Montezuma’s Revenge

“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?”