Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 98, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 588 & 589, October 1991

The Orphan by Scott Mackay

This would be the last one, Henry thought. Too bad it had to be a woman. But he had no choice — he owed a lot of money, and one way or the other he had to pay Doucette back...

Henry Stevens loosened his red bowtie, took off his blazer and his boater, put them on the table, and looked out at the town plaza through his hotel window. A persistent rain polished the cobblestones, drenched the palm trees in front of the train station, and washed the filth in the gutters down the boulevard. A large wagon, drawn by six donkeys and driven by two sombreroed peasants, carried thirty barrels of crude oil to the steamship depot, its wooden wheels echoing over the square.

His eyes settled on a small blue house on the corner, now empty, its windows dark. She had to run, he thought. No easy thing for a woman with two small children. She had to run because her husband was dead and she knew too much.

He turned from the window and walked to the bed. He fished in the sleeve of his suitcase and pulled out the photograph Howard Downing had given him. Colette Lambert. She was petite — doll-like, with round eyes and bobbed brown hair. In this photograph she wore a silk flapper’s dress. Killing wasn’t Henry Stevens’ usual business, and he had never killed a woman before. His usual business was running rum through the Keys to Miami.

He turned the photograph over. Somebody’s handwriting. Possibly Neil Lambert’s. Colette, New York, 1928. Five years ago.

He leaned over, put the photograph in his blazer pocket, and stood up. He walked to the sink in the corner and looked at himself in the small scrap of mirror. Henry, you look old. Too many late nights, too much Cuban rum. He turned on the tap and a trickle of cold water sputtered into the sink, brown with rust.

He splashed his face, then rubbed it dry with a towel. This was no time to brood over bad choices and lost chances, he thought. He changed his shirt and trousers and put on a new bowtie. He was here, out of danger, far away from Doucette, and that was more than he could have hoped for a month ago. He checked his wallet, then pulled on his raincoat. He got his gun from his suitcase, inserted six cartridges, and put it in his pocket. Henry Stevens, hired killer. He didn’t like the sound of that. He was meant for better things. He put on his boater and left the room.

He walked past the potted ferns to the ancient cage lift. This would be the last one, he thought. Too bad it had to be a woman. But he had no choice — he owed a lot of money, and one way or the other he had to pay Doucette back.

At the Trujillo offices of Delta Oil Limited, he rang the bell and waited on the covered stoop.

Two minutes later, Cipriano Rivero came to the door.

Rivero, a short balding man in his late fifties, looked up at him with nervous eyes. “Senor Stevens?” he asked.

“Si,” said Stevens.

Rivero looked at him for a few vacant moments, then gave him a tired nod and opened the door. “Please, senor, come in. Nobody is here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Stevens followed the clerk through the vestibule into the reception area. Rivero walked around the counter with small quick steps, opened his desk, and took out a key. It was a skeleton key and looked as if it might open any number of doors. Rivero came hack around the counter and clutched Stevens by the sleeve. “Come,” he said. “We go.”

They walked in silence through the rain. It was almost dark. They hurried across the plaza, Stevens lagging behind. He couldn’t see the point of all the hurry.

When Rivero got to the door of the blue house, he stopped and waited for Stevens to catch up. It was a two-story house with a covered balcony. Two potted orchids stood on either end of the balustrade. The blinds were shut and a small For Rent sign hung in the window.

Stevens joined Rivero on the front porch. “One thing you should understand, senor,” said Rivero, “the nearest police officer is over two hundred miles away, in Maracaibo. When night falls, Trujillo is a lawless town. There are those who would kill you for the clothes on your back.”

Rivero fit the key into the lock and opened the door. They went inside.

A front hall led directly into a salon. Rivero tried the light switch. The hall’s small chandelier didn’t come on. On its best days, Trujillo had no more than three hours of electrical service and during the rainy season the cable from Maracaibo often washed out altogether. Stevens took out his wooden all-weather matches.

Stevens found a candelabra and lit two of the five candles. The salon was bathed in a murky glow. Some of the furniture was covered in white canvas and two packing trunks had been partially filled with books, paintings, and ornaments. The salon looked as if it had been suddenly abandoned. He went into the kitchen, holding the candelabra in front of him. Black and white tiles covered the floor. Stevens held the candelabra high. Blood. All over the counter and the floor — patterned with footprints and handprints. “Is this where she killed Senor Downing?” he called.

“Si.” Rivero’s voice sounded muffled, dull, as if he didn’t wish to discuss Peter Downing’s murder. “What was she to do? He threatened her children.”

The blood was old and dry, turning brown.

Stevens followed the blood to a back door. A few steps led to a shared courtyard. He heard Rivero’s feet padding into the kitchen after him. A dog, one of those tan-colored strays seen so often in Venezuela, trotted across the courtyard, sniffed the base of the crumbling fountain, then continued across the grass and disappeared down the lane.

“This is where we found him,” said Rivero. “Look — you can see one of her footprints in his blood. Maybe she tried to drag the body outside but then decided he was too heavy. He was a big man, Senor Stevens, all muscle and no fat.”

Stevens closed the door, knelt, and examined the footprint. A flat-soled shoe, about a women’s size six. “What about this footprint here?” he asked. “It’s bigger.”

“That?” said Rivero, twisting his chin to one side. “That would be Pinta’s footprint.”

“Who’s Pinta?”

“The maid. A campesina woman. She was here often. To help clean and look after the children. She and Senora Lambert became good friends.”

Stevens gazed at the maid’s footprint for several moments, then walked back into the living room. “Any idea where this maid might live?”

Rivero followed him into the salon. “No, Senor Stevens. Oscar Quintano can tell you. He’s been here longer than I. I keep my world small. The office, home, the cantina. It is safer that way.”

Stevens walked over to the china cabinet. On top was another photograph — this one of the whole Lambert family. They were well dressed, prosperous, stood in front of their new brownstone on Manhattan’s west side with smiles on their faces. Stevens held the candelabra up to get a better look.

Neil Lambert was tall, blond, and had the unmistakable keenness of a young tycoon in his eyes. Now he was dead. Killed by Peter Downing because he wouldn’t sell his crude-rich land claim to Delta Oil. Colette stood next to him, holding his arm, a proud young wife and caring mother — a vision from a way of life Henry Stevens had always envied. He was an orphan. Family life was as strange to him as the dark side of the moon. He looked at her two children. In this photograph, Robert looked about seven and Nicole roughly five. They would be orphans, too, before long, he thought. They would find out just what loneliness was. They would grow up not trusting anyone.

He looked at Colette again. She was, he decided, a woman who would be easy to fall in love with. And a woman Howard Downing wanted dead. Take as much time as you need. Just find her. She’s not going to get away with killing my brother. Here’s eight hundred dollars. That should cover expenses. If you need more, send a telegram. As Stevens gazed at her oval face, he felt he knew her. Yet he had learned through hard experience that it was a mistake to judge anybody by appearance alone. She had brutally stabbed Peter Downing in the back seventeen times.

“Senor,” said Rivero, “perhaps we should go. It is dark now and the banditos will soon be in from the jungle.”

Stevens ignored the diminutive clerk. Colette’s calm eyes mesmerized him. He reached up, wanting to get a better look, and gripped the gilt frame. Something crawled out onto his hand. “What the devil!” He shook his hand and a scorpion fell to the floor.

“Senor Stevens, in South America it is always wise to look before you reach — you never know what you’re going to find on an unseen ledge.”

Stevens crouched and examined the scorpion. It stood ready to attack, its stinger twitching. Take it as a sign, he thought. She is dangerous. Don’t underestimate her. She’ll protect her children whatever the cost.

The rain came down harder now.

Rivero disappeared down the dark street.

Stevens walked across the plaza, tilting his boater forward against the rain, and turned up the town’s main boulevard. He passed the post office and the telegraph office, then stopped under the tin awning of the Banco de la Republica.

The day’s rates for the American dollar were posted on an outdoor bulletin board. Also posted were land-sale notices, all for oil claims, authorized by the Ministry of the Interior, some going for as little as five hundred dollars U.S.

He continued on until he came to the Royal Dutch Shell Building and stopped in front of its pink colonial facade. He looked at the hotel across the street — the Miramar, where Oscar Quintano had a room.

He crossed the street and went inside.

There was a cantina on the ground floor, crowded with American and European oil workers, and native campesinos. No one much noticed Stevens. He worked his way to the back stairs.

He climbed the stairs and walked down the corridor to the room at the end of the hall, where he knocked on the door and waited.

A few moments later, Quintano answered. He was a short, pugnacious man with broad shoulders, a dark complexion, and a thick neck. He looked at Stevens with suspicious, wary eyes.

“Senor Quintano?” said Stevens.

“Si.”

“I’m Stevens. Howard Downing sent me.”

Quintano stood there, waiting. Stevens reached into his blazer for Howard Downing’s letter and handed it to Quintano.

It was instantly apparent that Quintano could not read. He studied the letter upside-down. Finally, he nodded and handed the letter back. “Si,” he said. “Si, come in.”

The air inside Quintano’s room smelled sour. On the table sat a half finished plate of corn cakes and aji sauce. The two men sat down and looked at each other.

“You are late,” said Quintano, forking a piece of corn cake into his mouth, his eyes sullen. “I was expecting you yesterday.”

“We ran into foul weather crossing the Gulf,” said Stevens. He folded Howard Downing’s letter and put it back in his pocket. Stevens glanced out the window, then put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He saw that Quintano tolerated his presence only grudgingly. “Do you have any idea where she is?” he asked. “Any idea at all?”

Quintano shook his head and put his fork down. “Senor, she disappeared eight nights ago — the night she killed Peter Downing. My men have watched the steamship and railway terminals. She has not been seen. They’ve watched the road into the interior and they have seen only oil wagons and campesinos. They would not miss a woman with two small children. Especially a gringita.”

“How often does the steamship come?”

“Once every three days,” said Quintano. “It comes again tomorrow.”

“What about the train?”

“The freight train comes twice a week, the passenger train once a week. Sometimes the passenger train does not come at all.”

“Then you think she’s still here in Trujillo?”

“She could be nowhere else.”

Stevens sat thinking while Quintano continued with his corn cakes. “And where were you the night Senor Downing killed Neil Lambert?” he asked.

“Senor Stevens, I was with Senor Downing — I saw Senor Downing pull the trigger.”

“So you saw Senora Lambert then as well.”

“The senora was standing on the other side of the courtyard. She watched Peter Downing kill her husband.”

“Why didn’t Downing kill her then? Didn’t he know she was watching? It would have made things a lot easier.”

“Downing believed the senora would run,” said Quintano. He shook his head and stared out the window for a moment. “He thought she would be so frightened she would take the next boat to Caracas. People in Trujillo do not fight Peter Downing. People do not fight Delta Oil.”

“But she decided to fight.”

“Si, senor, she did.”

“What did she do?”

Quintano took another bite of corn cake and aji sauce, washed it down with a gulp of aquardiente, and wiped his lips with the back of his arm. “She contacted an official at the Ministry of the Interior office in Maracaibo. A man named Gutierrez. She told him of the illegal land transfer and how officials of the Interior office here in Trujillo had been bribed so Peter Downing could take Neil Lambert’s land away. There’s an ongoing investigation now. I’m sure Howard Downing told you. The Venezuelan assets of Delta Oil have been frozen. The ambassador has been alerted and now there is pending action in the United States. Delta Oil is in big trouble. All because of Colette Lambert. You can understand why Howard Downing is so upset.”

Outside, a gust of wind blew a rain squall against the window. This was leaving a bad taste in Stevens’ mouth. “And where were you the night Colette Lambert murdered Peter Downing?”

“I was here in my room, Senor Stevens.”

“Why was Senor Downing over at Senora Lambert’s in the first place?”

“I do not know. Perhaps to warn her. Perhaps to kill her.”

Stevens thought for a moment. “What about her maid? Do you know where her maid lives?”

“Her maid lives in San Philipo, the barrio at the crossroads. I have talked to Senora Chavez every day. I have had her mudhut searched. There has not been any sign of Senora Lambert or her two children. Wherever she is, Senor, she has hidden herself well.”

Quintano gave him directions to San Philipo.

Stevens hired a guide and donkey outside the Miramar and set off for San Philipo immediately.

He sat on the donkey’s back, plodding through the rain. He thought of Doucette. There were only so many excuses you could give a man like Doucette. If Stevens didn’t pay up soon, the gangster boss would have him killed. This murder contract was a blessing — it was going to save his life and help get him back on his feet. By the end of the week, he’d be back in Cuba.

Yet it didn’t feel like a blessing. What would happen to Colette Lambert’s children once he had killed her?

When he got to San Philipo, the rain let up. A lantern burned outside a small thatched-roof church where the devoted gathered for Evening Mass. His campesino guide tied the donkey in front of the church and Stevens walked the rest of the way.

Pinta Chavez’s mudhut stood next to the jungle. In a small clearing beside the hut, a blackened pot hung from a crude tripod. Stevens reached in his blazer, took out his revolver, and put it in his coat pocket. If he had the chance, he would kill Colette Lambert here.

A rough piece of woven cloth covered the doorway. He saw lamplight burning within. There were no windows and no back door. He pulled the cloth aside, not bothering to announce his arrival.

An old woman in black and a boy of thirteen or fourteen looked up at him. The boy got to his feet, his shoulders rising. Stevens glanced around the one-room hut. No sign of Colette. No sign of her two children. He looked at the old woman.

“Senora Chavez?”

“Si?”

The woman was too old to help clean, to take care of children, and, glancing at her hands, Henry saw they were crippled by arthritis. The boy was afraid, but ready for a fight.

“Senora Pinta Chavez?” Henry asked again, wanting to verify he had the right woman.

“No,” said the woman. “My daughter is at the steamship office. She will be home later.”

The steamship office, thought Stevens. The boat came tomorrow. Sometimes a little piece of luck like this made all the difference.

“Who are you?” asked the boy, taking a step forward. “What do you want?”

Stevens’ lips parted in his most disarming smile. He had all the information he needed. He just had to get himself out of this now. “I understand Senora Chavez is looking for work,” he said. “My wife and I are new in town and we need someone to clean and cook. I was told Senora Chavez might be available.”

The boy’s defensive posture eased. A smile came to the old woman’s face. Both were relieved.

“Si, senor. My daughter just became available last week. If you would care to wait, I’m sure she will be home soon.”

“No. I wouldn’t want to trouble you, senora. And my wife is expecting me back. But if it is not too much bother, perhaps I can come and see Senora Chavez tomorrow.”

“Of course, senor. Whatever you wish.”

Stevens went to the steamship office that same night. There were fifteen minutes until closing. He walked to the far side of the office and read the schedules.

The boat from Caracas arrived at six o’clock tomorrow morning and departed at seven-thirty. He hurried to the ticket counter. The clerk, an old thin man with a pencil moustache, his hair oiled back with hair gel, frowned at him. “Senor, if you want a ticket now, you will have to wait until the morning.”

“I don’t want a ticket,” said Stevens. “I want information.”

He took out his wallet and slid a hundred-bolivar note across the counter. The clerk looked at the note, then at Stevens, then pocketed the money, as if such requests for information were a common part of his business.

“What is it you wish to know, senor?”

“I was told there was a woman here earlier. Pinta Chavez. Do you know her?”

The clerk nodded. “Si, senor, she was here.”

“And what was her business?”

“She bought passage to the capital on tomorrow’s steamship.”

“For how many?”

“For three. One adult and two children.”

Under normal circumstances, Stevens might have grinned. But he would take no pleasure in killing Colette Lambert. His face remained expressionless.

“Gracias, senor,” he said. “Buenos noches.”

That night in his hotel room, he lay in his narrow lumpy bed staring up at the water-stained ceiling, thinking of the orphanage where he had spent most of his childhood years. A squat white building four stories high with a green roof, an asphalt playground, and an eight-foot chainlink fence. A cheerless place with too many children and not enough staff. Not that he had ever gone hungry, or that they had ever been cruel to him. But there had been something missing. A parent’s attention. That’s what he would take away from Nicole and Robert tomorrow. He had no choice.

He turned on his side, trying to get more comfortable. He remembered his room, where he had slept with five other boys. He remembered the cheap portrait of the Holy Saviour hanging on the dim green wall and how he would often sit at the window and look across the bleak winter fields to the railway line, waiting for the freight and passenger trains to pass.

He couldn’t sleep. He swung his feet out of bed and sat up. They had given him enough clothes to wear, but they had always been somebody else’s clothes and were either too big or too small. Not that it ever bothered him. Because he had known that someday he would leave the orphanage, that he would ride one of those trains that passed his window each day, that no one would ever have to look after him again because he would be looking after himself. He stood up, walked over to the closet, and took Colette Lambert’s photograph out of his blazer pocket. He could look after himself. A sad consolation. He was like an extra piece on a chessboard. No one had known what to do with him.

He lit the kerosene wall lamp and sat down on his bed. That’s what your children will be, Colette. Extra pieces no one will know what to do with. He looked at the photograph. Colette Lambert’s smile was open and honest, revealing an even row of pretty white teeth. It will be hard to kill you, he thought, but I’ve always known how to look after myself. He shook his head and let the photograph drop to the floor.

He was at the steamship office early the next day, before six. The sun was up and the sky was clear. He watched the steamship ply the wide muddy river as the jungle glistened in the early-morning heat. The ship’s name was the Magdalena. The dock hands tied her down and the cargo crew unloaded supplies from the capital.

A covered terraza fronted the river behind the steamship office and steps led down to the dock. People got off the boat, mainly oil workers and their families, and the first capital-bound passengers gathered in the terraza, waiting to board. Orchids grew in flowerbeds on either side of the terraza and their blossoms sparkled with last night’s rain.

If she came at all, this was where she would wait. Looking around, Henry saw any number of places to hide. A small jungle-covered hill to the left of the terraza. A skid of crates and parcels down in the boarding area. But the long-unused derrick at the end of the dock would allow the best opportunity for escape, and he positioned himself there accordingly.

Colette Lambert came shortly after seven with Nicole and Robert. Because they stood by the terraza rail, his line of fire couldn’t have been better. He could see them clearly. They looked tired and dirty. She carried two large suitcases. The children carried one smaller piece each. There were tiny tears in her sleeves, made from walking through the brambles of the jungle.

He took out his revolver. He was a good shot. As a rum-runner he had learned to shoot well, even with a weapon as small as this. He peered down the barrel and lined the sights up with Colette Lambert’s chest.

He was about to fire when she quickly walked away to ask the ship’s purser a few questions. Stevens’ lips stiffened.

Nicole Lambert started to cry. She wanted her mother. Colette came back and tried to comfort the girl, kneeling beside her and stroking her hair. Nicole continued to cry, a plaintive, tired sobbing from an exhausted little girl.

Colette stood up and descended the few side steps to the flowerbed. A perfect opportunity, thought Stevens. He aimed. What was she doing? She picked an orchid from the garden and climbed back up the steps. Now! Shoot her in the back! But he couldn’t squeeze the trigger. His loneliness closed in around him like an old phantom and he watched Colette Lambert give Nicole the blossom. His hand shook. The girl smiled and stopped crying. Stevens couldn’t pull the trigger. He drew the gun back and put it in his pocket. He knew how to look after himself, that was one thing he was certain of, but he wasn’t going to let those two children grow up with the same sad consolation.

He let them go.

Henry Stevens was meant for better things. He watched them get on the steamship.

Venezuela. He was going to live here now.

Stevens left the derrick and climbed the steps to the terraza. Perhaps Doucette would send his goons here to find him. They would have to look hard. He would hide. He would disappear. Like Colette Lambert.

A blast came from the steamship’s whistle and the paddle-wheel heaved from aft. The Magdalena lurched from the dock and moved into the current. Nicole, Robert, be safe, be happy, grow up in your mother’s care. For you, I will hide.

There was a hundred-acre parcel of land posted on the board outside the Banco de la Republica. He would wire Howard Downing for extra money. Can’t find Colette Lambert, he would say, need more time, more money.

The steamship curved to starboard and swung round for the journey back to the capital. If he was going to run from Doucette, he might as well run from Downing, too. The steamship’s engines roared and black smoke billowed from the stacks. Who knows? He might strike oil. Lots of it. And if and when they came with their carbines, he would — like Colette Lambert — fight them.