Montezuma’s Revenge

With this realization came another and more disturbing one. His head was lying on the table. It took a great effort to raise it, bobbing from side to side. The fork was still in his hand and he let it drop, horrified, into the remains of his meal.

“They’ve ... they’ve drugged the spaghetti!” he said hoarsely.

This time when his head dropped and rested among the crumbs on the cloth it remained there. He snored peacefully.

Seven

The swell of conversation broke in waves over his head and surged away in bubbles of words. None of them comprehensible. All of the speakers sounded very excited and appeared to be talking at the same time. With his eyes closed Tony puzzled away at this mystery until he realized that the language was Italian, and with this revelation memory returned. He opened his eyes and examined his surroundings.

It was a good while before anyone noticed that he was conscious, so concerned were they with the discussion. This was a large room, perhaps a dormitory since there were at least six beds visible other than the one Tony was lying on. There were no windows, or rather there was something that was probably a window high on the wall, its true nature concealed by the fact it was covered with heavy boards. A table, around which most of the men sat. A single door, closed. Two large wardrobes against another wall, a single light bulb dangling on a length of wire in the center, a few unframed religious pictures all mul-tichrome, glowing halos, streaming rays, Jesus with radioactive heart, were pasted directly to the yellowish plaster of the walls. There was an overriding damp coolness, like a cellar or a cave, sealed away from the Acapulco sun.

“So you are awake I see.”

The speaker was the solidly built and middle-age man whom Tony had assumed was the owner of the restaurant. The one who had spiked the spaghetti.

“Poison in the pasta,” Tony said, hoarsely.

“A simple sleeping potion, harmless, you will be thirsty. Un bicchiero da vino qui! You are a dangerous man, Mr. Hawkin, and we do not enjoy violence.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Why have you done this?” One of the scowling young men came up with a glass of wine that Tony gulped at thirstily, apparently the same acid red he had had for his last supper, if this meant anything.

“On the contrary, we know a good deal, yes we do. We have your full description, a photograph, word of your activities, so you cannot lie to us but will please everyone by stating the simple truth. We of the Agenzia Terza know a good deal as you can see.”

“I never heard of you.”

“I am not surprised. Everyone knows of the French Deuzieme Bureau, or the British Secret Service, their cover is blown as you might say, but the Agenzia Terza is another matter.” He sounded defensive; Tony decided not to push the point.

“You have taken all my clothes!” He had suddenly realized that he was lying on the bed dressed only in his white underwear shorts, while his clothes and the contents of his pockets were spread across the table.

“A precaution, you are a dangerous man.”

“I’ve done nothing—”

“Nothing?” The interrogator’s eyebrows lifted slowly, his nostrils widened, he permitted a slight upward roll of the eyeballs. “I would not call it nothing, the man you killed would not call it nothing. But that is not our concern. I want you to tell me instantly where you have put a certain piece of property belonging to the Italian Government.”

“I have no idea of what you are talking about.”

Again the eyebrow, eyeball, nostril gesture signifying a certain lack of credibility to the statement. “No games, if you please. I want the Cellini ‘San’ Sebastiano.’”

“That painting was destroyed during the war, that is all I know about it.”

“Hardly. We have collected strong evidence that it was not destroyed and furthermore that it has come into your possession. Produce it or things will go very hard with you.”

“Listen, mister ... I don’t even know your name so how can I talk to you?”

“You may call me Timberio.”

“Timberio, you must be confusing me with someone else. I walked into your restaurant for dinner, nothing more; as you can see, I have no paintings with me. The rest is all your doing.”

“Don’t think we haven’t considered that.” Timberio paced back and forth quickly, one hand in the small of his back, the other raised before him with its fingers making little grabbing motions as though to seize facts from the thinness of the air. “You are a very devious man, indeed you are. While the police of the entire country look for you you walk casually into the known headquarters of La Agenzia Terza.”

“I thought your existence was a secret?”