A Game of Authors Read Online Free PDF Page B

about to cry, and her voice came out little more than a sob. “Oh, please go away!”
    Garson fought to regain his self-control. “Miss Luac, famous people don’t have the right to privacy.”
    She stamped her foot. “That’s stupid!”
    “I’m truly sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
    She took a deep quavering breath, spoke slowly. “You will not be permitted to see my father. For your own sake as well as ours, please do not try.”
    Abruptly, she turned away, slipped out to the limousine.
    As quickly as she moved, the gnome-like driver was quicker. He was out of the car and the rear door open before she reached the car.
    By the time Garson had recovered his senses, the limousine was pulling away. He stood in the doorway, stared after the retreating car.
    A deep voice intruded from his left. “Well, now you’ve met the Señorita .”
    Garson whirled.
    Choco Medina leaned against the wall beside the door. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its coal dangerously near his drooping mustache. A black sedan was pointed into the curb in front of him. Medina pushed himself away from the wall, nodded toward the car. “Shall we go for a ride?”
    “Where?”
    Medina shrugged.
    “How about taking me out to the Hacienda Cual?”
    Medina’s lids dropped. He spat out the cigarette, stepped on it. “Do you have an invitation?”
    “All the invitation I need.”
    “I will give you odds against it.”
    “Do you take me, or do I hire a cab?”
    “You’ve already hired me, Mr. Garson. Remember?”
    Garson nodded, wondering at Medina’s withdrawn attitude. He said, “Did you get a chance to talk to this El Grillo ?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where’s his nephew, Eduardo Gomez?”
    “What nephew? He has no nephew by that name.”
    “But you said . . .”
    “I am quoting him, Mr. Garson.”
    “What?”
    “He suddenly doesn’t know anything about a nephew named Eduardo Gomez.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Let’s go ask him.”
    They got into the car.
    Garson said, “Stop at the hotel a minute.”
    “Why?”
    “Just stop at the hotel.”
    “You’re the boss.”
    Gabriél Villazana was on duty behind the desk. Garson pressed a twenty peso note into his hand, “Gabriél, I am going out to the Hacienda Cual with Choco Medina. If I’m not back by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please notify the American Consulate in Mexico City.”
    Villazana took the money, his hand shaking.
    “Will you do it?” asked Garson.
    “ Sí, Señor. But please do not do this. That Choco is a bad man! He will . . .”
    “Just do as I ask.”
    Garson turned away from him, went to his room. His bed had been made, the room swept. He reached under his pillow and found the gun neatly centered there. A smile touched his lips as he wondered how common a thing it was for the maid to replace a man’s revolver when she made the bed. He slipped the gun into his belt, returned to the car and Choco Medina.
    “Let’s go.”
    The cobbled street ended at the edge of town, became a dusty, rutted track bounded by rickety fences of twisted limbs. The road wound through fields of sugar cane and corn. Dust thrown up by the limousine ahead of them hung over the ruts.
    As the sun climbed, Garson began to feel the heat of the day.
    The road angled upward, turning and twisting, bounded now by cacti overgrown with bougainvillea, tall grey-barked trees with shiny green leaves.
    Still there was no sign of the limousine except the settling carpet of dust on the road. They came to a fork. The dust trail went left.
    “They are going to the upper gate,” said Medina. “I don’t like that.”
    “Why?”
    He steered the car into the left fork, said, “It is more secluded there.”
    The turns became tighter, steeper. They rounded a hairpin corner. Medina turned off the road between two stone pillars, braked to a jolting stop as the pinch-faced driver of the limousine stepped into their path, pointed a rifle at them.
    The limousine stood parked about