Read Online The Follower by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online Page B

sweater which showed under Mark’s jacket. ‘Is a fine sweater you have. Such a sweater here in Mexico costs very high. Eighty pesos perhaps you pay for such a fine sweater.’ One of his small hands reached out and, very daintily, took a pinch of sweater between finger and thumb. Yes, very fine. Most elegant.’
    His hand went back to the counter. His eyes, almost coaxing, met Mark’s. It was the crudest overture to a shakedown that Mark had ever experienced. Its very crudity made it rather disarming. He took out his wallet.
    ‘Guess you could buy a sweater for fifty pesos?’
    Oscar’s smile was blinding. ‘Sixty pesos.’
    Mark pulled out a fifty-peso and a ten-peso bill. Oscar took them from his hand as delicately as a cat taking a chicken scrap. ‘The other boy, he brings Mrs Liddon’s bags to the taxi. He thinks he hears her say the Hotel Reforma.’
    ‘Is that near here?’
    Oscar waved. ‘Just down the Avenida; and then down the Paseo. Some few blocks, sir.’
    ‘Okay, thanks.’
    Oscar darted the bills into his pocket and ducked down behind the counter. He came up carrying a small pottery ashtray designed in the shape of a Mexican sombrero. There was a little pottery band ending in tassels twisted around the crown. One of the tassels was broken. Oscar pressed it into Mark’s hand.
    ‘Is a souvenir, sir. Is free. Is your present from me.’ ‘Thanks, Oscar.’
    ‘Oh, no trouble. Thank you very much, sit. Happy Christmas, sir.’
    Mark walked out of the Hotel Granada into the sunlight again. It was probably all right. Why should the blond young man have anything to do with Victor? Ellie was an inveterate acquaintance-gatherer. She had probably picked up some American boy to take care of the chore of changing hotels. Carrying his topcoat and suitcase, he started past a broad, tropical park and reached a vast boulevard. After a few minutes he saw the Hotel Reforma, climaxing a row of large modernistic apartment and office buildings. He crossed the wild traffic and climbed the steep steps into the hotel lobby. A Christmas tree, ornamented with shining balls and silver streamers, stood in its center. There were American tourists here too, but they put on more of a show. They looked like money, and the place looked as if it knew how to take money away from them. This was a more appropriate hangout for Ellie.
    He went to the desk, this time carefully bridling his hope. One of the clerks moved to wait on him.
    Mark said: ‘Is Mrs Liddon — Mrs Mark Liddon — staying here?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Mrs Liddon is in Suite 332.’
    At last the moment had come.
    ‘I’m her husband.’ Mark took the tourist card out of his pocket and put it down on the desk. Okay if I go right up?’
    The clerk examined the card. ‘Is Mrs Liddon expecting you?’
    ‘Yes,’ he prevaricated.
    The clerk looked at the card again and handed it back. ‘Very well, sir, if you wish. You will kindly register?’
    A bellhop ran over and took Mark’s suitcase. Mark registered and turned from the desk. Behind him, the clerk’s voice sounded:
    ‘I’m afraid Mrs Liddon isn’t in just now, sir.’
    Mark swung round. ‘Where is she?’
    ‘I don’t know, sir. I happened to notice her leaving about half an hour ago.’
    The bellhop at his side blurted: ‘Mrs Liddon has gone to the bulls.’
    ‘The bulls?’
    ‘The bullfight. A gentleman came for her. They went to buy tickets over there where they sell themselves.’ He pointed to a desk at the other side of the lobby. ‘I hear them, sir. They buy tickets.’
    ‘When do the fights start?’
    ‘At four o’clock, sir.’
    Mark looked at his watch. It was three fifteen. ‘Can I buy a ticket over there?’
    ‘Of course, sir. Sure, sir.’
    Mark crossed to the desk where the bullfight tickets were sold. A Mexican girl with hair piled on top of her head smiled at him.
    He said: ‘Do you know Mrs Liddon?’
    ‘Yes, sir. She was just here with a gentleman. He buys two tickets in the