The Follower, page 7
‘Guess you thought I’d abandoned you. Never try and telephone in this country. You can walk there quicker.’ He turned his beaming smile to the girl. ‘Have I missed anything good?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the girl. ‘No one’s been killed yet. Is that good or bad?’
The pink-faced man laughed uproariously and slapped a plump knee. ‘I can see I have a cynic on my hands. I’ll have to initiate you into the mysteries of the bulls, Mrs Liddon.’
There it was. It had been said again. There was no getting around it. The blonde with the red handbag, sitting in the seat next to him, was called Mrs Liddon.
Mark’s first feeling was one of dejection. The ticket-seller at the Reforma had not made a mistake. She had given him a ticket next to a Mrs Liddon and her ‘gentleman.’ This was the Mrs Liddon she had meant. There must be two Mrs Liddons at the hotel.
And yet, surely, if there had been two Liddons listed the clerk at the desk would have mentioned it. Was this then the only Mrs Liddon at the Reforma? Was this, too, the Mrs Liddon who had stayed only a short time at the Hotel Granada and checked out with a blond young American? The idea carried Mark even farther back and was suddenly appalling in its implications. What if the salesgirl at Derain’s had made a mistake and given him the address of a Mrs Liddon who was not Ellie?
Was this whole journey a preposterous wildgoose chase? Was he stranded here in Mexico while Ellie was still somewhere in New York?
A matador was in the ring now, prowling around the bull with a scarlet cape and a drawn sword. Mark’s common sense came back. No, the girl at Derain’s could not possibly have made a mistake. She knew Ellie by sight; she knew her picture was in Harper’s Bazaar; and on the address she had copied for Mark, Ellie’s name had been written: Mrs Mark Liddon. It was inconceivable that Derain’s could have two customers called Mrs Mark Liddon who had both bought suits and needed them shipped at the same time.
Ellie, then, had asked to have her suit sent to the Hotel Granada. She had at least planned to go to Mexico. And, when he had called the hotel from New York, he had specified Mrs Mark Liddon. Surely no coincidence could have brought two Mrs Mark Liddons to the Hotel Granada simultaneously. Ellie must have been the Mrs Liddon whom Oscar had seen go off with a blond young American. For that matter, Mark had specified Mrs Mark Liddon at the Reforma too.
A sudden new idea came to him. It was improbable, but no other theory fitted the improbable facts. He couldn’t believe in two Mrs Mark Liddons following each other from Derain’s to the Hotel Granada, from the Hotel Granada to the Hotel Reforma.
Then …
Down in the ring the matador seemed to have hypnotized the bull. It stood with solid patience, its head lowered, in front of the man who loomed on tiptoe over it, his raised sword pointed ominously downward at the animal’s neck. The huge arena was caught up in a charmed silence. Suddenly the sword swooped. It disappeared in the bull’s thick neck. The bull staggered. Its tongue lolled out. An enormous blast of roared applause swept through the auditorium like a gale. Blood spilled out of the animal’s throat. It gave a kind of hissing cough and collapsed on to its side in the sand.
Clappings, screams, cheers bellowed around Mark. He turned to look at the girl next to him. The businessman type had jumped up and was applauding heartily. He glanced down jocularly at the girl.
‘Well, well, what do you think of that?’
‘It’s making a bouillon cube the hard way,’ said the girl.
Her escort laughed his good-natured, foolish bray.
‘Ah you!’ he said archly. ‘You little cynic, you, Mrs Liddon!’
The girl was very serene. With a casual glance at Mark, she pulled the red handbag around on to her lap, fumbled in it and brought out a compact. Frowning slightly at the compact mirror, she started to remake the scarlet arcs of her lips.
There was something haunting about that young face with the disenchanted blue eyes and the delicate, almost gaunt cheekbones. But Mark wasn’t looking at her as a woman; he was looking at her as a potential enemy.
Because he was almost sure of it now. There was no other explanation.
This girl was impersonating his wife.
10
BERIBBONED mules dragged away the dead bull. The Matador strutted around the arena to cheering, the stomping of feet and the waving of white handkerchiefs. The businessman type sat down. The girl lit another cigarette. The roar of the crowd subsided to a murmur and then rose again to a buzzing of anticipation as a second bull charged clumsily into the ring.
He glanced sidewise at the girl. Her head was half-turned from him as she listened with unenthusiastic politeness to her escort’s lecture on bullfighting. To have this happen on top of everything else seemed more than any man should have to bear. Mark fought against his growing sense of frustration. This was another crisis and he could only meet it by keeping calm.
‘Keep calm,’ he said to himself as he had said when he found Corey’s body in the apartment. The charm worked once more. He felt much steadier. Okay. This girl next to him was impersonating Ellie. Why? Almost immediately an explanation occurred to him. It was far-fetched, but it fitted with Ellie. If she was frightened enough of Victor, she might have thought that escape to Mexico was not enough. She might have persuaded or bribed this girl to take over her public identity while she went into hiding. It would have been a muddled idea because, presumably, anyone Victor sent after her would know what she looked like. But Ellie — particularly Ellie frightened — wasn’t any Quiz Kid.
Until he knew more facts that would do as a premise. He glanced again at the girl. Whether she was an ally or an enemy of Ellie’s, she was obviously the key. He would not let her out of his sight until he had tricked, cajoled, frightened, or forced out of her whatever it was she knew.
He sat pretending an interest in the ring, straining his ears to hear every word exchanged by the girl and the man with her. For so bizarre a situation the conversation was almost incredibly banal. From the man’s heavy politeness and his constant use of the formal ‘Mrs Liddon’ Mark was sure that they were only slight acquaintances. He gathered from a few stray remarks that the man’s name was Riley and that his business was in Mexico, but his guide-book dissertation on the sights of the city proved that the girl had only recently come from the States. The man was not making passes at her, but there was a certain courtliness in his behavior, as if she was worth the expenditure of time and charm. He would, Mark reflected, treat the wife of an important business contact that way.
Since it was safer to cover every possibility, he tried to decide whether or not it was specifically to deceive this man that the girl was pretending to be Ellie. Having listened to their conversation through the brief decline and fall of three more bulls, he convinced himself that the man was not important (unless they were both playing an immensely cautious game). They had met casually perhaps at the Hotel Reforma and the resident American had offered to take the tourist to the bulls.
After the mules had pranced out with the cadaver of the fourth bull, Mr Riley said:
‘There are two more to go, Mrs Liddon. Want to stay?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I guess that’s enough blood for this Miss Dracula.’
Mr Riley laughed. He seemed almost fawningly eager to appreciate his companion’s ‘great little sense of humor’. He said ‘Well, let’s get out before the rush starts.’
He rose. The girl turned to follow Mr Riley past the gauntlet of knees, she glanced back at Mark over her shoulder. She waved her hand in a gesture of farewell.
‘Keep your eye on the bulls, chum. Let us know who wins.’
She pushed after Mr Riley to the aisle. Together they started up the steep steps to the exit door. In a small but steady trickle other customers were starting to leave. Mark waited until half a dozen people had passed. Then he rose too and climbed the steep ramp to the exit.
Passing through it was like walking across the lip of a huge sea-shell. Below stretched the gleaming tops of the automobiles in the car park. It was easy to pick out the girl’s red handbag and her escort’s burly figure in the handful of departing fans. Mark moved down the steps after them. They passed through a gate and hailed one of the taxis waiting at the curb. Mark slipped into another and indicated with signs that the driver was to follow them. The driver beamed with the tolerant understanding of someone who was used to the eccentricities of gringos.
Speed, like the bullfights, seemed to be one of the outlets for the caged violence of the Mexican temperament. The two taxis hurtled insanely after each other through the sprawling city like entertainment cars in some giant carnival sideshow. They reached the hectic center of the town again and the first taxi swerved to a stop in front of an elegant green-and-white awning. Mark’s driver, with a flair for conspiracy, shot past it, turned a corner and swung to the curb. Mark paid a double fare and hurried back around the corner. On a balcony above him a flamboyant red-and-blue macaw was screaming. He was just in time to see the girl and Mr Riley pass under the awning and through a door.
He moved down the sidewalk until he reached the building. It was a kind of glorified snack bar with large plate-glass windows stretching its whole length. Inside he could see fashionably dressed Mexicans chattering at tables. It was apparently ‘tea hour’ in a south-of-the-border Schrafft. A flurry of women with expensive hats and white Spanish skins pushed past him to the door. Through the window he caught a glimpse of the girl and Mr Riley moving to a table.
He crossed the street and stood outside a fashionable dress-shop. When a taxi came by he stopped it, indicating once again with gestures that the driver was to wait. In about half an hour the girl and Mr Riley emerged from the tea-shop and hailed a taxi. The girl waved to Mr Riley and climbed in. Mr Riley started to walk away. With Mark following, the girl’s taxi drove her straight to the Hotel Reforma.
Mark paid off his own driver and climbed the steep steps. The lobby was more crowded than it had been when he first entered it, but he saw the girl immediately. She was standing at the desk and a clerk was handing her a large package. He moved behind the Christmas tree and watched her through its heavy, decorated branches. The clerk was making her sign for the package. He was, Mark saw, a different boy from the one to whom he had spoken. It was just possible that he would not tell the girl that her ‘husband’ had arrived.
It didn’t particularly matter whether he did or not. But Mark was almost sure that he had said nothing because, after the girl had signed, she merely smiled, waved away a bellhop who offered to carry the package and moved with it to the elevator.
He followed. She did not notice him until he had entered the elevator with her and the doors were closing. When she did, she showed no surprise. She looked at him from her cool, enigmatic eyes and said:
‘So we share the same rat-hole.’
Apart from the operator, they were the only people in the elevator.
The operator asked ‘What floor, please?’
‘Three,’ said the girl.
Mark said nothing. He was looking at the package in her arms. It was wrapped in elegant white paper and tied with black cord. One of its sides was jaggedly broken where it had been opened, probably by the Customs. From the angle at which she carried it he could not see the address, but he made out in large black capitals the letters DERA…
He said ‘Let me carry that for you.’
She let him take the package without protest. He glanced down and saw the complete word: D ER AI N’ S . The address was: Mrs Mark Liddon, Hotel Granada, Madero, Mexico, D. F., Mexico. It had been sent airmail. There was a Customs declaration at the left-hand top corner. It said ‘One suit — value $350.00.’
If there had been any doubt that this girl was impersonating Ellie, it was gone now. Derain’s had sent the package airmail three days ago; it would have arrived the day before yesterday; the Customs would have sent a notice to the Hotel Granada, which would have sent it on to the Reforma, which would have sent a boy to clear the package. This was definitely Ellie’s suit and this girl had calmly accepted it as her own. She was compromised up to the neck.
The elevator stopped at the third floor. The girl gestured for the return of the package.
‘This is my floor, too,’ said Mark.
‘Well, well, what a coincidence.’
He followed her down the thickly carpeted corridor. She reached a door marked 332 and opened it with a key from her handbag.
She gestured again for the package. He pushed her through the open door into the room, stepped after her and closed the door behind him, standing squarely in front of it, the package in his arms.
She was remarkably calm. Her features, like a model’s features, seemed trained to express no other emotion than one of glamorous indifference.
‘If this is a seduction,’ she said, ‘I’m not in the mood. Come back tomorrow.’
His suitcase stood on the floor by the door where the bellhop must have left it. She did not seem to have noticed it. Curiosity and anger made him exceptionally observant. He saw that some of the red lacquer was chipped off one of her nails and that the blonde hair was dyed. He could just trace the natural uninteresting brown at the roots of her part.
She was still watching him flatly. ‘Well,’ she said, don’t just stand there. Say something. Or do you only bay at the full moon ?’
‘I’m Mark Liddon.’ He took out his tourist card and showed it to her.
If she were an ally of Ellie’s, this was the moment for her to welcome him. But she did no such thing. She glanced idly at the card and handed it back.
Without the slightest sign of discomposure, she turned and moved out of the foyer into a gay ‘modern’ living-room. He followed. She took a cigarette from an onyx box under a vase of pink sweet-peas. Lighting it, exhaling smoke, she picked up the receiver of a telephone by a couch. She gave him a bright smile over the instrument.
‘Oh, Mr Mark Liddon, what’s the Spanish for dangerous lunatic and sexual assault?’
He went to her and took the receiver from her hand. She did not resist. He put the receiver back on its stand. She was wearing the same perfume as Ellie. It distracted him.
He said ‘Where’s my wife?’
‘Haven’t you found her yet? How sloppy can you be?’
‘I’m Mark Liddon. I’ve followed my wife to Mexico. You’re impersonating her.’
The girl was watching him, dead pan. She pushed the loose blonde hair back from one shoulder. ‘I’m Mrs Mark Liddon. I’ve left my husband in Lincoln, Nebraska. You’re impersonating him.’
‘You mean there is more than one Mrs Mark Liddon in this hotel?’
‘For all I know there are ninety.’
‘My wife ordered a suit from Derain’s in New York. They sent it after her.’ He ripped the cord off the package, stripped away the wrapping paper, opened the box and tugged out a light-grey suit. ‘Explain this.’
The hours of frustrated hope and constant disappointment came rushing out as anger against this calm, impervious girl. He dropped the suit on the couch and, crossing to her, gripped her arms. Once again she made no effort to resist.
‘You’re going to tell me sooner or later. You might as well tell me now.’
Her face was only a few inches from his and her red lips parted in a little smile as if something secret was amusing her. ‘Such virility,’ she murmured. ‘Such hot breath on the neck.’
‘Where’s my wife?’
‘I don’t know where your wife is.’
His grip tightened on her arms. ‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’
Abruptly he pushed her aside and crossed to the telephone. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Mrs Mark Liddon of Lincoln, Nebraska, what’s the Spanish for the police and the American Embassy?’
She took a step towards him. For the first time the blue eyes were clouded with anxiety.
‘You wouldn’t…’
‘Like hell I wouldn’t.’
Quite suddenly she collapsed. With a resigned shrug, she took the receiver from him and put it down on the stand.
‘All right. Since you ask so prettily, I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘Sit down, Mr Mark Liddon. Relax. I’ll get you a drink and tell you the story of my life.’
11
HE sat down on the yellow and grey striped couch. She went to a tin credenza by the wall, took out a bottle of brandy and poured two jiggers. She brought them to the couch, handed one to Mark and sat down next to him. She had abandoned the sophisticated pose and seemed suddenly very young and friendly.
Too friendly, Mark thought.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Liddon.’ She smiled at him over her brandy. ‘It was dumb of me to try to bluff it out. You took me by surprise. No one told me she had a husband who would follow her.’
‘You know now.’
‘Yes, I know now.’ She reached past the sweet-peas for a cigarette. She was trying very hard to appear at her ease, but he could tell that behind the careful calm she was frightened or, if not frightened, wary. ‘You’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you, Mr Liddon.’ She lit a cigarette and looked straight at him. ‘I don’t know where your wife is. I don’t even know who she is or what’s happened to her.’
‘You don’t know anything about her. You just took over her identity on a girlish whim?’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘There’s no reason, I suppose.’
For the first time he noticed that her hand, holding the cigarette, was slightly roughened around the knuckles. It wasn’t the sort of hand that went with the luxury hotel and the insouciance. Almost certainly she wasn’t a model. Her glamour was as synthetic as her presence of being Ellie. What the hell was she? He felt momentarily the immense strangeness of another human being. They were sitting only a few inches apart, but what went on in her mind was as impossible to guess at as the dark side of the moon.
