"Too much money," I said, but he didn't react to the sarcasm.
"He insisted. So I took the note finally and gave it to the mozo later. I took the letter out under the napkin on the tray from the previous service of coffee. The dick looked hard at me. But he said nothing. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the shot. Very quickly I hid the letter and ran back upstairs. The dick was trying to kick the door open. I used my key. Señor Lennox was dead."
He moved his fingertips gently along the edge of the desk and sighed. "The rest no doubt you know."
"Was the hotel full?"
"Not full, no. There were half a dozen guests."
"Americans?"
"Two Americanos del Norte. Hunters."
"Real Gringos or just transplanted Mexicans?"
He drew a fingertip slowly along the fawn-colored cloth above his knee. "I think one of them could well have been of Spanish origin. He spoke border Spanish. Very inelegant."
"They go near Lennox's room at all?"
He lifted his head sharply but the green cheaters didn't do a thing for me. "Why should they, sefior?"
I nodded. "Well, it was damn nice of you to come in here and tell me about it, Señor Maioranos. Tell Randy I'm ever so grateful, will you?"
"No hay de que, señor. It is nothing."
"And later on, if he has time, he could send me somebody who knows what he is talking about."
"Señor?" His voice was soft, but icy. "You doubt my word?"
"You guys are always talking about honor. Honor is the cloak of thieves-sometimes. Don't get mad. Sit quiet and let me tell it another way."
He leaned back superciliously.
"I'm only guessing, mind. I could be wrong. But I could be right too. These two Americanos were there for a purpose. They came in on a plane. They pretended to be hunters. One of them was named Menendez, a gambler. He registered under some other name or not. I wouldn't know. Lennox knew they were there. He knew why. He wrote me that letter because he had a guilty conscience. He had played me for a sucker and he was too nice a guy for that to rest easy on him. He put the bill-five thousand dollars it was-in the letter because he had a lot of money and he knew I hadn't. He also put in a little off-beat hint which might or might not register. He was the kind of guy who always wants to do the right thing but somehow winds up doing something else. You say you took the letter to the correo. Why didn't you mail it in the box in front of the hotel?"
"The box, señor?"
"The mailbox. The cajdn cartero, you call it, I think."
He smiled. "Otatoclán is not Mexico City, señor. It is a very primitive place. A street mailbox in Otatodán? No one there would understand what it was for. No one would collect letters from it."
I said: "Oh. Well, skip it. You did not take any coffee on any tray up to Señor Lennox's room, Señor Maioranos. You did not go into the room past the dick. But the two Americanos did go in. The dick was fixed, of course. So were several other people. One of the Americanos slugged Lennox from behind. Then he took the Mauser pistol and opened up one of the cartridges and took out the bullet and put the cartridge back in the breech. Then he put this gun -to Lennox's temple and pulled the trigger. It made a nasty-looking wound, but it did not kilt him. Then he was carried out on a stretcher covered up and well hidden. Then when the American lawyer arrived, Lennox was doped and packed in ice and kept in a dark corner of the carpinterla where the man was making a coffin. The American lawyer saw Lennox there, he was ice-cold, in a deep stupor, and there was a bloody blackened wound in his temple. He looked plenty dead. The next day the coffin was buried with stones in it. The American lawyer went home with the fingerprints and some kind of document which was a piece of cheese. How do you like that, Señor Maioranos?"
He shrugged. "It would be possible, señor. It would require money and influence. It would be possible, perhaps, if this Señor Menendez was dosely related to important people in Otatoclán, the alcalde, the hotel proprietor and so on."
"Well, that's possible to. It's a good idea. It would explain why they picked a remote little place like Otatodan."
He smiled quickly. "Then Señor Lennox may still be alive, no?"
"Sure. The suicide had to be some kind of fake to back up the confession. It had to be good enough to fool a lawyer who had been a district attorney, but it would make a very sick monkey out of the current D.A. if it backfired. This Menendez is not as tough as he thinks he is, but he was tough enough to pistol-whip me for not keeping my nose clean. So he had to have reasons. If the fake got exposed, Menendez would be right in the middle of an international stink. The Mexicans don't like crooked police work any more than we do."
"All that is possible, señor, as I very well know. But you accused me of lying. You said I did not go into the room where Señor Lennox was and get his letter."
"You were already in there, chum-writing the letter."
He reached up and took the dark glasses off. Nobody can change the color of a man's eyes.
"I suppose it's a bit too early for a gimlet," he said.
53
They had done a wonderful job on him in Mexico City, but why not? Their doctors, technicians, hospitals, painters, architects are as good as ours. Sometimes a little better. A Mexican cop invented the paraffin test for powder nitrates. They couldn't make Terry's face perfect, but they had done plenty. They had even changed his nose, taken out some bone and made it look flatter, less Nordic. They couldn't eliminate every trace of a scar, so they had put a couple on the other side of his face too. Knife scars are not uncommon in Latin countries.
"They even did a nerve graft up here," he said, and touched what had been the bad side of his face.
"How dose did I come?"
"Close enough. A few details wrong, but they are not important. It was a quick deal and some of it was improvised and I didn't know myself just what was going to happen. I was told to do certain things and to leave a dear trail. Mendy didn't like my writing to you, but I held out for that. He undersold you a little. He never noticed the bit about the mailbox."
"You know who killed Sylvia?"
He didn't answer me directly. "It's pretty tough to turn a woman in for murder-even if she never meant much to you."
"It's a tough world. Was Harlan Potter in on all this?"
He smiled again. "Would he be likely to let anyone know that? My guess is not. My guess is he thinks I am dead. Who would tell him otherwise-unless you did?"
"What I'd tell him you could fold into a blade of grass. How's Mendy these days-or is he?"
"He's doing all right. In Acapulco. He slipped by because of Randy. But the boys don't -go for rough work on cops. Mendy's not as bad as you think. He has a heart."
"So has a snake."
"Well, what about that gimlet?"
I got up without answering him and went to the safe. I spun the knob and got out the envelope with the portrait of Madison on it and the five C notes that smelled of coffee. I dumped the lot out on the desk and then picked up the five C notes.
"These I keep. I spent almost all of it on expenses and research. The portrait of Madison I enjoyed playing with, It's all yours now."
I spread it on the edge of the desk in front of him. He looked at it but didn't touch it.
"It's yours to keep," he said. "I've got plenty. You could have let things lie."
"I know. After she killed her husband and got away with it she might have gone on to better things. He was of no real importance, of course. Just a human being with blood and a brain and emotions. He knew what happened too and he tried pretty hard to live with it. He wrote books. You may have heard of him."
"Look, I couldn't very well help what I did," he said slowly. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I wouldn't have had a dog's chance up here. A man can't figure every angle that quick. I was scared and I ran. What should I have done?"
"I don't know."