Montezuma's Revenge Read online

  “jPa que rumbo, maestro?” he inquired with great interest.

  “Take us to the Tecali Hotel,” Davidson said. No linguist, he referred to it as the 7>&-a-lee, yet the driver grasped his meaning and nodded enthusiastically.

  “Si, maestro, pero si la onda es que es caro. Yo sS de otro hotel que no la muelan y es a todo dar?

  “Oh, Christ, he doesn’t speak a word of English. Look, Jack, the … hotel … Tecali … okay?”

  “Si, ya sepo, el Tecali, con sus pinche precios. Pero si quieres …”

  The conversation was getting nowhere. Tony leaned forward and said quickly, “Escucha carnal, tenemos reservaciones en el Tecali, y no queremos nada que hacer con sus insectos ni in-fecciones de tu casa de putas?”

  The driver shrugged and the cab instantly shot forward and forced itself into a place in the moving line of traffic that was no more than four inches larger than the machine itself.

  “You had better explain,” Davidson said, loudly over the cries of the angry horns.

  “He wanted to take us to a different hotel and …”

  “Not that, I mean this Mexican-speaking thing.”

  “Spanish. Well, I ought to. Everyone spoke Spanish as well as English where I grew up.”

  “This is very serious. There is nothing in your dossier about Spanish.” It sounded a crime the way he said it.

  “Well, you can’t blame me. I had nothing to do with writing

  the dossier and I certainly don’t keep Spanish a secret.”

  “This is going to have to be looked into on a high level.”

  Tony had no easy answer to this and they continued in silence through the maelstrom of hurtling vehicles in the narrow streets. Their driver was touched with the same madness as the others and risked their mutual death many times until he tire-squealed around one last corner onto Mariano Escobedo and braked before their hotel. The door was open even before the cab stopped moving, seized by a grandly uniformed attendant whose gold braid glowed redly in the low rays of the setting sun. More uniforms appeared and their bags were seized. Davidson paid the exact sum on the meter, plus a single grudging peso, then led the way into the soft-lit luxury of the lobby. Tony was impressed. First class on the plane, he had always flown cattle-car class before, and now this. The agency, flush with the taxpayers’ money, evidently did not believe in stinting its workers. A suite awaited them, apparently the only kind of accommodations the establishment had. Tony looked with admiration at the dressing rooms, well-stocked bar, mirrored bathrooms, while Davidson saw the luggage in and passed around clinking pesos.

  “You can have that bedroom,” Davidson said, locking and double bolting the hall door.

  “Very nice indeed.” Tony took up his single bag, a little ashamed now of its scratched and scruffy plastic hide, and entered his quarters. “How long do you think this operation will take? Because I believe I am going to enjoy it in Mexico. I wonder if I could take some of my vacation time since I am here? You know, extend, then go back later.”

  He opened the case and hung his shirts in the closet to take some of the wrinkles out. “What do you think, Davidson?” There was no answer. “Did you hear me?”

  Tony went back into the living room of the suite and there, almost exactly in the center of the rug, Davidson lay face down with the thick wooden handle of a butcher knife projecting from between his shoulder blades.

  The sight of death is always a little unnerving and Tony, a stranger to sudden violence, stopped as though he had run into an

  invisible wall. His first thought was to help the agent, perhaps he was wounded and not dead, yet even as he started forward he swayed back, pushed by a sudden realization that his personal survival might be threatened as well. Where was the knife man? Standing behind him perhaps! He whirled about, his heart pounding furiously, but the living room was empty. Self-protection was called for now, it would be knife against knife. Where was the cigar knife?; in his jacket pocket in the closet. He started that way and stopped again with the sudden realization that he had not the slightest desire to try his proficiency in a knife duel against the professional who had so silently slid his weapon into the back of an equally professional agent. Some stronger medicine was required. Bending over he slipped his hand under Davidson’s jacket until he found the revolver there, then extracted it carefully. Trying to avoid the unmoving shocked gaze of the wide-open eyes. Jesus! He certainly looked dead.

  It took a few seconds to fumble off the safety catch and to rotate the chamber to be sure there was a bullet in firing position. Then, with the gun extended before him and his finger trembling on the trigger, he carefully searched the empty suite. Empty indeed, nothing under the beds or in the closets, no one lurking behind the doors. No possible entrance or exit through the windows, which were sealed because of the air conditioning. No one at all. So where was the killer? He went back to the sprawled body and then, for the first time, looked closely at the hall door, the only exit from the suite. The safety bolt that Davidson had closed was now open.

  “That’s it.” Tony breathed deeply and lowered the ready gun. “That’s how it was done. The killer was hiding in the apartment when we came in, under the couch or something. As soon as he saw that Davidson was alone he came out …” Tony shivered.

  What next? He glanced toward the phone. Should he call the police—and if he did what should he tell them? There was still the matter of the painting, the whole operation, and he knew nothing about that at all. Perhaps he ought to contact the Bureau first and ask them what to do. His gaze returned unbidden to the body.

  And maybe, although he certainly looked dead enough, Davidson was not dead but only gravely wounded. That should be checked first.

  Tony pushed the safety back on and slipped the .38 into his side pocket, then kneeled again by the still form. How did you tell? Breath on a mirror; he didn’t have a mirror. Pulse then. With none too steady fingers he groped for an artery in the cooling flesh of the neck and found nothing. Cold, already chilling down, that certainly meant something. No signs of breathing at all. With his hand pressed against Davidson’s back he felt not the slightest motion. Dead then, certainly dead. What next? Tony stood and saw, with a twinge of horror, that his right palm was covered with blood that had soaked into the jacket. He had to wipe it at once, no, much better, he had to wash. The quiet knock on the door came at this same moment.

  All reason fled. He had no idea what to do now, none whatsoever, so he did nothing. The knock came again to be followed moments later by the sound of a key in the lock. The safety bolt! If he could close that no one could enter. A fine idea that came entirely too late for even as he entertained the idea the door opened and the bellboy entered, a smiling round-faced young man with a silver tray held before him.

  “There was mail for you, senor. I thought it best to bring it up.”

  As he finished speaking he let his eyes drop to the body on the floor, then back up to Tony who was, literally, caught red-handed. The man’s smile broadened rather than vanished at the sight of the corpse, as he stepped back swiftly to close the door.

  “Very professionally done, senor? There were overtones of pure admiration in his voice.

  “I didn’t do it,” Tony choked out.

  “Of course not.” Glance at knife, glance at reddened palm before it could be put behind back. “You undoubtedly found him this way, a great tragedy. But whoever did this thing knows his business. The slight angle to the hilt signifies an upstroke, the professional blow, up and under, thus penetrating the ribs while the point seeks out the heart hidden within.”

  “That will be enough.”

  “But of course, you grieve. Would you care for me to telephone the police … ?”

  The bellboy made no move toward the phone as he said this and did not seem surprised in the slightest when Tony said no.

  “Understandable. These matters can be embarrassing, even for the innocent. The police value highly the gringo tourists and look unhappily upon th
eir deaths when they are here. But other solutions are possible. I have friends on the staff, there is the service elevator, for the very small sum of five hundred pesos your problem is solved. Your friend will have been seen leaving the hotel in the best of health, two, three witnesses will assure the police of that. In the morning you will call and report his absence and that will be the end of it. It is agreed then?”

  “It is not agreed, and I did not kill him.” Was the smile a little wider at this? “Look, let me think for a second, wash my hands, I’ll be right back.”

  Unlike literary blood, Davidson’s did wash away instantly with some soap and water. But what to do? Tony’s taut reflection stared back at him from the mirror and provided no answers. He needed help, but there was no time to contact Washington now, not with the bellboy standing by. Local help? The police? Never.

  Contact Rooster! That’s what the message had said. The CIA man here. This was the kind of illegally legal person who would know all about corpses and such. What was the number? There was a quick whiff of panic before it rose up from the depths of memory. 25-13-17. Or was it 18? No, that had to be it. He dried his hands and wrote the number quickly on the mirror with a corner of a fresh bar of soap so he would not forget it. The bellboy first, he had to be eased out of the picture, and the answer to that seemed obvious enough.

  “This is an unhappy occurrence,” Tony said, re-entering the room and taking his wallet from his pocket at the same time. “Thank you for the offer of help, but I can handle this myself. Of course it would be embarrassing to have people poking about here, so if you would be kind enough not to mention this to anyone I would think that two hundred pesos might be in order.”

  “Unhappily, absolute silence is not cheap. It would be a sacri—

  flee, I am not a rich man, but I will be happy to do the senor the favor for only three hundred pesos.” The tray, now empty of mail, was presented. Tony pulled out tattered bank notes.

  “It is a pleasure to deal with you. Two hundred and fifty pesos is a great sum I can ill afford but I give it to you happily.”

  “An equal pleasure to deal with a gentleman. Two hundred and seventy-five.”

  “Done.”

  After further assurances of mutual admiration the bellboy slipped into the hall and vanished. This time Tony bolted the door. 25-13-17 the mirror read. He rubbed it out and called from the bedroom relievedly out of sight of his burden. The phone rang only once before a man answered.

  “Coronel Glanders Mississippi Folio Asado. /Que* quieres!”

  A fried chicken restaurant? Could this be the right number? The voice questioned him again before he could stammer an answer.

  “Quiero cotorrear con Higginson”

  “jEl JefeP Un momentito.”

  So it was the right number—and Higginson was the boss. The code name Rooster, of course, the restaurant must be a cover for the operations of the CIA in Mexico. The phone rattled as someone else picked it up.

  “iQue pues?”

  “You don’t know me, my name is Hawkin, but I’m down here with an agent named Davidson whom you might know …”

  “Why, yes, sir, we do deliver fried chicken. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t want any chicken I … oh, I see. There are people there. Sorry, I’m kind of new at this—”

  “Just tell me what you want.” More than a little acid now.

  “I’m sorry. But you see there has been an accident or something. I’m in the hotel room and Davidson is, well sort of—you see, he is dead.”

  There was a brief silence at this announcement before Higginson spoke again.

  “Chicken only, you understand that. We can’t help you with that order.”

  “Oh yes, you can.” Tony was a little desperate now. “You help me or I call the police and tell them everything I know about this entire operation, including your part in it.”

  “Why of course, sir, we do cater large and important parties. If you give me your address I’ll come right over and we can discuss it.”

  “That’s more like it. Suite 560 at the Tecali. And I suggest you make it here as fast as you can.”

  Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. Tony was waiting for this one and he had the gun behind his back and his foot blocking the door so it could open no more than a few inches.

  “Who is it?” he said through the resulting crack.

  “Higginson, open up,” a gruff voice whispered.

  “You better identify yourself before I let you in.”

  “Listen you … ! I can’t be seen here. Code name Rooster.”

  The tall, spare man moved in quickly and Tony locked and bolted the door behind him, then put the gun away. Higginson watched him thoughtfully, hound-dog eyes in a leathery wrinkled face. He was older than he appeared to be at first, particularly when a second look disclosed that his full mop of black hair was only a wig.

  “Tell me what happened. Everything.”

  “Well, you know why we’re here. We came to the hotel directly from the airport. I was in the other room, I didn’t hear a thing, but when I came out he was like that and the front door was unlatched. I think the killer must have been waiting here before we came. That’s all there is to it. I called you.” The bellboy incident was forgotten for the moment.

  Higginson kneeled by the corpse for a quick and professional examination. He straightened up, dusted his knees and fixed a cold and steely eye on Tony.

  “Can’t the FBI take care of their troubles on their home ground?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play the dummy with me. You people have trouble with a man so you eliminate him in my back yard and leave the dirty

  montezuma’s revenge

  prehension for the knock on the door, this was when his eyes moved across the bar, halted then quickly returned. A drink, yes, a drink was decidedly in order. There was a fine selection here of most of the distilled biological poisons known to man, the bottles cool, multiformed, and comforting. Tequila? No, Mexico hovered too close as it was. Scotch then, the reassuring malt from the Highlands, memories of peat, heather and kilts in every sip, poured generously over ice cubes, drunk thirstily. A second drink followed the first and the level of the bottle dropped in equal measure as his spirits rose. In this manner the hours passed quickly until the appointed moment of door unlocking. After a certain amount of fumbling with the key and bolt Tony had it open and, no more than thirty seconds later, Higginson came in followed by a second man wearing a white uniform who was pushing a third in a wheel chair. The seated individual wore black gloves, a heavy overcoat turned up at the collar against the cool night, a scarf wrapped around his neck for further protection, dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. About all that could be told about him was that he was very old, if the thin white hair splayed across the collar meant anything.

  It meant very little. Once the door was closed again a sturdy youth leaped from the chair and very quickly took off coat, hat, scarf, gloves and white wig. He was neatly dressed in sport shirt and dark trousers, and Tony nodded approvingly when he noticed that trousers and shoes resembled the corpse’s very closely. Higginson stood by and supervised while his minions did the dirty work. With a proficiency that hinted at long practice they pulled out the murderous knife and slapped a thick towel over the spot to absorb any excess of blood, then dressed the corpse in the thick overcoat. Now, buttoned into the muffling garment, the late FBI agent was propped up in the wheel chair and the rest of the disguise put into place. To a casual examination the same man was still sitting in the wheel chair and would be leaving the hotel after a brief visit.

  “Very neatly done,” Tony said appreciatingly. Higginson leaned forward sniffing industriously and frowning.

  “You have been drinking.”

  3o

  “A few quickies in memory of our departed friend. Join me?”

  “I never drink, and if I did drink I would never drink on duty.”

  “Well,
I drink and I’m not on duty. Duty done for the day.”

  “You will want this, senor,” the pseudo attendant said, handing the washed and dried butcher knife to Tony with a certain degree of professional respect, a reminder of what they thought the duty had been. “Put it in my bag, if you please, in that room. Off duty.”

  “No, you’re not,” Higginson said smartly. “I suggest you drink some coffee and have some exercise. We cannot have alcohol jeopardizing the operation tonight.”

  “Operation? Tonight?”

  “Yes, I’ve made the contact. We’ll make the meet at three a.m.”

  “Order some coffee,” Tony said, sighing heavily.

  Four

  Memories of old grease hung in the air, aroma of potato and coleslaw long gone, odor of legions of chickens who had passed through and on to alimentary destiny. Tony sat on the high stool, elbows on the well-scrubbed wood of the counter, sipping the latest cup of coffee. The single light above threw long shadows across the empty kitchen and struck plastic highlights from Higginson’s wig. He sat across from Tony gnawing away steadily on a leg of cold fried chicken. Tony nodded over his cup and wished that he had used the hours for sleep rather than the drinking of all the coffee that Higginson had forced on him.

  “Three minutes to three,” the CIA man said softly. “Get ready.”

  “I’m ready, I’m ready,” Tony muttered wishing, not for the first time, that this were over with and he was nicely asleep in bed. Or better still back in Washington, at his old job away from all this unhappy business.

  “Here he is ….” It was just three. The unlocked rear door opened silently and a man entered; apparently, the unlocked door gambit was the normal way of doing business in these circles. The newcomer had a shaven head, a broken nose, saber scars on his cheekbones and an outthrust bulldog jaw, all of which identified his nationality long before he opened his mouth.