Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“What?”

“I met—the man who owns the painting. He said it was from his collection. And there was a memorial Mass there, sort of funny, because he wasn’t dead and ...”

“Have you been drinking, Hawkin?”

“No I haven’t, not a drop, nor have I had coffee or breakfast either.” His stomach emitted a dreadful growl at this realization. “I’m going to order something up now.”

“Not before you explain just what it is you are talking about. Or who. What man?”

Tony clenched his fists at his side. “Adolf Hitler, that’s who. I’ve been talking with him. The picture is from his collection, you told me so yourself. He’s alive and well in a wheel chair.”

A thoughtful silence fell. Billy Schultz gaped. Sones opened his eyes wider and wider nor did he take them off Tony who crossed to the phone and contacted room service fairly swiftly, then ordered a club sandwich with turkey, a side of fried beans, a large guacamole salad with tortillitas, a jug of coffee and a bottle of Bohemia ale.

“Just repeat that,” Sones said when he hung up.

“Adolf Hitler. I have been talking with him about the purchase of one of his paintings.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Billy squeaked.

“The reports must have been exaggerated.”

“You are sure of this, Hawkin? Washington will want to know everything.”

“I’m not sure of anything. He had a little white mustache and hair over his eye. And he offered to sell one of his own watercolors. It was bad enough to be real.”

“I must contact Washington.”

“In school, you know, they told us he was dead.”

“I hope this is the food,” Tony said, hurrying to the door to answer the knock, saliva beginning to flow in anticipation.

“Absolutely authentic,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said, coming in, doing some quick work with her handkerchief at her reddened eyes. “The pigments, canvas, characteristic of the period. The brush strokes even more evidence, the hand of the master, what sureness. What kind of creature could deface such a masterpiece?”

She raised the sodden handkerchief again and Tony f back a sudden desire to comfort her, perhaps hold her to his manly bosom, sudden warm memories of her female one burning strongly before him.

“Then the meet is on. Get back to your room, Hawkin, and tell Stocker about this. And if I were you, I would not mention to anyone, repeat anyone, about whom you met today.”

Tony opened the door, then closed it again and turned.In the rush of the morning’s events he had completely forgotten what he had been told earlier.

“I’m sorry, but what was the password to get back into my room?”

“Two knocks, space, one more knock. Password Horsefly. You had better shape up, Hawkin, start catching on to things.”

Good news in the form of a tray-bearing waiter appeared in the hall outside and Tony intercepted his lunch, stopped, tipped and dismissed the man, then went through the ritual of admittance to his own quarters. The chill eye at the crack in the door ac~ cepted “Horsefly” and let him in. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, the bed unmade.

“Want some of this?” Tony asked.

“Don’t drink on thu job, nor eat either.”

Thus admonished, Tony sat down to clear the platter himself, attempting to ignore the watchful eyes and ready gun. “The painting had been authenticated. The exchange will probably take place tonight.”

“Ahm ready.”

Tony chewed over thoughts of responsibility with his food* He had made certain promises to Jacob Goldstein when the Cellini had been returned to him. He had no information about Hochhande yet, but, somehow, he felt the Israeli underground might be just as interested in Adolf’s return. Yes, he would positively have to report this to Goldstein, who would also be interested in the attendees at the commemoratory Mass. Finishing the last of the beer he belched lightly with satisfaction.

“I’m going down for cigarettes. Do you want some he asked, and framed the answer to himself as the other spoke.

“Don’t smoke on thu job.”

“Be just a few minutes.”

Everlasting suspicion if not vigilance seemed to be the motto of the foreign agent, at least that much had been proven to him by the past days’ activities. Since the other side had arranged his stay at this hotel it could safely be assumed that someone in the establishment—everyone in fact for all he knew—was in contact with Robl or D’Isernia, and would report and probably listen to any phone calls he made from the premises. The sun was hot, the air clear and cool as always, when he left the Vasco and strolled down Avenida Reforma. A neon-tubed cocktail glass, international symbol, beckoned over a doorway and he entered and ordered a Margarita and obtained permission to use the telephone, all charges going on his check, happily, senor. It rang a long time before it was answered, lunchtime, waiting appetites, mounds of meats being sliced, and Goldstein himself spoke.

“Toltec Kosher Delicatessen.”

“Operator X-o here.”

“I’m busy, Hawkin, so make it quick.”

“Now wait a minute, I don’t have to call, you know. I have information I want to give you. Did you hear about the commemorative services for Adolf?”

“I got the word, but too late to do anything about it. Were you there?”

“I was, and your man Heinrich too. He took a long look at everyone and if he remembers faces he has a lot to tell you.”

“A fine memory, a scholar, we’ll show him our photographs. Anything else?”

“Just one tiny thing.” Smugly. “Hitler was there himself, I talked to him.”

“By, by, I got to go to work and no time for jokes.”

“But I mean it, Jake, really. He was there with the painting, an old man in a wheel chair, and he even offered to sell me one of his watercolors.”

“That one again. Don’t worry too much about him. He is a nut case by the name of Jakob Platz, though I guess in some ways he is Stupid like a fox. He commanded an SS panzer corps on the eastern front, not a nice man but there are worse. We ran across him some years ago. Apparently he wasn’t a big enough wheel to steal much money, so he does this Hitler thing and sells his true-life stories to journalists, they always need copy for their magazines. All those alive-and-well stories, they come from him. Anything else.”

“Nothing, I guess, except the exchange for the painting may come off tonight.”

“Good luck. Don’t trust these bums too far. Keep in touch,”

“By,” Tony said into the dead receiver, then hung up. Well, he had reported, done his duty. A fake Hitler. Well, it had to be. But it would have been nice to have a real one. Not nice, but interesting. He should tell Sones about this, but where would he say he got the information? A second Margarita produced no answers, so he bought his cigarettes, paid his bill and went back to his room. Knock-knock, knock, “Horsefly,” and the constant gaze of the guardian.

Precisely at four the phone rang.

“Did you find the painting was authentic?” D’Isernia’s voice asked.

“It is.”

“You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to the front door of your hotel now and you will receive further instructions.” The line went dead but rang again as soon as he had hung up. This time it was Sones who spoke.

“We heard all that. Just hold there and wait for us.”

Tony did not bother to ask by what devious bit of electronic horseplay they had tapped his phone, but instead bent to put his shoes on.

“Is this it?” Stocker asked, eagerly alert.

“It certainly is. The time is now.”

They were all crowded into the room which necessitated an appreciable amount of milling about which disturbed Stocker so that he moved back against the wall, suitcase behind him, gun ready, eyes darting from one to the other. Billy Schultz went directly to one of the heavy suitcases which, when he opened it, proved to contain a small armory. Pistols, grenades, entrenching tools, tear-gas bombs, thermite charges, knives, land mines. Stocker patted the lumps in his suit at the sight, no doubt reassuring himself that he had a better selection about his person.