In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  There was a delay—had the stratagem failed?—and then an unseen hand placed the key in his outstretched fingers. “Do you require assistance, señor? I could ring for a boy.”

  “No, gracias,” Buchanan mumbled, backing off into the crowd. He replaced the boxes and headed for the elevator thinking that had been a sponge cookie. Was he perhaps in the wrong profession?

  Meanwhile, back at the desk, the clerk who had surrendered the key was checking his files. Hmmm. Just as he thought. Here it was, Room 1006, and it was registered to a woman, not a man.

  Mendoza waited for the elevator door to close and then hurried across the lobby. He’d take the next car up and station himself in the hall. It wasn’t time yet to close the net. But his fish bore close watching.

  Adele and Herbert hung back. Mendoza could recognize them from the previous Friday. For the moment, they had to work the fringes, sharks waiting for an opening.

  Harry decided on a bolder course. But was it the right thing to do?

  While Mendoza waited at the elevator, another man joined him, puffing heavily. “On a case, Captain?” the latter whispered after catching his breath.

  Mendoza looked at him unsurely. Oh, yes, he recognized him now. Ramirez, wasn’t it? Formerly at the Suites Parioli? “How about you?” Mendoza asked non-committedly.

  Ramirez nodded. “Sí. My first one. I just started here yesterday.”

  “Good luck, then,” Mendoza said, not meaning it.

  “You, too,” Ramirez answered, edging away. Like himself, the captain of police had to be abrupt at times, pretending not to recognize old acquaintances. There was a higher call. That of duty.

  When the car came, they got on separately, neither noticing what button the other had pressed, nor paying any attention to Harry as he slipped aboard at the last moment. The fact that they might be interested in the same quarry never occurred to them until they both alighted on the tenth floor.

  “Hold on,” Mendoza said then, grabbing Ramirez as soon as the door shut. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Ramirez pulled free indignantly. The snub downstairs he could appreciate. But this was something else. “It’s hotel business.”

  Mendoza made a shushing noise. “In Room 1006?”

  Ramirez stared at him. How could Mendoza possibly know of the suspicious character reported by the desk? The man had claimed the key—what was it?—mere minutes ago.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Mendoza said urgently, seeing his carefully planned surveillance about to fall apart. He pushed the down button. “Go back to the lobby and stay there.”

  Ramirez drew himself up. “I certainly will not. This is my case …”

  Mendoza slammed him up against the wall. “Would you like to be charged with obstructing?”

  Before Ramirez could reply, Harry, who had gone to the twelfth floor and then taken another car back down, suddenly appeared on the scene.

  “The same goes for you, my little pansy,” Mendoza hissed at him. “I’ve no time to argue. Do as you’re told or you’ll get your petals plucked.”

  Harry kicked him in the crotch. Pansy, was he?

  Buchanan swiftly rummaged through Marina’s luggage. With a murderess, you never knew, and it was best to be careful, he thought. She might have another pistol secreted away somewhere. Perhaps a whole arsenal.

  If so, he wanted them confiscated, safe in his possession, so that there’d be no chance of her surprising him. He planned to take the upper hand in this confrontation and he intended to keep it.

  The whole drama was set in his mind. Marina, exhausted from driving in circles, would finally stagger back, completely unsuspecting. The moment she passed through the door he would quickly take her in hand and expertly relieve her of her weapon.

  He knew how to handle women—a hairbrush on the but tocks—and he’d soon have a full confession out of her. The gory details of the murder, the names of any accomplices besides Adele and Herbert, and the addresses of where they were all hiding out.

  In exchange for a small head start on the police, granted Marina out of his pure goodness of heart, he’d also have the salve’s secret formula. Personally, he still very much doubted its worth, but too much had happened, not only Doña Otelia’s murder, but Gonzales’ strange activities, to continue dismissing the thing out of hand. The salve should be properly tested, and if it did prove to have great curative powers, they should be used for the benefit of all mankind, not to enrich some greedy drug monopoly.

  There would be, of course, a small—no, make that a large—reward in it for him. His heroics and generosity would not go unrecognized. Society would pay its debt to an honest man.

  The grand finale written, he pawed through a last bag, removing a manila envelope that looked very, very promising. It was fat and heavy and carefully sealed with a heavy tape. Ah hah! What was this?

  He was about to unseal it when the sound of a struggle in the hall alerted him. He tiptoed back to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. The arms and legs were flailing too wildly to be certain, but it appeared that four men, no, perhaps only three, were locked in mortal combat.

  Buchanan pushed the door open a bit wider and watched fascinated. The wild tangle spun faster and faster until it was little more than a blur. Then it seemed to explode, bodies flying in every direction, crashing heavily against an elevator door, around a stone pillar, into a barred window.

  Oooh. Buchanan winced. Survivors were unlikely. But wait a minute. One did move. He was getting up. Starting to crawl …

  Buchanan opened the door wider for a better look. Was he imagining things?—or was that actually Captain Mendoza? Yes, by God, it was Mendoza, and now he was dragging himself to one of his unconscious opponents, and now he was taking the poor man by the ears, and now he was systematically bouncing his head off the tile floor.

  Well, Buchanan thought. Really. If that didn’t beat all. He carefully closed the door to allow time to digest this latest development. Mendoza obviously knew much more than he had pretended at police headquarters. Much, much more.

  Had his release been a trick? Was Mendoza following him? Hoping that … ?

  Of course, Buchanan thought, panic taking over. The hotel was probably crawling with police. There was no time to waste. He had to get away. But how?

  Buchanan opened the door again for another peek. The enraged Mendoza was still trying to crack Ramirez’s head on the tile. But surely he’d tire of that soon—and if he turned around? Game over.

  Buchanan sighed. Desperate situations required desperate measures. He stepped out into the hall and picked up a huge ashtray and busted it over Mendoza’s skull. Then he dragged Harry back into Marina’s room and started stripping him.

  Down in the lobby, Adele and Herbert, still sweating it out, pondered whether or not to venture upstairs, Mendoza or not. More than ten minutes had passed. What could be happening up there?

  Herbert counseled patience. Mendoza was playing a waiting game. He wanted them all—not just Buchanan. Better that they also wait—and pounce when the moment was ripe.

  Adele was more inclined to swift and decisive action. The longer they waited, the more that could go wrong. At least one of them should check on what was happening. The ripe moment could be now.

  “You go then,” Herbert suggested, always the gentleman.

  “I always get the dirty work,” Adele complained. “Why not you for a change?”

  While they argued, a fairy passed nearby, resplendent in his orange wig and mascara, huge sunglasses, a dear fluffy scarf. A lame foot dragged behind in a built-up shoe.

  Both stopped to stare after him for a moment. Had they not seen him before? Last Friday at the Geneve?

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” Adele accused, getting back to business. “Big talk, but short on action. As usual.”

  “Gobbler,” Herbert said, stung.

  “Lapper,” said Adele.

  The fairy was out of the hotel and gone.

 
Ramón hadn’t moved his taxi from in front of the María Isabel. Buchanan jumped in and motioned him to get going.

  “This cab is taken,” Ramón cried, aghast. What if friends should see him with this apparition?

  “I know,” Buchanan said, laughing. He lifted the wig and parted the fluffy scarf. “By me.”

  Ramón shook his head and turned away. He knew better than to ask why the weird transformation. He might be told—and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. This was truly the devil at work. If it weren’t for the fare still unpaid, he’d kick it out, whichever the sex.

  “Still no luck with the señorita?” Buchanan asked, pleased that the disguise worked so well. That was two hurdles passed—and one more to go.

  “None,” Ramón said. He eased out onto Reforma for the turn around El Angelito. “We just can’t seem to get together. When she was at Violeta we were back at Longin. Then we tried again and somehow missed each other at Avenue Juárez.”

  Buchanan rubbed his hands. Now that was the runaround. “She keeps calling the dispatcher?”

  “Sí. He’s got her on the line now. For the third time.”

  “Where are we supposed to be?”

  “Approaching Orozco y Berra.”

  “And she is … ?”

  “At the Plaza Vista.”

  “We’ll never get together this way, will we?” Buchanan complained. “She’ll just have to stay put somewhere. Tell her to keep driving around Cuauhtémoc Circle.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as necessary.”

  Ramón winced. Surely not? Once around Cuauhtémoc aged even him. But he faithfully relayed the message.

  “Good,” Buchanan said, turning off the radio before the dispatcher could reply. “Now about that stupid squawk box. Does it break down very often?”

  “All the time,” Ramón sighed. This was callous. Vicious.

  “Good,” Buchanan repeated, indicating that he wanted to be dropped off. “Take a siesta while you have it fixed. A couple of hours at least.” He removed a bill from the loan arranged him by Noli. “Will this ensure you sleep well?”

  Ramón pulled into the curb and took the money without even noting the amount. “Y-you’re going to let the poor woman circle Cuauhtémoc for two hours?”

  Buchanan smiled for answer. He got out and took off his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He started walking leisurely up the street.

  “W-what about your mother?” Ramón called.

  Buchanan turned, another smile, a little shrug.

  Ramón shuddered and made the sign of the cross. There went Satan himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Buchanan felt completely at ease—not even his fabled mother would recognize him—as he slipped into a curbside table at Guevara’s on the Cuauhtémoc Circle. Harry’s swinging clothes were a complete change from his man of distinction wardrobe. Very mod slacks, a silk sport shirt, a swish sweater, sleek patent leather loafers—and a garish pendant beckoning brightly in a manly mass of exposed chest foliage. To top it off, the orange wig was a perfect fit, absolutely made for him, the fluffy scarf did wonders to ease the firm line of his jaw, and the passing world was turned back onto itself in the dark twin mirrors of retired fighter pilot sunglasses.

  Pip, pip, Buchanan thought. The awful sunglasses were the crowning touch. Let Marina try to plumb their impossible depths and all she would see was herself. He would be right on top of her before she even guessed that it was him.

  Gloating in anticipation—wouldn’t the look on her face be something?—he laid the final plans for his coup. While Marina drove around in circles, becoming more rattled and frustrated with each maddening turn, he’d be lounging here at Guevara’s, quietly enjoying the spectacle.

  Finally, when she was at wit’s end, ready for a rubber room at the nut factory, and then and only then, he would leap out into the street and commandeer her car.

  The bold strategy and the ease of its accomplishment was vividly pictured in his mind. Guevara’s was located just off a crosswalk with its attendant signal lights. He’d make his move at an appropriate time when she was stopped for pedestrians: hop the cafe’s railing, slip in beside her, jab a finger in her thin ribs, stick a note in her face.

  The note would be printed in big block letters and carry a suitable threat. Something to the effect that if she wanted to live she had better keep her mouth shut and meekly drive away when the light changed.

  Yes, yes. That was it. Magnificent. Glorious. Buchanan could hardly contain himself. Oh, how he was going to camp it up, by damn. There was an absolutely marvelous time to be had before revealing his true identity and apprising her of the salient facts. Why not have some real fun in the bargain?

  Marina left her car parked at the Plaza Vista and walked the two short blocks to Cuauhtémoc Circle. She’d had a belly full of trying to catch up to Buchanan. The stupid nit could come to her.

  That he had fouled up so badly was beyond comprehension. A child could understand the instructions she had relayed through the dispatcher. Drive north slowly.

  Instead, he had done just the opposite, sending them both chasing their tails, and now his solution was more of the same. Go around in a circle! Did he honestly think she’d do that?

  Probably, Marina decided, shaking her head. There was a certain level of stupidity which assumed the same density was universal. Even now he would be caroming around, risking life and limb every inch of the way, stupidly wondering why he couldn’t find her doing likewise.

  Well, let him chase himself, the idiot. Let him ride his dumb merry-go-round while she sat and watched and laughed.

  “Limonada, por favor,” Marina told the waitress, taking a table at Guevara’s. She checked her disguise in her compact mirror—who could possibly recognize her?—and waited for the fun to begin.

  Adele took a deep breath and cautiously peered around the corner from the stairway on the tenth floor of the María Isabel. There was no one in sight, but a closer inspection showed indications, very definite ones, of a major brawl. Blood on the carpet, a dent in one of the elevator doors, a chip knocked off a decorative stone pillar, the iron bars twisted on the window at the end of the hallway, and a big pile of pottery shards that were formerly an ashtray.

  What did this mean? That Mendoza, too eager, had stepped on Buchanan’s heels? That Buchanan, cornered and desperate, had put up a fight?

  “See anything?” Herbert whispered, far to the rear.

  “Shush,” Adele ordered. Taking another deep breath, she quickly tiptoed down the hall, peeked in the keyhole at 1006, and then fell back stunned by the carnage. Buchanan must be a beast when aroused! Imagine bodies stacked three high!

  “What is it?” Herbert called softly, having advanced to her former position.

  Adele gestured weakly. “Look for yourself …”

  Herbert hesitated. “Can’t you just tell me?”

  Adele shook her head. “No. It defies description.”

  Herbert could bear the suspense no longer. He gathered all his courage and crept down the hall to put his eye to the keyhole. Then he too fell back in utter disbelief. One perhaps. Two maybe. But three?

  “Buchanan did that?” he gasped.

  Adele shrugged. Who else? She returned to the keyhole and strained for a better look.

  Captain Mendoza, out colder than a dead fish, was sprawled on the bottom. Another flatfoot type—the house dick, perhaps?—was jammed in the middle. A man she had never seen before, or at least not in his underwear, was humped over the top, looking oddly out of place in his mascara. That wouldn’t normally be his level in the scheme of things.

  “This snaps it,” Adele said. “The sonofabitch is playing for keeps. It’s either him or us.” She felt for the reassurance of the pistol in her purse. “No more pissing around. We hit him first—and we hit him hard.”

  “How?” Herbert asked dully. “He’s given us the slip. We don’t even know where to start looking.”

  �
�No,” Adele admitted, “but we know what to look for, stupid.” The mascara was the tip-off. “Remember the fairy who passed us in the lobby? That was Buchanan in disguise—wearing this creature’s clothes.”

  “What say we call it quits?” Herbert suggested. “Forget the salve and run?” He glanced back down the hall apprehensively. “I don’t enjoy chasing maniacs. Supposing we catch him?”

  “Quit?” Adele shook her head grimly. “Do you want Terful chasing us instead? Do you know what he’d do to us?”

  Herbert shuddered at the thought. Only God knew WHAT.

  Buchanan couldn’t figure it at all. Marina was supposed to be flapping around Cuauhtémoc Circle like a demented goose. But he had been sitting here forever—what was it, half an hour, perhaps more?—and still there was no sign of her. Was it possible the twit had gotten the name wrong? Might she be performing at another intersection?

  He waited a few more minutes and then went to the pay phone on the corner and placed a call to the cab company’s dispatcher to ask if she had made further contact. The answer was negative and he returned to his table dispiritedly. Something had very definitely gone amiss. But what?

  Buchanan fidgeted with his drink as he reviewed the various possibilities. Marina had thrown the whole thing up in despair and was on the lam—leaving him to the tender mercies of the police. Marina herself was in the hands of the police (Mendoza’s appearance at the María Isabel showed they were onto her)—in which case she would be doing her best to convict him of murder. Marina …

  Oh, hell, whatever the explanation, he had lost the game, hadn’t he? Buchanan sighed and looked at the note he had prepared.

  “FEEL GUN?” it asked. “SAY NOTHING OR YOU DIE. GO WHERE I POINT.”

  What a waste, Buchanan lamented. What a tragic waste. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the gutter. Now what?

  Well, he had to find a place to hide, that was for sure. The room Noli had arranged for him wouldn’t do any more. Once Marina started talking, Noli would be automatically questioned, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t break under that sonofabitch Mendoza.