Nor was water all that was in the tub. As I came up sputtering, a frightened squeal informed me that the tub was occupied. For a moment I was all tangled up with warm water, bubbles, floating soap, a washcloth, and a panicky armful of slippery naked female. The squeal was followed by a scream, and then my arms were empty as the soapy siren bounded from the tub and fled to the next room.
Rising from the briny, sopping wet, I hightailed it after her, my shoes squishing as I ran. I had to stop her before she sounded the alarm and the suite filled up with hotel cops. Time was important, and it didn‘t allow for explanations and verifications.
She was shaking the man in the bed violently as I entered, and he was just coming awake. His eyes focused on me. Dark and expressive, they widened as he took in my appearance. “Who the devil are you?” he asked me in Spanish.
“My name’s Steve Victor. I know this seems crazy, but if you’ll just give me a chance, I can explain everything.”
“The hell I will!" He reached for the phone on the nightstand beside the bed.
“Hold it right there!” I pulled out the gun I’d taken from Luigi and pointed it at him.
He froze, his hand poised over the dial. “That gun is soaked through,” he observed after a moment. “It would never fire.”
“You might be right,” I admitted. “But neither of us is sure, are we? And you don't dare take the chance.”
“Raoul, be careful!” the still naked and dripping redhead moaned. “He’s a lunatic!”
His hand dropped away from the phone. “Just what is it you want?” he asked.
“A few words alone with the lady here. You can wait in the bathroom.”
“Don’t leave me alone with him, Raoul! He’s going to rape me! I can see it in his eyes!”
“The only thing in my eyes is soap from that damned bubble bath. And I won’t lay a finger on you,” I promised. “You’re not my type.”
“Don’t believe him, Raoul!”
“Look,” Mendes said, “I am facing an extremely ferocious bull this afternoon. My nerves are very tense, and this isn’t helping them any. Why don’t we just do as he asks, and then maybe he will go away.”
“But suppose he attacks me?”
“Don’t scream,” Mendes advised her. “It would cause a scandal. It would be in the newspapers that it happened in my hotel room. My mother would see it. How could I ever explain it to her?”
“Oh! You and your mother!” The redhead’s ample bosom filled and tilted upward in exasperation. “What about me?"
“What does it matter? It isn’t as if you were a virgin. You American women always place such importance on not being forced to do something. And usually, it is something that you really want to do, anyway.”
“You don’t care!” She spat the words at him.
“Not terribly. But more important, you do not really care, my pigeon. If you did, you would have covered your brazen charms long before now." And with that Mendes rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom, lithe and dignified despite his own nudity.
“I’ll show him!” She gritted her teeth as the door closed behind him. She flung herself backward on the bed, one leg doubled up so that the knee waved at me provocatively like a beckoning finger. “If you want to talk to me,” she said, “come on over here and get comfortable."
“Oh, sure. And then you’ll scream just to see if he'll come running,” I told her. “No thanks.” Until then I’d been speaking Spanish, but with this last I switched to English.
She switched right along with me. “You’re an American,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, that does give us something in common. Come on, now, don’t be unfriendly. Two Americans, thrown together far from home. We have to stick together. Close together.”
“Not as close as you have in mind. And besides, wasn’t it just a minute or so ago that you were coming apart at the seams for fear I’d attack you?” I reminded her.
“Can’t a lady change her mind?” Her fingers fluttered over her breasts, plumping them up.
“Sorry. But much as I’d like to oblige, we just don't have the time. Now,” I got down to business, “in this instance I am representing Dombey of Dover and—”
“Who?” she interrupted.
“Dombey of Dover. They’re seeking the heirs for a resettlement of the estate of Brigitte Kelly, so -”
“Who’s Brigitte Kelly?”
“I know it may prove embarrassing, but when I tell you what’s involved, I’m sure you’ll see why you have to acknowledge your relationship with Brigitte Kelly. You see, Barbara-—”
“Barbara? Who’s Barbara?”
“What?” It was my turn to be puzzled.
“I asked you who Barbara was.”
“You are! Aren’t you?” I couldn’t help the plaintive note which crept into my voice. “Aren’t you Barbara Thomas?"
“No. I never heard of her.”
“But you’re Raoul Mendes’ girl!” I, said frustratedly.
“I guess I can’t deny that.”
“And you’re an American!”
“As American as Mom’s apple pie,” she agreed.
“You‘re a redhead!"
“A natural redhead. See for yourself.”
I ignored the undulating proof. “And you’re not Barbara Thomas?” I asked, my own plaintiveness grating on my own ears by now.
“Never heard of the lady.”
“Mendes!" I bawled out. “Mendes. Come out here!”
“Señor?” Still nude, he stood in the doorway to the bathroom, a cigarette jutting from his mouth at a rakish angle, one hand on the door-frame, his ankles crossed gracefully, the picture of aplomb, the strutting matador posing before bowing to the hero-worshipping crowd. “Did you want me, Señor?" His nostrils flared arrogantly.
“Damn right, Mendes! Just how many mistresses do you have?” I asked him in my most authoritative O.R.G.Y. manner.
“Why do you ask, Señor? Is it that this one doesn’t please you and you perhaps expect me to supply a selection from which you may choose?”
“Don’t get snotty!” I told him. It was a phrase which somehow sounded much more personal in Spanish than in English.
“Your pardon, Señor.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “But I really do not understand your question. I have one mistress at a time like any other man."
“And how often do you change them?”
“Please, Señor! Do I ask you how often you change your underwear?”
“You don’t have the gun. I do. Now answer me.”
“Very well.” He shrugged. “As often as I grow tired of them. Every few months on the average, I suppose.”
“Well!” the redhead exploded. “And you swore to me that our love would last forever.”
“Forever is next Thursday-—maybe,” he told her.
“These girls of yours, Mendes,” I persisted. “Are they always redheads?”
“Recently, yes. I have developed a preference for redheads.”
“And a preference for Americans?”
“Si. I find American girls less wearing. They do not bounce around so much as other women. Indeed, a few I have known barely move at all.”
“That’s a canard!” I protested. “And I’ll match my experience against yours any day.”
“You tell him, Yank!" the redhead chimed in.
“But that’s neither here nor there," I continued. “What I want to know is if you ever had a mistress, an American redhead, named Barbara Thomas?”
“I never compromise a lady's name." He drew himself up proudly.
“Never?” I clicked the safety off the gun and pointed it at his belly button.
“Well, not unless I am forced to. So all right,” he sighed. “I am forced. Si. Last year I met Barbara Thomas in Vienna and she returned to Spain with me as my mistress.”