“Inés, don’t.”
“What? You sure have scruples for a criminal.”
“I don’t have scruples. It’s too dangerous, that’s the issue. Anyway, Idon’t even know how you’d manage something like that. You’d have to make it look like an accident.”
“Poison,” Inés said simply.
“Sure. Shall we order it from the pharmacy?”
“You don’t need a pharmacy if you know enough plants.”
“You really are something, you lunatic,” he said, and scoffed. But she detected a note of dry admiration in his voice.
Her hands were still tight around his lapels. Underneath that, he was wearing a pair of loose pajamas. The first button was undone, and she had a good view of the expanse of his throat, with the moon providing ample illumination to examine him. He seemed to notice the steadiness of her gaze and swallowed.
“You know it’s a terrible idea,” he said.
“You’re telling me no?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
“Fucking wimp.”
He chuckled. “God, you’re rude.”
He cupped her cheek, and her heart leaped in her chest. It scared her more than the thought of cops and prisons and hell; it scared her half to death.
“Listen, you’re not thinking straight—”
“I am. But you must go. It’s late, it’s much too late,” she said, shoving him away. “Go.”
He looked confused, yet he obeyed her and slipped out, closing the door softly behind himself. Then she fell back against the pillows, breathing in and out until she could feel her wild heart quieting down.
12
He missed Mexico City.He’d been extremely nervous there, terrified that the sons of the widow Aguirre were going to swoop by his guesthouse—he shouldn’t have stayed there, but the rent had been affordable—and beat him bloody.
But he’d gained nothing in this forsaken town, and lost his liberty. How stupid he had been! There was money to be made in Mexico City. So many Americans and Europeans had flocked there at the beginning of the war, bringing their bank accounts with them. The former king of Romania was living in Mexico City; that wealthy Bulgarian, Avramov, had a house with more than fifty rooms; the countess of Prévoisin flashed jewels at all the nightclubs of note.
It was useless; he was never going tonavigate that crowd. Nevertheless, there would have been more opportunities in the city than in dusty Puerco Ahogado.
What he wouldn’t give to have drinks and listen to music at El Patio, or get cozy at the more intimate Casanova. He pictured big bands and Havana floor shows, the clinking of ice cubes, and swaying hips at the Sans Souci. Instead, he was trapped inside this house.
Inés was handing the guests canapés. It was another one of Perla’s dry, boring reunions with the same witless people. He watched Inés balancing the tray with expert ease, dressed in a horrid skirt and a blouse that seemed designed to make her look like a frump, except it didn’t. Perversely, the sensible shoes and ugly blouse made you wonder at other possibilities. What that girl might look like in a ball gown, maybe. Or, judging by the young policeman’s nervous twitch of his lips, what she looked like in her underwear and a pair of silk stockings.
She had great legs. That was the first thing he’d noticed, and that abundance of black hair. She’d be ravishing under the mellow lights of a nightclub even if she was half mad.
Murder. She had guts to talk about it so breezily.
He watched her as she moved around the room. Poison, she’d said, quite naturally to boot. Not that he hadn’t brought it up, because of course he had, but he’d meant it as a morbid joke.
Maybe. Maybe it had been half in jest and half serious, because he was going to go insane in this place.
“It’s completely unpatriotic for the workers to threaten to strike in Orizaba,” Dr. Carrel was saying.
“They can’t work if there’s no corn, no food,” Professor Nepomuceno replied.
“The government sets aside enough basic staples for the workers.”