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Book 437: Murder Room

by John D. MacDonald

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries; Noir

Synopsis

American bachelor Miles Drummond, living in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and running out of money, half-heartedly places an ad in a few US newspapers announcing a summer art workshop. Much to his surprise, thirteen students write for details, and arrive in Cuernavaca a few weeks later.

The hotel Miles has rented is crumbling. The VW bus he borrowed is a disaster. The two instructors he hired hate each other on sight. But the students - young and old, single and married, rich and poor - aren't simply looking for an education. Some are fleeing private anguish. Others are seeking romance. All will find more adventure than they ever dreamed possible.

Release date: June 11, 2013

Publisher: Random House

Print pages: 288

Sample

ANNOUNCING THE CUERNAVACA SUMMER WORKSHOP: A limited number of painting
students will be accepted for the Workshop for the months of July and August. Instruction in painting by renowned artists Gambel Torrigan and Agnes Partridge Keeley. Fee of $500 includes de
luxe housing in beautiful small hotel, gourmet food, expert instruction, and a chance to summer in the beautiful city of eternal springtime. Write Miles Drummond, Apartado #300, Cuernavaca,
Morelos, Mexico, for details and application blank.

On a bright morning on the twenty-second day of June, Miles Drummond walked five brisk blocks from his tiny bachelor house to the Cuernavaca Post Office. He was a spry,
small-boned man in his fifties, wearing sandals, weathered khaki trousers freshly pressed, a green rayon sports shirt. He carried a leather zipper case fat with documents. He had too much iron-gray
hair, curly and carefully tended. Behind the bright glint of the Mexican sun on octagonal rimless glasses, his was a clerical face, rather pinched, myopic, with a look of chronic apprehension.

He stepped from the sunlight into the dusty confusion of the small post office, reaching for his box keys as he nimbly skirted the outstretched hand of the elderly beggarwoman who partially
blocked the doorway. He was tempted to continue at his headlong pace toward the boxes, but he was conscious of a feeling of breathlessness and an impression that his heart sat too high in his
chest, tapping impatiently against his collarbone. He made himself saunter to Box 300. Through the dirty glass, beyond the peeling gilt of the number, he could see that he had mail. At his third
stab the key went in and he opened the door and took out three letters. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and took the mail over to a vacant place at one of the high, slanting counters by the
windows.

The top letter was from his sister. He set Martha’s letter aside. She was ten years older than he, lived meagerly in a co-operative rest home outside Philadelphia, and wrote him once a
week. He wrote her once a month. He had not seen her since he had moved to Mexico on a rentista status fifteen years ago.

The second letter was on heavy bond paper, letterhead paper, and apparently typed on an electric machine. Jenningson and Kemp, Architects. Mr. John Kemp wrote that he was enclosing his check for
four hundred and fifty dollars to cover the balance of the fee for the Summer Workshop, and that he would fly from New Orleans to Mexico City on Eastern Airlines, arriving at noon on June
thirtieth.

The check was on salmon-colored paper and had been written on a check-writer. Miles Drummond folded it and put it in his wallet. The last letter was from an Agnes Archibald in Denver. She had
sent her fifty-dollar registration fee back in February, the first money to come in. She had carried on an exhausting correspondence with Drummond demanding all manner of nonpertinent information,
and had at last decided not to attend the Workshop. The current letter was in answer to Miles Drummond’s letter explaining that it had been clearly stated in the literature that the
registration fee could not be returned. In the current letter she again demanded her fifty dollars, and made dark threats about people who used the mails to defraud.

Drummond unzipped the case and looked for his master list. He thumbed through all the papers and could not find it. He emptied the case completely, thoroughly alarmed as he thought of the
confusion that would ensue had he lost the master list. He had mislaid just enough of the correspondence so that it would be difficult if not impossible to construct a new master list. When he was
close to despair he found it, folded twice and hidden inside the list of food requirements.

He unfolded the master list of the fifty-three persons who had responded to the advertisement for the Cuernavaca Summer Workshop. He took out his pen, ran it down the list until he came to Kemp,
John A. After the name he wrote, “Pd. Arr June 30, noon, Eastern, Mexico.”

He put all the papers back into the case, along with the three letters he had received, and headed for the Banco Nacional de Mexico, Cuernavaca Branch, on the corner of Calle Dwight Morrow. He
walked by the new government building and through the small north zócalo and past the Bella Vista. Once he was in the bank he had to take everything out of the zipper case again in
order to find his deposit book.

One of the pretty little girls behind the counter entered the check in Drummond’s peso account. Five thousand six hundred and twenty-five more pesos. It made him feel pleasantly flushed
and slightly dizzy to look at the new grand total. Nearly seventy-five thousand pesos. It seemed unreal to him that he could have acquired this much money merely through the writing of various
letters. It seemed unfair, somehow, that in ten days the Workshop would begin and he would have to run it, and a lot of this money would have to be paid out. He could not begin to visualize what
the summer would be like. He knew only that he dreaded it. And dreaded it more now that Gloria seemed to be losing interest so rapidly.

He walked four blocks from the bank to the establishment of the mechanic who was trying to restore to a state of relative health the Volkswagen bus which Drummond had acquired for the summer
through a very complicated deal. The first owner was not known. The second owner had been a man who dreamed of establishing a great new bus business. He had begun with the Volkswagen, building a
huge luggage rack on top, and driving it himself on a punishing run between Cuernavaca and Cuautla. It had been Número Uno of the Consolidated New World Transport Company. After
untold miles and great endurance of goats, rockslides, and passengers saturated with pulque, the embittered owner-driver had lettered a name on it. Estoy Perdido. I am lost. And soon after
that he went out of business. When it was known that Miles Drummond wanted the use of such a vehicle without actually owning it, his cook-houseman, Felipe Cedro, came up with a deal involving
Estoy Perdido. The new proprietor of the broken bus was willing to rent it to Miles Drummond for x pesos for the summer, provided Drummond had the bus completely repaired in the
shop of Antonio Vasques, a cousin of the new owner’s wife. One half the cost of repairs would be deducted from the rental. Furthermore, Señor Drummond would agree to employ, as driver
of said vehicle, one Fidelio Melocotonero, the novio of the new owner’s daughter, at a salary of two hundred pesos a month, or sixteen dollars American. As Drummond did not own and
could not drive a car, and because the home of the Cuernavaca Summer Workshop would be in the structure four miles north of town, the old building known as the Hotel Hutchinson, Drummond agreed to
the arrangement, knowing, from past experience, that Felipe Cedro was somehow making some money from the arrangement.

Estoy Perdido was wedged into a corner of the small shop, resplendent in a coat of new, very red paint. On the side was painted The Cuernavaca Summer Workshop under a representation of
a brush and palette, spotted liberally with raw pigment.

Antonio came bustling up to Drummond to say proudly that the very good used tires had arrived and had been installed. He patted the big VW emblem on the front of the bus and said that it had
indeed been a very weary creature, but it was now responding to the understanding care that only Antonio Vasques could give to such a defeated object. Miles inquired as to what remained to be done.
After fifteen years in Mexico his Spanish was very fast, very fluent, and almost entirely devoid of verbs. He managed to make the present tense do for all situations, and tried to overlook the
confusions that were sometimes caused by this linguistic hiatus. Antonio advised him that after some woeful deficiency in the electricidad had been corrected, it would remain only to
reweld a torsion bar and it would be ready to fly.

That particular word made Drummond uneasy. He looked into the bus. Fidelio Melocotonero was, as usual, asleep on the floor of the bus on a grubby serape. Ever since the arrangement had been
made, Fidelio did not permit himself to get far from the bus. He was a heavy-faced, sleepy-looking young man who wore the ducktail hairdo, jeans and T-shirt of the American cinema. On two previous
visits to the garage Drummond had found Fidelio hunched over the wheel wearing a snarling expression and making roaring noises. Yet he had been assured that Fidelio was of the very top excellence
as a driver.

“The day after tomorrow then it is ready?” Drummond asked.

Antonio shrugged. “It is entirely possible.”

“One of my professors, a very important man, arrives by air on Sunday in Mexico and it is important the bus goes and gets him. On Sunday.”

Antonio patted the bus. “Without fail, Señor Drummond, this bus will go and get this important man and return him here in speed and great comfort.”

After he left the repair garage, Miles Drummond went looking for Gloria Garvey. He found her seated alone at one of the sidewalk tables outside the Hotel Marik. It was noon and she sat reading
the Mexico City News, a half bottle of Dos Equis beer beside her, waving a casual hand at flies, beggars and vendors when they became too annoying. Miles put his zipper case on the table
and sat down across from her.

“Good morning, Gloria,” he said most affably.

She glanced at him and returned her attention to the paper. She was a handsome and vital-looking blond woman in her middle thirties, a big, cool-eyed, Viking type with classic features and an
ample and stunning figure. She was always slightly soiled—and partially and almost undetectably drunk. Gloria wore a rumpled peasant skirt, sandals with thongs that tied around perfect and
grubby ankles, a red blouse with a ripped seam and several spots. Most of her nail polish had flaked off and she had made her mouth up lavishly and carelessly.

Gloria Garvey had lived in Cuernavaca for four years, ever since her third and avowedly final divorce. Her full name, which she could always remember after a pause for thought, was Gloria Jean
Bennison McGuerdon Van Hoestling Garvey. She had that unfortunate blend of characteristics which combines a capacity for intense enthusiasm with a curiously short attention span. She had taken a
big house when she had first come to Cuernavaca, but the responsibility of it had irked her. For the past three years she had lived in a small hotel on a side street near the
zócalo. The hotel was called Las Rosas. Gloria had a second-floor suite where she lived alone in a welter of knotted straps, stains, empty bottles and French fiction. The hotel
provided maid service, served cheap and adequate meals and tolerated the eccentricities of Señora Garvey who, from time to time, when the urge was upon her, would take unto herself a
suitably robust male tourist for a night, a week or a month, depending on how soon she became bored.

Possibly she was tolerated by the management of Las Rosas for much the same reason that she was acceptable in the peripheral areas of American society in Cuernavaca and Mexico City. Her physical
unkemptness, which sometimes approached the squalid, and her amoral deviations, which were often startlingly direct, could be classed as eccentricities because Gloria Garvey was very rich. And
very, very stingy.

The Misters McGuerdon, Van Hoestling and Garvey had each been in a financial position to make a solid settlement on her. And in an emotional position to sue for peace at any price. It mattered
not to Gloria that aged members of her clan were frequently dying and leaving her a little here and a little there. Her lawyers extracted from her ex-husbands the maximum attainable.

She received the Wall Street Journal by mail. She spent two consecutive days in every month in absolute sobriety going over the issues that had accumulated, and making marginal
notations in red crayon. Then she would review a complete list of her holdings and send to her broker in New York precise instructions as to what she wanted done.

Gloria was addicted to short periods of intense enthusiasm about one project or another. They rarely cost her anything. In between projects she existed in a state of petulant and irritable
boredom. Miles Drummond had been caught up in one of Gloria’s fits of enthusiasm and that was how the Cuernavaca Summer Workshop came about.

It had started at a pre-Christmas party at Tammy Grandon’s house, a huge party that included most of the American residents of Cuernavaca. Miles knew who Gloria was and had a nodding
acquaintance with her, and was certain she had not the slightest idea of what his name was. Undone by eggnogs, Miles found himself by the Grandon pool during the second day of the party, telling
Gloria Garvey his troubles while he applied sun lotion, in a most gingerly way, to her strong brown back.

His problem was very simple. Money. He had worked for six years for a Philadelphia banking house, from the time he was nineteen until he was twenty-five. It was a family firm. He had been given
very little to do. When he came into his inheritance at twenty-five, he had gone to France to live and to become a great painter. In 1942 he had moved to Mexico. What had previously been an
adequate income had been slowly eroded by the rising cost of living. Under more normal circumstances he would never have thought of confiding in Gloria Garvey. She frightened him. But he had heard
of her financial shrewdness. And there was, of course, the eggnog.

He explained that he could continue to exist, but there was no longer any money for the nice things, the little things that spelled the difference between living and existing. And he did not
dare dip into his capital. It was suitably and safely invested, and if hereditary factors could be trusted, he might well live beyond ninety.

Gloria had rolled over on the pool apron and stretched with an indolent feline litheness and had said, “By Christ, Drummy, we’ll cook you up a project.”

And Miles Drummond soon began to feel like a Kansas chicken which, with the aid of a tornado, finds itself flapping frantically at two thousand feet. The Cuernavaca Summer Workshop idea was born
in Gloria’s quick and capable mind. She lined up the lease option on the defunct Hotel Hutchinson. She wrote the advertising, and told him where it should be inserted. He paid for the
advertising. She had the impressive stationery and application blanks printed in Mexico City. He paid for them. They had many strategic conferences in her untidy suite, and when the first
fifty-dollar fee had come in, from Agnes Archibald, she had grabbed Miles Drummond and hugged him until he had felt his rib cage creak alarmingly.

But for the past month and a half he had been aware of the ebbing of her interest. She was increasingly reluctant to hear anything about the CSW. And Miles Drummond was alarmed. He had pictured
Gloria Garvey at his side, helping him run it. Without her, he did not see how he could cope. He wished himself back in the quiet times, the morning paper along with egg so carefully poached by
Felipe, a spot of sketching in the morning, some chess with Walter Breidbeick after his siesta.

People had paid their money and were actually going to arrive, and Miles wished he could quietly and inconspicuously drop dead.

“Gloria?” he said plaintively.

“What is it now?” she asked impatiently, continuing to read.

“Gloria, I don’t think the Volkswagen is going to be ready in time to go up and get Mr. Torrigan. Antonio says it is, but I don’t believe him.”

She pushed her paper aside, drained the glass of beer. “Is that a calamity, for God’s sake? Gam Torrigan will get here all right. No doubt of that. He knows he’s getting a free
ride, and that big bastard is too cheap to take any chance of missing out on it. Let him take a turismo.”

“I want it to start off right, Gloria. He’s the first one arriving. Do you think he’ll be any good? I mean as a teacher?”

She shrugged her big strong shoulders. “He knows all the yak. He’s done a lot of teaching. I haven’t seen him in . . . six years anyway. In Maine.”

“Gloria, if the bus isn’t ready . . . would you drive up and get him Sunday? You’ll know him by sight. We could go up together. It would be easier for me to meet him that way.
With somebody who knows him.”

“What time does he get in?”

It took Miles Drummond a good five minutes to answer the question. He found that he had left Gambel Torrigan off his master list, and so he had to locate the last letter from him.

“Four-thirty in the afternoon.”

Gloria sighed. “All right, all right. We’ll go get him. But you pay the toll and buy the gas, understand?”

Miles smiled his relief. Then his nervous frown returned. “I don’t think there’s enough coming, Gloria. I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“How many are coming for sure?”

“Well, as you know, we got fifty-three answers to the ads and . . .”

“Don’t give me the whole picture, Drummy. You’ve got the money from how many? The total fee from how many?”

He got out his master list again and, biting his lip, counted those who had Pd. “Eleven,” he said at last.

“So what’s wrong? You’ve taken in fifty-five hundred dollars. I can remember the expense figures we worked out. Twenty-six hundred dollars. So you’ll have a net of
twenty-nine hundred anyway. I’ll tell you where to put the money so you’ll be able to count on another two hundred dollars a year income, Drummy. Call it twenty-five hundred pesos.
That’ll put you over the hump, won’t it? Have you arranged how to meet the students you have to meet, and when?”

“I certainly wish I could figure things out so quickly. Eleven isn’t really too bad, is it? It really isn’t bad at all.”

“Where’s your list of the ones coming?” She started to paw through his papers. “Good Christ, Drummy, you are hopeless. Got any clean paper in there? Fine. Now give me
your pen. Let’s see who we have coming. When I call off the name, you find me the application form.”

It took fifteen minutes to get a new list of the eleven students, along with date and method of arrival, and the separated application blanks.

Mrs. Hildabeth McCaffrey, 64, widow, was driving from Elmira, Ohio, with her friend Mrs. Dorothy Winkler, 65, also of Elmira, and would arrive on Friday, June 30, in Cuernavaca and would go
directly to the Hotel Hutchinson.

Mr. Parker Barnum, age 33, of New York, would arrive by air but did not have to be met as he had friends in Mexico City who would drive him to Cuernavaca.

Miss Mary Jane Elmore, age 20, and Miss Bitsy Babcock, age 19, both of Fort Worth, were driving down.

Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Wahl, both aged twenty-two, were driving down. From Syracuse.

Miss Monica Killdeering was flying down from Kansas, arriving at six-twenty in Mexico City on the evening of the thirtieth, and expected to be met.

Mr. John Kemp expected to be met at noon at the airport that same day.

Mrs. Barbara Kilmer, of Akron, would apparently be on the same flight.

And Colonel Thomas C. Hildebrandt, U. S. A., Ret., would drive down.

Gloria rechecked the list and said, “How about the other teacher, that bag from California?”

“Oh! Agnes Partridge Keeley. Let me get her letter. I think she’s driving. Yes, I know she is. I suggested she arrive early to . . . uh . . . familiarize herself with the
setup.”

“Okay, Drummy. Now pay attention. We get Torrigan on Sunday. Then your bus has to make two trips on the following Friday, or else you can keep Kemp and Kilmer amused until . . .
what’s her name? . . . Killdeering gets in.”

“But I should be out at the hotel to . . . welcome those arriving by car.”

“Hmm. So send Gam Torrigan up with your driver to meet them. They’ll be his students anyway. How are things coming out at the hotel?”

“Well, they’re supposed to have the water fixed by now. And there’s twenty rooms ready. I’m going out right after lunch to check up on everything.”

“That old crock of a hotel is going to scare hell out of this arty-farty bunch of happy students.”

“Gloria . . . do you think you could come out for a few days when they start to arrive . . . to help me get things going?”

“Drummy, I will come out and take a look at them because I want to get a look at the types who fell for the pitch we made, but I am not going to hang around.”

Billy Delgarian came trudging up to the table and sat down. “Hello, Miles. Hello, Gloria. Excuse me. Miles, I’ve been hunting all over for you. I’ve got a rental for your
house. A pair of old creeps from Nebraska. They don’t look as if they’re strong enough to bust up the furniture. The trouble is, they want a place right away. Today. And they want it
through September. How about it?”

Miles felt slightly nauseated whenever he thought of strangers in his little house, sleeping in his bed, sitting in his chairs, eating out of his dishes. “I don’t see how I possibly
could move out today, Billy. I really couldn’t. And just as soon as the Workshop ends, I want to move back into . . .”

“Will they pay his price?” Gloria asked.

“They didn’t even try to haggle. I got their check right here and their signatures on the lease, but they understand that the owner might not be agreeable . . .”

“He’s agreeable,” Gloria said.

“Now, Gloria, really. How about September?”

“So rent a room for September. Drummy, you just don’t want to rent that house. Get off the dime. Billy will be happy to cart you and your duffle out to the Hutchinson,
won’t you, Billy?”

Billy looked at his watch. “Be ready about three, Miles.”

Miles looked at Gloria and then at Billy and gave a helpless nod of agreement.

“Those clowns we hired will get the place in shape faster if you’re living there, Drummy.”

Miles stood up. “Well . . . I guess I better go pack.”

They watched him head for the zócalo and nearly get run down by a battered Land Rover.

“Poor little guy,” Billy said. “He’s going to have a hell of a summer. How did you ever talk him into this deal, Gloria?”

“He needs some money.”

“So why didn’t you just give him some? You’re loaded.”

“Hah! This is good for Drummy. It’ll stir him up. He’s been in a rut all his life. Anyhow, Billy, you damn bandit, think of the fun we’ll have watching his mixed-up
school operate.”

“Even to three it doesn’t last through July.”

“I’m not about to give you any money either. Buy me a beer, Billy.”

THE HOTEL HUTCHINSON was located four miles north of the center of Cuernavaca, on the east side of a
deep barranca which successfully isolated it from the main highway and all transient tourist traffic. It had been built in 1921 by a Texan named Homer Hutchinson, with moneys acquired by selling
the same oil leases to many different persons. Their reaction to his ingenuity made it advisable for him to leave the country.

The hotel was designed by Hutchinson. It was a grandiose, putty-colored building, two stories high, with twenty-foot ceilings, built in the form of a hollow square and surrounded by a high wall
into the top of which had been set a great deal of broken glass. It looked somewhat like an abandoned prison. It had forty guest rooms, an owner’s apartment, a building in the rear for
storage and staff quarters, ten primitive bathrooms in the main building, a ballroom-dining room that could seat two hundred, and a metropolitan cockroach population.

The ceilings were high and the windows narrow, so it was a place of gloom and hollow echoes. The kitchen facilities were barbaric; the lighting was early Edison; hot water was generated by
devices in each bathroom called rápidos. They were not misnamed. Once kindling had been shoved into the firebox and a good fire started, they were rapid indeed. The long corridors,
floored with an odd khaki shade of tile, were haunted by the long-ago screams of paying guests who had not expected boiling water to jet from the lean and deadly faucets.

It was not long after his grand opening that Homer Hutchinson discovered that he was attracting very few guests. To remedy this situation he had monstrous and sturdy letters placed on the roof
spelling out HOTEL HUTCHINSON, letters so large they could easily be read from the main highway. And still the hotel did not prosper.

In 1927 Homer Hutchinson passed away suddenly of a heart attack while being entertained in the owner’s apartment by one of the hotel maids. After that sudden demise, local residents lost
track of the number of times the hotel changed hands. In every case the new owner, intent on renaming the place, would clamber to the roof and take a long look at the monolithic letters and decide
to retain the old name. At one point in the forties a new owner, more ingenious than the others, and desirous, perhaps, of giving the establishment a more Latin flavor, employed a work crew who,
with sledges and crowbars, managed to remove the HOT, leaving EL HUTCHINSON.

The hotel had been empty for two years when Miles Drummond leased it for six hundred dollars for the two-month Workshop. The current owner estimated that it would take about half the rental to
get the utilities functioning.

Miles hoped to operate the hotel with a staff of six. He was explaining this to Billy Delgarian when they arrived at the hotel in Billy’s sedan at three-thirty. The big iron gates were
wide open, and Billy drove in and parked on the baked earth near the front door. He leaned on the horn for a long five seconds.

“We ought to get one of the six,” he said.

“I don’t understand this at all,” Miles said. “Oh, here comes Alberto.”

“We woke him up,” Billy said. Alberto was a stringy and weathered man who did not pick his feet up when he walked. He was employed as gardener and janitor and handy man. He
approached the car slowly as Miles got out, and on his sleepy face was a look of utter idiocy.

“Alberto, you are not taking the broken tiles out of the yard here as I am telling you five or six times,” Miles said.

“First I will put beautiful flowers in the patio,” Alberto said.

“No. First you will remove the tiles.”

“What will I do with them, Señor Droomond?”

“I don’t know. Throw them in the barranca.”

“How will I carry them to the barranca?”

“On the wheelbarrow.”

“It is now broken.”

Miles stared at him in helpless exasperation. “Now carry all these things to the room where I will live.”

Alberto went to the car, picked up one small suitcase and shuffled sadly off with it. When he was fifteen feet away Miles called to him. “Where is Rosalinda?”

“She has gone someplace to purchase a hen.”

“And the maids?”

“The rooms were clean so they both went home.”

“And Pepe?”

“He has gone to the city.”

“Mind if I look around?” Billy said.

“Not at all. Not at all.”

Billy wandered off. Miles picked his largest suitcase out of the car and struggled into the hotel with it. The central patio, through the doors that opened off the shadowy lobby, looked scurfy
and beaten. It contained a flagstone walk in the shape of an X, three cement benches, one sundial with the end broken off the blade, one cement birdbath and one small defunct fountain. And fifty
kinds of weeds.

After he was unpacked and settled in, and after Billy had left, without comment, Miles went into the patio and began pulling weeds.

Gloria Garvey picked Miles up at the Hutchinson at two-thirty on Sunday afternoon in her powder-blue Jaguar sedan. Cars were Gloria’s single expensive vice. She kept her car garaged near
Las Rosas, but gave it no other care. When it ceased running properly, she would order another one.

Gloria wore her Mexico City costume, a black suit, white blouse, white gloves. But the skirt of the black suit was shiny in the seat, and the lapels of the jacket were tinged gray with cigarette
ash, and the finger seams of the white gloves were split. Her careless hair had the look and texture of lion mane in thorn country.

As Miles got in beside her, she said, “For Chrissake, Drummy, stop jittering. Gam Torrigan is absolutely nobody. What happened to your hand?”

Miles looked down at the bandage, “I cut my fingers on some broken tile I was throwing into the barranca.”

“You know darn well that if you potter around doing manual labor, they’ll let you do it all.”

She yanked the Jaguar around and plunged through the gate, making it skitter sideways on the road before it leveled away and roared by the military barracks where a lone Sunday soldier, lounging
on guard, caught a glimpse of long fair hair and responded with the expected whistle, a mechanical and customary courtesy.

She pulled the Jaguar to a shivering halt at the toll gate of the autopisto, took the five-peso note from Miles and gave it to the man. She accelerated smoothly, keeping the tach just
under the red until the car was climbing toward Tres Cumbres at a hundred and thirty kilometers an hour and the wind roar made conversation impossible. She saw that Miles was firmly holding his own
frail knees and staring dead ahead in hypnoid alarm, and it amus. . .