Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

“Morgan…” She breathed in so that the swell of her breasts firmed the folds of her dress suggestively. “Thank you. Even if you can’t… arrange things I’ll still be grateful. Anytime.”

The management had posted a hurricane tracking chart on the wall beside the desk, positioning the site of the storm, but optimistically had indicated probable course changes that might follow the path of previous blows that bypassed the island, each of the others traced in various colored lines. There were positive assurances that there was no immediate danger, that buildings were hurricane-proof and storm shelters were available and well stocked. All flights were on schedule if there was any trepidation on the part of the guests, with the airlines confirming extra flights if there was any danger whatsoever.

Maybe nobody but me noticed, but somebody had taken down the ornate brass-bound barometer that formerly occupied the place where the chart was. When I finished reading the report I went to turn around and a chill voice said, “Leaving, Señor Morgan?”

“Ah, Major Turez,” I said. It was the first time I had seen him since he and Carlos Ortega paid us a visit. “No, I’ve weathered out hurricanes before.”

His tight smile meant nothing. “That simplifies matters, señor. Perhaps you have a few minutes?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.” Then I saw the other two moving in at a minute nod of his head. “Maybe I do at that,” I told him.

“Good.” He waved his hand to one side. “This way please.”

Carlos Ortega was behind the desk, Russo Sabin beside him and four uniformed soldiers stationed impassively beside the two doors of the office. A blue haze of acid cigar smoke hung in the air like smog, coming from the thin black twists in the pair at the desk.

An empty chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the major, looking crisp and efficient, nodded toward it. “Please be seated, Mr. Morgan.”

I wasn’t going to let these slobs fake me out. I didn’t know what the hell they wanted and didn’t much care, so I slouched in the chair and swung one leg over the other. Before they could ask I said, “What’s the pitch? I’m getting a little fed up with all the attention.”

Ortega looked at me, amused, like a wild, vicious cat playing with a moth. There was little subtlety in the man. There was that inborn savageness in him that made him enjoy any excuse to bring it out and now he was liking what he was doing. But I knew what he was after and knew he’d have to stay cool if he expected to get it.

“There is no reason to be defensive, Señor Morgan,” he said. “No accusation has been made against you.”

“Why should there be?”

He turned to face Russo Sabin. “It is that our Director of Police would like to ask you some questions.”

“Go ahead.”

I was a little too calm and flippant to satisfy Sabin. His eyes half closed in his fat face and his little mouth pursed in an unspoken obscenity. Then he said, “You can account for your whereabouts tonight?”

“Sure. If you can’t you got a bunch of nitheads watching me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

I made a disgusted gesture. “I was in my room enjoying my honeymoon.”

Sabin nodded ponderously, then laced his fingers together and asked smugly, “You can prove this, of course?”

This time I gave him a look of contempt. “Yeah, I had six witnesses watching me consummate my marriage.”

One of the uniformed guards snickered and Ortega withered him with a glance. When he turned back to me his face was rock hard. “This is not a time to make jokes, señor.”

“So who’s joking? The bellboy brought us up supper and champagne, my wife and I had a ball for a few hours, then we came downstairs and dropped some money in the casino.”

“Isn’t that unusual for a honeymooning couple?” Sabin asked.

“There are times when too much can be enough,” I told him. “Anybody who ever had a woman knows that.”

I watched his face get red and his fingers squeeze together.

“What’s this about?” I said.

Sabin didn’t answer me. Instead, he stated, “Earlier you and your wife visited a certain restaurant. There you had supper, spent money lavishly and foolishly and entertained a dancer at your table.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

There was a pause of several seconds, then Sabin bobbed his head again. “Inasmuch as that young lady was found dead a short time ago, yes.”

It was back again, that strange smell of danger. But the peculiar part was, it didn’t come from the faces I was looking at.

Sabin said, “Perhaps you’d like to repeat your conversation.”

“Hell, I was half gassed. My wife chewed me out for even speaking to the broad. Outside of a few compliments I don’t remember what I said.” I shifted in the chair. “You had your men tailing me. Didn’t they tell you what went on?”

“To a point. Your conversation wasn’t audible.”

“Tough,” I told him. “What happened to the broad?”

“Strangled, señor. A most heinous crime.”

I played it as straight as I could. “Well damn right it is, but I don’t see where I come into it.”

Sabin’s face shaped itself into another self-satisfied expression. All of them were watching me now, waiting for any indication that I was lying. “Supposing I tell you that you were seen leaving the hotel at a specified time from an exit normally unknown to guests? Supposing I tell you that you were followed to a taxicab whose number was taken down and whose driver later identified you as a fare he drove to a street not far from the murdered woman’s?”

But I had been through too many interrogations before. I let out a short laugh and looked square into those pig eyes. “Supposing you do, buddy. What am I supposed to say? Whatever happened to the tails you had on me? Who saw all this? And if I set out to see a broad just to knock her off, you think I’d let some taxi driver identify me? Come off it, I’m not that stupid. You try pulling a frame on me to get your hands on forty big fat millions that still belong to the United States Government and I’ll blow a whistle so loud the Navy will park a battleship in your backyard.”

Very softly, Ortega said, “That wouldn’t do you much good, Senor Morgan.”

I got up then and stood there, playing the hand right out to the end. “Maybe not, feller, but you’d get your noses wiped in your own crap. Don’t give me any of your garbage because I won’t take it. I told you once before, this isn’t amateur night in the bingo parlor.”

It was my attitude that did it. I caught the quick scowl that clouded Ortega’s face, then the sudden look of consternation that touched Sabin’s eyes. I said, “Where did you pick up all this junk?”

Sabin was caught off balance and said, “There was a phone call.”

I pushed it just a bit further. “Anonymous, no doubt.” I saw his tongue flick out around his lips and knew I had it. “Big deal, Director of Police. I made a lot of enemies in my time, so now somebody spots me and makes a call Maybe that one was tailing me too, so he bumps a broad and drops it in my lap and you’re idiot enough to go for it. You could use some training in police technique.”

Sabin’s face went red with suppressed rage. “There was the taxi driver, Señor Morgan…”

“Nuts to that too. When does a cabdriver examine his fares at night? Get him here and let him try to make a positive i.d. on me.” I gave him another disgusted look and deliberately spit on the floor. “You guys are wasting your time.” Then I pulled the clincher. “Or is it because I happened to get a little friendly with your girl friend, Director? Lisa Gordot seems to be a woman who can use a friend.”