Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

“Around,” said Juana.

“I was in Granada,” I said.

Parson shrugged. I drew him aside.

“There’s someone you have to meet,” I told him in a low tone of voice.

“Oh?”

“About the trip.”

“Trip? What trip, old chap?”

“To the States.”

“Already? You mean you’ve looked over that material I gave you—?”

“Not yet. But it seems wise to set up the itinerary. There will be a logistics problem, I’m sure.”

Parson cleared his throat. “All right. Where shall we make it?”

“Not our rooms,” I said. “I’m convinced they’re bugged.”

His eyes widened. “You don’t really think so?”

Damned hypocrite! He was the one who had planted the bugs!

“I actually think so,” I said.

“Then where? In the snow?” He was grinning.

“The discothèque.”

“In the basement of the hotel?”

“Right.”

He nodded. “You’re on.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Good show.”

“I’ve told Juana to meet with Elena. We just don’t want any interference. This is important.”

“Of course, old boy.”

“The four of us will have dinner together, and then Juana will sit with Elena in the lounge.”

“I’ll admit Elena is somewhat of a sticky problem,” Parson frowned. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing that can’t be handled.”

We ate dinner together, and everything went off just as planned. Juana and Elena drifted off to the lounge, and Parson and I went down to the discothèque to “talk business.”

The floor show had not yet begun. The stereo rig was providing loud music, and dancers were wandering about on the floor doing the monkey and the frug and whatever else was “in” at their particular scene.

Parson and I got a table in a corner. I sat in the V, with two walls angling out from me. Parson sat at my left. I put him there purposely. There was one empty chair at my right.

We ordered some mild wine to start. It did not really take long for the music to increase in volume and the action to speed up out on the dance floor. A few drunks were already being escorted out on the shoulders of their companions.

Then Mitch Kelly appeared, spotted us in the corner, and twisted his way between the tightly-placed tables toward us.

He grinned at me. “George,” he said.

“Kelly,” I said. I turned to Parson. “Barry Parson, this is Mitch Kelly. He’s the man I was telling you about.”

Kelly grinned and sat down. He ordered from the waiter and the kid disappeared in the crowd. It was dark now, with the lights on strobe in the center of the dance floor.

“You don’t really look Italian,” said Kelly with that wide, disarming grin of his.

Parson’s face stiffened. “Well, neither do you.”

“I don’t profess to be,” Kelly rejoined.

Parson’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at me and then, seeing no expression on my face, turned back to Kelly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It is supposed to mean: How can you prove you’re the man you claim you are?”

Parson relaxed. “Well, now. I think I’ve proved it to your colleague. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m the man who has to arrange your transportation to the States.” Kelly’s face tightened. “I don’t fancy trying to smuggle in the wrong man!”

“I’m the right man,” Parson said, his accent noticeably diminishing. He began to sound more like the “Corelli” role he had played with me at the Veleta. I sat back enjoying the give-and-take.

“I feel we are talking about two different things, Mr. Parson,” Kelly said politely. “I have authorization to arrange transportation to the United States for the man who is the key figure in the Mediterranean drug chain.”

“I am the man,” snapped Parson.

“The man’s name is Rico Corelli. Are you Rico Corelli?” Kelly wore a vague smile that did not touch his eyes.

“Yes. I am Rico Corelli.” Parson’s lips were white and he had them pressed together very tightly. Tension, tension.

“I am afraid you will have to prove that to my satisfaction, Signor Corelli.”

Parson put his hand to his mouth. “Not so loud! That name is known everywhere!”

“No one can hear with all this noise,” smiled Kelly. “I repeat, you will have to prove your identity to me.”

“But I have already given the material that can prove it to George Peabody.”

I shrugged.

Kelly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope. It was letter-size. He opened it and drew out a tiny roll of film. He placed the roll in the middle of the table.

The waiter brought Kelly’s drink.

Parson stared at the roll.

“My microfilm?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“No. Rico Corellis,” said Kelly.

“But I gave the film to Mr. Peabody! The real Rico Corelli film I”

“Negative, Parson. That is impossible.”

“How, impossible?” Parson was running a good bluff, but I could see the tension around his eyes — tiny crow’s feet of nerves fanning out into his flesh.

“I am Rico Corelli, Parson. And I dare you to dispute that fact.”

Parson’s face was like granite. I was reminded of the schist along the ski run. He stared at the roll of microfilm. He picked it up to look at it some more, even went to the trouble of unrolling it.

“No need to try to read it,” Kelly said. “It’s too small to see. And, anyway, it’s a duplicate.”

There was a thin bead of perspiration on Parson’s forehead. “A duplicate?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Kelly said with a smile a cobra would have envied.

“And the original?”

“Mr. Peabody has sent it along to Washington for verification with the Narcotics Bureau of his great country.”

Parson stared at Kelly for a long moment. Finally he let his breath out in a long sigh.

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well.”

“Indeed yes, Barry,” I said with a smile. “Well?”

He turned to me, his lips twisted. “What made you set up this kind of charade? I don’t understand you.”

He was going on the defensive. Mitch Kelly and I had succeeded in our primary intent. We had determined that Parson was not Corelli. If he had been Corelli, he would have scoffed and laughed, and congratulated me on my little game. But he would not have knuckled under. The problem from Parson’s viewpoint was that he did not know who Corelli was at all; he suspected Mitch Kelly might indeed be he. And the microfilm unnerved him. His had been fake. This could be genuine. He simply did not know how to proceed.

“Actually,” I said with a smile, “this meeting was set up at the instigation of Mr. Corelli.” I nodded toward Kelly.

Kelly smiled. “Yes. I wanted to see what the man who had been hired to kill me looked like.”

Parsons face was a mask of old leather goods.

“You’re being very humorous, Mr. Kelly.”

“You can call me Corelli. You hear the similarity, Mr. Parson?”

What a damned coincidence! I thought. There was not an ounce of truth in- what Kelly implied — that he had taken on the name Kelly to sound like Corelli. But it played beautifully.

“All right. Corelli. It’s a cat-and-mouse game.” Parson’s forehead was gleaming with perspiration now. “I don’t like cat-and-mouse games.”

“Nobody does,” said Kelly. “Especially the mouse. A minute ago you were the cat. Now you’ve got red eyes.”

Parson sighed. “Go ahead. What is it you want?”

“I want to know why you tried to play me for a sucker!” I snapped.

Parson smiled thinly. “I’ve been playing you for a sucker from the first minute I met you, George — whatever your name is, Mr. Secret Agent from America — and I do not distinguish which particular moment you refer to.”