Murder Is My Dish Read Free Page B

something fatherly about how a good cry helped. For some reason that made her mad. She uninhibitedly blew her nose and shoved the handkerchief back in her pocket. She stamped back to the desk and lit a cigarette. She wiped a tear from the tawny skin of her cheek.
    â€œI’m sorry about Mr. Dineen,” she said. “Truly sorry.” She puffed on the cigarette, scowled, and crushed it out in an ashtray.
    â€œThis is what I know,” I told her. “Lequerica recommended me to Mr. Caballero, who wanted a bodyguard because he was completing a book said to contain the kind of dynamite that could blow the lid off twenty years of dictatorship down in the Parana Republic. Mr. Caballero had been threatened by parties unknown, and decided a bodyguard would be a good investment. I’d done some work for Preston Baylis, a Washington attorney representing the Republic’s interests in the U.S., so Baylis recommended me to Lequerica, and Lequerica to Caballero. But why Lequerica, who works for the Parana Republic government, would go out of his way to help Caballero, whose book—”
    â€œThey’re friends, that’s why.”
    â€œYou’re Caballero’s secretary?”
    â€œYes. I am Eulalia Mistral,” she said, and offered her hand. I shook it, and observed that she pumped my hand with almost boyish enthusiasm, and made some inane remark about the wind of the same name while I thought of a dying man’s last words and a boat of the same name and whether I would ever know which one Andy had had in mind.
    â€œThe book still bothers me, Miss Mistral,” I said. “Or Lequerica’s interest in seeing that it and its author were protected.”
    â€œAll right. Maybe you’re right. I thought they were friends, but the only thing Lequerica did was recommend a detective. Rafael could have used the Yellow Pages.”
    â€œCan the book really do what they say it can do?”
    â€œOh, yes. I’ve worked closely with Mr. Caballero. I’ve helped him organize his notes and typed the final draft of each chapter. Mr. Caballero, you see, was a Catalonian refugee of Republican Spain who made the mistake of fleeing, back in the late thirties, to the Parana Republic. He was employed for ten years as a private tutor in the family of the Republic’s dictator, Indalecio Grande. Then, about eight years ago, he came to this country, went to work at the university, and began his book. He’s the only man who can blow the lid off Indalecio Grande’s rein of terror from the inside. I’m scared, Mr. Drum. If they’ve got their hands on him—”
    â€œHe’s an American citizen, isn’t he?”
    â€œYou think that would stop them?”
    â€œThe book’s finished?”
    â€œNot quite.”
    â€œWhere’s the manuscript now?”
    Eulalia Mistral lit another cigarette, and smoked it this time. “Night before last,” she said, “Mr. Caballero taught a late evening class here at the university, then left in company with Mr. Dineen. In the morning he didn’t show up.”
    â€œThe manuscript?”
    â€œHe usually kept it in the safe here. It was gone. Mrs. Caballero says he never reached home that night.”
    â€œThen why the hell didn’t somebody call the cops?”
    â€œStop shouting at me.”
    â€œWell, why didn’t they?”
    Eulalia went to the window and looked out. When she turned around, there were bright angry spots of color in her cheeks and her fists were clenched. She was furious, but I didn’t have any idea why. “I don’t have to answer you!” she cried. “Who do you think you are?”
    I headed for the door, but I wasn’t exactly trying to break any speed records getting there. “Suit yourself, sister. But if you’re mad at somebody else, don’t bite my head off and expect me to stick around.”
    â€œWait. Please.”
    â€œI’m