Dillinger - Jack Higgins [34]
'You think it's Mexico.'
'Mr Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country.'
'OK. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous.'
8
The desert was a dun-coloured haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.
Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.
'How do you feel?' Rose asked.
'I guess I'm not very handsome today.' The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.
'Do you think it was worth it?'
He shrugged. 'Is anything?'
She said to Fallon, 'Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?'
'Only on his bad days,' the old man replied.
The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a narrow canyon. In the centre it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again before emerging once more into the plain.
At this point the track branched off in two directions and Rose halted. 'There is where I leave you. I'm going straight to the mine. Father Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and I promised to take him some medicine. Perhaps I'll see you later?'
Dillinger switched off the motor. 'I think maybe we should have a talk first.'
She sat there looking down at him and then nodded. 'All right.'
The horse ambled forward. Dillinger got out of the car and walked beside her, a hand on a stirrup. 'I hope you don't think I - well, you know, was too pushy last night.'
'As long as you understand that a kiss is not necessarily a promise of better things to come.'
'I'm used to, well, a different kind of woman.'
'You're blushing.'
'I don't blush,' Dillinger said sharply.
'Perhaps it is the sun,' she smiled. 'I think I'd better tell you something.'
He felt that jealous pang again. He was certain she was going to tell him that the Frenchman and she were involved.
'Harry - or Johnny - whatever your real name is -' She looked over at Fallon to make sure he was out of earshot. 'I was in the telegraph office first thing this morning. There's a police alarm out for a white Chevrolet.'
'From Santos or Hernandez?'
'To them, from the FBI.'
'Damn. Who knows about this?'
'The telegrapher. He hasn't seen your car. But he is paid by Rivera to tell him everything that comes in over the wire.'
'Are there police in town?'
'Two. Both old. They won't see the message if Rivera doesn't want them to. Why are they looking for you?'
'Not me. My car. I must have lent it to a bootlegger.'
'You are very charming when you lie.' She patted her whinnying horse's neck. 'Till later then. Perhaps I can put something on that poor face of yours.'
'What?'
'My hand,' she said, cantering away.
Half an hour later the white convertible came over a rise and the track dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below them stood a brown-stone hacienda built in the old colonial style.
The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with well-kept fences around a large paddock. A worker in riding boots and faded Levis was saddling a grey mare. He turned and looked up at them, shading his eyes with one hand, then went towards the house.
Dillinger drove into the courtyard and pulled up at the bottom of the steps. As he got out, a little girl ran out of the front door, tripped and lost her balance. As she started to fall, he moved forward quickly and caught her.
She was perhaps three years old and wore a blue riding suit with a velvet collar and brass buttons. She was frail, her brown eyes very large in