with soft amusement, “And what could I have to hide that would make me kill someone?”
I said, “What could you have to hide that would make you agree to a secret meeting with Art Ditmer?”
She drew deeply on her cigarette and then parted her moist, full lips just enough to let a thin haze of smoke slip out between them. Her eyes began to move over me, slowly, deliberately. It was a strange sensation: I had the feeling she was peeling off my clothes and examining me, muscle by muscle. I began to sweat a little.
She said in her throatiest voice, “I don’t think you’re in any position to ask questions, Mr. Coyle. I called you in here to tell you that the police found a very odd set of tire prints in the soft mud near where Turk’s body was found.”
My mouth went dry. I managed to work up enough moisture to say, “Oh?” It wasn’t a very convincing sound.
She said, “Mr. Lerdo, the company representative in Lozano, just told me the Mexican police have found the tires that made the prints.”
She paused just long enough to let me have the full impact of her words. She murmured softly, “The tires are on a microbus camper parked less than a hundred feet from the Mexican customs in Lozano. The camper is registered to you.”
I said, “Why haven’t you told Farley who I really am?”
She said, “Because I intend to use my knowledge to force you to co-operate with me.”
I said, “You play a fair game of chess, Mrs. Jessup. But I think I can match your move.”
She let smoke dribble from slightly parted lips. Her eyes were steady, questioning. I said, “With this, for instance.”
I laid the envelope on her desk. She didn’t touch it. She simply looked. She said finally, “Where did you get that?”
I said, “A better question would be, who wrote it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered with quick anger. “I was hoping your Mr. Ditmer would tell me that when we met.” She spoke as if she still held out a faint hope that the meeting could take place.
I said, “Who did you tell you were having a meeting with Art?”
She looked surprised. “Nobody, of course.”
“Not even Healy, or Turk Thorne?”
“I certainly wouldn’t have told Chester,” she said in a flat voice. “Turk …” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head. “No, I’m sure I didn’t tell him that.”
I said, “How could Toby Jessup have found out then?”
She sat quietly, studying the smoke curling from her cigarette. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t tell anyone. Perhaps Mr. Ditmer did.”
I thought that over and rejected it. Even if Art had been taken by someone and forced to talk, that didn’t explain how Toby Jessup had got the information. I found it a little hard to visualize her, pony tail bobbing, using the kind of pressure that would make Art Ditmer say anything he didn’t want to say.
But I couldn’t buy Toby’s story about her listening at Bonita’s door.
I said, “I doubt that Art would have said anything to anybody.”
Bonita Jessup said levelly, “I’ll find out tonight.” She rapped ash from her cigarette. “I think your worries about your friend are a little premature.”
“You mean you’ve heard from Art recently?” I demanded.
“I had a call just after Lerdo left,” she said. “It was to tell me that the meeting place had been changed.”
“You’re sure it was Art?”
She shrugged. “Of course I’m not
sure
. But it was the same voice that called me before. I have a very good ear, by the way.”
I said, “It could be a trap.”
“I thought of that,” she said. “That’s why I expect you to go with me.”
“Where is the meeting?”
She said, “Originally it was to be at a picnic ground about fifteen miles east of town and by the river. But now it’s to be in Lozano. At Número 13, Avenida Río Seco.”
She was watching me as if she expected some reaction. She began to, smile and then to laugh softly. “That happens to be the most famous
I said, “What could you have to hide that would make you agree to a secret meeting with Art Ditmer?”
She drew deeply on her cigarette and then parted her moist, full lips just enough to let a thin haze of smoke slip out between them. Her eyes began to move over me, slowly, deliberately. It was a strange sensation: I had the feeling she was peeling off my clothes and examining me, muscle by muscle. I began to sweat a little.
She said in her throatiest voice, “I don’t think you’re in any position to ask questions, Mr. Coyle. I called you in here to tell you that the police found a very odd set of tire prints in the soft mud near where Turk’s body was found.”
My mouth went dry. I managed to work up enough moisture to say, “Oh?” It wasn’t a very convincing sound.
She said, “Mr. Lerdo, the company representative in Lozano, just told me the Mexican police have found the tires that made the prints.”
She paused just long enough to let me have the full impact of her words. She murmured softly, “The tires are on a microbus camper parked less than a hundred feet from the Mexican customs in Lozano. The camper is registered to you.”
I said, “Why haven’t you told Farley who I really am?”
She said, “Because I intend to use my knowledge to force you to co-operate with me.”
I said, “You play a fair game of chess, Mrs. Jessup. But I think I can match your move.”
She let smoke dribble from slightly parted lips. Her eyes were steady, questioning. I said, “With this, for instance.”
I laid the envelope on her desk. She didn’t touch it. She simply looked. She said finally, “Where did you get that?”
I said, “A better question would be, who wrote it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered with quick anger. “I was hoping your Mr. Ditmer would tell me that when we met.” She spoke as if she still held out a faint hope that the meeting could take place.
I said, “Who did you tell you were having a meeting with Art?”
She looked surprised. “Nobody, of course.”
“Not even Healy, or Turk Thorne?”
“I certainly wouldn’t have told Chester,” she said in a flat voice. “Turk …” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head. “No, I’m sure I didn’t tell him that.”
I said, “How could Toby Jessup have found out then?”
She sat quietly, studying the smoke curling from her cigarette. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t tell anyone. Perhaps Mr. Ditmer did.”
I thought that over and rejected it. Even if Art had been taken by someone and forced to talk, that didn’t explain how Toby Jessup had got the information. I found it a little hard to visualize her, pony tail bobbing, using the kind of pressure that would make Art Ditmer say anything he didn’t want to say.
But I couldn’t buy Toby’s story about her listening at Bonita’s door.
I said, “I doubt that Art would have said anything to anybody.”
Bonita Jessup said levelly, “I’ll find out tonight.” She rapped ash from her cigarette. “I think your worries about your friend are a little premature.”
“You mean you’ve heard from Art recently?” I demanded.
“I had a call just after Lerdo left,” she said. “It was to tell me that the meeting place had been changed.”
“You’re sure it was Art?”
She shrugged. “Of course I’m not
sure
. But it was the same voice that called me before. I have a very good ear, by the way.”
I said, “It could be a trap.”
“I thought of that,” she said. “That’s why I expect you to go with me.”
“Where is the meeting?”
She said, “Originally it was to be at a picnic ground about fifteen miles east of town and by the river. But now it’s to be in Lozano. At Número 13, Avenida Río Seco.”
She was watching me as if she expected some reaction. She began to, smile and then to laugh softly. “That happens to be the most famous
Similar Books
