Montezuma’s Revenge

The conversation was getting nowhere. Tony leaned forward and said quickly, “Escucha carnal, tenemos reservaciones en el Tecali, y no queremos nada que hacer con sus insectos ni in-fecciones de tu casa de putas?”

The driver shrugged and the cab instantly shot forward and forced itself into a place in the moving line of traffic that was no more than four inches larger than the machine itself.

“You had better explain,” Davidson said, loudly over the cries of the angry horns.

“He wanted to take us to a different hotel and ...”

“Not that, I mean this Mexican-speaking thing.”

“Spanish. Well, I ought to. Everyone spoke Spanish as well as English where I grew up.”

“This is very serious. There is nothing in your dossier about Spanish.” It sounded a crime the way he said it.

“Well, you can’t blame me. I had nothing to do with writing the dossier and I certainly don’t keep Spanish a secret.”

“This is going to have to be looked into on a high level.”

Tony had no easy answer to this and they continued in silence through the maelstrom of hurtling vehicles in the narrow streets. Their driver was touched with the same madness as the others and risked their mutual death many times until he tire-squealed around one last corner onto Mariano Escobedo and braked before their hotel. The door was open even before the cab stopped moving, seized by a grandly uniformed attendant whose gold braid glowed redly in the low rays of the setting sun. More uniforms appeared and their bags were seized. Davidson paid the exact sum on the meter, plus a single grudging peso, then led the way into the soft-lit luxury of the lobby. Tony was impressed. First class on the plane, he had always flown cattle-car class before, and now this. The agency, flush with the taxpayers’ money, evidently did not believe in stinting its workers. A suite awaited them, apparently the only kind of accommodations the establishment had. Tony looked with admiration at the dressing rooms, well-stocked bar, mirrored bathrooms, while Davidson saw the luggage in and passed around clinking pesos.

“You can have that bedroom,” Davidson said, locking and double bolting the hall door.

“Very nice indeed.” Tony took up his single bag, a little ashamed now of its scratched and scruffy plastic hide, and entered his quarters. “How long do you think this operation will take? Because I believe I am going to enjoy it in Mexico. I wonder if I could take some of my vacation time since I am here? You know, extend, then go back later.”

He opened the case and hung his shirts in the closet to take some of the wrinkles out. “What do you think, Davidson?” There was no answer. “Did you hear me?”

Tony went back into the living room of the suite and there, almost exactly in the center of the rug, Davidson lay face down with the thick wooden handle of a butcher knife projecting from between his shoulder blades.

The sight of death is always a little unnerving and Tony, a stranger to sudden violence, stopped as though he had run into an invisible wall. His first thought was to help the agent, perhaps he was wounded and not dead, yet even as he started forward he swayed back, pushed by a sudden realization that his personal survival might be threatened as well. Where was the knife man? Standing behind him perhaps! He whirled about, his heart pounding furiously, but the living room was empty. Self-protection was called for now, it would be knife against knife. Where was the cigar knife?; in his jacket pocket in the closet. He started that way and stopped again with the sudden realization that he had not the slightest desire to try his proficiency in a knife duel against the professional who had so silently slid his weapon into the back of an equally professional agent. Some stronger medicine was required. Bending over he slipped his hand under Davidson’s jacket until he found the revolver there, then extracted it carefully. Trying to avoid the unmoving shocked gaze of the wide-open eyes. Jesus! He certainly looked dead.

It took a few seconds to fumble off the safety catch and to rotate the chamber to be sure there was a bullet in firing position. Then, with the gun extended before him and his finger trembling on the trigger, he carefully searched the empty suite. Empty indeed, nothing under the beds or in the closets, no one lurking behind the doors. No possible entrance or exit through the windows, which were sealed because of the air conditioning. No one at all. So where was the killer? He went back to the sprawled body and then, for the first time, looked closely at the hall door, the only exit from the suite. The safety bolt that Davidson had closed was now open.