Dillinger - Jack Higgins [28]
Dillinger turned to Fallon. 'What happens now?'
Fallon shrugged. 'I suppose he'll want us at the mine tomorrow.'
'Where do we stay?'
'Not at the hacienda, if that's what you're thinking. Rivera likes to keep the hired help in their place. There's a shack at the mine.'
'You're staying here tonight,' Chavasse put in. 'Rivera booked the room. It's the brown door at the top of the stairs.'
Dillinger swallowed his beer and put down the glass.
'If it's all right with you, I'll go up now. I feel as if I haven't slept in two days.'
Fallon grinned at the Frenchman. 'We had ourselves a rough ride in. Villa and his boys tried to take over the train, then we ran into Ortiz on the way in. That didn't improve Rivera's temper, I can tell you.'
'You saw Ortiz?' Chavasse asked eagerly. 'How did he seem?'
'Had blood in his eyes, if you ask me. One of these days Rivera's going to do something about him.'
'I would not like to be Rivera when that day comes,' the Frenchman said gravely.
'You think he's dangerous?' Dillinger asked.
Chavasse took a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match on the counter 'Let me tell you something, my friend. When you speak of the Apache you speak of the most dangerous fighting men who ever walked the face of the earth. Rivera will find one day that he has pushed Ortiz once too often.'
'And Andre should know,' Fallon said. 'He's forgotten more about Apaches than I'll ever know.'
'Right now,' Dillinger said, 'the only thing I'm interested in is about eight hours' sleep and whatever passes for a bath around here.'
He walked out into the dark hall and paused to remove his jacket, blinking as the sweat ran into his eyes. A step sounded on the porch and a spur jingled as someone entered.
He turned slowly. A young woman stood in the doorway looking at him, the harsh white light of the street outlining her slim figure. Booted and spurred, she wore Spanish riding breeches in black leather, a white shirt open at the neck and a Cordoban hat.
But it was her face that blinded him: slightly oriental eyes that were unusually large, the nose tilted, a sensuous mouth. There was about her a tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, that filled him with a vague irrational excitement.
'You are Senor Jordan?' she said. 'Harry Jordan, who is to run the mine for my uncle? I am Rose Teresa Consuela de Rivera.'
She removed her hat revealing blue-black hair, plaits coiled high on the back of her head. She put out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture and he held it for a moment, marvelling at its coolness.
'You know, for the first time I actually feel glad I came to Mexico,' he said.
The look that appeared on her face lasted for only a second and then she smiled. Laughter erupted from her throat and the sound of it was like a ship's bell across water.
7
It was evening when Dillinger awakened. The coverlet had slipped from him in his sleep and he lay there naked for a moment watching the shadows lengthen across the ceiling before swinging his legs to the floor. The window to the balcony stood open and the curtains lifted in the slight breeze.
The courtyard at the rear of the hotel seemed deserted when he peered out, and he quickly filled the enamel basin on the washstand with lukewarm water from a stone pitcher, went out onto the balcony and emptied the basin over his head.
He towelled himself briskly, pulled on his pants and shirt, then examined his face in the cracked mirror, running a hand gingerly over the stubble of beard. He opened one of his suitcases, took out razor and soap and got to work.
There was a knock at the door and as Dillinger turned, wiping soap from his face, Rivera entered. He carried Dillinger's shoulder holster and the Colt .32. He dropped them on the bed.
'Well, the world is full of surprises,' Dillinger said.
'There are eight rounds in there, my friend, as you know. If we have trouble