Read Online The Spanish Connection by Nick Carter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Carter
Tags: det_espionage
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was supposed to be calling for Arturo, I knew that the man there would be someone else also trying to find Arturo before I did, someone not on my side.
"
Sí
?" a voice asked in the other half of the big engine room.
Instantly there was a loud, echoing gunshot — a report that bounced back and forth in that small room like the pounding of a hundred drums. A blaze of orange flame appeared and disappeared instantly. I heard a scream to my left.
Immediately I crouched and let go a shot at the figure behind the cable car.
Someone cursed in Spanish. There was the sound of a body falling off to my left, and a groan. I fired once again, trying to see the man behind the cable car. I could not make out any part of him.
The door reopened then, and I knew the figure; had made his escape. I fired once again in the direction of the door sound, and then ran through the darkness toward the spot.
No one was there.
There was a door — a second entrance to the engine house. I opened it and looked out. There was no sign of anyone. I moved quickly outside and looked up and down the snowy slope. No one.
Back inside the building I could hear someone gasping and wheezing, I found the boy and knelt down over him on the concrete floor. I could not see him at all.
"Arturo?" I asked.
"Sí."
He shuddered.
"Where do I meet the man I came to see?"
"Top of Veleta — Picacho de Veleta. Twelve o'clock. Tomorrow night."
"Okay," I whispered. I leaned down. I could hear his labored, ragged breathing. Then, before I had a chance to say anything more, I heard that familiar bubbling rasp that is so much like a rattle, but is not really a rattle at all.
Something else.
Life leaving the body.
Arturo was dead.
Quickly I rose and left the engine house, skirting around the outcrops with my piece drawn and ready until I had made the Prado Llano and run to the hotel.
I looked back only once, and I could see a light on in the engine house now, and shadowy figures milling about inside.
The shots had been loud enough to alert the entire constabulary of Sol y Nieve. The Guardia Civil was there.
Shaken, I climbed the stairs and passed through the lobby, turning left to the bar, trying to get my breath back with a stiff jolt of cognac.
That helped.
Some.
But not much.
Eight
The muted excitement which had increased to a peak of intensity just after the shooting of Arturo and the subsequent investigation of the killing had died down completely within a half hour. The Guardia Civil stationed at the ski resort had taken care of the corpse and had begun the long tedious process of questioning patrons and attendants at the resort.
I did not envy the police their job. It was back-breaking, unrewarding, and particularly uncomfortable work in these altitudes at this time of the year. They were good men.
I was lucky. Nothing led them to me.
The cognac had succeeded in calming me somewhat. I kept my eyes on the lobby of the hotel, watching everyone who came in and went out. I was looking for anyone who resembled the man I had found in the bed of the villa in Torremolinos, the man I had come to believe was The Mosquito.
Finally I got up and went into the lobby and peered out at the Prado Llano. No one at all seemed to be abroad now.
I crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor where our suite was. As I inserted the key in my door I heard laughter in the room adjoining mine. Juana's laughter.
Smiling, I pushed open my door and snapped on the light. So she had brought Herr Hauptli up to her room. At least he seemed entertaining, even in his boorish Teutonic way. There was one consolation — few hidden wrinkles existed in a man as extroverted as that.
I crossed to the door and put my ear to it.
Giggling. Juana s amusement fizzed out of her like the bubbles out of a champagne glass. Herr Hauptli must be better in bed than in the drawing room, I thought idly. I didn't trust the man.
"Please," Juana said. "And put ice in it, would you please,
"
Sí
?" a voice asked in the other half of the big engine room.
Instantly there was a loud, echoing gunshot — a report that bounced back and forth in that small room like the pounding of a hundred drums. A blaze of orange flame appeared and disappeared instantly. I heard a scream to my left.
Immediately I crouched and let go a shot at the figure behind the cable car.
Someone cursed in Spanish. There was the sound of a body falling off to my left, and a groan. I fired once again, trying to see the man behind the cable car. I could not make out any part of him.
The door reopened then, and I knew the figure; had made his escape. I fired once again in the direction of the door sound, and then ran through the darkness toward the spot.
No one was there.
There was a door — a second entrance to the engine house. I opened it and looked out. There was no sign of anyone. I moved quickly outside and looked up and down the snowy slope. No one.
Back inside the building I could hear someone gasping and wheezing, I found the boy and knelt down over him on the concrete floor. I could not see him at all.
"Arturo?" I asked.
"Sí."
He shuddered.
"Where do I meet the man I came to see?"
"Top of Veleta — Picacho de Veleta. Twelve o'clock. Tomorrow night."
"Okay," I whispered. I leaned down. I could hear his labored, ragged breathing. Then, before I had a chance to say anything more, I heard that familiar bubbling rasp that is so much like a rattle, but is not really a rattle at all.
Something else.
Life leaving the body.
Arturo was dead.
Quickly I rose and left the engine house, skirting around the outcrops with my piece drawn and ready until I had made the Prado Llano and run to the hotel.
I looked back only once, and I could see a light on in the engine house now, and shadowy figures milling about inside.
The shots had been loud enough to alert the entire constabulary of Sol y Nieve. The Guardia Civil was there.
Shaken, I climbed the stairs and passed through the lobby, turning left to the bar, trying to get my breath back with a stiff jolt of cognac.
That helped.
Some.
But not much.
Eight
The muted excitement which had increased to a peak of intensity just after the shooting of Arturo and the subsequent investigation of the killing had died down completely within a half hour. The Guardia Civil stationed at the ski resort had taken care of the corpse and had begun the long tedious process of questioning patrons and attendants at the resort.
I did not envy the police their job. It was back-breaking, unrewarding, and particularly uncomfortable work in these altitudes at this time of the year. They were good men.
I was lucky. Nothing led them to me.
The cognac had succeeded in calming me somewhat. I kept my eyes on the lobby of the hotel, watching everyone who came in and went out. I was looking for anyone who resembled the man I had found in the bed of the villa in Torremolinos, the man I had come to believe was The Mosquito.
Finally I got up and went into the lobby and peered out at the Prado Llano. No one at all seemed to be abroad now.
I crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor where our suite was. As I inserted the key in my door I heard laughter in the room adjoining mine. Juana's laughter.
Smiling, I pushed open my door and snapped on the light. So she had brought Herr Hauptli up to her room. At least he seemed entertaining, even in his boorish Teutonic way. There was one consolation — few hidden wrinkles existed in a man as extroverted as that.
I crossed to the door and put my ear to it.
Giggling. Juana s amusement fizzed out of her like the bubbles out of a champagne glass. Herr Hauptli must be better in bed than in the drawing room, I thought idly. I didn't trust the man.
"Please," Juana said. "And put ice in it, would you please,
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