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“I won’t forget that.”
“I hope you don’t,” Hackberry said.
“Tell me where the cup is and give me the directions to where you’re at.”
A HALF HOUR LATER, a different desk clerk called Hackberry’s room. “There’s a peculiar nigger down here. He says you told him to come to the hotel.”
“What’s his name?”
“He didn’t give it.”
“Then ask him.”
The clerk went away from the phone and came back. “He says his name is Andre.”
“Send him up.”
“We cain’t do that, sir.”
Hackberry took the elevator down to the lobby. Andre was standing by the side door, his hat in his hand, water dripping off his coat on the marble floor. Hackberry went to the desk. “I need the use of your office.”
“The office is restricted to employees,” the clerk said.
He was sorting the mail and didn’t look up when he spoke. Hackberry stared at him, but the clerk didn’t notice. He was tall and had slicked hair and a high, shiny forehead and wore a silver and red necktie and a white shirt with garters on the sleeves.
“This man is my friend and associate,” Hackberry said. “I don’t like the way you’ve treated him. We’ll be using your office. If you don’t like it, call the owners. In the meantime, don’t disturb us.”
He motioned for Andre to follow him into the office and closed the door behind them. The desk clerk was staring at them through the glass, his jaw flexing. Hackberry pointed a finger as he would a pistol. The clerk began stuffing mail into the key boxes, glancing back over his shoulder.
“You are always very candid in your dealings with people, Mr. Holland,” Andre said. “I’m not sure that is necessarily wise.”
“Rude pipsqueaks are rude pipsqueaks. So you treat them as pipsqueaks. The police knocked you around?”
“They have done much worse to others. Miss Beatrice said I should talk with you. She also said you might make unreasonable demands of me and that I must use my own judgment in dealing with you.”
“She tell you anything else?”
“She said you have concrete for brains.”
“I saw her at Arnold Beckman’s office in the brothel district. Another man was driving her.”
“She knows what I think of Mr. Beckman. My feelings about him are not positive ones.”
“If a rusty drainpipe could talk, I know what it would sound like,” Hackberry said.
“I told you about the men who abducted my children and the fate that was theirs as a result,” Andre said. He had not sat down. He wiped the dampness from his face with a handkerchief. “I told you how I took these wicked men into the jungle at night and by dawn had relieved them of the evil presences blocking the light from their eyes. I think you want to know the details of an event that should be left in the jungle, except you are afraid to ask.”
“What you tell me is up to you,” Hackberry said.
“The trees and the foliage do not have eyes or ears, but men do. People in my village heard the sounds that came out of the jungle that night. Later, some of the villagers would not look into my eyes when we passed on the street. They no longer wanted to be my friend or my neighbor. They were ashamed that I h
ad ever been a priest in their church. I do not want that to happen to us, Mr. Holland. I do not want to lose you as my friend.”
“Would you be willing to do to Beckman the same things you did to your children’s kidnappers?” Hackberry said.
“That is not an honest question.”
“I don’t comprendo.”
