Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 37, No. 1, July 1975

A Piece of Rope by Hal Ellson

Two bodies lay in the morgue — what could possibly link the housewife and the crook together?

The village of Rios was old and still beautiful, but it was dying and half its houses stood empty. Stopping his car, Detective Victor Fiala looked across the road at the abandoned house. A well stood beside it, while a dozen orange trees and a staggered column of slender pomegranates displayed their startling scarlet blossoms.

Beautiful and sad, he sighed, and, starting the car, looked at the house again. Was someone watching him from there? In spite of the heat, he felt a sudden chill and decided to get out of the car and investigate. Turning the key, he stopped the motor.

There was no sound now and he felt the weight of the noon heat, while the flaming blossoms of the pomegranates contrasted with the glaring white walls of the house and its empty windows.

He decided no one was inside, and his eyes dropped to the naked rock across the road. There was his watcher, a lizard splayed upon the stone, studying him with an unblinking gaze.

Another detective, Fiala laughed and, with a movement too quick for the eye, the lizard vanished. Now there was only the silence again, the noon-heat and the flame of the pomegranates. He started the car, drove off and minutes later entered the village proper. The stricken deserted plaza, with its iron benches and ancient salt-cedars, burned in the sun. There was no police station here. Sheriff Pincay stepped through the doorway of a cantina, a tall slender man with a face like old leather.

Fiala braked the car, and the sheriff acknowledged him with a nod, then climbed into the front seat, gave directions and fell silent. Turning about, Fiala took the same road out of the village, passing the abandoned house where he’d stopped and others along the way. It was a beautiful drive, then, abruptly, they entered open country, a wasteland where only goats could survive.

It was here that a boy herding a flock had found the body of the murdered woman. The sheriff pointed now, and Fiala braked the car. Fifty feet off the road two peons squatted, arms across their knees. They remained that way when Fiala and the sheriff approached: two silent figures, they were guarding the dead woman from the buzzards sailing overhead.

Gazing at the corpse, Fiala nodded. At least, the stinking carrion-eaters hadn’t got their beaks into the woman. Young, her pretty face was unmarked, but someone had bound her wrists behind her and shot her in back of the head. Squatting now, Fiala examined the rope, then searched the area around the corpse and shrugged.

“The woman’s from Rios?” he asked Pincay.

“No, senor.”

“All right, let’s go. The body’ll be picked up shortly.”

They returned to the village and the sheriff, getting out of the car, went back in the cantina while Fiala drove off to headquarters.

Montes sweltered in the heat, but unlike Rios, there was no silence there. Buses rattled and cars roared through its narrow crowded streets. Stopping in the main plaza, Fiala went for coffee. There was plenty of time before the dead woman joined the man who’d been brought to the morgue that morning.

Two murders, and both victims had been bound with rope and shot in back of the head. Did that mean anything? Stirring his coffee, Fiala recalled the two squatting peons and the buzzards waiting overhead for the dead woman lying in the desert.

Trussed like an animal with a piece of rope. A horrible way to die, he thought, and, pushing his coffee away, walked out of the restaurant into the blazing sun. Across the street in the plaza a bench awaited him in the shade of a sour orange tree. It was a good place to think, but he soon dozed off.

Later, a hand pressed his shoulder and he opened his eyes. A policeman stood over him. “Better wake up, Victor,” he said. “They can hear you snoring at headquarters.”

Fiala smiled and glanced at his watch. An hour had gone into limbo; the Chief would have his head. Mumbling his thanks to the policeman, he hurried across the plaza to headquarters.

“You had a good sleep?” Captain Meza greeted him with from his desk. “Ah, you’re slipping, Victor.”

“A bad night,” Fiala answered, flushing. “Did they bring the woman in from Rios?”

Captain Meza nodded and grinned. “But, of course. She’s also been identified.”

“Already? That was fast.”

“One of our men recognized her. Carmen Valdez, the wife of Juan Valdez, a bellhop in the Hotel de los Reyes. Know him?”

“Only to nod to. Did he...?”

“Kill her?” Meza shrugged. “He claims he didn’t, but perhaps you’d like to talk to him yourself.”

“Later. What did you get on him?”

“Nothing. He has no record, and he’s a good worker, always on the job. He didn’t know his wife was murdered.”

“Nor missing?”

“No. According to him, they had an argument and she went to her mother’s. He thought she was still there, but...” Meza didn’t finish.

Fiala nodded. “Perhaps she had a boy-friend.”

“Valdez doesn’t think so. He was firm on that point.”

“He could be wrong.”

“Why?”

Fiala shrugged and said, “Let’s go. I want to show you something.”

Two bodies lay in the morgue, one of Carmen Valdez, the other Pedro Martinez who had been found that morning in a canyon south of the city. “Notice anything?” Fiala said.

“Both victims were shot in back of the head and their hands tied behind their backs,” Meza replied and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make something out of that?”

“I hope to,” Fiala asserted.

“Ridiculous. We know what Martinez was.”

“We do, but did Senora Valdez? Or perhaps she did know he was a bad one. If a woman falls in love, she doesn’t care what the man is or does.”

“True, but...” and Meza grinned. “You’re on a wild one this time. I assume you believe they were lovers and Valdez caught them together and killed them.”

“It may have happened that way. I don’t know, but they’re linked together, and the same man killed both of them. If you looked closely, you’d have noticed the victims were tied in exactly the same fashion, with the same knots and same kind of rope.”

“The rope, knots and fashion of tying are pretty common, Victor, and apt to mislead. I’d say Martinez had a falling out with some of his friends and was taken care of.”

“And Senora Valdez?”

“Perhaps her husband isn’t as innocent as he appears. Perhaps he murdered his wife, but why put the two murders together? It’s too far-fetched, in spite of the rope.”

“A difference of opinion,” Fiala said, and they left the morgue.

Captain Meza returned to his desk, and Fiala went back to the restaurant. This time he finished his coffee and two cigarettes, then returned to headquarters to confer with Chief Lopez in his office. Lopez proved as skeptical as Meza. He saw no connection between the two murders.

“A petty hoodlum, and a house-wife. You can’t link them together, Victor,” he said. “Not with a piece of rope.”

Fiala shrugged and left the Chief to his limitations. He hadn’t expected much from him. Meza was a jealous fool, he thought, as he descended the steep iron steps from the balcony into the patio. Then out into the sun he stepped. The white light was blinding, but shaded benches encircled the plaza. He returned to the one where he’d dozed off, put on his dark glasses and lit a cigarette. Two people murdered, and justice like a tortoise, slow-moving but inevitable; he’d nod a while.

He closed his eyes, but couldn’t nod off with two murders to solve. The house-wife and the petty criminal made an incongruous pair. Did the rope link them, or were Captain Meza and Chief Lopez right?

The pair of dark glasses he’d put on were not for concealment. He had good reason for donning them and now, directly across the gutter, Luis Cruz stepped from the doorway of the Blue Moon restaurant and joined him on the bench.

“Have you heard about Martinez?” Fiala said, dropping his cigarette.

“I’ve heard. A bullet in the head.”

“Correct. What was he dealing in?”

“Cigarettes from the States.”

“Who was he doing business with?”

The informer frowned, for this was a painful question to answer. “The big one,” Cruz finally replied. “Escobedo.”

“I should have known that. What went wrong?”

“Who knows?” Cruz said, shrugging.

Perhaps he knew the answer, perhaps he didn’t. Let it go, Fiala thought, and said, “What do you know about Senora Valdez?”

“Who is she?”

“She was mixed up with Martinez.”

“If she was, I didn’t know about it.”

“Maybe she was one of Escobedo’s harem.”

Cruz shrugged again. “Perhaps. There are many in the harem, and who could keep score on them?”

Fiala thought about Escobedo, the untouchable, with a hand in everything, and a weakness for women. Did he kill Martinez and Senora Valdez?

“What about Juan Valdez?” Fiala asked.

“What about him, senor?”

Like pulling teeth, Fiala thought. “Just tell me anything you know,” he said impatiently.

“Valdez is nothing. A messenger boy for Escobedo.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Very sure,” Cruz said. “Martinez picked up the cigarettes at the border and brought them to Rios. Valdez took over from there and brought them into the city.”

“Why two men for that operation?”

“Martinez would have been picked up too easily if he brought the goods into the city. So Escobedo used Valdez because he was clean.”

A logical explanation, which revealed less than it proved. How had Valdez become involved with one like Escobedo? And why had his wife been murdered? Fiala took off his sun-glasses. He thanked Cruz. The informer gave him a wan smile and walked away.

It was time to check on Valdez. Fiala smoked another cigarette, then walked leisurely to the de los Reyes, an ancient hotel, but pleasant and comfortable. The manager, an old friend, was behind the desk. Fiala questioned him about Valdez, and the manager had no complaints. Valdez was the best of workers, no trouble at all, but of late he’d appeared worried. He had been given the day off. His wife...

That was all. Fiala left. As he stepped from the hotel, he walked into Captain Meza.

“Checking on Valdez,” the captain said, displaying his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “Did you pick up anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And you won’t. Better not waste your time on the fellow.”

Fiala shrugged off the remark and Meza, giving him another toothy grin, went on his way.

It was the next day before Fiala was able to return to the de los Reyes and question Valdez. The bellhop was reluctant to talk. He’d already been questioned by Captain Meza and claimed he knew nothing.

“You may know more than you think you know,” Fiala informed him.

“My wife’s dead, and nothing can bring her back,” Valdez snapped.

“Nevertheless, I think we’ll have to talk about it.”

Valdez nodded, obviously appeared frightened, but what did he know? “When your wife was missing, where were you?” Fiala asked.

“Working here.”

“You came home, she wasn’t there and didn’t appear. Why didn’t you report her missing?”

Valdez let out his breath. “As I already explained to Captain Meza, we had an argument and my wife left the house. I thought she went to her mother’s. She did that before, so I wasn’t worried about her.”

“And the argument, what was that about?”

“Money.”

“Not unusual with young people. You don’t make too much on the job?”

“I depend on tips, and sometimes they don’t come as they should.”

Fiala nodded sympathetically. “A nice wristwatch you’re wearing,” he noted.

“Yes, I hit the lottery last month.”

“You must have hit it big. Well, someone has to be lucky. No?”

Valdez nodded, flushing, and Fiala left him standing there and went for black coffee in the Blue Moon. He drank two cups while he weighed the issues. The bellhop was frightened, and he’d lied about the wrist-watch. Money made “running” for Escobedo had paid for that. And the argument with his wife, that too was a lie. But to cover what? Valdez was a jittery fellow. He’d have to work on him more.

Returning to the hotel, Victor Fiala sat in the lobby and Valdez noticed him at once, then avoided his gaze, but the detective’s presence was disturbing and finally he approached him. “You want to see he, senor?” he asked.

“No, I’m watching for a tourist who may check in. He’s wanted in the States,” Fiala explained. It was a lie, of course, a tidbit of bait. Valdez swallowed it, smiled in relief and started back toward the desk when Fiala pulled the hook.

“One moment, senor,” he said. “Do you happen to know Juan Escobedo?”

The question took Valdez by surprise, but he shook his head. “No, no, I don’t know any Escobedo.”

“That’s all. Thanks.” Fiala left the hotel and returned to headquarters to confer with Lopez. The Chief wasn’t in his office, but Meza was at his desk.

“Lopez is having coffee with the Mayor in the Blue Moon,” he informed Fiala. “I wouldn’t disturb him unless it’s important.”

“I’m afraid it’s not important, Captain.”

“I see. Nothing on the murders yet?”

“Nothing.”

“But, of course,” Meza said. “You’re following the wrong lead.”

“The story of my life. If I had a peso for every wrong one I’ve followed...”

“I know. You’d retire, which wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, Victor, you’re getting old.”

“I admit it.” Fiala shook his head. “I can’t work the way I used to. I can’t even think straight any more.”

“And you’re wasting your time trying to link the Valdez-Martinez murders.”

“Perhaps I am. Have you any suggestions?”

Meza splayed his hands and shrugged. “None, but the one I already mentioned. Look for another lead.”

“Perhaps I will,” Fiala said, and left.

He returned to his favorite bench in the plaza under the sour orange tree and waited. Finally Lopez and the Mayor came out of the Blue Moon and separated. The Mayor walked away, and Lopez crossed the gutter to the bench.

“That’s all you’ve got to do, Victor?” he snapped. “Two unsolved murders and you sit here.”

“I was waiting for you,” Fiala told him. “If you don’t want to listen, that’s up to you.”

“You mean...”

Fiala held up a hand. “One moment. Nothing’s happened yet, but I’ve learned that Valdez works for Escobedo.”

The mention of Escobedo brought a frown to Lopez’s face. “So?” he said.

“So Valdez isn’t clean. That’s number one. Number two: Martinez also worked for Escobedo, which proves nothing, but suggests a lot. For instance, that Senora Valdez and Martinez probably knew each other, and that Senor Valdez isn’t the good citizen he appears to be.”

Lopez shrugged. “So where do these tid-bits lead us, Victor?”

“To the murderer.”

“And that is Valdez, I suppose?”

“The jealous husband who kills, is much too simple. Besides, Valdez isn’t a killer. He’s a mouse. He couldn’t have handled Martinez.”

“He could have with a gun,” Lopez said.

“True, but if he put a gun on him, he couldn’t have tied him up. Someone else had to do it. That person also tied up Senora Valdez. Yes, at least two men were involved.”

“An assumption, Victor.”

“Not if you consider that both victims were carried from a car. I admit that one man could have lifted Senora Valdez, but Martinez? At least two men had to carry him to the place where he was found.”

“This is confusing,” Lopez said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Probably because you’ve been listening to Captain Meza.”

“I have, and his theory about the murders differs from yours.”

“As usual,” Fiala smiled, “and, as usual, he’s wrong.”

“That’s still to be seen. But theories and words aren’t going to settle anything.” With that, Lopez turned and walked away.

Fiala shrugged and lit a cigarette. He’d gotten nowhere with Lopez, but that was understandable. Two unsolved murders. Valdez is the key to the whole business. Squeeze him and perhaps he’ll panic, he thought, tossing away his cigarette and getting up.

The Hotel de los Reyes stood at the far-end of the plaza. In the burning sun it was a long walk, but there was no need to hurry. Valdez would be there.

Reaching the hotel, Fiala paused and eyed the rickity screen door. Two holes had been punched in the mesh, a convenience for pesty flies. The place had gone to seed, but it was better than the fancy modern contraptions going up in the city. At least, it was comfortable and cool enough without air-conditioning to give one pneumonia.

Fiala pushed open the door, crossed the lobby, found a chair facing the desk and put on his dark glasses. They might help make Valdez nervous. The bellhop, standing by the desk, noticed him and looked uneasy. Watch a guilty man and he begins to sweat, Fiala thought.

For an hour he sat there, then went for coffee and returned to his chair. Thereafter, on the hour, he left and came back to watch Valdez. At five minutes of eight, Valdez stepped out, saw him and hurried off.

Fiala took off after him. Two blocks away on a dark street Valdez turned about, white in the face. “Why are you following me?” he demanded to know.

“What about Senor Escobedo?” Fiala replied. “You still don’t know him?”

“You’ve already asked me that, and I gave you my answer.”

“The wrong one. You work for Escobedo. So did Martinez. You were the last person to see him alive. You met him at Rios to pick up a load of smuggled cigarettes, no?”

Valdez stood mute, then finally shook his head and denied knowing Escobedo and Martinez.

“All right, so you don’t know them,” Fiala went on. “But what about your wife?”

“You think I killed her?”

“Perhaps. What happened between Martinez and your wife?”

“There was nothing between them,” Valdez snapped.

“Ah, so you did know Martinez?”

Valdez glared at Fiala and finally nodded. “I knew him,” he admitted. “I worked with him for Escobedo, but no blood of his is on my hands.”

“Then who killed him, and who killed your wife?”

Valdez stared back, silent, too frightened to talk. Make him. Fiala leaned forward. “We’re going to headquarters for a little test,” he said.

“A test? What test?”

“Don’t be impatient. Come along.”

Five minutes later at headquarters Fiala handed Valdez a piece of rope. “What’s this for?” the bellhop asked.

“You’ll tie the wrists of this policeman.”

Valdez shrugged, as if he didn’t comprehend, then proceeded as ordered. When he finished, Fiala examined the knots and lifted his eyes. “As I thought,” he said. “Senor Valdez, I charge you with the murder of Pedro Martinez and your wife.”

The next morning Fiala dropped into the Blue Moon for coffee. There was time enough for a second cup, a second cigarette and conversation with a man who joined him at the table. At eleven-thirty Fiala went to headquarters.

“Has the Chief arrived?” he asked Captain Meza.

Meza nodded and said, “So you cracked the double-murder. Well, I thought Valdez was the killer, you know.”

“Valdez, the killer? Who told you that?”

“But last night you charged him, didn’t you?”

“That was last night. I’ll tell you about it later,” Fiala answered, grinning, and he started for Lopez’ office.

“Congratulations, Victor,” the Chief said when Fiala stood before him. “A cigar? Better take a handful. Good. Now tell me how you pinned Valdez down.”

“Valdez?” Fiala shook his head. “You mean Escobedo.”

“Escobedo? I don’t understand. You’ve got Valdez in the lock-up.”

“As an accomplice. Escobedo arranged the murders.”

“Arranged them?”

“He gave the order, and one of his gun-men did the dirty work.”

“You can prove that?”

“My witness is Senor Valdez.”

“His word alone against Escobedo’s?” Lopez snorted. “That’s not enough to put the big fellow away.”

“The gun-man will also testify against Escobedo,” Fiala stated.

Lopez’ brows arched, and Fiala explained: “I had coffee with him in the Blue Moon. He’ll talk in exchange for a light sentence.”

“It looks like you’ve covered everything, but why did Escobedo want Senora Valdez murdered?”

“Unfortunately the senora discovered what her husband was doing and threatened to expose the whole business if he didn’t pull out.”

“And he wouldn’t?”

“He wanted to. And like a fool he went to Escobedo and told him of his wife’s threat, thinking that would get him off the hook. It didn’t. Escobedo told him to get rid of his wife, but he couldn’t kill her, so the gun-man stepped into the picture.”

“And Martinez? Where does his murder fit in?”

“It seems that he objected to the murder of Senora Valdez, and Escobedo didn’t like that, so the gun-man took care of him also.”

Lopez shook his head. “Bizarre. Martinez objected, and the husband didn’t.”

“Not only that, but Valdez drove the car and helped carry the victims after they were dispatched.”

“Sickening. How could he do that?”

“A gun at his head persuaded him.”

“He should have taken the bullet himself.” Lopez grunted with disgust.

Fiala shrugged. “Cowards look to their own skin first.”

“Yes. Anyway, you did a job on him. How did you manage it?”

“With this,” Fiala answered, drawing a piece of rope from his pocket. “I had Valdez tie up one of our men, and he fell for the trick.”

“What trick?”

“Well, he knew what I had in mind, or thought he did. Anyway, he applied a different knot than that used in the murders, but I expected that and bluffed. I told him it was the same knot used on the victims and he cracked wide open.”

Lopez nodded and smiled. “And what if the bluff hadn’t worked?” he asked.

“It worked,” Fiala answered, turning to the door. “Many thanks for the cigars.”

Down below, Captain Meza sat at his desk. Fiala paused there, dropped the piece of rope on the blotter and said, “Here’s a souvenir for you, my friend. If anyone wants me, I’ll be at the Blue Moon having my coffee and sweet cakes.”