Prichard said she had told Renner her name was Tamara Daranyi. Also that she had missed the local bus in Cove Springs and the dead man had offered her a ride.
Kelcey was definitely interested. “A girl hitchhiker, eh?”
“So it would seem.”
Kelcey rolled the name on his tongue. “Tamara Daranyi. That’s a hell of a name.”
Renner found and lighted a cigarette. “It’s Hungarian.”
Kelcey was slightly superior. “How would you know?”
Renner smoked in silence for a moment. Nothing had changed. He still had his court to think of and Kelcey was asking for it. It would all depend on whether Tamara was hurt and if so how badly. “Well, I’ll tell you, Kelcey,” he said finally. “It’s this way. She told us what we know about her in Hungarian. And it just so happens I understand the language. Probably because, as you reminded me earlier this evening, I’m a god-damn Hunkie celery farmer’s son.”
The ledge was becoming uncomfortably crowded as more and more people picked their way down the slope. Some of them kneeled around Father Sebastian to pray for Angel’s soul. Others came over to gawk at the blanket-covered figure on the ground.
The little brunette in the too-tight blue jeans laid her hand on Renner’s arm and asked earnestly, “Are you all right, Mr. Renner?”
Renner appreciated her concern. “Yeah. Sure. I’m fine.”
Sheriff Prichard had knelt beside the dead man and was going through his pockets. It was a messy job. About the only thing he hadn’t bled on was the contents of his wallet. The sheriff studied the dead man’s driver’s license. “The name John A. Baron mean anything to you, Kurt?”
“Faintly,” Renner said. “But I can’t place it.”
Prichard riffled through the thick sheaf of bills in the wallet. “Whoever he was, he was loaded.”
Two of the paisanos hadn’t stopped to pray. They’d climbed down the face of the cliff, picking toe and hand where they could. Now one of them was shouting.
Sheriff Prichard walked to the face of the drop and looked down. Carlos Aquililla had made it to the bottom and was standing on one of the battered doors of the tow truck. When he saw Prichard was looking the man raised his arms and crossed them in front of his face in a gesture of finality. His voice, whipped by the wind, was thin. “Muerte.”
Prichard took off his hat. “Poor devil.” He returned his hat to his head and turned to face his night deputy who was making his way down the slope. “Where’s Doc Flanders?”
Tom Healy was apologetic. “Stuck with an emergency operation out at the Beeson ranch. But when I talked to him on the phone Doc said if the man and the girl aren’t too badly hurt to be moved it will save a lot of time if you start in toward town with them.”
“The man will keep,” Prichard said, wryly. “And so will Angel Guitierrez. But we can start on in with the girl.”
Renner started to pull back the blanket so he could pick up Tamara and looked at Kelcey and stopped. “You, what’s your name?” he asked the little brunette.
The girl in the too-tight blue Jeans said that her name was Marie.
“Then do me a favor, Marie,” Renner said. “Do what you can for the kid. What with going over the shoulder and me pulling her out of the car, her skirt and sweater got sort of shifted around. And if she should come to it won’t help her any to find a bunch of strange men gawking at her.”
Sheriff Pritchard set the example by turning his back. “Kurt’s right. Let’s give the girl a break. How would you feel if she was your kid sister.”
When Marie had finished making Tamara as decent as she could, Kurt carried her up the slope to the police car. Her eyes were still closed. Her breathing was still shallow. He wished he knew if she was really unconscious or faking. Either way he would have to play it by ear until he could talk to her alone.
The early morning wind was cool. Prichard drove with the front windows rolled down. Renner should have been cold. He wasn’t. His face felt flushed and hot as he rode holding Tamara in his arms in the back seat of the police car. When she did recover consciousness, if she did, he still had to tell her what she was supposed to do, what she was to allow and incite Kelcey to do to her.
It wasn’t a pleasing prospect. As far as he knew, up to now he’d been the only man in Tamara’s life.
They reached the court without passing Doctor Flanders car. Manners had turned out the big neon sign and the floodlights but the lounge and the station were still lighted.
“There’s Flanders now,” Prichard said.
He swung the police car up on the apron and braked it to a stop beside a red Buick being gassed.
A big, blunt, bull of a man in his middle fifties, addicted to good whisky and expensive Havana cigars, Flanders was known locally as a ladies’ man. Renner could never decide if he liked him or not. He was willing to bet that if all of the sweet young things, married and single, who had taken off their clothes in Flanders’ examination room and then emerged from the office with a contented smile on their faces and their ten dollar bills still clutched in their hot little hands were to hold a convention, the local Odd Fellows hall wouldn’t hold them. Still, he was a good doctor.
Flanders came over to the police car trailing a plume of fragrant smoke from his inevitable cigar. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It took me longer at the Beeson ranch than. I figured it would.”
Renner got out of the police car and stood holding Tamara.
“How badly is she hurt?” Flanders asked.
“There’s nothing broken, we think,” Prichard said. “We think it’s mainly shock. But if it hadn’t been for Kurt she wouldn’t be here. He pulled her from the car just as it went over the cliff.”
“And the man she was with?”
“He’s dead. And so is Angel Guitierrez.”
Flanders felt the pulse in Tamara’s throat with the back of his fingers. Then, throwing his cigar away, he used a pencil flashlight to peer into the eye he pried open.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” he said finally. “Has she been unconscious all the time?”
“No,” Prichard said. “She’s come to twice. Once in the wrecked car while Kurt was trying to lift her. She told him, in Hungarian, that her name was Tamara Daranyi and that the driver of the car, the man who was killed, had picked her up at the Greyhound bus stop in Cove Springs.”
“And her other lapse into consciousness?”
“Right after Kurt pulled her from the car. She came to pretty bare in the wrong spots and instinctively tried to cover herself with her hands. She didn’t say anything but from the way she acted I figured the last thing in her conscious mind was the dead man making a play for her.”
Flanders glanced at Renner. “That right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Renner said. “I was being sick at the time. And when I came back Bill had covered her with a blanket.”
Flanders thought a moment. “You say she tried to cover herself. Did she succeed?”
“As far as possible.”
“Did she seem to have any difficulty in co-ordinating the movements of her hands and arms?”
“No. I’d say not,” Prichard said. “Why?”
Flanders bit the end from a fresh cigar. “Just ruling out a few things.” He glanced at Renner. “Well, don’t just stand there. Take her into one of your units so I can examine her.”
Renner