Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 22, No. 5, April 1968

Cut and Dried by Hal Ellson

To know her love, he found, was a thing apart. But to know her name, he was to discover, meant — death!

The phone rang on Captain Meza’s desk. He picked up the instrument, listened and frowned. A matter of grave importance, but the caller refused to discuss the matter with anyone but the chief of police.

“Chief Lopez is busy,” Meza explained. “I am handling all matters for him.”

“Too bad,” said the voice, “for both Lopez and yourself when the newspapers hear what I have to say.”

“Please hold on. I’ll see what I can do. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say.”

“But—”

“Captain, I am losing patience.”

It was cool in the office, but when Chief Lopez put down the phone a film of perspiration bathed his face.

“Bad news?” said Detective Victor Fiala.

“An anonymous call. About a murder at the Diaz ranch.” This explained the perspiration and the pallor on Lopez’ face: he and Adolpho Diaz were the closest of friends.

“The one who called,” Lopez continued, “claims a body is buried behind the Diaz ranchhouse.”

“Serious business, if it happens to be true,” Fiala said mildly. “Whose body is supposed to be buried there, and who did the burying?”

“The caller didn’t say,” Lopez answered.

A knock sounded on the door. It opened abruptly. Captain Meza stepped in. He had listened in on the call.

“Well,” he said, staring at Lopez.

“I don’t know,” Lopez said, flushing violently. “A body buried behind the Diaz ranchhouse?”

“You think the call was a practical joke?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Lopez’ eyes went to Fiala in an appeal for help, but Fiala could give none with Captain Meza smelling blood.

Besides, there was no way out but to verify the call.

Fiala shrugged. “The thing will have to be checked out.”

Lopez merely nodded and looked up at Captain Meza. “You’ll take care of the matter?”

“Personally.” The captain’s heels clicked together; his teeth gleamed in a sudden tight unpleasant smile. Out of the office he hurried, his heels studding the tiled balcony in a rapid tattoo.

“The bloodhound is on the trail,” Fiala remarked dryly, but Lopez did not smile and made no comment.

An hour and a half drive to the Diaz ranch, plus the same for the return drive, plus another hour to dig up the body and a brief investigation — four hours in all and Captain Meza arrived back in Montes.

While his men carried the dead man into the morgue, Meza ran up the balcony stairs and burst into Lopez’ office. Sweat gleamed on his tanned face; his teeth shone in an icy smile.

“A cut and dried case,” he said to Lopez.

“You found the body?” Lopez said with a look of pain on his face.

“The body of Justo Garcia.” There was no need to be more explicit with Lopez and Fiala. Both men knew Garcia well for his conflicts with the law. “I arrested Adolpho Diaz for the murder of Justo Garcia.”

“You solved the case very quickly,” Fiala commented dryly.

“Yes, while you were sitting in that comfortable chair,” Captain Meza replied. “Ah, but then you’re not as young as you used to be, my friend.”

“You have youth. I have something else, but that hardly makes us even. You say you arrested Senor Diaz. He admitted killing Garcia?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“Even if you have to choke it out of him, hey, Captain?” said Fiala.

“That won’t be necessary. We know that Diaz committed the murder.”

“We?” Fiala snorted. “And just how do we know, Captain? What are the facts?”

Captain Meza smiled. “Yes, the facts, of course. A half-dozen people saw Garcia when he went to the ranch yesterday, and no one saw him return.”

“Go on,” said Fiala.

“At the ranch he and Diaz had a violent argument and Diaz threatened to shoot Garcia. That I had from the caretaker at the ranch. Diaz was shot in back of the head. Those are the facts.”

Captain Meza shrugged, turned on his heels and left.

“My best friend,” Chief Lopez groaned. “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” asked Fiala.

“Adolpho isn’t the kind to use a gun. I know that. I can’t believe he killed any one.”

“What else don’t you understand?”

Lopez left the question hanging, poured himself a drink, lit a cigarette, looked at Fiala and said, “What was Garcia doing at the ranch? Adolpho wouldn’t spit on the likes of him.”

“Maybe not,” said Fiala. “But Garcia was murdered. It looks bad for Senor Diaz.”

Suddenly Lopez ground out his cigarette and stood up. “Wait here, Victor. I’m going to see Adolpho.”

Ten minutes passed and Lopez returned with his jaw thrust out.

“Adolpho’s innocent,” he declared. “He gave his word that he didn’t kill Garcia and that’s good enough for me.”

“But not good enough to keep him out of prison.”

“I know, I know.” Lopez shook his head. “It looks very bad. He admits to threatening Garcia. Victor, you’ve got to help him. You’ll see him now?”

“Of course.” Fiala arose and went to the door.

“Captain Meza is ready to hang Adolpho,” Lopez said after him.

Fiala looked back and grinned. “Don Quickshot would hang his own grandmother if he got the chance. But let’s not worry about him.”

The door closed softly. A half-minute later Captain Meza looked up from his desk with a sardonic grin on his face. “Ah, the great detective would like to question the prisoner, no doubt?”

“No doubt.”

“A waste of time. We have our man.”

In a world of uncertainties here was a voice that rang with true conviction. How rare and wonderful, but Fiala shrugged.

“Cigarette, Senior?” Adolpho Diaz sat on a rude stool in the headquarters’ jail and Fiala stood over him. “Ah, you don’t smoke? Well—” The detective lit up and dropped the match. “If you don’t mind,” he began. “A few questions.”

“I’ve already answered enough questions with Captain Meza,” he said tightly.

“Perhaps, but let’s go over them. Better still, let’s try some new ones.”

Senor Diaz shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Good.” Fiala pinched out his cigarette. “Now concerning Senor Garcia. He came to your ranch yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“He wanted money.”

“For what?”

Diaz stared at the floor. “It had to do with a gambling debt. Unfortunately, I have a weakness for gambling. Two weeks ago I lost a large sum to a man named Vasquez. Perhaps you know him?”

“Too well,” Fiala nodded. “But if you lost money to him, what did Garcia have to do with it?”

“He came to collect it for Vasquez. I refused to pay him because I’d been cheated— A fact I made known to Garcia. He wasn’t impressed. He’d been sent to collect, so he threatened me.”

“And you did what?”

“Told him I’d blow his brains out, which wasn’t necessary. He left in a hurry.”

“At what time?”

“It had just gotten dark.”

“You remained at the ranch?”

“No. I left about a half-hour later and returned at four in the morning.”

“And between those hours where were you?”

Diaz looked up and shook his head. “That’s something I can’t divulge.”

“Your whole future may depend on that information,” warned Fiala.

“A fact I’m aware of, but someone else would be endangered.”

Probably an affair with a married woman, Fiala thought, and shook his head. “Too bad, Senor. Well, I must be going.”

Captain Meza sat back in his chair and grinned up at Fiala as he came into the room. “So you questioned the prisoner, eh? No doubt he told you he’s innocent.”

“He expressed that point of view,” Fiala said calmly.

“And your point of view, Victor? Would you say he’s innocent?”

“Let’s say I think he may be. Certainly, there isn’t enough evidence to call him guilty.”

Captain Meza smiled, leaned forward, pulled open a drawer of his desk and placed a pistol on the blotter. “Property of Senor Diaz — and found in Garcia’s grave. Now do you still think Diaz is innocent?”

Taken back, but not completely, Fiala replied, “If you’re trying to embarrass me, you haven’t succeeded. As for the pistol, while it appears damaging, it doesn’t prove anything.”

“Nor does all the other evidence, I suppose. What more do you want, Victor? It’s all there, cut and dried.”

“Which is just the trouble,” said Fiala, turning to the door without further explanation.

Chief Lopez looked up anxiously as his office door opened and Fiala walked in. “Well, Victor?”

“It looks bad for Senior Diaz. And yet things are not as bad as they look.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meza thinks it’s all cut and dried. That’s exactly the trouble. The whole package is too neat. That may be acceptable to the captain, who jumps to conclusions. As for us, if we don’t jump—” Fiala paused and glanced at his watch. “Getting late. Explanations won’t undo anything, but take the anonymous call. The fellow refused to identify himself. Inconsequential? Perhaps, and perhaps not. More to the point, he must have witnessed the murder and been at the ranch to know where the body was buried.”

“So?” Lopez said, not following the thread.

“The caretaker also was at the ranch.”

“According to Captain Meza.”

“But he didn’t make the call.”

“We don’t know whether he did or not.”

“We’ll assume that he didn’t.”

“How can we assume anything, Victor?”

“There’s no phone at the ranch, none in Guadelupe. What’s more, I doubt if any one in the area, much less the caretaker, would know how to use a phone.”

“That’s possible,” Lopez admitted. “But I still don’t see what you’re driving at.”

“The point is, if the caretaker didn’t make the call, then someone else did, which means another person was at the ranch. Yet the caretaker mentioned no one else.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t follow you.”

About to continue, Fiala stopped himself, looked at his watch again and moved to the door. “You’ll excuse me. Theory isn’t enough. And when one waits too long—”

“I understand, Victor,” Lopez said, reaching for the bottle on his desk.

Guadelupe dozed in the sun, a primitive place of adobe and thatch, chickens and goats, a small village with dusty streets pounded by sleepy oxen and rutted by ponderous wheels. A village not dreaming of the past, but the past itself, lost in time, buried in inertia, innocent of violence and crime.

But now — Fiala shook his head. The climate of change. Ah, poor Guadelupe, he thought, slowing his car for a rooster crossing the road.

Adobes with thatched roofs, shadowed doorways, flowers blooming in the road and no one in sight. A bird called, then was still. A short way into the desert Fiala braked his car at the Diaz ranch. The white ranchhouse deserted-looking and silent, a few ancient mesquite crowding the well, all else naked and harsh in the burning sun.

He touched the horn. The sound died in the stillness; no one responded.

Once more the horn. This time he waited longer. The caretaker appeared from back of the ranch house, not old but ancient and withered by the sun, with skin of leather, a small man made smaller still by a huge and tattered charro hat.

As the old man approached the car, Fiala stepped from it and greeted him, then introduced himself.

“Senor Diaz is in serious trouble,” he went on. “Perhaps you can help him.”

The old man barely nodded. Had he heard? Was he asleep on his feet, dreaming through slitted eyes. A waste of time to question him? Perhaps, but the questions had to be asked.

“Yesterday,” Fiala began, “a man named Garcia came here. He had an argument with Senor Diaz?”

“Yes, Senor.”

“A very violent argument?”

“Yes, there was much shouting.”

“Did Senor Diaz threaten to shoot Garcia?”

“Yes.”

“And did he shoot him?”

The old man squinted toward the desert.

“Why should he shoot him?” he asked. “The fellow left.”

“When did he leave?”

“When the sky was getting dark.”

“Interesting,” said Fiala, “but why didn’t you tell that to Captain Meza?”

The old man shrugged. “Tell him? He didn’t ask.”

Fiala smiled to himself. “All right. Garcia left the ranch. When did he return?”

“He didn’t, Senor.”

“You mean you didn’t see him return? Is that it?”

“I didn’t.”

“But he did come back. He was murdered and buried in back of the house.”

The old man shrugged. “He was found under the ground. How he got there I don’t know.”

“Then you weren’t here the whole night?” Fiala said, puzzled.

“I was here. I am always here.”

“And Senor Diaz?”

“He left when it grew dark. It was very late when he came back, almost morning.”

“He returned alone?”

“Yes, Senor.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“To see a lady friend. That is all I know about that. Every Friday night he comes back late.”

Victor Fiala nodded. “Then you heard no pistol shot last night?”

“No, Senor. I heard nothing but the coyotes across the valley.”

“Do you know that Senor Diaz’ pistol was bound buried with Senor Garcia?” Fiala said.

The old man shrugged again. “If Senor Diaz’ gun was found in the grave, does that mean he shot Garcia?”

Fiala shook his head and got back in his car. An hour later he drove into Montes with the taste of grit and dust in his mouth. A cold bottle of Carta Blanca would do, but Lopez awaited him. Five minutes later he mounted the balcony stairway at headquarters, an agonizing climb.

Short of breath, he entered the chief’s office. Lopez raised his head from the desk. “Well, Victor?”

Victor Fiala wiped his forehead and said, “I believe Senor Diaz is innocent.”

“That’s all you came back with? Your belief?”

“For the time being,” Fiala said quietly, “that should be sufficient.”

“Not for the judge. Didn’t you find anything? Were you looking for clues at the Black Cat in the bottom of a glass of tequila?”

“I’m afraid I had no time for the Black Cat, and I am very thirsty. It’s a long drive to the Diaz ranch.”

“You found something there?” Lopez said anxiously.

“The usual flaws in Captain Meza’s methods. Ah, that hothead. He’s too quick, a dangerous man, efficiently sloppy.”

“Never mind that fool. What happened at the ranch, Victor?”

Fiala rubbed the side of his nose. “It’s not very clear yet, but Captain Meza didn’t obtain all the facts; consequently he didn’t find the right answers. According to him, Garcia didn’t leave the ranch — a cock-eyed theory based on reports gathered from those who saw him arrive in Guadelupe and failed to see him leave.

“Well, it was dark when he left. That’s why he wasn’t seen. But Diaz’ caretaker saw him leave the ranch as darkness fell. He didn’t return till almost dawn. Now if only this much is true, Diaz couldn’t have murdered Garcia.”

“But how do you explain the body at the ranch?”

“Another party was responsible for that. That person killed Garcia and buried him.”

“But who is that person?”

“The man who made the anonymous phone call.”

Lopez frowned. “That doesn’t make sense, does it, Victor?”

“To my mind, it does. The caller knew of the murder. That is taken for granted, or he wouldn’t have phoned — but he refused to give his name — and for good reason: he’d implicate himself,” Fiala said and arose from his chair. “Getting late. I’ve a few items to check that aren’t clear. As soon as I clarify them, the sooner we’ll have our man.”

Five minutes later Fiala met with the coroner, questioned him in regard to the murdered Garcia and drove off in his car. His first stop was a bar of bad reputation. Five more stops at similar establishments were necessary before he obtained the information he sought. At still another bar he picked up Antonio Vasquez and arrested him for the murder of Justo Garcia.

At headquarters, Captain Meza laughed.

“Ridiculous,” he said to Fiala. “We’ve already got the killer.”

“No,” said Fiala, “this is our man. Here is what happened. Senor Vasquez cheated Senor Diaz at cards and when Diaz refused to pay. He sent Garcia after him to collect, but Garcia failed his mission and reported back to Vasquez. A violent argument followed during which Vasquez killed Garcia. Then, to cover his tracks and avenge himself on Diaz, Vasquez brought Garcia’s corpse to the ranch and buried it there — along with Senor Diaz’ pistol, which he took from the ranchhouse while the caretaker nodded.”

“A wild theory,” Captain Meza said angrily. “Where is the proof?”

“The proof?” Fiala smiled. “The coroner put the time of death at midnight. Between the hours of nine and eleven Garcia was seen in two bars. In one he argued with Vasquez and left. Vasquez followed him out, disposed of him and brought his body to the ranch.”

Fiala paused and looked at Captain Meza with pity. “As for Senor Diaz, if you still believe he is guilty, let me inform you, he wasn’t at the ranch last evening. He was with a lady friend whose name won’t be, mentioned unless—”

Here Fiala turned on Vasquez. “Unless you wish to divulge it. You know the lady, of course, and you knew Senor Diaz would be with her last night.”

Vasquez dropped his eyes, then raised them and said, “It is better not to mention the name of the lady, but that was another reason I had for avenging myself on Senor Diaz.”

“All right, take him downstairs,” Lopez said, nodding to Captain Meza and, as the door closed after Vasquez and his keeper, he turned to Fiala.

“Just one question, Victor,” he said. “How did you know the name of the lady and that Vasquez was concerned with her?”

“The name of the lady?” Fiala smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t know it. However, Vasquez assumed I did and hanged himself.”

Lopez laughed and said, “Now that it’s over, may I assume that you’re going to the Black Cat?”

“A correct assumption,” Victor Fiala answered, heading slowly for the door.