In the morning I went to the hospital first. Meyer was sitting up, eating a large bowl of hot oatmeal. The compress had dwindled to a small bandage, and the swelling was down. But his bright blue eyes peered out through two slits in puffed flesh of deep purple and cobalt blue. It made him look less simian-and more like a hairy, dissipated owl. The girls had stopped checking his condition on a continuous basis. He had a dull headache. He said he felt as if he had been rolled downhill in a barrel. He said everyone was being very nice to him. He said that everybody seemed to have the idea that if they were not nice enough to him, the sefiorita from Guadalajara would say a few little things that would make their hair smoke. She had gone off to the center of town to buy some things for him which she said would make him more comfortable. He had little idea what they might be.
He asked about Elena, and Enelio, and Lita, and I said that last night we had celebrated his thick skull by stopping at Enelio’s bachelor penthouse apartment and picking up Lita and a hamper of cheese and fruit and wine, and the four of us had picnicked in the moonlight at the ruins at Monte Alban, and had toasted his health frequently, invented new lyrics to old songs, and identified the constellations. Now, Elena and Lita were resting, having vowed to slay anyone who woke them before noon. He said wistfully he was glad everybody was having such a nice time. Then he wanted to hear about Wally. He still was blacked out by a traumatic amnesia covering that period. I told him he wasn’t ready yet. He should rest.
When I got to Enelio’s office he was ready and impatient to get started. He closed and locked the office door. The chosen girl was named Amparo. She wore a pink mini-dress, had cropped hair and huge dark eyes and an amused, mocking mouth.
She was not the least bit nervous about the chore. She used Enelio’s private line, which did not go through the switchboard.
Though her Spanish was faster than I could follow, she had adopted, for the occasion, that flat, impartial, decorous tone of long distance operators the world over, and the overly careful enunciation of all numerals.
She spoke, listened, spoke again, wrote on the pad beside the phone, said something else, then sat for several moments with her palm over the mouthpiece. She then said something which ended in momentito, thanked him, and hung up.
Enelio went over and ripped the top sheet off the pad. He bent over the girl and kissed her heartily. She beamed and bridled and went switching out, giving Enelio a solemn wink after she had unlocked the door.
“She is close,” Enelio said. “Mexico City. Hotel Camino Real. Extension F.D.”
We shook hands. Successful conspiracy warms the blood. He told me that the girl had pretended to place the call, and had told him the circuits were busy and she would try again in a little while. So, when Alfredo Gaona did not hear, he would try again, and it would go through normal channels, and there would be a certain amount of confusion and apology.
He checked the schedules and discovered that if I could get to the airport in fifteen minutes, I could be in Mexico City at twenty after twelve. He said he would explain to Elena. I was not dressed for the trip. He ran me back into the suite of bedroom, dressing room, and bath off his office, grabbed some clothes, and jammed them into a small suitcase.
I gave him my car keys and told him where I was parked. He said he would inform Meyer and have the car taken up to, the hotel and the keys left at the desk. I changed to his shirt in the car on the wild ride out, and finished putting the necktie on as we got there. I knew the jacket was going to be uncomfortably snug. They were so close to departure they would not have waited for me. But they were all pleasantly glad to do a favor for Senor Fuentes. He slipped a tip into the hand of the stewardess, patted her on her behind, said he would sign inside for my ticket. We got on, and the stairs came up, and she spun the lock, and I got the belt buckled as the aircraft reached the end of the runway and turned for final check and takeoff.
I checked into the Camino Real at five after one on Friday afternoon. No reservation. A single. Any single. Yes sir, of course sir, thank you, sir. Twelve twenty-eight for the gentlemen. Enjoy your stay with us, Senor McGee.
I unpacked the assorted garments. I sat on the bed and read the instructions on how to dial other rooms in the hotel. But there was no clue as to how to dial FD. I tried the operator. With hardly a pause she said, ‘I am ver’ sorreeee, but I am ask to put no calls to that number, Senor.“
Hmmm.
Sat at the desk and used the elegant stationery and elegant envelope. Am very anxious to speak to you on a matter of the greatest importance. Name and room number. Sealed it. Senora Eva Vitrier.
Took it down to the desk. The man checked the indexed list of guests. Handed it back.
“I am sorry, sir. We have no one of that name in the hotel. Perhaps if you check the reservation desk they might know if she is coming in.” Thank you very much.
Hmmm.
So I went down to the shop near the coffee shop and bought razor, toothbrush, and the other essentials. Went into the coffee shop. Hamburger and coffee. Very touristlike.
Obviously the lady had built walls here also. She liked walls around her, with broken glass on top. Big money plus a passion for privacy makes an effective combination. How long since anyone has seen Howard Hughes?
Went back to the lobby area and roamed about until I found a bellhop with a very amiable expression. Laid ten pesos on him to tote my little sack of toiletries up to twelve twenty-eight. It was enough to make him look even more amiable. It established me as a guest. When he came back down I intercepted him again, my hand in my pocket. He looked delighted.
“Say, all these rooms have numbers, but there seems to be phone numbers with letters instead of numbers.”
“What, senor? What, please?”
“Suppose a phone number is F.D. Where is that?”
“What, senor? No understands.”
“Si el numero de telefono es effay day, donde esta el cuarto?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, senor. Isss not a room. Isss a suite. Other part of hotel, that way. Effay means is Fiesta Suite. Effay ah. Effay bay. Effay-”
I thrust another ten onto him and told him that was very interesting. And something was nibbling at the frayed edge of my memory. Yes indeed. Fiesta D, in Rockland’s little red book. With a name I could not remember. I found a writing desk and made some tries at it. I. V. Rivatera. I. V. Traviata. Close. But not close enough.
Eva Vitrier. And there is the old game of anagrams. So take out an “i” and a “v,” and you have the letters E A V T R I E R. And in three tries they assemble into Rivereta. I. V Rivereta was exactly right.
New envelope. Same note. Tear open and reseal. Mrs. I. V Rivereta. Walk to desk.
“Would you please see that this is delivered?” Checks the index. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Walk back up to room and turn on the television and watch an episode of Gunsmoke and wonder how come they all speak Spanish; and wait. And wait. And wait. Start to give up and wonder what the hell to try next.
Quarter to five. Got the phone on the second ring.
“Mister McGee?” A throaty and charming voice, with that strange French bit with the vowels, and the little clickety R’s of the Parisian.
“This is he.” Grammar reassures.
“I ‘ave your note. What is this thing of so much great importance?”
This was a crucial moment. I had the feeling that if I said the wrong thing she would hang up, and that would be the end of it for good and all.
“It concerns Beatrice Bowie, Walter Rockland, Minda McLeen, Walter McLeen and, of course, you.”
“Perhaps it is important to you, yes? But not to me.”
At least I had not lost her yet. “I want to remind you that it is a matter of record in Oaxaca that Miss McLeen and Miss Bowie were staying with you. It is a matter of record that you identified the body. It is a matter of record that Miss Bowie was under suspicion of complicity in an attempt to smuggle narcotics into the United States.”