'Yes. It may not be necessary, but we can take no chances. We do not know what the police have been told. It is dangerously futile to guess. Tijuana will be safe. I have contacts there.'
With a muttered word of apology, Alvarado took a bus timetable from his pocket and held it up to his eyes. He studied it, squinting, for a moment, then fitted a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles to his nose and peered at it again. Abruptly he thrust it toward Toddy.
'Will you examine this abominable thing? The fine print-even with glasses I cannot read it.'
Toddy repressed a smile; the print wasn't particularly fine. 'Sure,' he said. 'What are we looking for?'
'I thought it would be best to depart from one of the suburban stations. If you will select one, I will drive you there. I would take you all the way to Mexico, but to do so, I am afraid, might endanger both of us.'
Toddy's finger traced down the columns of print, and paused. 'How about Long Beach?'
'That should do, I think. When does the next southbound bus leave from there?'
'Two o'clock.' Toddy glanced at his wristwatch. 'About an hour from now.'
'Then we had better be going. On the way I will tell you what you must do when you reach Tijuana.' Alvarado rose and reached for his hat. 'You have money, I believe. Good!… Come, Perrito.'
16
Bathed, shaved and wearing the freshly pressed clothes and the new shirt the bellboy had brought up, Toddy sat on the bed of his San Diego hotel room and poured out the last of his breakfast pot of coffee.
The bus had arrived at six o'clock. It was now almost eight. Except for Elaine's death and his own precarious position, he would have felt pretty good. He actually felt pretty good despite those things. He had a sensation of being at peace with himself, of being able to relax after a lifetime of tension. He was not tired-he felt invigorated, in fact-yet there was a strong desire to sit here and rest. Just rest and nothing else.
And he knew that the quicker he got out of this town, the better off he'd be.
San Diego's unique semi-tropical climate was not the only thing it was noted for. Nor its great aircraft plants, nor Navy and Marines bases. Among the denizens of the world to which Toddy belonged, it was also known as a swell place to steer clear of. Its vagrancy laws were the harshest in the country. To be 'without visible means of support'-a surprisingly elastic category in the hands of local cops and judges- was a major crime. In the same month here a vagrant-an unemployed wanderer-and a woman who had murdered her illegitimate baby were given identical prison sentences.
Despite the earliness of the hour, a crowd of holidayers was already waiting for the bus to the Mexican border. Toddy hesitated, thought for a moment of making the seventeen-mile trip in a cab. There'd been nothing about Elaine's death in the morning papers; apparently, there was no alarm out for him. Still-he took his place in the waiting line-he couldn't be sure. It was best to stick with a crowd.
He stood up throughout the thirty-minute ride to the border. The bus unloaded, there, on the American side, and he made himself one with the mass which crowded through the customs station.
He had no trouble in crossing the international boundary. The busy United States guard barely glanced at him as he asked his nationality and birthplace. The Mexican customs officers did not bother to do even that much. They simply stood aside as he and the others filed past.
Toddy climbed into a Mexican taxicab, jolted over a long narrow bridge, and, a minute or two later, stepped out on Tijuana's main thoroughfare. He strolled leisurely down it, a wide dirty street bordered by one- and two-story buildings which were tenanted mainly by bars, restaurants and curio shops.
It was a bullfight day, and the town was unusually crowded. Americans jammed the narrow sidewalks and swarmed in and out of the business establishments. Most signs were in English.
Toddy walked to the end of the street, to the turn which leads off to the oceanside resort of Rosarita. Then he crossed to the other side and walked slowly back. Near the center of town, he turned off onto a side street and strolled along for a few doors. He passed a curio shop, lingeringly, then paused and went back.
He entered.
The shop was stocked to the point of overflowing. Racks of beadwork, leather goods and trinkets jammed the aisles. It was almost impossible to squeeze past them. Once past, it would be impossible to be seen from the street.
A fat Mexican woman was seated on a camp stool just inside the door. She beamed at Toddy.
'Yess, please? Nice wallet? Nice bo'l of perfume for lady?'
'What have you got in the way of gold jewelry?' Toddy asked. 'Something good and heavy?'
'
'Oh, I guess not,' said Toddy. 'Not interested in anything but gold. Real gold.'
'You look around,' the woman beamed, placing her camp stool in front of the door. 'I get nice breath of air. You may find something more nice than gold.'
Toddy nodded indifferently, and squeezed his way back through the racks. A few feet, and the display suddenly ended; and a Mexican man sat on a stool against the wall, reading a copy of
He wore an open-neck sports shirt, sharply creased tan trousers and very pointed, very shiny black shoes. He was no more than five feet tall when he stood up, smiling, ducking his glossy black head in greeting.
'Mr. Kent, please? Very happy to meet you!'
He opened a door, waved Toddy ahead of him, and closed and locked it again. A courteous hand on Toddy's elbow, he guided him down a short areaway and into a small smelly room.
There was an oilstove cluttered with pots and pans, a paint-peeled lopsided icebox, a rumpled gray-looking bed. Toddy sat down at an oilcloth-covered table, smeared and specked with the remains of past repasts. His nostrils twitched automatically.
'The ventilation is bad, eh?' The Mexican showed gleaming white teeth. 'But how would you? The windows must be sealed. The disorder is essential. Think of the comment if one in this country should live in comfort and decency!'
'Yeah,' said Toddy uncomfortably. 'I see what you mean.'
The Mexican moved back toward the icebox. 'It is nice to meet one so understanding,' he murmured. 'You will have bo'l of beer, yess? Nice cold bo'l of beer?'
Toddy shook his head; he hoped he wouldn't have to be holed up long in this joint. 'I guess not. A little early in the day for-'
'No,' said the Mexican. 'You will have no beer.'
There was not the slightest change in his humbly ironic voice. There was no warning sound or shadow. But in that last split second when escape was too late, Toddy knew what was coming. He could feel the gizmo's swift change from gold to brass.
The blow lifted him from his chair. He collapsed on the table, and the table collapsed under him. There was a muted crash as they struck the floor.
But he did not hear it.
17
Tubby little Milt Vonderheim was not Dutch but German. His right name was Max Von Der Veer. He was an illegal resident of the United States.
