Chapter 9
Harold was standing in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil for coffee when he heard the sound outside. He knew that Hank and Danny were in the sack. They had pleaded exhaustion after they had helped remove the photographic equipment and lights from the room, and after a little good-natured ribbing from Harold, they had gone to bed.
Moving silently across the kitchen, Harold stood by the window and listened. The muffled sounds of someone moving about on the gravel driveway broke the silence of the mountain night. Harold reached out and flipped the kitchen switch off. Carefully, he opened the curtain on the kitchen window and stared out into the indigo night. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out the form of a man near the car. The trunk of the Torino was open and then man was lifting something into the storage space.
Harold's alert mind recognized the outline of George Munroe's body immediately. He knew that George was up to something, but he hadn't expected the photographer to move this soon. If George was loading the car, that meant that he planned to split. And he wouldn't split without being paid his ten thousand unless he was taking something that he thought was worth a great deal more. The only thing that George could be taking that was worth anything at all were the exposed films.
Harold moved quickly and quietly, crossing through the kitchen and into the living room. His judgment was confirmed when he glanced at the coffee table and noticed that the keys to the Torino were missing. He was moving toward the front door when he heard the door at the back of the house close. Harold stopped in his tracks when he heard heavy footsteps approaching the living room along the hall.
"You still up, George?" Harold asked with a smile when the photographer walked unsuspectingly into the living room. "By the way, have you seen the car keys? After being holed up in that stuffy closet, I thought I'd take a drive and get some fresh air."
"Huh? The car keys? Oh, yeah, yeah," George said, quickly regaining his composure, "I saw them around here someplace. Oh, here they are on the bookcase," he added, turning his back on Harold and pretending to find the keys. "Some fresh air doesn't sound like a bad idea. Mind if I tag along?"
"Sure, let's just take a short ride to clear our lungs."
"Where are Danny and Hank?" George asked, his mind working quickly as he tried to adjust to this sudden change of plans.
"Sacked out."
"And the broad? Is she okay?"
"Sleeping soundly," Harold said casually, hiding the tenseness in his body. "She'll have one hell of a hangover in the morning. Come on, let's get out of here for a while."
"Yeah, sure," George responded. "I'll meet you at the car. Let me pick up a sweater in case it's cold out there."
Harold saw that the trunk was closed as he approached the Torino. He resisted the temptation to open it and inspect the items that George had packed, but he didn't want to tip his hand just yet. He had no sooner started the car than George opened the door on the passenger side and slipped in. Harold noted that George was neither wearing nor carrying a sweater. He also noted that there was a small bulge in the right rear pocket of George's pants. Harold put the car into gear and slowly pulled away from the house. When he reached the road, Harold turned left and headed for the mountains instead of going toward the village of La Cumbre.
"So what do you think of those films we made?" Harold asked.
"Huh? Oh, the pictures. Well, in this racket you never know until they're out of the developing tanks. But these ought to be good. We had everything going for us. The lighting was good. Some shadows, but not bad. The angles were pretty good. I'll have to give the boys credit for that. Hell, I think they should come out great!"
Harold noticed that George's voice was almost an octave higher, and the way that he gripped his knees as he sat staring straight ahead was evidence that he was nervous and tense. Harold decided to press his advantage.
"You know what those pictures are worth, George?"
"Christ, that's your department, isn't it?" George responded. "I figure if you're paying me ten grand for them, they must be worth plenty! Hey, where are we headed?"
"There's a flat spot a few miles up," Harold replied casually. "Great view of the valley and the village. I thought we'd park there and inhale some of this good mountain air."
George remained silent, staring straight ahead as the grade became steeper and the Torino's engine began to labor with the climb.
"Hey, is that snow out there?" he asked as a patch of white flashed by.
"I imagine so," Harold chuckled. "We're up pretty high. They tell me that up here the snow never melts. So you think those films we made are pretty valuable?" Harold added to take the photographer's mind off the solid banks of snow passing by the windows.
"Sure," George replied. "Look, you can pull anything on Hank and Danny, but I wasn't born yesterday. A dame that rich would pay anything for those pictures."
"How do you know she's rich?" Harold asked softly, having his suspicion that George intended to use the photographs for blackmail confirmed.
"I don't," George said almost too quickly. "But she must be, if we kidnapped her for a healthy ransom. For Christ's sake, Harold, don't treat me like a dummy!"
"I wasn't," Harold said quietly as he pulled the Torino slowly off the road into a snow-covered area that was obviously designed as an observation point. "I was just trying to find out how you thought, George. Come on, let's get out and fill our lungs with some pure air."
Harold slipped the car keys into his pocket as he opened the door and stepped out into the hard-packed snow. Somehow, George has found out who Debby is, Harold told himself as he walked slowly around the car. And he intends to blackmail her, probably for the rest of her life, with those photos. Harold heard the passenger door on the Torino open and his mind alerted his body that George Munroe was a dangerous man. He walked to the edge of the observation area and stood looking down at the lights of La Cumbre below with every muscle in his body tense and poised.
"Look down there,' Harold said without turning, "you can see the village."
Harold sensed rather than heard George moving steadily up behind him. His ear picked up the crunch of the photographer's foot stepping on soft snow. If that was a gun that I saw in his back pocket, Harold said to himself, I'll have to time this perfectly.
"Why did you pack all the films in the trunk of the car, George?" Harold said sharply.
"Wha..."
As Harold had counted on, the question caught George Munroe unprepared and surprised him. Harold dug his heel into the snow and spun around with his arm raised. He saw the surprise on George's face as he whipped his arm down and caught the photographer's wrist in a steel grip. He saw George's finger tighten on the trigger of the small automatic that he held in his hand, but it was too late. Harold's body reacted automatically to his judo training and he whipped George's hand up behind his back just as the gun went off. The photographer's body went limp as the bullet entered the back of his head. Harold saw the bloody, gaping hole in the back of George's skull when he released his grip and allowed the man's limp body to fall in the snow.
"You shot yourself, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!" Harold said aloud. He bent down and checked for a pulse in the photographer's lifeless arm. Nobody could live through a bullet in the brain like that, he sighed to himself. Harold knelt by the body for a minute, then walked back to the car and opened the trunk. He fumbled for the flashlight and then began removing the things that George had placed in the trunk.
No wonder he didn't come out with a sweater, Harold said to himself as he lifted George's heavy suitcase out of the back of the Torino. Next was a canvas case filled with George's photographic equipment. Placing the flashlight on the rear fender of the car, Harold carefully went through every item in the two bags. The exposed reels of film were wrapped in George's dirty clothes. Harold counted them and then carefully locked them in the glove compartment of the car.
Lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the Torino, Harold began considering his next move. It was an accidental death, one that took place as the result of Harold's move to defend himself. Still, a police inquiry had to be avoided under the circumstances. George had entered Argentina alone and Harold had taken pains to be sure that no one in the village had ever seen George and that the photographer couldn't be linked to the chalet. Only Hank and Harold himself had ever ventured outside of the chalet.
What would happen if George Munroe simply disappeared? Was there any way that they could link the photographer to Harold? His mind considered every possibility. Argentine Immigrations had simply stamped their passports on arrival. No visa was necessary for tourists. That meant that that there was no official record of George Munroe entering the country. Just the stamp in his passport, and that could be destroyed.
What about San Francisco, Harold asked himself as he stared up at the stars above the peaks of the mountains? George was separated from his wife and Harold was certain that she had no idea where George was. The photographer was bound to have some friends who would miss him at some point. Perhaps he even told someone where he was going just before he left. It will be some time before they start asking questions, Harold reasoned, and even if they reported George missing, what link could be established to me? If George mentioned my name to anyone, all I have to do is say I saw him off on a plane to Europe.
His mind made up, Harold began looking for a way to conceal the photographer's body. He kicked the snow and found that it was about six inches deep and hard packed in the parking area. He found that a ravine dropped off near the road and a few feet below the parking area in the ravine there was a bowl-shaped area that looked as if it was filled with what could be deep snow. Taking the tire iron and the base of the jack from the trunk of the car, Harold slid down the short bank.
On top, the snow was relatively soft and loosely packed, but underneath he found hard snow. Harold used the tire iron to break the snow and the base of the jack to scoop it into piles at the sides of the shallow grave that he dug. It was hard work and took him the better part of two hours to crack and scoop up enough snow to leave the long narrow trench.
His hands stung and he wished that he had worn gloves when he pulled himself back up to the parking area. Making two trips, he dropped George Munroe's baggage down into the bowl-like area. Then he walked back and began dragging the photographer's body across the hard-packed snow by the heels.
Harold lowered the body into the trench, then placed the luggage in beside the lifeless form. Scooping the snow back into the trench with the base of the tire jack was slow, tedious work. Twice Harold walked and stamped on the snow to pack it down before he scooped more on top.
When he was finished, Harold stamped the area level. Then he took off his coat and used it to drag across the soft snow on top of the shallow grave to erase the signs of his work. Studying the entire area with the flashlight, Harold decided that his efforts weren't visible from any distance.
In the parking area, Harold dug a small hole to bury the snow that was stained with the photographer's blood. Again, he used his coat to erase the signs of his digging.
Harold's hands were numb and stinging by the time that he climbed behind the wheel of the Torino. He started the engine, put the car in reverse and made a sweep of the entire area with the headlights. By the time he backed onto the road and headed the car down the steep grade, Harold was confident that he had done a neat job. He was relatively positive that no one would find George Munroe's body for a long time. And if winter passed without someone finding the remains of the scheming photographer, George Munroe might well stay where he was for years without being discovered.
His whole body ached when he killed the engine and climbed out of the car at the chalet. The warm air in the valley brought the circulation back to his hands. Harold closed the door quietly to avoid waking up anybody in the chalet. He entered the back door and headed directly for the room that George Munroe had occupied.
The closet and chest of drawers were bare and the room yielded nothing belonging to the photographer when Harold searched it carefully. George didn't intend coming back to the chalet, Harold said to himself as he pulled his weary body erect. The thought that George had obviously intended to kill him sent a shiver rippling down Harold's spine.
Harold barely got his clothes off before he fell on his bed and dropped off in a deep, exhausted sleep. His peaceful, dreamless sleep was interrupted four hours later when the sound of voices in the kitchen reached his ear. With a great effort, he pulled himself out of bed and staggered into the shower. Harold found a long blister on the palm of his right hand as he stood under the steaming, refreshing water. He remembered the events of the night as he looked at the blister. This was the result of hacking the ice-like snow with the tire iron, and Harold wondered if he carried any other marks of his adventure on the mountain.
He pulled on slacks and a lightweight turtleneck and headed for the kitchen.
"Hi, boss," Danny greeted Harold as he walked into the kitchen. "Have you seen George?"
"He split last night," Harold replied casually.
"Split?" Hank said.
"Yeah. I think he had ants in his pants or something," Harold remarked. "He told me his work was done and that he wanted to split. So I paid him off and let him go. Even drove him to the village so he could catch that one-o'clock bus that goes through."
"Well, how about us?" Hank asked.
"Just be patient," Harold said. "It's almost over now. I need you two for the last act. You're going into Buenos Aires today, Danny. Hank will drive you to Córdoba and you catch a plane. You'll deliver a note for me, then we'll meet you there tomorrow night."
"This is it?" Danny asked.
"This is it, fellows, and with any luck we'll be on our way back to the States in about seventy-two hours. And because you've done so well, I'm adding five grand to each of your stakes."
"Five grand extra!" Hank said with a low whistle. "Harold, any time you have a caper, you just call me. I like to work for a man who takes care of his guys."
"That goes for me, too!" Danny added. "Hey, who left the damned coffee pot burning all night? Look at it! It's burned to a fuckin' crisp! How are we supposed to make coffee?"
"I guess I'm guilty," Hank said with a laugh. "I remember I was boiling some water for a cup when George got ants in his shorts to split out. I guess I forgot and left the pot burning. Isn't there a big pot down there below the sink? Christ, I'm dying for some plasma! And why don't you two have breakfast right away? I want Danny to get to Buenos Aires before noon. I'll fix something for our guest and myself after you two leave. Hank, see if we have enough food to get by here for a couple of days. If not, make a list and pick up some supplies on your way back from Córdoba."
"Right!"
With a map spread out on the floor in the living room, Harold carefully rechecked the plan that he had developed earlier for the ransom pickup. It involved a minimum amount of risk, and Harold was confident that Matthew Harmon wouldn't attempt a double-cross as long as Harold held the films. That was why he insisted on delivering the films in person.
Hank and Danny joined him in the living room after breakfast and Harold went through the plan with them.
"Hank delivered the first note," Harold said, "so it's better to use you on this one, Danny."
"It's simple," Hank added. "There's a Marine guard in the lobby. The embassy offices are all upstairs and in order to get to the elevator people have to get a pass from the Marine. The Marine's desk gets jammed with people requesting passes every now and then, and that's when you move. When he is snowed under with people, you slip up and leave the envelope on his desk and split. People won't even notice you."
"Then take in a movie or whatever you want," Harold said. "You hole up at the pad we rented and we'll be there tomorrow night. Pack all your gear, we won't be coming back here."
"I'm ready," Danny said brightly.
"Here's some money for the plane and taxis," Harold said, handing Danny two one-hundred-dollar bills. He watched the men leave and then went into the kitchen and prepared a Bloody Mary liberally laced with vodka. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he headed upstairs to the master suite.
"Good morning," he said brightly as he walked into the bedroom and found Debby still in bed, her voluptuous body covered with the blanket.
"Please!" she said in an anguished voice. "Just leave me alone, please." She turned away to stare at the wall.
"Feeling a little rocky?"
"Rotten," she replied. "Please leave me alone."
"You consumed quite a bit of wine last night, Debby," Harold said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"That's not all," Debby sighed.
"Well, drink this and you'll feel a lot better. It's a guaranteed cure for what ails you."
"What is it, poison?" she said sarcastically.
"Come on, Debby," Harold continued patiently. "This will make you feel better right away."
"What is it?" she asked, turning listlessly to face him. "I doubt it will help me at all."
"Tomato juice with some spices. Guaranteed. Do it for me."
Debby grimaced as she took the tall glass from his hand. She tried to bring it to her face, then quickly held it away.
"I'll vomit if I try to put that in my stomach!"
"No, you won't. I know how you feel, and believe me this will work. Do it for me."
"Oh, all right!" she sighed, taking the glass to her parched lips and draining it in four long swallows. For a moment she thought that her stomach was going to rebel, but somehow the mixture managed to stay down.
"Good," Harold said with a smile. "In a little while you'll be ready for a hearty breakfast."
"Oh, God, don't mention food!"
"You had quite a night for yourself," Harold chuckled.
"You don't know the half of it! I acted like a filthy, depraved whore! And the worst part is that I don't even have the guts to kill myself. I don't have the strength of character to do it. Do you want to hear what I did?"
"You don't have to tell me, Debby. I know what happened," Harold said softly. "It was planned to happen. And I feel even more rotten about it than you do."
"Planned?"
"It's a long, long story, Debby," Harold said carefully. "I'm not sure I can tell you. How do you feel, by the way? Did my medicine help any?"
"As usual, Harold, you were right," Debby smiled. "I'm feeling better by the minute. Do you think I could have another one?"
"Sure. Come on downstairs and we'll toss one together. Here, I brought your luggage up last night. It's out in the hall. You can slip into something."
Harold went to the hall and brought her two suitcases into the room. "We're alone in the house, so choose whatever you, like."
"What's the matter, am I such a filthy slut now that you can't stand the sight of my naked body?" she asked sarcastically.
Harold walked slowly up to the bed and slapped her face.
"I don't want to ever hear you talk like that about yourself again!" he said firmly. "Nothing that has happened is your fault. Remember that! You're a wonderful person. You mean too much to me to hear you talk like that. I'll be down in the kitchen."
Debby rubbed her cheek as she watched him turn on his heel and leave the room. Her tortured mind was too confused to understand what was going on. Slipping out of bed, she opened her small case and chose a robe and slippers. In the bathroom she doused cold water on her face and brushed her hair. She tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind as she walked down, the stairs. Something important was taking place and she had to grasp what it was.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Harold apologized when she walked into the kitchen. He handed her the Bloody Mary that he had prepared.
"That's all right," she said slowly, taking a long swallow of the tomato juice and vodka. "You know, that was the first time in my life that anybody ever slapped me. Maybe it was good for me. I somehow feel that someone has to knock some sense into my head. Can I have some coffee?"
"Sure, but finish that first. Take it in the living room and I'll bring in some coffee."
Debby sat on the sofa and attempted a feeble smile when Harold came in balancing two steaming cups of coffee.
"Harold, I know I'm your prisoner and all, and that I don't have any right to ask questions, but I'm so terribly confused. Would you explain why you wanted me to slip into something this morning?"
"I'm not sure I can explain, Debby," Harold replied, sitting next to her on the sofa and taking a sip from his steaming cup before placing it on the coffee table.
"Please try. I have a feeling it's important."
"Well, let's put it this way," Harold said, choosing his words carefully as he cautiously began something that he had been considering for several days, "this whole operation has changed for me. Oh, it's not that I didn't know what I was getting into. I did. But I didn't have all the facts. And I didn't know you as a person, Debby. You've been put through a hell you didn't deserve and I feel lousy about that. I guess I just thought, that perhaps you'd like to feel some clothes on your back again, that's all."
"What you're saying is that you care about me," Debby said.
"Yes," Harold responded quietly.
"Then why are you ashamed of it?" she asked gently, placing her hand on his arm.
"I'm not. Oh, maybe I am, Debby. Christ, I don't know! It's the lousy, stinking situation. What difference does it make if I care about you?"
"It makes a lot of difference, Harold." Debby said quietly. "Maybe it will help if I tell you that I care about you, too. I think that underneath you're a fine man,. Maybe this thing you've done is bad, but we all change. Look at what's happened to me. If you won't let me blame myself, I won't let you blame yourself. Can I ask you a personal question?"
"What?"
"Are you' married?"
"Nope," Harold replied with a smile. "I have been, but not now."
"So what are you going to do when this is all over?" she asked.
"I really don't know, Debby. I may stay in Argentina. I just don't know. I'll have to find a way to live with my conscience after what I've done to you."
"Would it help to tell me about it? You said something about last night being planned?"
"I shouldn't tell you anything," Harold replied slowly, "but you've been dealt a rotten hand and there's nothing you can do, anyway."
Speaking softly and choosing the words carefully, Harold told the captive girl everything. She was stunned by the news of her father's death, but her anger with Matthew was her overpowering emotion as she listened attentively.
"We've never really liked each other," she said bitterly, "but it is hard to believe that Matt would stoop this low!"
"And what about me, Debby? I've stooped just as low."
"It's not the same, Harold. You needed money and you accepted a job, that's all. The fact that you've told me all of this proves that basically you're a decent person. Oh, dear God, if there is any justice in the world, Matt should get his!"
"I got my justice by falling in love with you," Harold said very softly.
"Oh, Harold! You silly man. Don't you realize I'm in love with you! I have been since that very first night. The other men didn't mean the same. I was desperate and terribly confused, and I don't expect you to ever forgive me."
"Forgive you!"
"Darling," she sighed, standing and pulling her robe off to throw it across the room, "let me stay here with you! Don't send me home—ever!"
Debby stepped out of her slippers and stood stark naked in front of him.