James Chase: There’s a Hippie on the Highway

‘Does your father know you have taken the boat?’

‘I told him I was going last night. He sleeps most of Sunday. He never gets up before dinner time.’

Harry nodded. He looked along the deck at the locked cabin, then taking a knife from his pocket he cut a length of nylon cord. One end he fastened to one of the metal rings on one of the belts and the other end of the cord to the metal ring on the other belt.

‘You’re sure you want to come?’ he asked.

‘Of course. It’s marvellous in there. I’ve only seen it twice in about four years.’

He went along the deck until he could get a clear view of the island as they approached it. He could see it was of volcanic rock, rising steeply out of the sea and with many sea birds: gulls, cormorants and pelicans, on the rocky shelves.

Twenty minutes later, Nina was steering the boat into what seemed to Harry to be a large split in the rock wall. It was a tight fit, but she handled the boat well and then they were in a sheltered harbour, the rocks towering above them and a small landing jetty on which hung a number of old motor tyres to act as buffers at the far end of the harbour.

Nina cut the engines and Harry, taking a line, jumped onto the jetty and secured the boat.

‘We have a walk and a climb,’ Nina said as she handed up the aqualung equipment. She pointed to a narrow path that rose steeply and then disappeared around the side of the rock. ‘Over there and we come to the Funnel.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Harry said. ‘You told me a boat could get through when the tide is right.’

‘So it can. In a boat, you get to the Funnel on the other side of the island,’ Nina explained. ‘This is the quickest way when the tide is high.’

‘Give me my bag, will you?’

She handed it to him.

‘That’s heavy... what’s in it?’

‘Stuff.’ Harry smiled at her, and as she picked up the bag containing their lunch, he caught hold of her hand, swinging her onto the jetty. ‘You lead the way.’

They set off, climbing the path until they reached the top. From there, Harry could see down into a lagoon with access to the sea.

‘There it is... that’s the Funnel.’ Nina pointed to the face of the rock.

‘I don’t see it.’

‘You won’t. It’s under water. When the tide’s right, the sea goes down some twenty feet, and then you can see the entrance. See the overhanging rock? That’s where the entrance to the grotto is. We swim to that, then dive. There’s a long tunnel and it takes us right into the grotto.’

Harry studied the overhanging rock.

‘You’re still sure you want to come?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, okay, let’s get down there and change.’

She led the way down the steep, narrow path to a platform of rock just above the lagoon. While they were climbing down, Solo’s boat bobbed at its moorings. It wasn’t until Nina’s voice had died away that there was a sharp sound from the boat of a bolt being drawn. The cabin door swung open.

Fernando Cortez a .22 target rifle under his arm, stepped cautiously into the early morning sunshine.

Lepski opened his eyes and stared with bewilderment at the curtained window opposite him, seeing light filtering around the edges of the curtains. The curtains seemed oddly familiar, then he realised with a sense of shock that he was in the guest room of his own house.

He sat up. A blinding pain crashed through his head, making him groan. He had to lean forward, his head in his hands for some moments before the pain receded. Then cautiously he got out of bed, startled to find himself in pyjamas.

He looked at the clock on the dressing table. It showed 06.35. For some moments he stood still, too dazed to think, then he remembered Cortez, the blow on the head and until now, complete blackness.

Where was Carroll? What the hell was he doing in the guest room?

He walked unsteadily across the passage and into the main bedroom.

‘Don’t come near me, you drunken brute!’ Carroll said dramatically from the bed. ‘Go away and hide yourself!’

Lepski touched the back of his head, wincing when his fingers came into contact with a horribly tender spot.

‘What happened? How did I get home?’ he snarled.

‘You were carried here... drunk!’ Carroll sat up in bed. She was also fighting a headache, but she was so angry to see her husband again on his feet and remembering what had happened the previous night, she was determined to inflict a tongue-lashing even if it killed her. ‘I’ve never been so ashamed! I promise you, Lepski, if this ever happens again, I’m going back to mother! I warn you. I...’

‘Shut up!’ Lepski barked. ‘What happened?’

Carroll stared at him in amazement. He had never spoken to her like this before. She immediately concluded he was still drunk. She gave a wail, turned over and buried her face in her pillow.

Lepski grabbed hold of her, and in spite of the raging pain in his head, turned and shook her.

‘What happened? Don’t tell me you’re such a goddamn pinhead you thought I was drunk! I was sapped! What happened?’

Carroll broke free, not believing her ears.

‘Are you daring to call me a pinhead?’ she demanded shrilly.

‘I’ll call you something a damn sight worse if you don’t tell me what happened?’

Carroll had never heard Lepski’s cop voice before nor seen such white heat of rage in his eyes. He completely cowed her. Quickly, she told him how Manuel had come to her table, saying he (Lepski) had passed out, how she had found him in the Wildcat, had driven him home and with Harry Mitchell’s help, had got him to bed.

‘You really believe I was drunk... ME?’ Lepski shouted indignantly.

‘You stank of whisky... you were drunk!’

‘I was sapped! They poured whisky over me! It’s the oldest, corniest gag in the world! You ought to be ashamed of yourself... a cop’s wife falling for that one!’

He left the room, stumbled down the stairs and entered the living room. Here he paused. He thought of Beigler and Hess. How would they react to such a yarn? He cursed under his breath. This could be goodbye to his promotion. He snatched up the telephone receiver and dialled police headquarters.

Half an hour later, he was driving fast down the highway. Ten minutes later, he walked into the Detectives’ room at Headquarters.

To his surprise, Beigler looked at him with concern.

‘Are you all right, Tom? You haven’t got concussion or something?’

Lepski had laid it on strong over the telephone and he was pleased he had made an impression.

‘I’m all right,’ he said, looking brave.

‘You look like hell.’

‘Never mind how I look... what’s going on?’

‘There’s an alert out for Cortez. Fred is now with Mr. and Mrs. Carlos. I’m just off to talk to Solo.’

Lepski showed his teeth in a snarl

‘I’ll come along. It’s my bet Solo sapped me. I’m going to rip that fat punk’s guts out and tie them around his goddamn neck!’

‘Well, okay if you’re sure you’re up to it.’ Beigler took his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on.

‘I can’t wait to get my hands on him!’ Lepski said and meant it.

The Telex across the room began its noisy chatter, Jacoby left his desk and went over to the machine.

‘Report on Harry Mitchell, Sarg, coming in from Washington.’

Beigler and Lepski joined Jacoby. Leaning forward they read the brief report, word by word, as; it appeared on the paper:

Harry Mitchell. Sergeant (Tech) 3rd Paratroop Regiment. 1st Company. Served Vietnam 12 3.67. Killed in Action 2.4.67. Photocopy dossier follows .

Beigler re-read the Telex, stood back and ran his fingers through his hair.