Montezuma’s Revenge

“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 their 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.”