The Long escape Read online

  Idaho knew shorthand. We sat down together and I dictated the letter to her.

  The first part wasn't hard. I summarized what I had done since the first report, giving Adams the details about places and dates and names. It was a good report of a good job until I got to my last conversation with the old man.

  There it stuck. I still couldn't put it into words. I knew, as well as I knew anything, that Parker would die before he would let Dear Helen or anybody else break up his home. But all I could quote hiin as saying was that he had promised not to commit suicide. It was silly on the face of it. And I couldn't end the letter by telling Adams, Here is your man, I got him for you according to orders, but you have to let him go and

  forget the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars

  because I say so. I couldn't end it at all.

  I finally told Idaho to tear up her notes. The letter had gone far enough so that she knew pretty well what was bothering me, but she didn't offer any damn fool helpful suggestions. She said, "You're awfully jittery, Al. Why don't you take a vacation?"

  "I can't take a vacation until I finish the report."

  "You aren't making any progress with it. Maybe if you forgot about it for a few days—just relaxed and put it out of your mind—you'd be able to do it."

  It was a better idea than anything I had thought of. I said, "Where would you like to go?"

  "Anywhere."

  "The beach?"

  "If you like."

  W^e flew down to Acapulco and rented a cabana on the cliffs. The weather was wonderful. We didn't do much, just slept late, watched the muchachos risk their necks diving off the rocks, and lay around on the sand. A bunch of people were there from California, the Hollywood crowd, soaking up sun between pictures. Some of the girls were pretty nice to look at, but none of them had anything on Idaho in a bathing suit. Even the movie boys, who put in their eight hours a day looking at girls, turned their heads when she went by. Then they looked at me, wondering. How come? If

  it hadn't been for that report weighing on my mind every minute, I would have felt like a king.

  The third night we were there, I squared away at it again. I waited until Idaho had gone to bed before I went to work. Everything was quiet, except for the boom of surf on the rocks. I felt fresh, relaxed, full of the old zing. I sharpened up a couple of pencils and sat down with a schoolboy's tablet of ruled paper.

  "No more tonteria," I said. "Get it over with. It's only a job."

  "Right," I said.

  That was about midnight. At 4 a.m. I broke both pencils in half, threw the pieces out the window, threw the tablet after them, and went in to wake Idaho. I was strung so tight that it made me mad to think of her sleeping while I was sweating my brains out. I knocked on the door.

  "Get up. We're going to Los Angeles."

  It took a minute for her mind to start working. She said, "When?"

  "On the first plane."

  "Does it leave in the middle of the night?"

  "Are you complaining about something?"

  "I just wonder if there is some good reason why you have to come and shout at me in the middle of the night. Or is it part of my job to jump whenever you snap your fingers?"

  "Excuse nic for disturbing you. Excuse me all to hell and back again."

  We left it there.

  She got up in plenty of time to catch the plane with me. It was an excursion flight that flew non-stop to Los Angeles, and it put us down there in time to spend three hours looking for a hotel that didn't bulge with conventions. We finally found a noisy room in a place on Main Street, too late for me to see Adams that day.

  Idaho was still chilly the next morning. I said, "I've got business to attend to. Do you know anybody in Los Angeles?"

  "No."

  "Can you entertain yourself until I get back?"

  "I've done it before."

  "I'll see you this afternoon, then."

  "All right."

  I walked over to Adams' office on Spring Street. It was like climbing the thirteen steps to the last jump-off.

  Adams was a middle-aged stocky fellow who wore glasses and hadn't kept his hair. He was surprised to see me, naturally. When I told him that I had found Parker more than a week before, he didn't blow up and ask me why I hadn't cabled him. He listened. He was a good listener.

  It was a lot easier to talk about than to put in a report. I told him what there was to tell, and gave him everything I had that bore on the case, including the affidavits. When I finished talking, he went right to the point.

  "You don't think he was bluffing?"

  "I kno'w he wasn't bluffing^. He has his home, his family, and the life he wants. If he can't keep it, he doesn't want anything."

  Adams fiddled with a paper cutter.

  I said, "I know he won't sign any papers in Chile as Robert Parker. It would open up too many charges against him. But if you could talk his wife—Helen— into promising to leave him alone if he came back here . . ."

  Adams shook his head.

  "She wouldn't promise anything. And if she did, she'd double-cross him. She's a hellion, Al—vindictive as a snake. She doesn't give a damn for Parker, but she'd jump at the chance to make trouble for him just because he left her instead of waiting for her to leave him. He'd know that, whatever promises were made."

  "Wouldn't a prosecution for bigamy throw out her claim to the properties?"

  "No. She has a common-law interest even if they weren't properly married."

  "How about not letting her know lie was here until he'd signed the papers and gone home?"

  "I can't do that. I'm her lawyer. If she wants to prosecute, as siie's legally entitled to do, I can't put myself in the position of having helped him escape prosecution. It woiUd be a breach of ethics."

  "What have ethics got to do with saving a man's life? "

  He shrugged.

  "We all have to make a living, Al."

  I was sweating. It seemed a lot hotter to me there in Los Angeles than it had ever been in Mexico.

  I said, "There's one other thing to do, then. You have three affidavits saying Robert Parker is dead and buried imder the name of Roberto Ruano. With those . . ."

  "No."

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  "I can't do it," he said. "Even forgetting ethics, I can't put a client into a mess on fake evidence. There are too many things that could go wrong. If he ever turned up again—if anyone ever learned that he was still alive—the whole title to the property would collapse."

  "Your client would have her money."

  "Maybe. She would also have a two hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar lawsuit on her hands."

  I snarled at him.

  "It would fix you up just fine if he killed himself, wouldn't it?"

  "I'd rather he was dead, yes. I told you in the beginning that it would simplify things. I don't want to cause his death any more than you do."

  "Well, it's your baby now. I'm finished. I'll mail in my account when I get back to Mexico. Don't send me any more of your dirty business."

  I took my hat off his desk and started for the door.

  He said, "Why get sore at me, Al? I'm not responsible. I'll do everything I can. . . ."

  The door shut off whatever else he had to say.

  I forget how I spent the rest of the day, except that I walked at least five miles around downtown Los Angeles, kicking stray dogs and snarling at babies. Idaho wasn't at the hotel when I got there. She came in about five. By that time I was ready to apologize for acting like a crumb, but it wasn't necessary. She seemed to have forgotten it.

  But I still wanted to make it up to her, somehow. She had never been in Los Angeles before, so that night I took her to the Sunset Strip and spent too much money. We had a good time. Everything was just the way it had been with us before the scrap. Next day I hired a car and took her on a rubberneck tour. The morning

  was nice, Ijut the weatlier turned sour in the afternoon. We ended up at th
e planetarium in Griffith Park, lying l)a(k in reclining chairs watching stars swirl around overhead on what looked more like the night sky than anything I remembered seeing in Los Angeles. I felt pretty good, sitting there in the dark with Idaho's hand in mine, not thinking much, just listening to the lecturer's voice drone on while he pointed out constellations with a little arrow of light.

  I was half asleep when he stopped talking for a minute. A buzz came from the big projector in the middle of the room. The stars on the dome overhead slid sideways. The Southern Cross swam up over the horizon.

  The lecturer's voice said, "You are now looking at • the night sky from the latitude of Santiago, Chile. It is midsummer there, midwinter in the northern hemisphere. The time is . . ."

  I didn't hear what time it w-as. I grabbed Idaho's arm, and wc stumbled over a lot of legs getting out to the aisle. It earned us several complaints, including a couple from the lecturer. The attendant at the door didn't want to open it while the lecture was going on, but it was easier to open it than put up with the row I was making. We went home.

  Idaho didn't say anything about it, so I didn't either. We didn't talk at all until w^e got back to the hotel.

  I

  There was a telephone message for her. She put the message blank on the table when we got to the room. I couldn't help seeing that she was supposed to call Mr. Devlin bright and early the next morning.

  I said, "I thought you didn't know anybody in Los Angeles."

  "I didn't. I do now."

  I went over to the window and looked at the traffic crushing its way up Main Street.

  "I've been looking for a job," Idaho said. "Mr. Devlin is personnel manager at the Security-First National Bank."

  "Oh."

  I went on watching the traffic.

  "We have to talk about it sooner or later, Al. It might as well be now. When are you going back to Mexico?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Do you want me to go with you?"

  "I won't be able to pay you as big a salary as a bank."

  "Never mind the salary. Do you want me to go?"

  "If you want to."

  "I want to. Under certain conditions."

  "What conditions?"

  I heard her take a breath, like a diver getting ready to jump.

  "You mieht call them reasonable conditions of em-

  ployment, or reasonable employer-employee relations. I know you've been upset about the Ruano business, and I'm not just pecking at you because of what happened the oilier nio;ht. It's more than that. You're not an easy person to understand. I don't know how you feel about—me. You brought me back from Chile because you felt a responsibility toward me. . . ."

  "More than that."

  "How much more?"

  I couldn't answer her.

  "I'm not trying to force you into saying something you don't want to say, Al. You never made me any promises, and you don't owe me any now. But I have to know where I stand. Sometimes I think I mean something to you, and sometimes you treat me like an—an old suitcase you grab up when you want to go somewhere. If I go back to Mexico with you, how long will it last? I'd like to—be with you, but not just for a week or a month or a year. I want to work hard at anything I'm doing, so I can feel that I'm getting somewhere—that there's a future in it. It doesn't matter if it's a job at a bank or something else. I want a long-term contract. Or nothing."

  She ran out of breath.

  I was still watching the traffic. Automobiles and streetcars pushed their way into a tighter jam every minute,

  clanging their bells and blatting their horns uselessly while the traffic cop on the corner sweated to keep them moving. It was almost as bad as Mexico City, although nothing could be as bad as Mexican traffic. Mexico City was a loony bin by any standard. And yet I wanted to be back there, living my own life, doing what I wanted to do whenever I felt like it, without having to think how it might affect somebody else or fit in with somebody else's plans or wonder if it was right or wrong or good or bad in any way except as it affected me. I was tired of thinking about other people's problems. I wasn't tired of Idaho, yet. But if I took her with me, I took her problems as well—problems of How long? and How much? and How truly? even if they never got any worse. I knew the time would come when I couldn't give her the fair answer I owed her now.

  I said, "There's no future for you in Mexico, Idaho."

  "None at all?"

  "No. I'm sorry."

  Nothing happened right away. Then she came over and put her arms around me from behind.

  "I'm sorry too, Al. But thanks for telling me. Now let's go out and celebrate my new job."

  I SENT my bill off to Adams as soon as I arrived in Mexico City. Until I got around to figuring expenses, I had completely forgotten the twenty-five hundred dollar credit he had sent to the bank in Satiago. It was still there. I wrote to tell him about it, explained that it would be impossible for me to get the money from where I was, and suggested that he try to recover it from his end. I would be glad to co-operate in any way possible. Please remit as per enclosed statement, yours very truly, A. Colby. It was strictly a business letter.

  His answer, with a check, came back a couple of days later. Clipped to his letter was a copy of another letter, air mail, addressed to Senor Rodolfo Ruano, c/o National City Bank, Santiago, Chile, marked Urgent, Private and Confidential. Adams' letter to me said:

  Dear Al—

  I gather from your brief note that you are still sore at me. I am sure that you will get over it when you have time to think about my position. At least I sincerely hope so.

  I enclose a check in settlement of your account. Do

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  not worry about the money in Chile, as my bank says it can be recovered. I also enclose a copy of a letter which I have written to Parker, taking all precautions that it will reach him and him only. The letter, I believe, speaks for itself. It was written only after a great deal of thought and considerable mental strain on my part. I am no more of a heel than is necessary in my profession.

  Sincerely, Chuck. P.S. I will keep you informed of developments in the case.

  His letter to Parker was fair enough, as far as the wording went. He had leaned over backward to keep it from sounding tough. But he had laid everything on the line. A quarter of a million dollars hung on Parker's signature. Adams was willing to do everything possible to save Parker from embarrassment, but the signature would have to be given. He knew all the facts in the case, sympathized with Parker's position, and regretted that it was necessary for him to ask that Parker communicate with him with a view to making prompt arrangements. He would be glad to forward the documents to Chile or receive Parker in California, whichever Parker preferred. He would wait exactly two weeks for Parker's reply. At the end of that time, he would be

  regretfully obliged to request assistance from the United States Consular Service.

  And may God have mercy on your soul. It wasn't in the letter, but it should have been. Roberto Ruano Parker was as good as dead.

  They were the longest two weeks I ever spent in my life. I tried playing thirty-six holes of golf every day, just to keep busy. After I wrapped a forty-dollar putter around a tree because a bird twittered at me, I gave up golf. Then a friend asked me to drive up to his hacienda in Fortin de las Flores. It was too quiet in Fortin for my nerves. I went on to Vera Cruz. It was too hot there, too cold in Taxco, too noisy in Monterrey, too damn much of everything everywhere else I went. I got back to Mexico City on the fourteenth day—it was Christmas Eve—and found a telegram waiting for me.

  I wanted it to be Season's Greetings from somebody. I didn't care who. It wasn't. It said:

  CASE CLOSED WITH PARKER's DEATH LAST WEEK. JUST RECEIVED AUTHENTIC REPORT. SORRIER THAN I CAN SAY. CHUCK.

  The strange thing was that I felt better right away. It was the waiting that had got me, more than anything else. Now that it was over, I could stop sweating about it. But I had to know how it had happened.

&nb
sp; I sent a cable to Lee in Valparaiso, asking him to check up on the facts. He cabled back that he was still waiting to hear my end of the story, and that don Rodolfo Ruano Parker had been shot to death by Victor Chaarria Serra, an employee. The facts of the killing were obscure. There was a rumor that don Rodolfo had made an attempt to turn Chavarria over to the Car-abineros for a murder which had allegedly occurred four or five years before, but the authorities were puzzled by this, since they knew of no murder which fit the circumstances. However, questions of Chavarria's guilt or innocence in the matter were unimportant. He had himself been shot and killed by the carabineros as don Rodolfo lay dying at his feet. The law had been satisfied.

  I was probably the only man alive who knew just how well the law had been satisfied. A murder had been paid for, a murderer executed, a false death made real. It was all over, for me as well as for the old man.

  So I hopped a plane and went back to Chile.

  I didn't know why I was going back even after I was on my way. All across the length of Central America and doAvn that hell-burnt South American desert coastline, I kept asking myself, What are you doing this for? Why spend your own money on a useless trip? What do you expect to do after you get there? Are you crazy?

  The only question I could answer was the last one. I was crazy.

  The plane got into Santiago late, after dark. I went straight from the airport to the big house on Avenida O'Higgins. A wreath of black flowers hung from the knocker on the front door. The maid who answered the door was in black—black clothes, black shoes, black stockings, not a single touch of white to relieve it. She was as ugly as a lump of coal. Everybody in that house would wear the same costume for at least a year, maybe longer, because death is an ugly thing and no one must be permitted to forget its ugliness and think of the pleasures of life. Particularly the man who has caused a death, if he should happen to come calling.