Лестер Дент - Honey in His Mouth

Miss Muirz ignored the gun. “At this speed, shoot the driver? You are a fool, but not that big a fool.” She apparently had no concern about the gun.

Mr. Hassam, however, had plenty. His eyes flew wide and he clutched the door handle again. “Harsh! That gun! Where did you get Brother’s gun?”

Miss Muirz was crowding the centerline of the road. “Relax, Achmed. At this speed, he will not shoot anyone.”

“That’s not the point.” Mr. Hassam did not take his eyes off the little automatic. “That can’t be Brother’s gun. He had his gun in his hand when he got in the limousine.” Mr. Hassam’s voice rose. “But it looks exactly like Brother’s gun. How in God’s name, Harsh? What’s going on?”

“I took a gun off a guy who got killed.” Harsh’s voice shook. He was frightened by the insane driving. “I got the guy’s gun out of his pocket, swapped it for Brother’s on the beach.”

They were well out on the dike-like causeway leading to the bridge, with the moon-bathed water of the Indian River rushing past on either side. The limousine lights were still well ahead and beyond the bridge. As yet there was no sign of Vera Sue in the pearl-colored sports car.

“What guy, Harsh?” Hassam’s voice was frantic. “What are you talking about?”

And still Miss Muirz had not slowed down at all.

“You want to know what I’m talking about? There’s a corpse in that limousine. Do you hear me?” Harsh pounded desperately on the back of the driver’s seat. “This guy I killed, his body’s in the back of the limousine. The Highway Patrol has been tipped off to stop the limousine. Now, goddamn it, will you slow down? You want us all in jail?”

The bridge rushed at them like a mouth of steel girders preparing to snap them up. It was an old-fashioned bridge with a tall black mesh of ironwork and a slight rise in the pavement at the entrance. The station wagon took off from this rise with a jerk downward at their bellies, then a long sensation of flying in space, and the shock of landing. The bridge passed them with a coughing sound, spat them out on the other side.

“A body in the limousine?” Mr. Hassam gripped Harsh’s arm. “Man, are you making that up? Is it true?”

“It’s true.”

“Who did you murder, Harsh?”

“I didn’t murder him.” Far ahead Harsh could distinguish a cluster of lights that would be the U.S. 1 intersection. “The guy got killed, sure, but it was an accident. He was a guy who was snooping around the car—a cop, I think. I had this locksmith in town make me a duplicate key for the wall safe, and this cop somehow got wind of it. This afternoon I was supposed to meet the locksmith to get the key while you were looking at suits in Leon’s, but when I went outside, it was the cop waiting in the limousine. He was all bundled up to disguise himself but I recognized him from the day before. And to be honest, I think he recognized me, too—he seemed to know my face, anyway, and seemed sort of shocked to see it. And he was full of questions, like what were we plotting—that was the word he used—and when I wouldn’t answer his questions, he tried to pull his gun on me. Then we scrapped over the gun, and he got shot. I left his body in the limousine and took his gun, the one that killed him, and on the beach I traded it for the one Brother packed. The reason I swapped them, the guns looked a lot alike to me, that’s all. I figured it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Better Brother gets nabbed with the murder weapon than me, right? Then to make sure he did get nabbed, I fixed up the rest, tipped the Highway Patrol to grab the limousine. And that’s why I didn’t want you to get in that car. Not with a dead man in the back.”

Looking over, Harsh saw that Mr. Hassam had a horrified expression on his face. “Harsh, the gun Brother had in his hand just now, when he got into the limousine...it didn’t just look similar, it looked identical. And it’s not a gun you can buy just anywhere. It’s only made custom, for collectors.”

Suddenly the station wagon went nearly out of control. Two wheels left the pavement, and it rocked crazily, bounced off a curb, began to skate from side to side. Mr. Hassam yelled and flung himself forward, reaching over both the driver’s seat and Miss Muirz’s shoulders to seize the steering wheel and straighten them out.

Miss Muirz spoke over the roar of engine and tires. “Thank you, Achmed. Now I can handle it.” Her voice was even more odd than before.

The limousine, traveling very fast into the intersection ahead, now had all four wheels locked with the brakes, and it was veering slowly broadside in a skid. It was not out of control, however, because suddenly it shot south out of the intersection.

Harsh muttered close to Mr. Hassam’s ear. “What’s the matter with Miss Muirz? I thought she was gonna wreck us.”

“Don’t you know who you killed, Harsh?”

“Sure, some cop who was on our tail.”

“No.” Mr. Hassam shook his head heavily. “No, it was El Presidente.”

A Highway Patrol car moved southward out of a service station at the highway intersection, gathering speed, siren going, winking two red spotlights.

Moments later, the station wagon approached the intersection. There were four large gasoline service stations, one at each corner, each adorned with vari-colored neon lighting, and the effect was somewhat like plunging toward a miniature sunrise.

With a stomach-wrenching shock, Miss Muirz threw on the brakes and sent the station wagon into the same kind of skid the limousine had made. The car yawed wildly. Harsh and Mr. Hassam were pitched against the front seat, their breath driven from them. Harsh closed his eyes for the crash...

However the station wagon, with a hard thrust from the engine, recovered in the turn and veered south. Harsh got a glimpse of pale scared faces watching them from the service stations. The police car and the limousine were ahead. And he got, for the first time, a brief glimpse of the pearl-colored sports car farther on.

“Oh, Jesus!” Harsh pushed himself back on the seat. “I thought we were goners.” He tried to lick his lips and found his tongue felt numb. “What was that you said before we hit the corner?”

“You killed El Presidente, Harsh.” Mr. Hassam’s voice was shrill with shock and nervousness.

“Nah, it couldn’t be. I tell you it was a cop, some guy hired to snoop around.”

“No. I am sure. The guns are identical.”

“So what? Factories all make guns of the same model alike.”

“I tell you, these are custom made, the only ones of their type. I’d recognize them anywhere. They were a diplomatic gift to El Presidente years ago. His brother took one, but he retained the other. Both men have always kept them.” Hassam reached out a hand, palm up. “The Uruguayan ambassador had El Presidente’s initials engraved on the underside of the butt. Look for yourself if you won’t hand it over.”

“One of us is nuts.” But Harsh turned the gun in his hand, and with a terrible sinking feeling saw the monogram engraved on the bottom.

“Look!” Miss Muirz’s voice was a bell pealing out horror. “Gunfire!”

The Highway Patrol was traveling very fast. On the right side just under where the spotlight was mounted, muzzle flame from a firearm was winking redly.

Beyond the patrol car, the limousine veered slowly to the left and began riding the highway shoulder; it rode the shoulder a short distance. It had been hit by the gunfire. Suddenly, like a running animal scared off its path, it plunged into a field. The limousine abruptly vaulted into the air, swapping ends as it went, the headlight hurling bursts of brilliance about like lightning flashes. Then the headlights suddenly went out and it was dark in the field.