirror showed the shadowy figure of Mr. Carter leaving one side while from the other side Señor Carrasco stepped confidently into his place.
He smiled at the reflection of his new self. “Le suplico a usted que me perdone,” he said. He went over to sit on the edge of the bed.
He took the blue diamond from his pocket and looked at it.
He could still remember the first time he had seen a diamond of any size. Light had flickered within the stone and he had been lost. He had known immediately that his life was somehow linked to diamonds. There was a purpose to his life. The next day he had gone to the doctor and told him there would be no further visits.
At first he had thought only in terms of diamonds of three or four carats. His ambition had been to own as many of those as he could. He lived as cheaply as possible. Half his remaining money went into diamonds; the other half he saved. He’d made no friends. Friends cost money and they offered him less warmth than the diamonds. He’d lived only for the day when he’d go to Spain to live.
Then came the day when he’d seen his first really big diamond at the House of Stones. The diamonds he owned turned to glass. He continued to buy the small ones, for it gave him a reason for visiting Robert Stone, but they meant no more than the money he was saving. Then, in turn, all other diamonds ceased to have meaning once he had seen the Tavernier Blue. He’d held it in his hands and watched the shifting light inside it. He’d had the feeling then, and reexperienced it each time he looked at it, that there was something inside the diamond. Always he felt that he was on the verge of seeing what it was—then it would slip away from him in the changing light. When that happened, he was always overcome with the sense of loss.
The Tavernier Blue had been a turning point in his life. Once he had seen it, his drive to own it had become an obsession. He existed on one dream—the day when the Blue would belong to him. It was then that the character of Señor Sansón Carrasco began to take form in his mind—a secret personality, hidden carefully. The world around him was a place of quiet terror. He knew better than to reveal any of his plans.
He’d bought the gun and practiced in his room, without benefit of shells, until he was certain he knew how to use it. He was determined to protect his rights. The business of the passport had been sheer inspiration. He had seen the story in the newspaper and had immediately gone to the prison to see the man. From that time on, his plans ripened quickly.
He had permitted himself only one luxury. He smiled as he thought of it, for it had been something which Sansón Carrasco could appreciate even more than Samson Carter. He hadn’t needed the help of George Harder; it was seldom that Robert Stone wasn’t called to the phone while he was there, and all he had to do was wait for such a time. But he had endured the jibes of George Harder for fifteen years, and it had amused him to involve George with the police.
Señor Carrasco stared feverishly at the stone in his hand. Once more he thought he was about to see what was in the heart of the diamond. His breath came faster and there was a sudden dryness in his mouth. Light moved in the diamond like a live thing. It shimmered and shifted, and his eyes ached. He put the diamond away, covering the fire that was never still. Perhaps tomorrow he would see what was inside the stone.
“Donde menos se piensa, salta la liebre,” he said, shrugging gently.
Señor Sansón Carrasco left his room and went downstairs to the glass-covered patio. There was just time for a glass of manzanilla before the siesta hour.
Six
The plane came down over the Barajas airport, nine miles north of Madrid. From the air it looked like a toy city sprawling over its plateau, then it expanded rapidly as the plane went down. It vanished from view as our wheels touched the ground.
I waited long enough so that I left the plane directly behind the man with the scarred face. I stuck close to him as we lined up to have our luggage checked. I let two people crowd in between us, but that was all. He was careful not to look at me. It was a safe guess he had an idea we were both looking for the same person. Maybe he was the man who had gone through my room in Lisbon.
There was a limousine waiting to take the plane passengers into Madrid, but scar-face ignored it. He stopped in the waiting room and took a long time to light a cigarette. He was checking on me, so I went out to the limousine. When I got there, I doubled back and found another entrance.
He was standing at a telephone. As I watched, he finished the call and started to make another one. I guessed that he was doing some of my preliminary work for me. I went back out and found a taxi. It was an old, beaten-up American car. A Buick. It looked like it had the life expectancy of a match, but there weren’t any that looked better.
The driver leaped out and opened the rear door while I was still several yards away. He bowed so low I couldn’t help wondering if it was only an excuse to see if his car was still in one piece.
“I want to go to Madrid,” I told him, “but not just yet.” I climbed into the back and sat down. “We’ll wait a few minutes.”
He looked his question without saying anything.
“There will be another man out of there in a minute,” I said. “He’ll probably take a taxi. I want to follow him without him knowing anything about it. Think you can do it?”
He looked interested but not too much. He spread his hands in a futile gesture that belied the eagerness in his eyes. “It would be a matter of difficulty, Señor,” he said. “As one can see, my car is of a great age. He does not always go well.” He watched me slyly.
“Would a hundred pesetas help your car to go well?” I asked. I wasn’t being as reckless as it may have sounded. That was about two bucks at the tourist rate of exchange. “In addition to the meter fare,” I added.
His face lighted up. “Señor,” he said fervently, “for one hundred pesetas my car will put on wings and follow a bird if that is your desire.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I told him. “I’ll tell you when he comes out.”
“Visto bueno,” he said cheerfully. That’s about as near to “okay” as you can come in Spanish.
It was another fifteen minutes before he came out. He picked one of the taxis nearer to the door. When it pulled past, I was glad to see that it didn’t look any stronger than the one I was sitting in.
My driver pulled out of the line when the other taxi was a couple hundred yards away. As we hit the main highway into Madrid, he let another car squeeze in between him and the other taxi. I decided he knew his business and settled back against the seat.
The lead taxi didn’t seem to be in a hurry and we were about thirty minutes reaching Madrid. Then we wound through the narrow streets of the old section and soon hit the center of the city. I noticed that there were still a few scars from the civil war, but most of the ruined sectors had been rebuilt.
We drove along the Calle de Alcalá and turned into the Paseo del Prado. Ahead of us, the other cab pulled to the curb.
“He is stopping at the Palace Hotel, Señor,” my driver said.
“Wait to see what he does,” I said. “If he dismisses the taxi, pull up when it leaves.”
My taxi eased into the curb and we watched. The blond man climbed out and started talking to his driver. It looked to me as though he were arguing about the fare. It must have seemed the same to my driver.
“Alemán,” he said with scorn. “Spain, Señor, is filled with these blond ones from Germany. Since the war they have overrun Spain like cockroaches, and one would think they owned us. It is to our shame.”
I couldn’t resist a little thrust. “I thought Generalissimo Franco has said that there are no Nazis in Spain.”
The back of his shoulders shrugged with eloquence. “Generalissimo Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco Bahamonde,” he said, rolling the name over his tongue with subtle mockery, “is a Galician.” He paused a moment. “It is said that Galicians are sly like lizards. When they say yes, in their hearts they are saying no. … He is going in, Señor.”
A uniformed man had come out of the hotel and picked up the German’s luggage. As soon as they vanished into the hotel, my driver pulled up in front of it. I got out and handed him a hundred and sixty pesetas.
“Gracias. Vaya usted con Dios,” he said. “Señor, you are staying in Madrid?”
“For a while,” I said. A bellboy came out of the hotel and stood at attention. I nodded and he started taking my luggage out.
“You will have need of a taxi,” he said. “You will ask for Bernardo Goma, Señor? Everywhere in Madrid they know me. And I will make it my pleasure to be near the hotel often. If it is things you wish to see, then I am your man. The Prado, the Plaza Mayor, Retiro Park, the National Palace, the Plaza de Colón—”
“I’m not much of a tourist,” I said.
He glanced at me shrewdly. “Then you may wish to follow another taxi as you did today. You will find, Señor, that I am a man of talents. Bernardo Goma. You will remember the name?”
I laughed. “I’ll remember your name, Bernardo.”
“Le agradezco mucho su amabilidad,” he said. He clashed the gears and the old Buick lurched away.
I turned and followed the bellboy into the Palace Hotel. My German was not in evidence in the lobby. He had apparently registered and been taken to his room. I signed my name to a register card and pushed it across to the room clerk.
“As I was coming in,” I said casually, “I thought I saw a friend of mine arriving. A Señor Carvalho. A tall, blond man, with a scar on his face.”
“There was such a gentleman,” the clerk said. “But I fear it was not your friend. The gentleman was a Señor Rainer Eckholdt from Germany. He phoned earlier from Barajas to make the reservation.”
“I had only a brief glimpse of him,” I said. “I thought he was my friend, but I was mistaken.”
The clerk was feeling sociable. “An understandable mistake, Señor March. But it would have been most amusing if it had been your friend. The Señor Eckholdt wouldn’t make a reservation until he was sure that his friend was staying here.”
“Ay, qué risa,” I said gravely. “There are many Germans staying here?”
“But his friend is not German,” the clerk said. “His friend is a distinguished visitor from Argentina. A Señor Carrasco.”
“It’s a small world,” I said brilliantly. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. The German had led me right to Carter. I had expected him to.
“It is truly said that Madrid is becoming the hub of the world,” the clerk said proudly.
“Don’t let Boston hear you say that,” I told him.
“Perdón?”
“A local joke—and not a very good one.” I turned to the boy who was holding my luggage. “Vámonos.”
“Voy, Señor,” he said.
We made a small procession across the lobby to the elevators.
“Seis,” the bellboy told the operator.
We slid up to the sixth floor. I followed the bellboy out and back along the carpeted floor to 612. He unlocked the door and bowed me in.
It was a nice room. It was going to cost Great Northern five bucks a day. I gave the boy a five-peseta note and waved him out. I unpacked my things and sat down to think things over. Now that I’d found Carter, one of the first things to do was to call New York, but that would have to wait. It was noon in Madrid, but it was only six in the morning in New York.
It was a little risky, but I decided to call the operator and find out what room he was in. I lifted the receiver.
“What room does Señor Carrasco have?” I asked the girl who answered.
“Six-nineteen,” she said. “But Señor Carrasco is not in now. He will be back at siesta time.”
“And what time is that?” I asked.
“Four o’clock, Señor. You wish to leave a message?”
“No message,” I said and hung up.
It was too good a chance to pass up. Carter was on the same floor and only a few doors away. I got up and looked at my door. The lock was a cinch to pick.
I opened the door and looked out. The corridor was empty.
I went down to 619. I knocked, just to make sure. There was no answer, so I went to work.
It took me less than a minute to pick the lock. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
The room was very much like mine. Carter had been in it only two days, but there was already an air of neatness about it that was his own personal stamp.
I checked the windows first. There was one opening on a fire escape. I threw the window up. If he came back early, I’d have a way out. Then I went to work on the room.
I didn’t find much. He’d replaced the clothes he’d left behind in New York and Lisbon. Except for a few things that had been bought in Lisbon, they were all from Madrid shops. Not the sort of clothes that a tourist would have bought. Everything fit in with the taste of a middle-class European. Carter had taken a long step toward becoming the character he had imagined for himself.
In one drawer I found several small diamonds, each one carefully wrapped in tissue paper. They certainly represented only a small percentage of his collection of stones. I couldn’t see any obvious reason why he had them tucked away—unless it was mad money, the way a woman will sometimes slip a few dollars in the sugar bowl.
In another drawer I found his gun. It was a .32 with a two-inch barrel. This was probably the gun he’d used to kill the guard in New York and the forger in Lisbon. The gun had been carefully cleaned and wrapped up in a new handkerchief. There was a box of shells, each one neatly in place, wrapped in a separate handkerchief. I couldn’t shake off the impression that these things had been put away as a man stores something which he never expects to use again. It was as though Samson Hercules Carter had needed a gun, but Señor Sansón Carrasco couldn’t possibly need one.
The dual personality of Carter was quite unlike anything else I had ever encountered, yet I understood it—and was fascinated by it. It wasn’t only his changeover from one personality to the other; it was more the combination of shrewdness and innocence with which he had done it. Here was a man who had planned and executed one of the cleverest crimes in years. He had planned every step with such precise care. He had killed unemotionally when he felt it would help to cover his tracks. In a general sense you could say he had been brilliant; but he had overlooked things which a child could have seen. And once he’d arrived at his hideout, he’d automatically assumed it was all over.
He’d been in Madrid only forty-eight hours, yet already two of us were in the same hotel with him. Rainer Eckholdt and I. There were two others after him—Lomer and a girl—and maybe they had traced him. And I was sure that this had never occurred to Carter.
I went over the rest of the room—everything, even the water tank in the toilet. I poked through a jar of shaving cream, smoothing it over again when I was finished. I covered every inch of that room, but there was no sign of the big diamond. I hadn’t really expected to find it—he probably wore it next to his heart—but I’d wanted to make sure.
I checked the room to make sure that everything was the way I’d found it. I looked out in the hallway. Then I closed the window and left his room.
I spent the next hour in my own. I knew better than to try to get lunch in Madrid before two o’clock. Finally, a few minutes after two, I went downstairs. I had some manzanilla and langostas, which is cold lobster. Then I had coffee and some more manzanilla while I listened to the conversations around me. They weren’t worth listening to. The Palace dining room was filled with tourists, most of them Americans.
Nothing can make an American so anti-American as running into his countrymen in Europe. Most of them thought everything in Spain was quaint. The others couldn’t wait to get back to dear old Keokuk. They complained about the dining hours. They thought the Spaniards lazy because of the siesta and they complained because everything closed up from four to six.
When I couldn’t stand any more of it, I went out to the lobby. I stopped to pick up a paper. There wasn’t much choice. I could read a paper with a Royalist slant, or the Catholic view, or the Falangist. I took Arriba, the Falangist paper. Then I retired to a comfortable chair from which I could see most of the lobby.
There wasn’t much worth reading. Every other story was a sales talk on how much Franco was doing for the people of Spain, or how he was outsmarting the crafty foreigners. Since he had tricked Congress into giving him several million dollars, maybe they were right.
I tried the society page. It, at least, was more amusing, but it sounded as if the editor had tried to crowd in the names of everyone listed in the Anuario Español del Gran Mundo. Franco’s name was generously sprinkled through it, too. The Generalissimo had entertained at his country home. So had General Alfredo Kindelán y Duany. A Señor Javier Sanjurjo was off to San Sebastian. There had been a big party at the Valencia estate of Johannes Bernhardt. It mentioned that Bernhardt had been the president of the Sociedad Financiera Industrial, but it neglected to add that he was one of the top Nazis still in Spain. I guess they thought it wouldn’t be polite to point.
Finally I turned to the ads. There wasn’t much that the censor could do about the Banco Central having two hundred million pesetas in circulation.
It was about 3:30 when I saw Eckholdt come in. I made myself inconspicuous behind the paper. There was a scowl on his face, so I guessed he’d been looking around without much success. He made a quick survey of the dining room, the American bar, and the patio. Then he went upstairs.
It was only a few minutes before four when Carter came in. He didn’t look much like the photograph the cops had given me, but still I would have recognized him anywhere.
Less than a week ago Samson Carter had stolen the diamond, but he had changed so much that I doubted if many of his old acquaintances would have recognized him. It wasn’t only the mustache. His face had changed. The photograph had shown a tension in his face—a familiar look in the faces of most Americans. That was gone now. His hair was longer in the back. The clothes were part of it, too. In a subtle fashion the man who had a week before looked like thousands of other Americans now looked like a thousand other Spanish gentlemen.
