“If yo don’t, yo’re liable to be dead.”
“Right. Any questions?”
“Just one. What happened after I left Cocoyoc? There seemed to be a lot of police around.”
“Lieutenant Gonzales was very annoyed. And that means he is annoyed at us too and keeping an eye on our operation. This is a handicap.”
“Well, you talk like it was my fault! Look, I didn’t kill Davidson, so you can’t blame this on me. That CIA man Higginson is the one caused all the trouble by dropping the body like that.”
“A report will go in on him to his superiors, not that it will do any good. They never listen to what we say. But until the murderer is discovered you are Gonzales’s only suspect. And you have made him angry.”
There was very little that could be answered to that and Tony locked the door behind them with a feeling of intense gloom. In order to dissipate it he called room service and ordered a bottle of Madero brandy and some ice. Stocker followed his every motion with his cold, transparent eyes.
“Have a drink?” Tony asked, pouring the amber painkiller over the ice.
“Ah don’t drink on duty.” He had actually moved to the armchair, but the suitcase was tucked under his legs and he held the gun ready on his lap.
“Well, I’m not on duty, not yet, so if you don’t mind ...”
“Go raht ahead. Ah enjoy a little old panther sweat mahself from time to time.”
Tony retired early, knowing not what the morrow would bring, and sought solace in his panther sweat to help him get to sleep. The brandy worked wonders and he drifted off easily, but woke up a number of times during the night. Whenever he did he could see the dark outline of the Treasury man in the chair, the glint of steel in his hand, a shine of light from his eyes—or was he just imagining that. Sunlight and the ringing of the phone woke him early. He groped for the receiver and a voice growled in his ear.
“The car will be outside in thirty-five minutes. Be there.”
The line went dead before he could answer and he rose, yawning and scratching, to the sight of Stocker still in the chair, watching him as intently as he had the previous evening.
“You really don’t sleep, do you?”
“Ah make up for it ’tween jobs.”
Tony showered and shaved quickly and then, with some reluctance, dressed again in the same clothes that were now beginning to show marked signs of wear, as well as exhibiting a few food and drink stains down the front. But they were good enough for at least one more day, and skulking around with a crooked Italian art dealer and an ex-Nazi could not be called a major social occasion in any case. Stocker was standing by the door, gun ready, as always, in his hand.
“Ah’ll just lock this behind you.”
“See you later. Try to get some sleep.”
The only answer was a wintry, disdainful smile. Tony exited and the lock ground behind him. He needed coffee badly but he had to first tell Sones what was happening. What room had he said he would be in? Fourteen? Thirteen? He should have made a note, but note-making was one thing that was strictly forbidden in this work. Fourteen, it must have been fourteen. He tapped lightly, then louder when there was no response. There was a certain sadistic pleasure in waking up Sones. The safety chain rattled and clattered and the door opened. Sleepy-faced, long blond hair covering one eye, Lizveta Zlotnikova looked out at him, blinking in the light of the hall, then smiling warmly.
“Tony! I was worried about you, it is good you woke me up, come in.”
Protest died as she opened the door wide and pulled him inside, closing it behind his back. She was dressed in a thin silk gown which covered, obviously, nothing beneath, so that when she took a deep breath and sighed, the top of the gown rose up toward him, parting under the pressure, jiggling tremendously. He tore his eyes away, smiled, coughed, groped for the door handle behind him.
“Have to go, see the painting maybe, tell you first ...”
“How considerate, how I worry about those paintings. I worry about you too, you are not hard like the others, a man of art I think.” She moved closer, her voice huskier. “We are the same kind of people.”
“Must report to Sones. Car waiting ...”
“I will be waiting too. Waiting here for your safe return. Come to me and tell me what has happened. Go safely.” Her hands went behind his head and her lips engulfed his in a warm and exceedingly rich kiss. It lasted a long time and eventually, short of air, he pushed away, though it was hard to push her wit! pushing silk and full-rounded flesh. Once out of the room he found he was sweating, though the hallway was cool. Now which was Sones’s room, fifteen perhaps, the one next to Lizveta Zlot-nikova’s. She had a nice name, with a certain richness to it. She had a certain richness herself which had not been obvious at first. The door in front of him opened suddenly, startling him, and Sones peered out.
“Why are you just standing there in the hall? What do you want?”
“To report. They are sending a car for me, someone phoned me, sounded like Robl, that’s all he said. It will be here, I hadn’t realized, look at the time, it’s here now.”
“Then get down there—and better not fumble this one, Hawkin. There is a lot riding on it. You better do a lot better than you have done up to now.”
Hurried on by this enthusiastic praise, Tony went to the lobby and was leaning toward the dining room and a quick cup of coffee, which he was yearning after more and more, when he saw Heinrich at the front door, jerking an impatient thumb. He sighed for thoughts of coffees lost, and changed direction.
“You are late.”
“I thought some coffee ...”
“There is no time.”
The dark bulk of the Packard hulked outside the entrance, Robl and D’Isernia both in large black hats peering at him from the back seat.
“You are late,” Robl said when he joined them.
“It couldn’t be helped. Are we going to see the painting now?”
“Later. We go to Mass first.”
“Today is April thirtieth,” D’Isernia said, and both men nodded gravely. They were wearing almost identical dark suits and as soon as the car had left the city they took out black armbands and pinned them to their sleeves. What could it possibly mean? Tony cudgeled his brain for holidays he might have forgotten, could think of none, Mexican or American. Easter was over. Mass? On a Saturday?
“You wouldn’t mind telling me what this is all about?”
“You will understand later,” D’Isernia said sternly, pinning a black rosette to his pocket.
“Can you at least tell me where we are going?”
“To the Hacienda Pantitlan. It is in ruins, burned during the revolution, but the chapel is intact. It suits our needs.”
They turned off the paved road onto a dirt track between the fields of high sugar cane. There was another car ahead of them, Heinrich slowed so the dust would settle before they reached it, and at least one other vehicle was visible through the cloud behind them. Very quickly the vine-covered walls and crumbling brick chimneys of the hacienda came into view ahead. Hein turned off into the grassy field and parked the Packard next to the other cars there, fifteen at least, and still more arriving. The occupants, all middle-aged or older, were proceeding slowly toward the chapel, mostly men, a very few women, all dressed in mourning, black clothes and sable armbands.
“We will wait until the others are inside,” D’Isernia said, looking at Tony’s lime-green shirt and shaking his head. “You cannot go in dressed like that. Stay back with Heinrich and you may observe from the rear. There is a small room there where you go after the services. We will join you there. Do you understand?”