A Joke Proves Dangerous to Bill
BILL MURPHY rode into the outskirts of Maracaibo about four o’clock. He had come by the back trails, avoiding the roads which he knew might be watched.
He had a problem on his hands and a big one. Somehow or other, in spite of Marcia and Romano and the troopers, he had to get a hydraulic rotary drill and he had to transport it by truck, dray or hand, if necessary, back to Camp Chico.
Although Bill, in many instances, had been known to show a remarkable instinct for getting into trouble through sheer bullheadedness, this time he went about the job with a great deal of finesse.
He could not walk into Maracaibo as Bill Murphy, oilman. And so he decided that he would walk in there as Harvey Johnson, tourist.
To this end he directed his steps to a small hut almost lost in a tangle of hot brush. An old man lived there with no visible means of support, but the old man always had a little bit of this and that around the place.
The old man was sitting on his steps, drowsing in the afternoon sun when Bill sighted him.
Bill rode closer and the old man failed to move. Bill swung down off his horse and walked the intervening distance and stared, abruptly, into a drawn .45 automatic.
“Wait a minute,” said Bill, drawing it out slowly. “No need to get flighty, Ledeaux.”
The old man blinked and then recognized Bill. Sheepishly he pocketed the .45, got up and stretched.
“You ought to be more careful, señor Murphy,” said Ledeaux. “Never walk up on a man in my circumstances without making some noise. Why, I might have shot you.”
Bill grinned at him. Ledeaux, even now, bore some of the stamp of his days in French Guiana from which he had escaped some ten years before. Authorities seldom paid any attention to him, but, as Ledeaux sometimes hinted, three gentlemen he had left behind might someday appear and object to the fact that he had left wearing some of their clothes and carrying most of their cash.
“What can I do for you?” said Ledeaux, mopping his greasy face with his ragged sleeve.
“I want some clothes,” said Bill.
“But, señor,” protested Ledeaux, “why have you come to me? You see that I myself am in rags. How could I have clothes and not wear them?”
Bill grinned again. As Ledeaux was the fence and the head mobster of Maracaibo’s petty crime, he had to put up some kind of a front to comparative strangers.
With slow deliberation, Bill took a handful of bolívars out of his pocket. He poured them from one hand to the other and back again. Ledeaux watched with greedy fascination, licking his thick lips.
“I want clothes. I want,” said Bill, “a disguise. I want to look like a tourist and my name is Harvey Johnson. You, Ledeaux, are pretty good at that sort of thing, you know.”
“You flatter me, señor,” said Ledeaux. “But come. We stand here frying in the sun. Come in and have some coffee with me. And for the sake of the good God, put away that money. Here, I’ll take it if you have no pockets.”
As they moved through the doorway of the mean hut, a shadow drifted across the compound, unseen by either of them. In a dark place beside the wall, the shadow stopped in a listening attitude.
But Bill watched nothing but Ledeaux. The old man pulled up a trapdoor and lowered himself into a lower room. Presently he thrust a pair of suitcases up and followed them immediately.
The suitcases were stamped with stickers taken from almost anyplace in the world, quite obviously the property of a tourist. Chuckling, Ledeaux unstrapped them and looked inside.
“Where?” said Bill.
“A tourist, so big, gave them to a man he thought was a porter,” chuckled Ledeaux.
Bill, although he did not favor dealing with either Ledeaux or stolen goods, had to take what he could get. He nodded affably.
Ledeaux was hauling forth a white suit which looked as though it might fit Bill. He followed it with a jipijapa hat which had probably cost the luckless tourist about fifty dollars in Ecuador.
Bill stripped off his muddy khaki and shed his boots. He pulled on the white pants. But Bill was built something like a prize fighter and he had a waist as narrow as his shoulders were wide. Evidently this tourist had faired well on hotel food and when Bill put the suspenders up the belt band billowed and puffed and was somehow twice too big.
But the coat covered that and when Bill had tied the flowing dark tie and had picked up a cane in the corner, he grinned with satisfaction—until he stepped to a mirror. That gave him a shock. He still looked like Bill Murphy.
“Here,” said Ledeaux. “I fix that right away. Once I was in the theater business.”
“Robbing box offices?” said Bill.
“No. Stealing out of the dressing rooms,” corrected Ledeaux with some pride.
The old man produced a makeup kit and took out some line pencils and some gray hair. He snipped away with his shears, daubed some spirit gum on Bill’s upper lip and then applied the mustache.
With powder Ledeaux grayed Bill’s hair and with the line pencils, he put pouches under Bill’s eyes and some wrinkles on Bill’s cheeks and forehead.
Bill looked in the mirror again and saw a very kindly old gentleman, probably a southerner.
“Yes, suh,” said Bill, giving the jipijapa white hat a rakish tug. He spun the cane and admired himself again.
Ledeaux gave him a handful of papers and chuckled. “You look just like him.”
“Like who?” said Bill.
“George Henderson, the Standard representative that arrived last week. See, you think I am not good, eh?”
Bill blinked at himself in the mirror. “Don’t you think I look sort of flappy around the waist for that?”
Ledeaux promptly produced a small pillow and tucked it into Bill’s pants.
A few more bolívars changed hands and Bill walked outside into the sun, trying to be as pompous as possible. He did not see the shadow against the wall. The sun was too blinding for that even when a sliver of steel, incredibly sharp, glittered in the unknown’s hand.
Bill walked slowly as he neared the main part of town. Nobody looked at him or saluted him and finally he began to feel better.
He was coming into the city through Haticos, the swanky lake residential section south of the main town, and he surveyed the houses as though he owned each and every one.
When he reached the main drag he was more confident than ever, until he spotted two police officers standing in close conference on the corner.
He had to pass them and he swung the cane and approached. Just opposite them, one of the officers reached out and touched his arm. Bill’s heart went down into his boots.
“Señor,” said the officer, “¿Es usted el señor Jorge Henderson, verdad?”
Bill choked. “Sí, sí. I am George Henderson.”
Bill had to bat his eyes rapidly to keep from betraying himself. Of course he should have thought of this. The Standard representative here in this town had about as much power as the governor himself because he was the reason for Maracaibo’s main activity—petroleum. That damned Ledeaux was altogether too clever with his makeup. This expensive jipijapa hat and the good quality whites had done the trick. Nobody in Maracaibo wore such things.
“Bueno,” said the officer, “we have been watching for you since you have not been at home all morning. We were instructed to warn you, if we saw you, not to make the trip to Camp Jaguar. Things are upset in the back country.”
“Gracias,” said Bill. “Muchas gracias, señores,” and got away from there.
He had food for thought, however. Marcia, then, was playing for a sellout to Standard Petroleum.
He hadn’t thought she would do that. He was disappointed in her. Perhaps she was putting up this fight with Standard money behind her. Bill walked more slowly and felt blue. She was selling him out, after all. She wanted Camp Chico only because Standard would not buy Jaguar unless that oil lake, thousands of feet down, was wholly under Jaguar control.
He felt badly in need of a drink and he swung into a big hotel, thinking that was as safe as anywhere. Damn that Ledeaux for making him so conspicuous. But the man had a sense of humor. You couldn’t deny that.
Bill stood up to the bar and had a Planter’s Punch. As he was sipping it, wondering how he would get that rig, a small native boy came scuttling in. He tugged at Bill’s coat with a none-too-clean hand.
“Señor Henderson, ¿verdad?”
“My God,” thought Bill, “does everybody in Maracaibo want this Henderson?”
“Tengo una carta, señor,” said the boy, holding up a letter.
It was addressed to George Henderson and Bill was about to give it back with some weird excuse when he recognized the handwriting.
Marcia’s.
“Gracias,” said Bill, slitting open the envelope and giving the boy a coin.
He read: “Mr. Henderson: It has come to my notice that you are attempting to do business about Camp Jaguar. If you wish, I will see you at the Café de Oro at eight this evening. Marcia Stewart.”
Bill had a little time on his hands until then. He had to get that hydraulic rotary drill. After that he would see Marcia. He would try to bluff it out, if he could. Perhaps she had never met this man. Perhaps, if the lights were dim, she would fail to recognize Bill.
He swung out of the hotel and went down to the waterfront. For a short time he wandered along the twisting quays and then he found the shop for which he searched.
A bright young clerk came to the counter and failed to see anything wrong with his customer.
Bill came to the point. “I want a complete rig and I want it loaded and shipped to Camp Chico by truck tonight. Can you do it?”
“I have a secondhand rotary rig I could let you have.”
“Let’s see it.”
They went into the back of the store and looked over the equipment. Bill was satisfied. He drew a money belt from about his waist and counted a large amount into the clerk’s hand.
“The other half is payable on delivery,” said Bill. “Have the truck up the trail to Camp Chico. I’ll meet the driver there about midnight and go on in with him.”
“Will Bill Murphy be around?” said the clerk.
“Well, er, I guess so. I’ll have Bill Murphy meet the truck. Your driver know him?”
“Sure. Everybody knows Bill Murphy. He’s certainly badly wanted right now. I heard the cops were going to string him up to the nearest lamp post if they spotted him.”
“That so?” said Bill. “Well, I guess they’ll have to spot him first.”
The clerk thought that that was a good joke.