The Rodriguez Affair (1970) by James Pattinson Page A

ill; perhaps was ill. When Cade had seen him last he had been black-haired, vigorous, full of life, enjoying it to the full. But that had been in Argentina, and his name had not been Gomara; it had been Rodriguez.
    It had also been before the scandal.
    Carlos Rodriguez had been an important member of the Argentine government at that time. In his capacity as a newspaperman Cade had seen a good deal of Rodriguez; Rodriguez had been much in the public eye. There had also been numerous press conferences which Cade had attended.
    Carlos Rodriguez had been near the top and still rising when the bubble burst. And when the revelation came it was not merely the revelation of a corrupt politician’s shady financial dealings, of the bribery concerning government contracts, though this was bad enough. No; there was also the scandal of his private life. There were reports of wild orgies on Rodriguez’s country estate, ofsexual perversions, of the seduction of young girls, of drug-taking. And then there was the matter of Isabella Martinez, whose naked body had been found floating in Rodriguez’s swimming-pool.
    It had, of course, been the end of his political career, but he had had powerful friends and much money. Before the police could take him he had disappeared, no one knew where. The Rodriguez Affair, as it was called, made news for weeks as more and more unsavoury details came to light, but the chief actor had already left the stage and did not return for the curtain call.
    Cade could see now why Gomara was such a retiring man. There were many people who would have given much to learn of his whereabouts : the Argentine police would most certainly have been interested, and poor Isabella Martinez, that beautiful and unfortunate young girl, had had relations who, if they ever found the man who had corrupted her and had been the cause of her death, would undoubtedly take a terrible revenge.
    “For what reason did you wish to see me?” Gomara asked.
    He was, Cade estimated, not yet sixty years old, but he looked nearer eighty. Perhaps he had contracted some disease that had first crippled him and now was slowly killing him. Perhaps this was the punishment for the kind of life he had led.
    “I am a journalist,” Cade said.
    Gomara looked startled. “Delia did not tell me that. She told me that you had some important information to give me.”
    “I told her that I am afraid it was a piece of subterfuge in order to get an interview with you.”
    Gomara’s sunken eyes regarded Cade stonily, as though probing for the truth, and the fingers of his left hand strayed towards the butt of the pistol; but he did not pick it up.
    “Why should you want an interview with me?”
    Cade wondered whether Gomara had recognised him also. It was possible but not likely. At press conferences in Buenos Aires he had been only one of many; there was no reason why his features should have impressed themselves on Gomara’s memory. Nevertheless, the possibility was there.
    “I am writing a magazine feature—about this part of the country—the cattle rearing—”
    “I do not rear cattle.”
    “But this was once a cattle estancia.”
    “I know nothing of that. It was before I came here.”
    “So you have not been here long?”
    “Señor Cade‚” Gomara said, “I believe you know very well how long I have been here.”
    “I have made one or two enquiries,” Cade admitted. “But one does not believe all one hears.”
    “That is so. One does not.”
    The heat in the room was really oppressive; sweat began to trickle down Cade’s face. Gomara regarded him with a sardonic expression; he himself appeared quite cool; he looked desiccated, every drop of moisture already drawn out of him.
    “You seem warm,” he said. “Why not remove your jacket? I have no objection.”
    Cade took off his jacket and draped it over his arm.
    “Are you a lover of snakes, Señor Cade?”
    Cade stared down into the pit There was that about the creatures in there