Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

And now the little things were starting to fall into place. The probables were balancing out against the possibles and a fine thread was drawing them together. They still made a wavy, indiscernible line, but as the threat tightened the line would straighten and the pattern would become visible.

Time was all it took, and that was running out fast.

I let the day go past, ignoring the occasional contemptuous glances Kim threw my way. Twice I went down to the casino, noticing that the crowd had diminished by half, with more leaving every hour. The hurricane tracking chart showed that the storm, which had swung northward for three hours, had veered back into its original course and was approaching Nuevo Cádiz with unhurried deliberation, picking up in intensity as it moved. There was still a good possibility of it cutting out again erratically, but not too many seemed willing to take the chance.

The huge plate-glass windows of the casino that fronted on the street had been taped and boarded over, but through the still open main doors I could see the activity on the street, the lines of taxis going to the airport, the overloaded wagons piled with household goods and wide-eyed kids coming into the city for greater protection against the storm.

Outwardly it was just another beautiful tropical day, the sun warm and red in a bright blue sky, with only a few wisps of high-altitude clouds in the southeast. Yet there was an oppressive sensation about it all. A dozen birds wheeled overhead, their senses alerted to the thing bearing down on them, calling to each other with shrill, annoyed screeches.

For a half hour I watched the unconcerned play at the tables and even tried a couple of spins of the roulette wheel, but it wasn’t a day for winners and the stickmen were encouraging any kind of activity they could. Whatever hung in the air was too stifling to interest the players and they stayed with the games only out of habit or instinct.

For me there was more than just that heavy feeling. There was that strange warm spot between my shoulder blades, the knowledge that it was an exposed target area and somebody was preselecting it. The past had held too many similar occasions for me to ignore it. It wasn’t a premonition, simply a combination of circumstances only my subconscious recognized and flashed a danger signal to that one spot in my back.

I turned slowly, surveying the faces in the casino. Some of Ortega’s people I knew by sight, some were so casual in their behavior as to be obvious. I spotted Marty Steele, who happened to look up while I was watching him, threw me a short wave and went back to the game. The regulars couldn’t have cared less for the storm and played with no show of concern, but the tourists kept checking their watches and consulting the flight schedules every so often, marking time until they could take off.

But there was nobody I could lay a finger on. Just the same, that warm spot wouldn’t go away. I was going to pick up a drink at the bar, then saw Angelo, caught his signal and moved to the elevator bank instead. At this time of day they were on automatic and when we stepped into an empty and pushed the floor button we were alone.

There wasn’t much time, so Angelo gave it to me as quickly as he could. “The altered passport has been delivered to Señorita Gordot as you wished, señor. This evening she will receive a maid’s uniform to wear over her clothes. Her ticket has been purchased in her name for Flight 51 tomorrow night. She will go out with the other maids when their shift is over and be driven to the airport in the truck of Maria López’ brother.”

“You sure of them?”

“As I am of my own mother, senor. They are of us as Rosa Lee was.”

“Sabin has a watch on the airport, Angelo.”

“I assume that as a woman she knows the art of makeup. It will not take too much imagination to make her look like a maid or a worried tourist in a hurry. I know those people there, señor. Customs is a big joke. It is Russo Sabin’s own men we will have to be careful of, but that will be taken care of.” He looked at me and smiled. “There are ways of attracting their attention elsewhere.”

“Will they check on the tickets?”

“That is unlikely too. The airport people are not used to such confusion. They will be glad to push them through as fast as possible without asking questions. Once on board the airliner she will be safe. The planes are taking off the moment they are filled.”

“You clear, kid?”

“I can take care of myself. You are the one who will be in danger from Director Sabin.”

“If that’s all I have to worry about, I’ll be happy,” I said. “What about tonight?”

“I will be free for one hour at exactly six o’clock. A call at your room will be my last before I am relieved for my supper.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting,” I said as the elevator stopped and he got off.

Kim wasn’t in the room when I got there. Her handbag was gone and so were the three five-hundred-dollar bills, but the rest was back between the rug layers where I had kept them. As far as I could tell, her clothes were all in the closet. I scoured the room for a message, but she hadn’t left any.

I swore under my breath because she should have known better. Nobody authorized her to do one thing on her own except stay with me and if she were trying to make anything out of those three bills that had turned out she could be throwing a noose over both our necks.

The sun tucked itself under the horizon, leaving a purplish glow before the night wiped it out and wrapped the city in a moonless black mantle. Whatever had happened to her, I couldn’t go trying to track her down. At a few minutes to six I slid the.45 into my waistband, made sure I had the lock picks in my pocket and as I finished Angelo knocked on the door.

He came in with the supper for two, pocketed the check I signed that he would turn in later and said, “You are ready, señor?”

“All set. What about the guard?”

“Satisfying his thirst with a bottle of wine in the house-keeper’s closet.”

“And if they ask about it later?”

“He was the one to request it, señor. Shortly he will fall asleep.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

The route out was simplified by the lack of traffic in the hotel. We made the basement through the service elevator, sent the lift back to the main floor by hitting the button before we hopped out, then picked our way past stacked cartons and barrels of dishes to a window that opened on an airshaft between the hotel and the building adjacent to it. Angelo forced open the window in the other building, squeezed down through it and motioned me to follow him. Once inside, I put my hand on his shoulder and let him lead me through a maze he seemed to be familiar with until we came to a service entrance that led to a side street.

Angelo wasn’t taking any chances with cabs. A battered panel truck was parked at the curb and when Angelo motioned to it I jumped in and let him drive a circuitous route toward the house of Rosa Lee to make sure we weren’t being followed.

We entered Rosa’s house from the rear, the lock giving easily to the pick. I snapped the small flash on and let the beam probe the darkness. From what Angelo had found out, the police investigation had been limited to ascertaining the means and time of death and removal of the body. The prime suspect had been me, so other avenues of investigation had been dropped for the time being. At the moment Sabin’s men were making inquiries among the many admirers Rosa had at the Orino Bar, following up the possibility that it might have been a crime of passion.

Angelo pointed to the kitchen. “She was killed there, señor.”

I threw the beam around the room. Pieces of broken dishes were still scattered on the floor, a bread bin was overturned in the corner and its contents strewn all over the place and one of the two wooden chairs was flattened as if something had crashed on top of it.