Honey in His Mouth

The wreck lay about sixty yards off the highway.

Everyone stared at the wreck. Harsh felt he would not have recognized the jumble of metal as the limousine had he not known better.

The patrolman standing beside the station wagon called out to the officer in their car. “Nobody in that thing is gonna do any more shooting.” He crossed the highway and went down into the grader ditch. He moved sidewise going down and dug his heels in so he would not slide. He jumped over some water in the bottom of the ditch and went on toward what was left of the limousine. The other officer followed him.

Harsh felt of his pockets, making sure he still had the money from the wall safe. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Before they come back.”

Mr. Hassam shook his head. “No. Not without the body of El Presidente.”

“You’re nuts, Hassam. That body is a cop. Maybe he got hold of El Presidente’s gun somehow, but it couldn’t be El Presidente. You heard the radio, El Presidente is on a gunboat in the harbor down there in South America.”

“A false scent.” Mr. Hassam’s voice was bitter. “He suspected us, and he came here to spy on us. You remember we thought a car was trailing you and Miss Muirz a few nights ago? Well, one was, evidently, and no doubt it was El Presidente.”

“How would he know where to look for you?”

“You think he couldn’t find out where Brother’s estate is? He must have been watching it for days, following us any time we went out.”

“Okay, but why would he jump on me, try to kill me? You four, sure, but me, I’m nobody to him.”

“Nobody is the last thing you were to him, Harsh—and if you’d looked in a mirror lately you’d know why. The first time he saw you he must have thought he was looking in a mirror. Even with that bandage on your face, he’d have immediately known something was up.”

Harsh frowned, then remembered something. “I know how to settle this. I took his wallet. The dead man’s. That’ll tell us who he was.” He felt hurriedly in his pockets. “I ain’t had time to look at it. Here.”

Mr. Hassam seized the billfold. “A passport case.” He ignored some paper currency. “Ah! God!” Mr. Hassam closed his eyes tightly. “It was El Presidente. It is his passport.”

“I don’t believe it!” Harsh seized the case and examined the passport. His hands began to shake. “Christ, let’s clear out of here. They find the body of an ex-president in that car, even a South American one, and there’s going to be a tall stink. What are we waiting on?”

A low mewing sound came from Miss Muirz. It startled Harsh, chilling his nerves, and he looked at her. But Miss Muirz had not moved.

The two Highway Patrolmen reached the wreckage of the limousine. They began shining their flashlight beams about in it.

Mr. Hassam started toward the spot where the limousine had careened off the road. “Come. You and I will get the body now.”

Harsh drew back. “The hell with you, buddy. I want out of here, is all I want.”

Mr. Hassam’s voice was soft, but suddenly very ugly. “Harsh, you have fifty thousand dollars in your pockets. I know, because I heard the alarm begin ringing when you opened the safe. I know that you feel you have a fortune in your pockets. But you listen to me, Harsh, listen closely. If you leave here now, you are running out on a chance to share in real money. El Presidente has nearly sixty-five million dollars on deposit in various institutions. You can impersonate him, and Miss Muirz’s handwriting has already forged his name on all the deposit documents. Can you conceive of the sum sixty-five million? You cannot, can you, Harsh? You really cannot. The piddling sum of fifty thousand made you sick at your stomach.”

One of the Highway Patrolmen got on his knees and threw his flashlight beam into the entrails of the wreck.

Harsh’s mouth had gone dry. “This is the first time anybody said anything to me about a share in sixty-five million.”

“Naturally. Why mention it when you were hysterically happy with fifty thousand?”

The Highway Patrolman put his flashlight on the ground and began to pull at something inside the wreck with his hands.

Mr. Hassam spoke grimly. “If that is El Presidente’s body he is pulling out of there, we are lost.”

“You think if we can keep the body from being identified, we can still grab everything?”

“Why not?”

The patrolman drew his hands out of the wreckage and hurriedly wiped them on the ground.

“All right.” Harsh hardly recognized his own voice. “Let’s get the body.”

Miss Muirz made the odd mewing sound again. As before, there was no indication she had moved.

“Jesus!” Alarmed, Harsh looked back at Miss Muirz, who still hadn’t gotten out of the station wagon. Her face was immobile and expressionless. The features could have been cut in glass. As he looked at her, her hands began to caress the wheel rim slowly, and he realized she had been doing that off and on since they had stopped. “What’s wrong with her, Hassam?”

“Let her alone.” Mr. Hassam leaned close to Miss Muirz. “We are going after the body, Mr. Harsh and I. Do you understand, Miss Muirz?”

A tremor went through her, but the even rhythm with which her hands stroked the steering wheel rim was not altered.

Mr. Hassam turned and crossed the pavement. “Come, Harsh.” He went down the embankment and hesitated at the bottom, frowning at the water in the ditch. “Footprints in the mud. We must be careful of them.” The ditch water was black in the moonlight.

Harsh jerked his head in the direction of the station wagon. “What’s her problem?”

“Shock.” Mr. Hassam prepared to jump the ditch. “El Presidente is dead. She was his mistress for twenty years.”

“Oh.” Harsh had not supposed Miss Muirz to be much more than thirty years of age now.

Mr. Hassam read his thought. “El Presidente always liked them young.” He sprang at the ditch, landing in the mud and water with a splash. He swore, kicked his feet to throw off the loose mud.

They climbed up a slope toward the wrecked limousine. The two patrolmen, intent on what the interior of the wreck held, did not notice their approach at first. One officer said something to his companion and both ran around to the other side of the wreck.

Mr. Hassam’s whisper was firm and unafraid. “I will tell the officers I am a doctor, and the body is alive, and must be rushed to a hospital. Using that excuse, we will make off with it.”

“I hope they fall for it. It’s a good idea.”

At least fifty feet away from the wreck the reek of raw gasoline was pronounced. Harsh stumbled over an object and looked down and saw the object was a wheel with the tire still in place on it, the wheel almost entirely embedded in the soft earth. At closer view, the limousine looked even less like an automobile than it had appeared from the road.

Nearby palm trees with tall silver trunks leaned forward like inquiring sentries.

“Dick, watch it!” One patrolman drew his revolver. “Oh, it’s the people from the station wagon.” He raised his voice irritably. “I thought I told you folks to stay on the road.”

Mr. Hassam strode forward. “I am a doctor. Someone here may need medical care.”

“Well, okay.” There was quite a lot of dark blood on the patrolman’s hands. “There’s three bodies in there, it looks like. But it’s a mess.”

Harsh tried to sound calm. “Doc and I will do what we can.” He peered into the tangle of steel, wishing he had a flashlight.

The reek of gasoline was overpowering. Harsh could hear it still trickling from a hole in the tank. He was appalled. He had not imagined an automobile could be reduced to such a shapeless thing—even D.C. Roebuck’s hadn’t been mangled quite this thoroughly. He thrust his right arm into what had been the rear seat section.

“If anybody’s alive, it’s in front.” The patrolman sounded impatient.

“I saw something move.” Harsh was lying. His groping fingers had encountered cold flesh that was firm to the touch. “Doc!”