Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 21, No. 4, September 1967

Two Black Mantillas by James McKimmey

Beauty and danger went hand in hand as Doc Gregory kept his mad tryst...

Dr. Gregory Handwell sat at the breakfast bar of his handsome San Francisco apartment high on Russian Hill and watched his wife lift the telephone.

“Dr. Handwell’s residence.”

Sinewy and small, Handwell perched attentive and eager, as eight o’clock sunshine poured through a window on his head, bald, except for a well-barbered fringe of graying brown hair around the base of his skull.

In her well-trained manner, Phyllis said, “I understand. You’re at a convention at the Hilton, you found the doctor’s name in the telephone directory and you are having rather severe abdominal pains.”

Six inches taller than her husband, she had turned into a reasonably attractive matron who demonstrated the calm but confident demeanor of a wife who devoted herself entirely to her husband and his career. She had never, Handwell thought, been long in the sex department; but she had worked out well otherwise.

“The doctor,” she said precisely, “will not arrive at his office until ten. But I would suggest, since you’ve indicated that you have eaten heavily about the city, that you take something to counter a possible acid. You might order an Alka Seltzer or a Bromo from room service. Then, should the pains persist, or in any way increase in intensity, please phone the number again. You’re now talking to Mrs. Handwell. If the condition remains status quo until ten, please phone then, when the call will go into his office and the doctor’s receptionist can arrange an immediate appointment for you. Thank you for calling, sir.”

He had listened to her handling of the call critically; he was satisfied. She had not actually attempted a true diagnosis, stepping out of position; yet she had given the extra warmth to the situation too many other medical men’s wives were incapable of offering.

She started to hang up, then returned the telephone to her ear. He bent forward, watching intently, his ever-present curiosity making his pale-blue eyes glisten. She put her hand over the mouthpiece, turning to look at him in surprise. Then she hung up and walked back to the breakfast bar.

“What was that about?” he asked in a sharp, imperative tone. “It was so strange.”

“The man has acid.”

“I don’t mean that. These other voices came on!”

“Well, what did they say!” he demanded. Anything with a remotely mysterious twist had always fascinated him. He read crime accounts in the newspapers with hungry dedication; he consumed at least a dozen mystery novels every week.

“Two men. One said, ‘Have you got the stuff?’ And the other one said, ‘Yeah. But I’m afraid there’s been a tip.’ The first one said, ‘You’re crazy. Who’d know? Where do I make the pick-up?’ And the other said, ‘In the parking lot of the Stonestown Shopping Center, behind the Emporium, Friday afternoon, two o’clock.’” She stared at him with clear, guileless eyes.

“By God!” he said happily. “Don’t you see?” He jabbed a forefinger at her excitedly. “Wires got crossed somewhere. Explanation: either the operator at the hotel plugged you into the conversation by mistake, or the automatic switch-over that rings the phone here before the doctor’s office hours got tangled up. Take your choice.” He nodded positively.

“Well, but what in the world were they talking about?” she asked, displaying that great innocence which was, in his estimation, her greatest asset.

“Narcotics!”

“They didn’t say anything about that.”

Handwell laughed, shaking his head.

“Stuff — that’s narcotics. One man’s a supplier. The other’s a pusher, who’ll sell it to the user. There may have been a tip off to the police. By God, Phyllis, I’m going to be there!”

“Oh, Greg,” she said worriedly. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“You’re precious, Phyllis. Don’t ever change.”

“Sometimes I think I don’t know anything at all.”

He looked at her with affection, thinking that he’d seen and heard just about all there was to see and hear — an education he’d picked up when he’d started a small clinic for the poor in one of the worst slum sections of Tijuana, Mexico, two years ago.

It was merely a part-time philanthropy to which he gave a few days every month or so; but in that atmosphere, he’d faced the most bizarre elements of all time.

“Where in the world would they get narcotics anyway? Steal from a drug store? Or an office like yours?”

“Depends,” he said knowingly. “If it’s low-grade stuff, pep pills, even Percodan, sure, they could steal it. But that’s not likely, because you can’t count on stealing as a steady source. If it’s the real stuff, heroin, it’s got to be imported.”

“But you can’t prescribe that. It isn’t supposed to be manufactured. Isn’t that illegal, to import it?”

“Of course, it’s illegal! That’s what it’s all about!”

“If it’s imported, where in the world from?”

“Phyllis,” he said. “When I’m at the clinic in Tijuana, I get junkies by the dozens. Where do you get the stuff? My God, you walk west down the street five blocks to a taco stand and ask for Guido. That’s how difficult that is!”

“But inspection on the border—”

“Unless you’re under suspicion, what do they do? Open the trunk. You don’t carry junk in the trunk. You carry it anywhere else, and you’ve got it made.”

“Maybe you should tell the police, Greg.”

“And spoil the adventure? No, sir! As soon as I see the pick-up made, I’ll write down license numbers. Then finger them!”

“I’ll be so worried. Just like when you go down and work in Tijuana. Yet—” Her direction drifted in that charming way it often did. “I do know you’re performing something marvelous down there. When they wrote it up in the Chronicle, I was so proud of you.

“Did I tell you Bea phoned and said you were a regular Albert Schweitzer?”

“Well,” Handwell said modestly, “not quite.”

“I think so. But all of those people you treat—”

“Thieves, pushers, pimps, whores, deviates, addicts, killers — you name it, we get it. That’s why I don’t want you going down there with me. But I know how to handle myself.” His voice suddenly firmed into commanding authority: “All right. Here’re the instructions for the day.” His forefinger jabbed; his eyes hardened. “When you drop me off downtown, have the car lubed. No oil, just lube. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied quickly.

His forefinger jabbed again. “Abalone’s in season. That’s what I want for dinner. Remember you don’t overcook it like you did the last time!”

“No, sir.”

“I want fresh French bread, with an avacado salad.”

“Blue cheese dressing?”

“Certainly! And the rug by the front door needs cleaning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s an ash tray in the living room that hasn’t been washed since it was used.”

“I’ll take care of it first thing. Greg.”

He nodded abruptly. Strangers who had seen the performance for the first time often thought that Dr. Gregory Handwell was merely acting jocular. But Handwell wasn’t kidding.

When Phyllis accompanied him to the garage to get into the new Cadillac, he was pleased to see that she was wearing the extremely expensive mantilla he’d had mailed to her from Tijuana two weeks ago. It was a fragile black veil, as delicate as a web, black, except for the name Carlota, Which had been sewn in flaring red along one edge. The shop from which he’d ordered it, he thought, had screwed that up nicely.

“I don’t know how they got that name business fouled up,” he said. “If you want something done wrong, ask a Mexican.”

“It doesn’t matter a bit, Greg,” she said smilingly, driving the large car down the steep decline, with the mantilla framing her face so that she had an ethereal look. “It’s beautiful and I adore it.”

He leaned back, thinking that as soon as he’d met Carlota that evening in Tijuana and seen Phyllis’ name in white on hers, he’d been certain that the one mailed to his wife bore Carlota’s name in red.

Well, he thought, the splendid thing about Phyllis was her naivete. She disliked red, because, to her, it denoted everything she was not. Her favorite color was white, because it indicated purity. Yet, she’d accepted the error graciously, without suspicion.

He half-smiled, remembering how Carlota had used her mantilla as he’d driven her south to the Ensenada hotel: coyly, invitingly, sensuously — joking about the mistake in her broken English.

He could imagine her wearing it right now, walking past the clinic as she did daily, her stride arrogant, ample hips swinging, dark eyes flashing merrily. Well, when he’d got the idea to start the clinic, he’d known he would find a Carlota quickly. He had.

Phyllis drove the car smoothly through downtown traffic. Handwell relaxed. The Tijuana clinic served two purposes. It covered his time with Carlota.

And it gave his professional reputation the strength and dignity necessary for a man who, for years, had been skimming profits off the top before reporting his income to the federal government.

To Handwell, neither activity was a moral consideration. Carlota, who would never serve well as a doctor’s wife, nevertheless was the exciting contrast that Handwell needed in his life. He, after all, gave Phyllis a very good and secure existence; he doubted if she had ever remotely suspected that he had such a romantic arrangement — and even if she had, she still would not risk her position by acknowledging the fact; she was a sensible woman who knew what was good for her.

As far as the failure to report his entire income, Handwell dismissed the matter on the basis that he did not believe in income tax anyway. The moral obligation there was squarely on the government. His consideration had been simply to keep his visible level of living on a par with the income he did report.

Of course, if they ever looked carefully into the extent of his investments, he might be in trouble. But why would they do that with a man who lived in a manner above reproach? A man who was compared, even obliquely, to Albert Schweitzer?

Phyllis stopped the car in front of the medical building and said, “Have a good day, darling.”

His forefinger jabbed again. “Don’t forget the lube, no oil, abalone, fresh French bread and avacado salad. Let’s try not to flunk out.”

Anticipation for the adventure in the parking lot grew as the week progressed. Handwell’s only real irritation came on Thursday, when he decided to go home for lunch. He had his receptionist telephone in order to instruct Phyllis precisely on the menu, but Phyllis had failed to answer. That night she’d explained that she’d decided to see a movie. He’d been reasonably stem with her, pointing out that in the future she should check it out with his office before doing something as foolishly unscheduled as that; he was convinced that she’d gotten it through her head.

That was forgotten early Friday afternoon, when he hurried down to the garage to climb into the car which he’d driven himself that morning. The prospect of actually witnessing a real crime in process was energizing.

He even allowed himself the pleasure of believing that the cops may indeed have been tipped off, in which case he could witness an actual arrest. There was the possibility of resistance; he would like very much to see how it was handled.

At five minutes before two he was parked at the end of the lot, looking over the scattered cars. There were occupants seated in only two.

One was a woman, whom he dismissed. The other was a sallow-faced man wearing an open-collared white shirt, who looked every inch a pusher.

The man was seated in a fading Pontiac. Handwell was absolutely putting his money on him when both doors of his Cadillac were opened. Uniformed policemen stood on either side. Handwell’s head turned; he saw a patrol car parked behind his. A man wearing a business suit got out, looking at him with cool eyes.

“Do you want to step out please?”

“What’s going on?” Handwell demanded, getting out.

The man opened a wallet to reveal his identification. “Tip. Cadillac, with this license. We could be wrong. We’ll apologize if we are. May I see your identification, please?”

Feeling his anger mounting, trying to think through it clearly, he handed the man his billfold.

“Dr. Gregory Handwell. I read something about you, a couple of weeks ago. You’ve got that clinic in Tijuana, haven’t you?”

One of the officers rounded the car. “It was in the glove compartment.”

Handwell stared with shock at the white substance against the delicate black fabric held in the officer’s hand. Thursday, he thought. She hadn’t gone to a movie. She’d flown to San Diego, crossed the border, and—

“What’s that name on the scarf?” the second officer asked.

“That’s not a scarf!” Handwell shouted pointlessly in his fury. “That’s a mantilla!”