Montezuma’s Revenge

Eleven

It was a neat enough tableau that might well have been entitled “The Criminal Brought to Bay” or perhaps “Justice Triumphant.” The witness, Sones, twitching with apprehension, the detective ready with gun and handcuffs, the victim limp before his fate. Tony stayed in the doorway no more than a few seconds, the victory smile with which he had entered fading slowly from his face, then he started to back out, waving his fingers in a twitching gesture that was meant to indicate sorrow at interrupting, but please excuse.

“Be with you in a few minutes,” Sones called out. “A little busy right now.”

“No, do not disturb yourself,” Lieutenant Gonzales said, his cold, carnivorous eyes still on Tony, eating up every detail of his disguise which had suddenly become very transparent. “I will be leaving now, please have the gentleman come in.”

Tony had no choice. Clutching his book he entered the room with a great reluctance that he hoped did not show, flashing his two gold teeth in a very unrealistic smile. Gonzales’s eyes followed him about the room, tracking him like a gun turret.

“Do I know this gentleman?” the detective asked.

“I am sure you could not,” Sones replied, his eyes blinking at the RS of his own initials on the pocket of Tony’s borrowed shirt: He rose to the occasion. “This is an associate of mine who has just arrived, Mr. Raul Sanchez. Sanchez, this is Lieutenant Gonzales of the Metropolitan police.”

“jEres Mexicano?”

“Claro que no, Buey. Soy Puerto Riqueno” As he said it he tried to empty his voice of all nasal Mexican sounds and replace them with the staccato echoes of Puerto Rico. What was a P Rican accent like? In the panic of the moment he could not remember at all. The large caliber guns of the policeman’s eyes one last salvo through Tony before he turned away.

“Then I know I can count upon your co-operation and the co-operation of your department, Mr. Sones?”

“At all times, Lieutenant.”

“Very good. This man Hawkin is one of your employees, though of course on vacation in Mexico as are you and, I assume, your other associates, including Sanchez here. Hawkin must be taken questioned since he is the prime suspect in the slaying of another of your associates in this country. I hope nothing irregular is happening. We are both aware that the FBI has no jurisdiction out of the borders of its country, and my country would take a very harsh view indeed of any irregularities.”

“I am a servant of the law, Lieutenant, and I do not break It.”

“Very good. I will contact you again.”

Gonzales left, after sending one last ocular shell in Tony’s direction, and Sones quickly locked the door, put his finger to his lips for silence, then waved Tony ahead of him into the back bedroom, Billy Schultz and Lizveta Zlotnikova were sitting there in tense expectation.

“I guess he didn’t recognize me,” Tony said, once the door was closed.

“Of course he did, you fool, walking in like that! Schultz, get the M35 working on that window.”

“If he saw through the disguise why didn’t he arrest?”

“The painting, it is inside that book yes?” Lizveta Zlotnikova asked.

“Yes, it’s in here, but why—”

“Why? Because he did not wish to be involved personally ir sticky international situations. Inside of two minutes uniformed police will be here for a routine passport check and they will be the ones who will grab you. You have to get out.”

“Good-by,” Tony said, starting for the door.

“Not that way, the door is watched, of course. Open yet, Schultz?”

“Just about.”

The agent had produced a chunky hydraulic jack from his bag of equipment and fastened it to the window frame. Now, energized by the powerful pumps of his bulging biceps, the extending piston was quietly pushing the iron window bars from the wall. Sones nodded approval and turned back to Tony.

“Get out of here fast, and out of the hotel as well. We will cover for you as long as we can, run the shower, let them think you are in there, we can give you five minutes. You are to go to Cuautla and exactly at six this evening you will enter the drugstore there named Farmacia los Volcanes and will ask the clerk at the cash register for some Enterovioform.”

“In Spanish or English? It’s Enterovioforma, the specific for the Aztec Two-Step, as it is known, or Montezuma’s Revenge ...”

“Shut up. The instructions did not specify language. You will be informed then how to make contact.” There was a brisk knock at the front door. “Now out, out!”

Tony outed. The jack was removed and he slid easily through the gap and into the prickly hedges outside. Lizveta Zlotnikova, with a deep look of regret, passed him down the book and his Czechoslovakian airline bag, while Billy Schultz seized the bars and, with a single contraction of those great muscles, bent them back into place. Tony saw no more for, like a thief in the night—or rather the afternoon—he was fleeing for his life.

At a slow walk, for he dared do nothing to attract attention, he strolled through the parklike grounds toward the entrance. Happy couples beginning their weekend early came by arm in arm. Children laughed and ran, the sun shone with warm Mexican brilliance; Tony walked beneath a cloud of personal gloom. The welcoming arch of the gate lifted up before him, neatly framing the two police officers who were talking to Lieutenant Gonzales who, incredibly luckily, had his back turned at that moment. Without breaking pace Tony made a right angle turn and headed in the opposite direction. What now-over the wall? It was high and impassable looking wherever he could see; after dark perhaps, but certainly not now. And spacious as the grounds were, he certainly could not hide out all afternoon. The path he was following took him toward the entrance to the lobby of the Hacienda Cocoyoc where people were descending from cabs and cars, snapping lingers for bellboys and calling loudly one to the other. An empty cab pulled away down the drive and Tony, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure the trees were between himself and the entrance, stepped out before it and raised his hand in desperate improvisation.

“Yes?” the driver said, stopping the cab.

“You are for hire?”

“With great certainty.”

“I would like to go to Cuernavaca,” fumbling for his money, “but there is, what might be called, a little difference of familial opinion. There is a certain woman involved ...” He let his eyelid droop and raise slowly in a terribly conspiratorial manner while passing over a hundred-peso note at the same time. “This is of course in addition to the fare.”

“Command me!”

“I simply wish to dispose myself upon the floor of your fine vehicle until we are out of sight of the hotel. My wife ...”

“Understood, everything, enter please, we leave for Cuernavaca.”

Tony slid in through the open door and lay flat, knees tucked, up, an empty package of Alas cigarettes under his head. The cab lurched into motion and ground its way toward the gate, speeding up—then instantly slowing almost to a stop while Tony’s heart behaved in an identical manner.

“Your fly-infested burro is a blight to the eyes and a hazard upon the road,” the cab driver called out cheerily toward an uns party.

“Keep this moving,” an ofEcial voice said just outside the window, almost stopping Tony’s heart completely. Then the cab moved on.

Done. He lay on the floor a bit longer until the weakness had drained away, then crawled up onto the seat.

“Simple enough,” the driver said, dodging around a wooden oxcart that rode upon automobile wheels and tires, narrowly missing explosive destruction against the grill of a truck coming in the opposite direction, both drivers blowing their horns steadily in chivalristic challenge. “Is there a particular address you wish to go to?”

“There is, but I prefer to get out in the town square.”

“A wise man needs no instructors!”

The driver lifted both hands skyward in a gesture of appreciation irregardless of the fact that the cab then proceeded to slew across the road in the direction of an irrigation ditch, regaining control only at the last instant. In this heartily enthusiastic manner they proceeded to Cuernavaca where Tony paid and tipped again, then sought the solace of the nearest bar for a large brandy. There were some hours yet before he had to be in Cuautla, which necessitated passing the entrance to Cocoyoc again, so prudence dictated that he remain here as long as possible. It was not hard to do. The bartender produced a gratuitous plate of cacahuates picantes, peanuts rolled in red pepper, which did fine things for his thirst necessitating beer as well as brandy to slake the fires below. As the sun crept down toward the mountainous horizon his spirits rose in counterpoint until, when he went to find the Cuautla bus, he was feeling no pain at all. The trip was an easy one, and even had one moment of bittersweet pleasure when they stopped at Cocoyoc and he peeked out at the stir and bustle of police cars from behind the security of Terras Guide to Mexico. Lieutenant Gonzales must be very annoyed.

Cuautla was bursting with people as the siesta ended and the sleepers emerged for the joys of evening. Without much difficulty he located the drugstore of the two volcanoes, early as it proved, leaving more than enough time for another brandy. At six precisely he walked through the wide-open front of the store and addressed himself to the gray-haired woman with the purple birthmark who sat behind the cash register.

“Enterovioform, if you please.”

She coughed moistly in response, took the slim white package from the shelf behind her without rising, then wrapped it in a square of brown paper. “Six pesos, fifty.”

He fumbled for his money, not realizing beforehand that a 1 mate purchase would be involved, paid and left with his regulatory prize. Farther down the street he found a doorway in which he could unwrap the box, nor was he very surprised to find within the paper.

WALK NORTH ON AVENUE FIFTH OF MAY

Since he was already on that street, proceeding in the indicated direction, he continued on his way, pills in pocket, bag in hand, book clamped under arm, feeling that unseen eyes were following his every motion. As indeed they were. Two blocks farther on he crossed a street, sealed off for vehicular traffic by an excava and stacked pipes, where a firm hand seized his arm and an e firmer voice grated in his ear.

“Into that car, schnell!”

As they jumped in, the black Packard pulled out, even before the doors were closed. A neat ploy, anyone following on foot would be left behind, while there was no way for a pursuing car to follow at all. Tony glanced sideway at a familiar bulldog jaw, scarred cheeks, shaven head.

“Is the painting in there?” Robl asked, jerking a thick thumb at the airline bag.

“No. Inside this book. You want to see it?”

His only reply was a negative grunt as the car squealed around a corner and out of the back streets, sped down the highway and across a bridge spanning wide sandy flats cut by a small stream in the middle, then rushed through the outskirts of town. It v faster now through the cornfields, then spun left at a fork where a sign indicated the road to Agua Hedionda. Stinking water? Tony remembered, sulphur baths here, favored spot of the Aztecs, Spanish spa, still valued by the tourists, great curative powers theoretically lurking in their sulphurous depths.

“Nummer?” the driver asked, turning his head to throw the word over his shoulder, as solid-necked and shaved-headed as Robl; only his scars were in different places.

“Dm?’

This information was received with a Teutonic grunt of affirmation and the car passed through the public parking lot of the baths and went on to a smaller lot labeled albercas privadas, clientes solamente, this sign being set next to a high wall pierced with numbered doors. Robl pushed Tony ahead of him when they stopped outside number three, reaching over his shoulder to knock loudly on the door. It opened a crack while a dark eye looked them over, then it swung wide.

Inside was a private swimming pool, rentable by the hour for those who took no pleasure in sharing their bath water with the common masses. It was equably suitable for clandestine meetings. D’Isernia, who had admitted them, slipped his shiny revolver inside the towel he was carrying and sprawled back comfortably on a lounge chair. He was dressed for the occasion in swimming trunks patterned with multichrome seashells; the white hair on his chest and legs matching in quantity that of his full beard and flowing locks.

“Join me, if you please, Signore Hawkin. Many things have happened since we last met. Is the door secured, Kurt? Good. Now, sit here by me. Might I assume that the book you are carrying contains the Cellini painting?”

“Yes. You get it open by prying the front cover, carefully though.”

“Your knife, Kurt.”

Robl produced a large knife from his hip pocket which snicked open wickedly when he pressed a button. With a delicate touch D’Isernia worked the point around the cover until it was free and he could open it. Inside, on a bed of soft cloth, lay the wooden panel of the painting.

“Lovely, simply lovely. I am really quite relieved to see it again, since for a while there I was afraid that it and you were both gone forever. You were not exactly frank at our last meeting, were you, Hawkin?”

“I didn’t hide anything.”

“I beg to differ.” Behind him Robl snorted and smiled coldly. “As our friend here suggests, concealing the fact that you killed your associate Mr. Davidson is more than a little something. Had I known that within hours you would be a fugitive from the police I would never have entrusted this valuable painting to you.”

“Look, I did not kill Davidson, and I wish people would stop thinking that I did.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Though it was almost dark the walled enclosure still held the heat of the day. “And I did return the painting as promised and on time.”

“Wearing the disguise of a Mexican bourgeois? But, that is all beside the point, and the painting is here as I said. My duty is not to enforce the Mexican law and you may decimate your FBI ranks completely with your knife work for all I care. But please wait until our little business deal is completed. While you have been playing your games with the police I have been dealing with your associate, Mr. Sones, and we have agreed upon terms. He will provide a million dollars in used bank notes of v denominations; in exchange for this you will receive the painting of the heroic and historical ‘Battle of Anghiari.’”

“And what about the painting here, the Cellini ‘St. Sebastian'?”

“I will retain possession of it until the other sale is completed. A hostage to good fortune, you might say, just to make sure that nothing goes wrong. Then this will be sold to your government as well. Sones and I are still discussing the price, which shall be high. But the first transaction is what we care about now. Yon will examine the painting to assure your superiors of its authenticity.”

“Did Sones say I should do that?”

“Reluctantly, I assure you. He had another authority he wanted to send instead, a Lizveta Zlotnikova ...”

“Rote Schweine! Kormnunistr Robl banged one hard fist into his open palm angrily, a fine spray of saliva blowing out with every word. “We will not have her.”

“There seems to be some belief in certain quarters that she is a Soviet agent, and we did not feel it would be wise to inform the U.S.S.R. of our activities at the present time. However, we will permit you to take samples of the paint and canvas for her examination. Ours is a straightforward business deal and we take pride in our product and want to have only satisfied customers.”

“What next then?”

D’Isernia waved his hand at the door. Robl took his knife back and began to stolidly clean his nails with the point.

“The car is waiting outside to take you to a local hotel, the Vasco. A room has been reserved for you in the name of John Smith—”

“Oh, that’s really original.”

“You will wait there until we send for you. And while you are waiting you will contact your associates to determine if the money has arrived, for we will not proceed until we know it is here. If all is as it should be you will examine the painting tomorrow so that tomorrow night the exchange will be made. Do you understand that?”

“It sounds simple enough.” He was hot and very thirsty and it was not that simple, and the sight of the German whittling his cuticles with the knife also did nothing to make him feel any better. “Can I go now?”

“Any time you wish. But stay in your room until we call. I do not wish the police to pick you up at this time.”

“Your concern for my welfare is touching. I’ll see you.”

The same car was waiting outside, the bullet-headed Teutonic driver still planted solidly behind the wheel as though he were bolted in place.

“Do you know where to take me?”

Another great conversationalist. What next? He had to find some way of contacting Sones without being grabbed by the police, and could think of no way. Yet he did not dare admit this to his hosts since it might jeopardize the entire operation. More and more he was beginning to feel that he was not cut out for this kind of thing; the buoyancy of the alcohol had worn off and had been replaced by depression.

They ground up the road away from the resort and when they were on the highway again, with no other cars in sight, the driver turned around and looked sternly at Tony.

“Gornischt” he said.