Read Online The Follower by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Quentin
Tags: Crime
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Victor or his minions could do her any harm. He would call her, tell her not to worry, that he was coming, that he would fix everything. Then he would take the first plane.
He got a tourist card at the Mexican Tourist Bureau and went to an airline office. The first plane to Mexico City left at six that evening.
Back home, he put in a person-to-person call to Ellie. The lines to Mexico were jammed with Christmas business and he was told there would be a long delay. He ate something in the kitchen and packed a suitcase. Then he mixed himself a drink and paced up and down the living-room, waiting.
Now that he could feel reasonably sure Ellie was safe he could plot the future with slide-rule precision. He would bring Ellie back. Together they would go to the police and make a full confession. There would be a scandal, of course. Ellie was too well-known to avoid that. And he would certainly get into trouble for his hiding of the body. The outlook was not rosy. But it was far less disastrous than it had seemed a few hours before. Mark was shrewd enough to realize that if he should be arrested and brought to trial for obstructing justice there would be a very good emotional defense — a husband’s natural determination to protect his wife.
Yes, once he had reached Ellie, the situation would be in hand.
Almost two hours later the call came through. He jumped to answer the phone.
The operator’s voice said: ‘Ready with your call to Mexico City.’ There was a pause. Then a man’s voice said:
‘Bueno Bueno.’ The operator asked: ‘Is that the Hotel Granada ? ‘
‘Yes. This is the Hotel Granada.’
‘Mrs Mark Liddon, please. New York is calling.’
There was another pause. Excitement lit Mark. Then the distant man’s voice in Mexico said:
‘I am sorry, but Mrs Liddon is not here.’
‘When are you expecting her back?’
‘I do not know. She left no message.’
Mark said: ‘Operator, let me talk to him. Switch this to a regular call.’
‘All right, sir. Go ahead, sir.’
Mark said: ‘Hello. Mrs Liddon :s there at the Hotel Granada? She is staying there?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said the man’s voice. She is here, but she is not in. She is out.’
‘Will you take a message?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell her her husband’s coming. Tell her he’s taking the six o’clock plane from New York.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘And tell her — tell her not to worry about anything.’
‘Not to worry about anything, yes, sir. Anything else, sir?’
‘No. That’s all.’
Mark put down the receiver. He ran into the hall, put on his topcoat and picked up his suitcase.
It had stopped snowing, but in the dusk Park Avenue was white and fluffy as a lamb. Pedestrians hurried by carrying gaily wrapped packages. Holy Night, Silent Night trailed from the radio of a passing taxi.
Suddenly the lights on the Christmas trees came to life, and for miles, it seemed, the Manhattan twilight was spangled with little twinkling globes …
8
IT was one-thirty in the afternoon when Mark drove from the Mexico City airport. Bad weather had made the plane several hours late and the delay had frayed his nerves dangerously.
The taxi took him down a broad new boulevard, landscaped with young trees which would look impressive in several years. Most of the buildings to his left and right were in construction. The mountain sunlight was bright and crisp; it heightened the effect of rawness, of a city growing too fast. Soon the traffic thickened. The air was loud with the irresponsible honking of horns. The taxi plunged into narrow, excitable streets, competing recklessly with other cars. A huge cathedral loomed and was left behind. Elegant shops crowded on either side. The taxi swerved to a stop in front of a canopied doorway.
Mark had changed money at the airport. He paid the driver in pesos, pulled out his suitcase and stood looking at the doorway. Hotel Granada was written across the canopy above him. A corridor led past a
He got a tourist card at the Mexican Tourist Bureau and went to an airline office. The first plane to Mexico City left at six that evening.
Back home, he put in a person-to-person call to Ellie. The lines to Mexico were jammed with Christmas business and he was told there would be a long delay. He ate something in the kitchen and packed a suitcase. Then he mixed himself a drink and paced up and down the living-room, waiting.
Now that he could feel reasonably sure Ellie was safe he could plot the future with slide-rule precision. He would bring Ellie back. Together they would go to the police and make a full confession. There would be a scandal, of course. Ellie was too well-known to avoid that. And he would certainly get into trouble for his hiding of the body. The outlook was not rosy. But it was far less disastrous than it had seemed a few hours before. Mark was shrewd enough to realize that if he should be arrested and brought to trial for obstructing justice there would be a very good emotional defense — a husband’s natural determination to protect his wife.
Yes, once he had reached Ellie, the situation would be in hand.
Almost two hours later the call came through. He jumped to answer the phone.
The operator’s voice said: ‘Ready with your call to Mexico City.’ There was a pause. Then a man’s voice said:
‘Bueno Bueno.’ The operator asked: ‘Is that the Hotel Granada ? ‘
‘Yes. This is the Hotel Granada.’
‘Mrs Mark Liddon, please. New York is calling.’
There was another pause. Excitement lit Mark. Then the distant man’s voice in Mexico said:
‘I am sorry, but Mrs Liddon is not here.’
‘When are you expecting her back?’
‘I do not know. She left no message.’
Mark said: ‘Operator, let me talk to him. Switch this to a regular call.’
‘All right, sir. Go ahead, sir.’
Mark said: ‘Hello. Mrs Liddon :s there at the Hotel Granada? She is staying there?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said the man’s voice. She is here, but she is not in. She is out.’
‘Will you take a message?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell her her husband’s coming. Tell her he’s taking the six o’clock plane from New York.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘And tell her — tell her not to worry about anything.’
‘Not to worry about anything, yes, sir. Anything else, sir?’
‘No. That’s all.’
Mark put down the receiver. He ran into the hall, put on his topcoat and picked up his suitcase.
It had stopped snowing, but in the dusk Park Avenue was white and fluffy as a lamb. Pedestrians hurried by carrying gaily wrapped packages. Holy Night, Silent Night trailed from the radio of a passing taxi.
Suddenly the lights on the Christmas trees came to life, and for miles, it seemed, the Manhattan twilight was spangled with little twinkling globes …
8
IT was one-thirty in the afternoon when Mark drove from the Mexico City airport. Bad weather had made the plane several hours late and the delay had frayed his nerves dangerously.
The taxi took him down a broad new boulevard, landscaped with young trees which would look impressive in several years. Most of the buildings to his left and right were in construction. The mountain sunlight was bright and crisp; it heightened the effect of rawness, of a city growing too fast. Soon the traffic thickened. The air was loud with the irresponsible honking of horns. The taxi plunged into narrow, excitable streets, competing recklessly with other cars. A huge cathedral loomed and was left behind. Elegant shops crowded on either side. The taxi swerved to a stop in front of a canopied doorway.
Mark had changed money at the airport. He paid the driver in pesos, pulled out his suitcase and stood looking at the doorway. Hotel Granada was written across the canopy above him. A corridor led past a