Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 05 - Curses!

by Curses!

Gideon could practically see the sparkle in his eye.

  * * * *

  The Lol-Ha Bar, like most of the Mayaland's public rooms, had open-grillwork gates and shutters instead of doors and glassed-in windows, so the occasional whispers of early evening breeze carried in sounds and fragrances from outside. Julie and Gideon sipped their beers and listened to the guitarist on the veranda warm up for his evening's work with a cool, simple version of “Sheep May Safely Graze” that was unexpectedly compatible with the lush tropical plants and purling fountains.

  As the last strains of Bach faded away, Abe came striding purposefully out of the foliage along one of the paths. His slender, upright head was well in advance of the rest of him, with his feet churning to catch up. He was clamping a heavy loose-leaf binder to his chest with both arms.

  "Something tells me,” Gideon said to Julie, “that we're on the verge of a major breakthrough here."

  Abe sat down, slid the beer to the side to make room, and put the binder on the table, turned so that Gideon and Julie could read the page it was opened to. Next to it he laid a photocopy of the threat that had been slipped under their door the previous week.

  "So what do you think? Is there any doubt about it?” He leaned back in his armchair looking keenly satisfied.

  The binder contained the daily field catalogue from the first dig. It was open to a page dated June 18, 1982, and signed by Howard.

  Julie looked blankly from the page to the brief note. Gideon did the same, wondering what there wasn't supposed to be any doubt about.

  Gideon Oliver, leave Yucatan or you will die. This is no joke. The Gods of Tlaloc.

  Again, the faint tug of familiarity, the sense of having seen this before, but nothing more. He shook his head. “I don't think..."

  "The as," Abe prompted, and swigged impatiently at his beer.

  "The as..." Gideon's head swung from the catalogue entry to the threat and back again. And it finally hit him. “The tilted a! These two were done on the same typewriter!” He leaned excitedly forward. “The missing arm on that w, the nick in the es, they're the same on both sheets!” A glance at a few other pages in the catalogue showed that the same machine had typed them all. “Abe, this is fantastic!"

  Abe laughed. “It kept bothering me why it was familiar, and then finally it dawned on me what it was."

  "I'm sure this is all very wonderful,” Julie said, “but I wish somebody would take the trouble to let me know just why we're all congratulating ourselves."

  "Because,” Abe said, “we just figured out—you notice I use the self-deprecating ‘we'—that this friendly little letter to your husband was written by none other than Howard Bennett.” He paused dramatically. “Howard Bennett is here in Yucatan."

  "Wait,” Julie said, “could we just hold on a minute? I'm all for having Howard the bad guy in the piece too, but how does the fact that these were typed on the same typewriter prove Howard typed them both?"

  "It's his typewriter,” Abe explained. “A Brother EP-20, a little portable; the kind you can fit in an attache case. Believe me, I know the police report by heart. When he ran off, the typewriter went with him, isn't that right, Gideon?"

  "That's right. He doubled back to his room and got it, along with a few other things."

  "But how can you be sure he took it?” Julie persisted. “For all you know somebody else—"

  "No,” Gideon said. “That letter he sent us—you know, regretting the unfortunate little affair of stealing the codex—was typed on it. The police established it at the time.” He tapped the note on the table. “And now here are those crooked as again. He's here all right."

  Julie took this in, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She turned slowly to Gideon, one eyebrow raised dangerously. “Am I imagining it, or haven't I been saying since last week that he was here? And didn't you give me a hundred reasons why he wasn't here, why he couldn't be here, why—"

  "A good scientist,” Gideon explained, “modifies his operational hypotheses to accord with fresh data. When additional—"

  "Why don't you just say you were wrong?” Abe said.

  "I,” Gideon said humbly, “was dead wrong. All wet. In the right church but the wrong pew."

  "Yes, you were,” Julie said, “and pretty snide about it, too, as I recall."

  "Well, I apologize. Sincerely. We should have listened to you."

  "We?" Abe said. “When did I get involved in this?” He laughed brightly, then wondered aloud: “But what's he doing here? What does he want?"

  "The codex,” Julie said.

  Abe stared at her. “What?"

  "That's another one of Julie's hypotheses,” Gideon said. “She thinks the codex might still be down there under the rubble, and now Howard's come back for it."

  "But that's impossible. We know he took it—he said so. And we heard reports from all over. And—"

  "That's just what Gideon said,” Julie replied smugly.

  "Anyway, even if it was there, why would he come back for it now, of all times? Why wouldn't—"

  "Gideon said that too. It was part of the same lecture in which he patiently explained to me how there couldn't be the slightest possibility that Howard was within a thousand miles of here."

  "Yes, but...” Abe paused, then nodded, his lips pursed together, a man seeing the light. “Well, it would sure explain the digging, wouldn't it? Maybe even this foolishness with the curse."

  Abe's theory about the curse was simple and cogent. Assuming that the codex was really still there, Howard would have been shaken by the Institute's decision to resume the stairwell excavation, and become increasingly desperate as the dig progressed. What better way to protect his unclaimed treasure than for the Institute to lock up the temple again? And what better way to get the Institute to do that than to engineer the phase-by-phase fulfillment of an ancient curse? An article in Flak might not raise their hackles much, but how long would it have been before the story was picked up by the more responsible press as well?

  And if implementing one of those phases also happened to result in the violent death of his old enemy Gideon Oliver on the ramparts of the Chichen Itza ball court, so much the better. If not, well, the point was still made, and another opportunity might always arise.

  "You know,” Gideon said slowly, “this goes a long way toward explaining Ard's murder too."

  "You think Ard found out he was here, maybe even that he was behind the curse?” Abe asked.

  "'Return to the scene of the crime'—that was in his notebook. Who else could it refer to but Howard?"

  Julie made one of her inexact attempts at finger snapping. “And what about that little blurb about the next installment? ‘The Strange Case of Howard Bennett and the Tlaloc Codex,’ or something like that. Stan must have found out Howard was here—maybe even that the codex was here too—and Howard killed him to keep him from talking about it."

  "You know, it could be so,” Abe said. “So far, nobody's come up with anything better."

  Another small piece dropped suddenly into place for Gideon, one that he should have fitted in hours before. He snapped his fingers.

  "Show-off,” Julie said.

  "The gun!” Gideon said. “The one Ard was shot with—Marmolejo said it was a .32—"

  "—which is what Howard had,” Abe said. “He had it with him when he went up to the temple that night. Nobody ever saw it again. An old Smith & Wesson, according to the report."

  "That's right. That's right!" For the first time Gideon began to let himself believe it deep down. “Damn, it is Howard. He's right here in Yucatan. Do you realize this is the first time since the theft of the codex—"

  "The attempted theft,” Julie said. “The alleged theft."

  "—that we've known for sure where he is? And he doesn't know we know. It's our first decent chance of getting hold of the bastard. And of getting the codex back.” He nodded respectfully to Julie. “Unless the codex has been down there waiting for us all along, of course."

  "W
ouldn't that be something?” Abe said softly.

  Gideon waved over a waiter hovering unobtrusively at the side of a pillared arch. "Tres copas de brandy, por favor. Tiene Cardenal Mendoza?"

  When the drinks came, the three of them clinked glasses and Abe burst into a happy laugh. “Now I know I'm surrounded by crazies,” he said, his pale blue eyes alight. “A man gets a death threat, and he finally figures out it's from a murderer who's going around shooting people. What would a normal person do? Hide in his room, put on a fake beard, get the next plane. What does this guy do? He orders a round of cognac. Cardenal Mendoza, yet."

  "Which you very willingly join him in,” Gideon pointed out.

  "Did I say I wasn't crazy too'? Listen, where's Marmolejo? We got a lot to tell him."

  "That's a relief,” Julie said. “I thought maybe you two were planning to catch him on your own."

  "Us?” Abe's mobile eyebrows soared. “What an idea. What are we, detectives?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 19

  * * * *

  Marmolejo looked at the copy of the threat for all of ten seconds, then laid the paper down next to the brandy he had accepted but not yet touched.

  "Yes,” he said around his unlit cigar, “it's the same typewriter.” He sat back in his chair under a wooden relief based on a wall painting from Bonampak, absently fingering his glass. “The question is: Why?"

  "The codex,” Julie said, looking puzzled. She had just gone through it with him. “It must still be—"

  He waved her silent. “No, I mean the letter under the door. Why threaten your distinguished husband in this childish manner? Why not simply kill him?"

  "To get the satisfaction of frightening him,” Julie suggested. “Considering that Gideon was the one who started that committee, Howard would probably get a lot of pleasure out of terrifying him. Not,” she added loyally, “that Gideon was terrified."

  "You think so?” Marmolejo said. “I wonder. For me to get satisfaction from terrifying you, it would be important that you know it was I and not someone else who hunted you. But did Dr. Bennett sign the note? No; he gave no clue. For all we knew, it might have been anyone."

  "But he couldn't afford to let anybody know he was here,” Julie said. “We've already established that."

  "All right,” Marmolejo said agreeably, “but if he killed the reporter to keep his presence a secret, as you suggest, why call attention to himself this way?” He turned to look at Gideon. “If he wanted revenge, why not simply bash you over the head with the wrench—forgive me, Mrs. Oliver—and be done with it? Why risk identification with this letter?"

  They were good questions. Gideon hadn't yet had a chance to think about them. “Well, of course he'd never expect Abe to compare the documents."

  Marmolejo received this with a noncommittal shrug. “He might think that we would. Eventually."

  "So what's your theory, Inspector?” Abe asked.

  The inspector shook his head, rolling the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Dr. Oliver, have you ever received threats from him before?"

  "No."

  "But then he gets so many that it's hard for him to keep track,” Julie said.

  Marmolejo took this in the spirit it was intended. “Then why,” he asked, “does he suddenly begin now? Why not years ago?"

  More good questions. “Maybe he never risked coming back to the States?” Gideon ventured. “Maybe this is the first chance he's had at me."

  Another shrug from Marmolejo, and a change of subject. “Dr. Goldstein, if the codex is still buried at Tlaloc, I think our common interest would be best served if we retrieved it as quickly as possible.” He produced a small matchbox, removed a tiny waxed match, and applied it to the end of his cigar. Marmolejo with a lit cigar was a rare sight. He was feeling expansive, and no wonder. The retrieval of the Tlaloc codex for his country would be a stunning accomplishment.

  "I couldn't agree more,” Abe said cautiously. “But the faster you dig the more risks you take. You wouldn't want to take a chance on damaging the codex."

  Of course not; that went without saying. But was it not possible to speed up the digging without such a risk? What if he provided some of his own reliable men to help?

  Abe, perfectionist that he was, was reluctant, but Marmolejo was persuasive. However dedicated the police protection might be, there was no way to provide foolproof security for either people or objects. Wasn't the fate of Ard proof of that? As long as the codex was down there, there was some risk that Howard might find a way to get at it, or even destroy it, deranged as he obviously was. And what about the danger to the crew's safety? Who could tell who was next, and when? But remove the codex and you remove Howard's raison d’ etre, or at least his primary reason to do anyone harm.

  Abe wavered, then gave in. Starting the next morning, two of Marmolejo's men would report for duty in the temple, under Abe's supervision of course. With Abe's permission, Marmolejo himself would be there as well.

  Abe, who knew when he didn't really have a choice, gave his permission. “But you know,” he said, “there's something that's bothering me here. Garrison translated the curse last week on Monday night. The press conference was Tuesday, so it wasn't in the papers till Wednesday. And yet on Wednesday night Howard's already here, slipping notes under the door. How did he find out so fast? How did he get here so fast?"

  The cigar was dead again. Marmolejo plucked it from his mouth between two fingers. “The question is: Get here from where? If he was already in Yucatan, there would be no problem."

  "Already in Yucatan?” Abe repeated. “Why would he already be in Yucatan?"

  Marmolejo did not always choose to answer the questions that were put to him. With business taken care of to his satisfaction, he lifted his brandy glass and grinned his monkeyish grin.

  "To the recovery of the Tlaloc Codex,” he said.

  * * * *

  Worthy Partridge lifted to his mouth one of the four dried prunes that the kitchen staff added to his lunch box every day. “I, personally,” he said, “will be only too happy to see the last of this wretched place.” He shuddered. Behind pursed lips the prune was fastidiously masticated. “Remind me never to accept a free vacation again."

  "Not me,” Harvey said through a mouthful of white bread and sliced turkey. “This is great. How can you leave before they find out if the codex is there or not?"

  "Easily,” Worthy said sourly. “I don't want to be the next person Howard bumps off."

  The subject was Marmolejo's announcement that morning that members of the crew were now free to leave Yucatan at their pleasure. Worthy was the only one planning to take advantage of it. He had made his airline reservation for the following day.

  Harvey lifted wistful eyes to the Temple of the Owls. “Gee, do you think they're really going to find it?"

  "Marmolejo promised they'd let us know if they did,” Gideon said.

  "Marmolejo,” grumbled Worthy. “I wouldn't trust that man if I were you."

  "Why? What's the matter with Marmolejo?” Leo asked.

  "He's too small,” Worthy said.

  Leo laughed. “Huh?"

  "I don't like little people. They move too quickly. Always darting."

  The conversation had been going on in this desultory fashion for half an hour. The crew was taking its lunch break in the shade of the acacias near the West Group after a morning of continuing the slow excavation of the ball-court foundations. Abe had asked Gideon to supervise this operation while he himself was in the stairwell with Marmolejo. The work at the modest ball court had been routine and dull, not even enlivened by Emma's accounts of her latest chat with Huluc-Canab.

  She had decided to remain at the hotel this morning, and Preston had stayed with her. Emma had not been her usual dynamic self lately. This was partly because the rest of the group had begun to tune her out as soon as she opened her mouth, and partly because she was grievously disappointed in Huluc-Canab, who had told h
er that no real harm would come to any member of the group during their stay. Then, when Ard had been killed, she had challenged Huluc-Canab during their morning tete-a-tete, and he had pointed out that Ard had not actually been a member of the group. A rather glib and mealymouthed reply, in Emma's opinion. Gideon's too.

  As they were getting up to go back to the ball court, one of Marmolejo's officers approached.

  Would they care to come to the temple? he murmured politely in Spanish. They had found something of interest.

  "El codex?" Gideon asked, and then, when the officer looked at him blankly: "Un libro?"

  Yes, the policeman said, they had found a book. Very old, very beautiful.

  Gideon whooped and reached for Julie. “I will never doubt you again,” he shouted, laughing. “You're brilliant!"

  When they got to the temple, his exhilaration was momentarily chilled. He hesitated just inside the entrance with the strange feeling that he had circled back in time, that it was all going to happen again, as the Mayan calendar said all things did. Everything was the same: the air thick and gritty with dust—already he could feel it congealing on his tongue, crusting in his nostrils; the sulfurous yellow light from the portable lamps below; the wavering shadows on the walls and ceiling; the stale smells of antiquity, mold, and sweat; the tension in the voices from the stairwell.

  Julie touched his wrist. “Gideon, what's wrong?"

  He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Just a few ghosts."

  They were easily enough exorcised by the sound of Abe's thin, excited call from the stairwell.

  "Gideon, is that you? Come look, quick! Julie, you're there too? Come! Everybody, look!"

  Trotting down the stone steps Gideon was further reassured by a pungent whiff of celluloid-acetone solution, the most common and comforting aroma at any dig. (Stale coffee was a close second.) It was used for everything from varnishing pottery, to gluing bone, to sealing waterlogged wood, to strengthening rotting hide. At the moment it was being sprayed out of a glass atomizer by Abe, in a well-thinned solution, onto something he was leaning intently over. The debris had been cleared almost down to the level it had been at in 1982, and Abe was kneeling on the lowest visible step, his bony knees cushioned on a folded towel. One step higher was Marmolejo, no less intent, and on the landing above them two dusty, sweat-stained policemen sat leaning against a wall sipping cool tea. The Mayan workmen who had been hauling out the dirt had been sent away.