Arthur Hailey - Evening News

A rare exception to this erogenous enjoyment had occurred earlier that evening. They had begun copulating, hoping to erase, even temporarily, their great worry. But it didn't happen and after a while they both realized that they didn't have their hearts in the enterprise and gave up.

The mental empathy, though, remained intact and was typified by their attitude to the Sloane family kidnapping.

Both were aware that they possessed important knowledge about a sensational crime which dominated the news and whose victims and perpetrators were being sought by almost every law enforcement agency in the country. Worse, they had aided and abetted the financing of the kidnap gang.

However, it was not the safety of the kidnap victims that troubled Jose Antonio and Helga. It was their own. Salaverry knew that if his involvement were exposed, not even his diplomatic immunity would save him from exceedingly unpleasant consequences, including expulsion from the UN and the United States, the extinction of his career and, more than probably, the vengeance of Sendero Luminoso back in Peru. Helga, with no diplomatic protection, could be sent to prison for criminally withholding information and also, perhaps, for accepting bribes to channel funds secretly in the bank she worked for.

Those thoughts were running through her mind when the buzzer sounded and her paramour jumped up, hurrying to the wall-mounted intercom connected with the main floor entrance. Pressing a button, he queried, "Yes?”

A voice, made metallic by the system, announced, "This is Plato.”

With relief, Salaverry informed Helga, "It's him.” Then into the intercom, "Come up, please.” He pressed a button which would release an entrance lock downstairs.

* * *

Seventeen floors below, the man who had been speaking with Salaverry entered the apartment building through a heavy plate-glass door. He was of average build, thin-faced and swarthy, with deep-set, brooding eyes and glossy dark hair. His age could have been anywhere from thirty-eight to fifty-five. He wore a trench coat, unbuttoned at the front, over an unremarkable brown suit. He had come in wearing lightweight gloves and despite the building's warmth did not remove them.

A uniformed doorman who had seen the man arrive and use the intercom waved him to an elevator. Three other people already waiting in the lobby entered the elevator too. The man in the trench coat ignored them. After pressing a button for the eighteenth floor, he stood expressionless, looking straight ahead. By the time the elevator reached his floor, the other occupants had left.

He followed an arrow to the apartment he sought, carefully noting there were three other apartments on the floor and an emergency stairway to the right. He did not expect to use the information, but memorizing escape routes was a habit, At the apartment doorway he pressed a button and heard a soft chime inside. Almost at once the door opened.

The man asked, "Mr. Salaverry?” His voice was soft, with a Latin accent.

”Yes, yes. Come in. Let me take your coat?”

"No. I will not be staying.” The visitor looked swiftly around. Seeing Helga, he inquired, "This woman is the banker?”

It seemed an ungracious way of putting it, but Salaverry answered, "Yes, Miss Efferen. And your name?”

"Plato will do.” Nodding to the area in front of the fire, "Can we go there?”

"Of course.” Salaverry noticed that the man kept his gloves on. Maybe, he thought, it was a personal fetish or perhaps the fellow had a deformity.

They were now in front of the fireplace. After the slightest of nods to Helga, the man asked, "Is anyone else here?”

Salaverry shook his head.”We are alone. You may speak freely."

"I have a message,” the man said, reaching into his trench coat. When his hand emerged, it was holding a nine-millimeter Browning pistol with a silencer on the muzzle.

The liquor he had drunk slowed Salaverry's reactions, though even had they been normal it was unlikely he could have done anything to change what happened next. While the Peruvian froze in amazement, and before he could move, the man put the gun against Salaverry's forehead and squeezed the trigger. In his last brief moment of life the victim's mouth hung open in surprise and disbelief.

The wound was small where the bullet entered—a neat red circle surrounded by a powder bum. But the exit wound at the rear of the head was large and messy as bone fragments, brain tissue and blood splattered out. In an instant before the body fell, the man in the raincoat had time to notice the powder bum, an effect he had intended. Then he turned to the woman.

Helga, too, had been riveted by shock. By now, however, surprise had turned to terror. She began to scream, and at the same time attempted to run.

In both efforts she was too late. The man, an accurate marksman, put one bullet through her heart. She fell and died, her blood pouring onto the rug where she had fallen.

The hit man, who was Miguel's paid assassin dispatched from Little Colombia, paused to listen carefully. The silencer on the Browning had effectively muffled the sound of both shots, but he took no chances, waiting for possible intervention from outside. If there had been any noise from neighbors or other signs of curiosity, he would have left immediately. As it was, the silence continued and he proceeded, swiftly and efficiently, with the remaining things he had been instructed to do.

First, he removed the silencer from the pistol and pocketed it. He put the pistol down temporarily near Salaverry's body. Then, from another pocket of his coat, he produced a small can of spray paint. Crossing to a wall of the apartment, he sprayed across it in large black letters the word CORNUDO.

Returning to Salaverry, he allowed some of the black paint to drip onto the dead man's right hand, then wrapped the limp fingers around the can and pressed them, so Salaverry's fingerprints were on the can. The hit man stood the can on a nearby table, then picked up the gun and placed it in the dead man's hand, again squeezing the fingers so that Salaverry's prints were on the gun. He arranged the gun and the hand so it would appear Salaverry had shot himself, then fallen to the floor.

The hit man did nothing to the woman's body, leaving it where it had fallen.

Next, the intruder took a folded sheet of stationery from his pocket on which were typed words. They read:

So you would not believe me when I told you she is a nymphomaniac whore, unworthy of you. You think she loves you when all she feels for you is con tempt. You trusted her, gave her a key to your apartment. What she did with it was take other men there for vile sexual games. Here are photographs to prove it. She brought the man and allowed his photographer friend to take pictures. Her nymphomania extends to collecting such pictures for herself. Surely, her use of your home so monstrously is the ultimate insult to a machismo man such as you.

—Your Former (and True) Friend

Moving from the living room, the hit man entered what obviously had been Salaverry's bedroom. He crumpled the typed sheet into a ball and threw it into a wastebasket. When the apartment was searched by police, as it would be, the paper was certain to be found. The probability was strong that it would be regarded as a semi-anonymous letter, the authorship known only to Salaverry when he was alive.

A final touch was an envelope, also produced by the hit man, containing some fragments of black-and-white glossy photos, each fragment burned at the edges. Entering a bathroom that adjoined the bedroom, he emptied the envelope's contents into the toilet bowl, leaving the pieces floating.

The pieces were too small to be identified. However, a reasonable assumption would be that Salaverry, after receiving the accusatory letter, had burned the accompanying photos and flushed the ashes down the toilet, though a few unburned portions still remained. Then, having learned of his apparent betrayal by his beloved Helga, in a jealous rage he shot and killed her.