Гарри Гаррисон: Montezuma’s Revenge

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.

“That’s it.” Tony breathed deeply and lowered the ready gun. “That’s how it was done. The killer was hiding in the apartment when we came in, under the couch or something. As soon as he saw that Davidson was alone he came out ...” Tony shivered.

What next? He glanced toward the phone. Should he call the police—and if he did what should he tell them? There was still the matter of the painting, the whole operation, and he knew nothing about that at all. Perhaps he ought to contact the Bureau first and ask them what to do. His gaze returned unbidden to the body.

And maybe, although he certainly looked dead enough, Davidson was not dead but only gravely wounded. That should be checked first.

Tony pushed the safety back on and slipped the .38 into his side pocket, then kneeled again by the still form. How did you tell? Breath on a mirror; he didn’t have a mirror. Pulse then. With none too steady fingers he groped for an artery in the cooling flesh of the neck and found nothing. Cold, already chilling down, that certainly meant something. No signs of breathing at all. With his hand pressed against Davidson’s back he felt not the slightest motion. Dead then, certainly dead. What next? Tony stood and saw, with a twinge of horror, that his right palm was covered with blood that had soaked into the jacket. He had to wipe it at once, no, much better, he had to wash. The quiet knock on the door came at this same moment.

All reason fled. He had no idea what to do now, none whatsoever, so he did nothing. The knock came again to be followed moments later by the sound of a key in the lock. The safety bolt! If he could close that no one could enter. A fine idea that came entirely too late for even as he entertained the idea the door opened and the bellboy entered, a smiling round-faced young man with a silver tray held before him.

“There was mail for you, senor. I thought it best to bring it up.”

As he finished speaking he let his eyes drop to the body on the floor, then back up to Tony who was, literally, caught red-handed. The man’s smile broadened rather than vanished at the sight of the corpse, as he stepped back swiftly to close the door.

“Very professionally done, senor? There were overtones of pure admiration in his voice.

“I didn’t do it,” Tony choked out.

“Of course not.” Glance at knife, glance at reddened palm before it could be put behind back. “You undoubtedly found him this way, a great tragedy. But whoever did this thing knows his business. The slight angle to the hilt signifies an upstroke, the professional blow, up and under, thus penetrating the ribs while the point seeks out the heart hidden within.”

“That will be enough.”

“But of course, you grieve. Would you care for me to telephone the police ... ?”

The bellboy made no move toward the phone as he said this and did not seem surprised in the slightest when Tony said no.

“Understandable. These matters can be embarrassing, even for the innocent. The police value highly the gringo tourists and look unhappily upon their deaths when they are here. But other solutions are possible. I have friends on the staff, there is the service elevator, for the very small sum of five hundred pesos your problem is solved. Your friend will have been seen leaving the hotel in the best of health, two, three witnesses will assure the police of that. In the morning you will call and report his absence and that will be the end of it. It is agreed then?”

“It is not agreed, and I did not kill him.” Was the smile a little wider at this? “Look, let me think for a second, wash my hands, I’ll be right back.”

Unlike literary blood, Davidson’s did wash away instantly with some soap and water. But what to do? Tony’s taut reflection stared back at him from the mirror and provided no answers. He needed help, but there was no time to contact Washington now, not with the bellboy standing by. Local help? The police? Never.

Contact Rooster! That’s what the message had said. The CIA man here. This was the kind of illegally legal person who would know all about corpses and such. What was the number? There was a quick whiff of panic before it rose up from the depths of memory. 25-13-17. Or was it 18? No, that had to be it. He dried his hands and wrote the number quickly on the mirror with a corner of a fresh bar of soap so he would not forget it. The bellboy first, he had to be eased out of the picture, and the answer to that seemed obvious enough.

“This is an unhappy occurrence,” Tony said, re-entering the room and taking his wallet from his pocket at the same time. “Thank you for the offer of help, but I can handle this myself. Of course it would be embarrassing to have people poking about here, so if you would be kind enough not to mention this to anyone I would think that two hundred pesos might be in order.”

“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.