With a laugh she replied, `But of course. He is the plastics king; and one of the richest men in Mexico.'
At that the lady apart Adam felt that his luck was in again; or it was well worth having been knocked down to have gained
the acquaintance of a man who was in a position to give him considerable help in securing valuable data for the background of his book.
Next day, a Sunday, feeling none the worse for his accident, he returned to his hotel. There, to his surprise and indignation, he learned that, not knowing what had become of him, the manager had had his things packed up and his room let to someone else. Moreover, there was no other room free which he could be given. As he had booked accommodation there for this fortnight as far back as November, he was justifiably furious, lost his temper and proceeded to tell the management what he thought of their hotel in a mixture of Spanish and English through which came distinct traces of the Scottish accent he had had in his youth. An under manager, who had been brought on the scene, only shrugged, said that they could let their rooms many times over, and that once a room had remained unoccupied for more than one night the booking for the whole period was regarded by them as cancelled. However, to pacify the outraged guest, other hotels were telephoned and, by luck, the El Presidente had just had a cancellation; so Adam's baggage was brought up and, vowing never again to enter the Del Paseo, he drove off in a taxi.
The El Presidente was only a few blocks away in the Hamburgo the Bond Street of Mexico City. The greater part of the ground floor consisted of a lofty grotto, ending in a wall of rock down which water was splashing through growing ferns and creepers. Below it was an irregular shaped swimming pool and, on the far side of that, tables, chairs and a small bar to enable people to enjoy their drinks while watching the bathers.
For a moment Adam was in no mood to enjoy this pleasant scene and went straight up to his room. He found it to be somewhat better equipped than the one he had had at the Del Paseo and, in addition, it had a balcony looking out over the roof tops towards Popocatepetl; so, in spite of the bother he had been put to, he felt that he had benefited by the scurvy treatment the Del Paseo had meted out to him.
The remainder of Sunday and most of Monday he spent quietly; then, at nine o'clock that evening, dressed in his new Savile Row dinner jacket, he took a taxi out to the Avenida Presidente Masarik.
It lay north of the Park, in the best residential district, and No. 85 proved to be a block of flats, the penthouse on top of which was occupied by Enriquez. Adam was whisked up there in a lift and found it to be the finest private apartment that, in his limited experience, he had ever seen.
A white jacketed houseman led him through a wide hall, where there were massed banks of flowers and orchids sufficient to stock a florist's shop, into a drawing room half as large as a tennis court. Three of the walls were of glass, beyond which lay broad stretches of roof shaded by awnings. Beneath them were swing hammocks, a dozen lounge chairs, a fountain and flowering shrubs in big pots. But neither in the big room nor out on the roof gardens was a soul to be seen. Adam had made the mistake common to visitors to Mexico. He had arrived at the time for which he had been invited, instead of half an hour or an hour later.
Against the one solid wall, which was panelled in natural wood, there stood a big bookcase and, after the houseman had bowed himself away, Adam spent a few minutes examining its contents. His attention was then caught by a painting further along the wall. It was a portrait of the girl in the car.
That made it probable, he thought, that she was Enriquez's daughter, or a relative, although they were not in the least like one another. As he looked at it he saw now that she must be tall and had splendid shoulders, which again recalled his memory of Mirolitlit, and he was more than ever intrigued by the subtle, if vague, resemblance.
Although the only words he had exchanged with the Indian girl were when asking her name, she had left an indelible impression on him; and he felt convinced that, given half an hour in her company, he would have fallen desperately in love with her. Uneasily he wondered if the girl in the portrait would have the same effect on him. She was equally beautiful, although hers was a different and much stronger face. Even so, the same indefinable personality seemed to radiate from it.
Ten minutes later, Bernadino Enriquez came bustling in, with profuse apologies for not having been there to receive his guest. Enriquez at first spoke in halting English, but Adam had brushed up his Spanish recently and found that, having spent so much of his time learning the language during his trip to Brazil, he could converse in it quite happily; so he set his host at his ease by replying in Spanish. He left the choice of drinks to him and was furnished with a delightful concoction of well iced rum, lime and pineapple juice. Gesturing towards the portrait, he asked who the lovely lady was, and Bernadino replied promptly:
`My daughter, Chela. You have met her. She was with me in my car when I ran you down. Presently she will join us. But you know what women are. One hair out of place and they must spend another quarter of an hour at their toilette.'
The quarter of an hour went by while they talked amicably of
Mexico, and Adam spoke enthusiastically of the wonders of the capital that he had so far seen; then, instead of Chela, the first guest arrived a Canadian who, like his host, had big interests in plastics. He was followed by others until the room was half full of chatting people. Among them was a tall, pale faced Englishman with a slight stoop. His fair hair was thin, but he had a luxuriant moustache and was introduced to Adam as Wing Commander Hunterscombe.
Adam asked if he was still in the R.A.F., and he replied, `No; got out years ago, soon after the war. Went into the Foreign Service. I'm at the Embassy here. Not as a real diplomat, of course; just Cultural Attachés. That's how I came to know your books.' He gave a rather vapid laugh. `Got to, you know, part of the job.'
In response to this somewhat back handed compliment, Adam
said, a shade acidly, `I hope you didn't find them too boring.' `Good Lord, no. Grand stuff. Have you signed the Book yet?' `Book?' replied Adam with a puzzled frown. `What book do
you mean?'
`Why, the one at the Embassy, of course.'
`I didn't know that I was supposed to.'
`Oh, come. You're fooling. All British visitors are expected to.' `What's the idea?'
`Well, should any trouble blow up. Not that that's likely here. But say it did, you'd be on the list of British visitors. Then we'd get you on the blower and tip you off to scram before things got worse. Besides, as you are a V.I.P., you'll probably be asked along to the Residence for a drink. Or, if H.E has read your books and would like to see more of you, he may ask you to lunch.'
Adam had not been a literary V.I.P. long enough to become blast with the treatment and he had never been inside an Embassy; so he told the languid, willowy Hunterscombe that he would sign the Book the following morning.
It was just then that Chela Enriquez made her entrance and, at the sight of her, a momentary hush fell on the room. She was wearing a long, full skirted gown of pale blue satin with a rucked `V' neck, the point of which came down low between her small but pouting breasts. The colour set off the golden skin of her slender arms and splendid neck to perfection. Her height made her an impressive figure, but there was nothing of the female Grenadier about her. The breadth of her shoulders emphasized the smallness of her waist, her well rounded hips and long legs. She carried herself superbly, her smile was dazzling and her movements a poem of grace as she acknowledged the greetings of those nearest her and walked straight over to Adam.