'You bet he did, right up to the day he left. He said when he left he was on his way to Paris, that he was going to the University there. He said the Spanish government had released some of his family money, and he could afford to go to a better school than ours. Good riddance of bad rubbish is what I said.'
'You didn't like Cervantes, did you?'
'He was all right, in his place. But he was too uppity. Besides, here he was leaving me on the first of October, leaving me stuck with an empty room for the rest of the semester. It made me sorry I took him in the first place.'
'How was he uppity, Mrs. Grantham?'
'Lots of ways. Do you have a cigarette by any chance?'
I gave her one and lit it for her. She blew smoke in my face. 'Why are you so interested in him? Is he back in town?'
'He has been.'
'What do you know. He told me he was going to come back. Come back in a Rolls Royce with a million dollars and marry a girl from Montevista. That was uppity. I told him he should stick to his own kind. But he said she was the only girl for him.'
'Did he name her?'
'Virginia Fablon. I knew who she was. My own daughter went to high school with her. She was a beautiful girl, I imagine she still is.'
'Cervantes thinks so. He just married her.'
'You're kidding.'
'I wish I were. He came back a couple of months ago. In a Bentley, not a Rolls, with a hundred and twenty thousand instead of a million. But he married her.'
'Well, I'll be.'
Mrs. Grantham drew deep on her cigarette as if she were sucking the juice from the situation. 'Wait until I tell my daughter.'
'I wouldn't tell anyone for a day or two. Cervantes and Virginia have dropped out of sight. She may be in danger.'
'From him?' she said with avidity.
'Could be.'
I didn't know what he wanted from Virginia: it was probably something that didn't exist and I didn't know what he'd do when he found out that it didn't exist.
Mrs. Grantham put out her cigarette in a Breakwater Hotel ashtray and dropped the butt into a handle-less teacup, which contained other butts. She leaned toward me confidentially, heartily: 'Anything else you want to know?'
'Yes. Did Cervantes give you any explanation about the people who took him away?'
'This pair?'
She laid a finger on the picture in her lap. 'I forget what he said exactly. I think he said they were friends of his, coming to pick him up.'
'He didn't say who they were?'
'No, but they looked like they were loaded. I think he said that they were Hollywood people, and they were going to put him on the plane.'
'What, plane?'
'The plane to France. I thought at the time it was a lot of malarkey. But now I don't know. Did he ever make it to France?'
'I think he did.'
'Where did he get the money? You think his family really has money in Spain?'
'Castles in Spain, anyway.'
I thought as I drove away that Martel was one of those dangerous dreamers who acted out his dreams, a liar who forced his lies to become true. His world was highly colored and man made, like the pictures on the Tappingers' walls which might have been his first vision of France.
21
THE CASHIER of Mercy Hotel had eyes like calculators. She peered at me through the bars of her cage as if she was estimating my income, subtracting my expenses, and coming up with a balance in the red.
'How much am I worth?'
I said cheerfully.
'Dead or alive?'
That stopped me. 'I want to pay for Mr. Harry Hendricks for another day.'
'It isn't necessary,' she said. 'His wife took care of it.'
'The redhead? Was she here?'
'She came in and visited him for a few minutes this morning.'
'Can I see him?'
'You'll have to ask the head nurse on the third floor.'
The head nurse was a starched, thin-mouthed woman who kept me waiting while she brought her records up to date. Eventually she let me tell her that I was a detective working with the police. She got quite friendly then.
'I don't see any reason why you shouldn't ask him some questions. But don't tire him, and don't say anything to upset him.'
Harry was in a private room with windows, which overlooked the city. With the bandages on his head and face he looked like an unfinished mummy.
I was carrying the pearl-gray hat, and his eyes focused on it. 'Is that my hat?'
'It's the one you were wearing yesterday. The name inside is Spillman, though. Who's he?'
'I wouldn't know.'
'You were wearing his hat.'
'Was I?'
He lay and thought about it. 'I got it at a rummage sale.'
I didn't believe him, but there was no point in saying so. I tossed the hat onto the chest of drawers. 'Who clobbered you, Harry?'
'I don't know for sure. I didn't see him. It was dark, and he knocked me out from behind. Then he stomped on my face, the doctor says.'
'Nice guy. Was it Martel?'
'Yeah. It happened up at his place. I was poking around the back of his house. The wind was making so much noise I didn't hear him come up behind me.'
His fingers crawled over the sheet which covered his body. 'He must of given me quite a going over. I'm sore all over.'
'You were in an auto accident.'
'I was?'
'Martel put you in the trunk of your car and parked it on the waterfront. Some winos stole and wrecked it.'
He groaned. 'It isn't mine. My own clunk died on me, and I borrowed the Caddie off the lot. No insurance, no nothing. Is she a total goner?'
'It wouldn't be worth the price of the body work.'
'Wouldn't you know it. There goes another job.'
He lay silent for a minute, looking at the sky. 'I've been thinking about myself this aft. I bet - no, I won't bet, I'll just say it: I'm the biggest failure west of the Mississippi. I don't even deserve to live.'
'Everybody deserves that.'
'It's nice of you to say so. Incidentally, they told me a Mr. Archer made the down payment on this pad. Was that you? 'I chipped in twenty.'
'Thanks muchly. You're a real pal.'
