Montezuma’s Revenge

Being an FBI agent was rapidly becoming more of a liability than an asset. With a sneer, invisible in the darkness, he recalled his own naive attitude of, when?—just a few days ago. Then he had been looking forward to the excitement of a free trip to New York City as an art authority. He had come a bit farther than New York and the excitement was now of a far more drastic nature. Two days out of Washington and he was a wanted murderer, an art thief, an acquaintance of international spies and thieves, an indecent exposer in public places, a passportless, moneyless, paperless refugee. Was there no end to all this? Could there be anything except an unhappy end to his insoluble situation? He had visions of sudden death, a lifetime prison sentence, quick disappearance. He sighed into the darkness, immensely refreshed by the moments of indulgence and rampant self-pity.

Now, what next? Surrender would be simple enough. All he had to do was let exhaustion and the warm evening take over and go to sleep right here in the chair. His unusual attire would be observed in the morning and he would awake to see a squad of police eager to rush him to prison. He let his eyes close for a moment to determine how it felt, it felt very good, but after a short space of time he struggled the lids open again.

After all that he had gone through to get here the idea of meek surrender just did not have that much appeal. Since he was still free he had at least an outside chance of getting the painting into the hands of the correct authorities—whoever they might be—and of hopefully clearing his name. This last became more and more difficult as the list of his crimes mounted, but at least it was a remote possibility. So—what to do?

Be a criminal. Everyone thought he was one, a dangerous and murderous agent, a man greatly respected by that sinister branch of the Italian Government, the Agenzia Terza. Respected even more now after his dramatic escape from their drugged, spaghettilike embrace. Now, without being apprehended, he had penetrated the guarded fortress of the Hilton, playground of happy, loaded Americans. There must be some way he could capitalize on the situation. What he needed most were clothes and a little money, and here he was surrounded by luxuries of clothing and gobs of greenbacks. All he had to do was lay his hands on a bit of it. A little scouting was in order.

His first theft was an infinitesimal one, a towel, no theft at all until he left the premises with the hotel property. It had been thrown carelessly onto a table and as he passed his fingers scraped it up. Wrapped around his waist it supplied a far greater feeling of security than his drawers ever had. That this ruse was effective was proven when he met a couple coming down the path from the hotel, the male similarly garbed, while a hotel employee passed all three without a nod. What next though? The cliff of the building rose up and a plan did not present itself. There was no point in entering the lobby unless he had some destination in mind. Should he just ask for a key by number? This could work—then again it could fail just as easily and his freedom would be over. Best to exhaust the other possibilities first.

Almost instantly a possibility presented itself. A swimming pool that was both inside the building and out. He sat on the edge, the towel dropped coyly behind him as he slid quickly beneath the surface. Breast stroking slowly so he could look around, Tony bobbed his way into the dim-lit premises.

This pool was the complete Venice of swimming pools, apparently designed exactly to his specifications. It wound about inside the hotel, encircling a herbaceous dining area that was connected by a bridged canal. Although it was far better lit than he really desired, he made his way along the canal looking up at the infrequent diners and imbibers and seeking some opportunity.

There was nothing. He completely encircled the area, swam back outside, then returned. The pool was almost empty, as were the tables, in this interim hour between day and evening pleasures. This little tour could not go on forever, fatigue was creeping up again and he was getting a generally waterlogged feeling. Once more around and back to the towel and other plans. Perhaps this time someone would leave a purse or a key at the pool’s edge and he could indulge in a bit of piracy. There was one newcomer at a poolside table, a thin man wearing dark glasses, against the actinic dangers of the candles perhaps. Glasses? Glasses! Glasses like that, seen somewhere before, the pimp’s mustache below the prying nose, the last dying survivors of a head of hair glued down on the skull above. A familiar combination, very familiar indeed. Tony dived and surfaced at the tiled edge.

“Sones,” he whispered, “Ross Sones.”