In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  Hotels were out, of course. Too chancy. Once the manhunt started in earnest, the police would be around to them all, and even with his elaborate disguise some sharp-eyed dick might be able to put two and two together for them.

  No. It had to be a private residence of some sort, a furnished room, or perhaps an apartment. Some place where he could hole up for a couple of weeks. When the heat was off, he’d rent a car, drive out of the city somewhere, switch to a train for a while, take a bus next. And then … ?

  First things first, Buchanan decided. He took out his wallet and counted what was left of the money provided by Noli. One thousand, two hundred pesos. Less than one hundred dollars. Not much.

  Hmmm, Buchanan thought. It would help if he didn’t have to pay rent. What he ought to do was find some kind lady who might take him in for a while. Some lonely creature whose fires had been banked for too long. Some …

  He stopped, suddenly aware that a prime prospect, the answer to all his problems, was as close as the other side of the restaurant. The woman had been sitting there alone how long now? Ever since he arrived, wasn’t it, and the poor thing probably had been stood up, or else why was she searching the street so anxiously?

  Hmmm, Buchanan thought again. It was hard to tell what she looked like—the huge sunglasses and the puffed-up scarf defied that—but at least she dressed stylishly and appeared trim enough. Too trim, perhaps, and that kinky hair was a terrible mess, but wasn’t it worth a go?

  Yes, he decided. Any bed was better than none. He got out a piece of paper and hurriedly composed another note. She was obviously the shy type—why else would she be hiding herself?—and would no doubt appreciate the indirect approach. A polite missive to be delivered by the waitress. To be answered or ignored as she saw fit.

  “Lovely lady,” he wrote. “Might I be so bold as to join your table? Respectfully, Antoine.”

  Marina looked at her watch and shook her head hopelessly. More than half an hour and still the cretin hadn’t appeared. Couldn’t he get even his own directions straight?

  She started to get up—yet another call to the taxi dispatcher was her only recourse—when the waitress came with the note.

  “Who’s this from?” she asked.

  “Heem,” the waitress said.

  Marina took one look and tore the note in half without bothering to open it. She disdainfully tossed the pieces in her ashtray and turned to stare off in the other direction. Oh, God! Wasn’t this just what she needed? Some oily masher with his shirt open to the navel?

  Harumph, Buchanan thought. That was that. He’d had his share of no thank yous, an occupational hazard, but none more explicit, by God. The least the bitch could have done was read the thing. What a cold one she must be. He could imagine a roll with her. Like getting into a wet bathing suit.

  He took out his wallet and signaled for his bill. There was no sense hanging around any longer. Greener fields beckoned on all sides. The Hilton. El Ejecutivo.

  Marina wondered. Had she perhaps been too hasty? She was on her own and badly needed help. A strong back and a weak mind could come in very useful. Certainly there was no harm in taking a closer look at the lout.

  Her hand crept forward and she retrieved the halves of the note and fitted them together stealthily. Lovely lady? Well, he at least showed some style, however bizarre. Antoine? So much the better. She’d never met a Frenchman she couldn’t twist around her little finger.

  Buchanan counted his change, left a very modest tip, and got up. He worked his way through the rows of tables with eyes carefully averted. There was no need to suffer further humiliation. Give her half a chance and she’d stick out her tongue.

  A polite cough stopped him. A person coughed that way for only one reason. To attract attention …

  Slowly, carefully, still fearful of some rude word or gesture, he turned to face her and was greeted with a tentative but nevertheless friendly smile.

  Goddam, Buchanan thought, taken aback by this sudden reversal. The woman had a modicum of good sense after all. She knew better than to let a prize specimen slip away. He smiled in return and raised his eyebrows in the unspoken question. May I?

  Marina answered with a barely perceptible nod. Please do.

  Buchanan sat down eagerly. What a stroke of luck. He’d be well hidden within the hour. Her sheet pulled over his head.

  Marina kept smiling as best she could. He wasn’t her type, not by a long shot, but better than she had dared hope, really. Handsome enough. A good solid build.

  Buchanan faltered. That mole on the chin! Surely not … ?

  Marina stiffened. That scar on the cheek. No. It couldn’t be. And yet … ?

  “You bastard,” Marina cried, scrambling for her pistol.

  “Bitch,” Buchanan answered, lunging to protect himself.

  They rolled under the tables in a wild brawl.

  The waitress looked the other way. An incurable romantic, she’d had her hopes for those two, but they hadn’t hit it off, had they?

  “That fairy bothers me,” Adele said, taking another look through the keyhole.

  “Why?” asked Herbert, who had never experienced the problem.

  “He strikes me as queer.”

  Herbert still didn’t understand. “Aren’t they all?”

  “I don’t mean that way,” Adele said. “It’s his appearance that’s odd.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Herbert agreed.

  “No, no,” Adele said impatiently. “It’s his timing, I mean. Strange that he should show up now.”

  “Oh,” Herbert said, the light dawning at last. “You don’t think he’s just a passing fag?”

  Adele looked at him. “Do you?”

  Herbert wondered. He had assumed that to be the case. But now that the question had been raised …

  “No.”

  “Nor do I,” Adele said. “I think he’s somehow involved in this business.” She took another look through the keyhole. “What say we ask him?”

  “We?” Herbert quavered.

  “You,” Adele said. She was tired of doing the dirty work.

  It took all of his strength, stamina and wit, but Buchanan finally won the upper hand in his wrestling match with Marina. He grabbed the hem of her long dress, pulled it over her head and arms, and then tied the bottom together to form a sack. This left her blind, her curses muffled, and protected him from biting, scratching and elbowing, of all of which he’d had enough.

  “Now,” he told her, deftly dodging a wild kick, “you have two choices: unconditional surrender or a public spectacle of yourself.”

  Marina’s answer was another kick that almost removed his head.

  “Very well,” Buchanan said, wisely putting a table between them. “Your pants are coming off.”

  Marina froze. “You wouldn’t dare,” she cried, faintly audible.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Buchanan taunted. “And if I don’t, there’s twelve others who will, by God. You’re collecting quite a manly crowd as it is.”

  “Bastard,” Marina cried. “Dirty bastard.” But she was thoroughly thwarted and she knew it. “All right. I give up. Just let me out of here.”

  “In due time,” Buchanan said, tentatively taking hold of her. “Follow me quietly and no more kicking or the deal is off. Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” Marina said at last, completely subdued.

  Buchanan sighed. Thank God for that. The gathering crowd was larger than he had thought. There’d soon be police over to investigate.

  “Enough?” he asked, giving the Guevara’s leering manager five hundred pesos to cover damages.

  “Suficiente,” the man answered, eyes still elsewhere.

  Buchanan took a look himself and was pleasantly surprised by the amount and form in the scant silk. The kind of softly curving buttocks that could break a man’s heart. He had made them up for her—and they already existed.

  “This way,” Buchanan said, leading his prize out into the street, and noting that the legs, though very
slim, were also suficiente. “Taxi!”

  Five cabs stopped at once and Buchanan chose the one without passengers. He ushered Marina inside with a gentleness and consideration not previously intended. Had he perhaps made a tragic error in his initial appraisal? A certain ardor was rising—and he had yet to see if she required a training bra.

  “Very well,” Buchanan said, settling in beside her. “Let’s see if we cannot discuss our differences like two intelligent adults. In the first place …” He was suddenly aware of the driver staring. “Do you understand English?”

  The driver shook his head. “No.”

  “Good,” Buchanan said, turning back to Marina. “In the first place, I hereby swear, on the body of my dying mother, that I will not turn you in to the police for killing Doña Otelia.”

  “You think I’m the murderer?” Marina demanded from beneath her dress.

  “One of them,” Buchanan admitted. “An accessory at least. Perhaps unwilling …” She became more innocent the longer he examined her. “Why else would you be trying to kill me?”

  “Fool, I am not trying to kill you,” Marina cried, becoming exasperated once more. “I am trying to save you. From the police—and from Adele and Herbert.”

  Buchanan felt his heart melt. He was an instant believer. She was trying to save him. “The Glasses alone are the killers?”

  “Of course,” Marina said. “You’d understand if you’d only listen. I work for WHO. They work for WHAT.” She struggled inside the sack of her dress. “Is this any way to carry on an intelligent conversation?”

  Buchanan had to admit that it wasn’t making much sense at the moment. He was going to inquire further—which did what for whom?—when he became aware of the driver still staring. “Why aren’t you driving?”

  “A dónde vamos? To where, señor?”

  To where? Buchanan tried to think. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten to give instructions, and it was just as well. He had no idea where to go.

  “To the Plaza Vista,” Marina ordered, seizing command, “and I want out of this thing, immediately.”

  Buchanan reluctantly untied and lowered her dress. Only the knowledge of their destination made his fingers work. The Plaza Vista and its fine feather beds. The dress could be up again. Up and off.

  Marina took a long time to compose herself. She had never been more angry, but there were other emotions churning inside her, counteracting, confusing. No man had dared manhandle her before. Certainly no man had dared demean her so. And yet … ?

  “I don’t know why I suffer such an idiot,” she said at last, looking away.

  Buchanan shrugged, backing off, his own composure faltering. “Part of my charm?”

  Marina decided that it would be best to change the subject. “Now that we’re in this together, co-operating instead of fighting, I think it’s time we both came clean. Who are you working for?”

  Buchanan regarded her blankly. “No one. Do you think I could face a romance after you? I’ve been in bed ever since—and quite alone.”

  No one? Marina wondered. That sounded so sincere it was difficult to doubt. “Then whatever prompted you to switch salves? Was it mere jealousy? Spite?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Buchanan protested. “I switched nothing. How could I? It wasn’t until I got back to the Geneve that I realized Doña Otelia had slipped me a jar.”

  Marina pounced on the word. “Slipped?”

  “Yes. I found it in my pocket. A small blue jar …”

  Marina pounced again. “Blue?”

  “That’s right. Does it matter?”

  “Of course not,” Marina said, her mouth suddenly dry. Her jar was white, and the Glasses had been sold a white jar, too.

  The truth loomed before her. Someone else, Gonzales, more than likely, had switched the salves. But Buchanan had visited the curadora before the switch was made. He therefore possessed a sample of the authentic ungüento.

  “Did it, uh, work for you?” Marina asked, barely able to speak.

  Buchanan lifted Harry’s wig and showed her the bump left by Señora Chiché’s vase. “Not for my hangover, but for a whack on the head, it works wonders, I’ll tell you. You see that lump? It was six times as big and hurt like hellfire. One treatment with the salve and the pain was gone. Contreras is my witness.”

  “Contreras?”

  “The house doctor at the Geneve. I gave him the salve. That’s why …”

  Marina almost choked. “You gave it to him?”

  “Why not?” Buchanan asked cheerfully. “It’s just another stinking ointment as far as he’s concerned, and you don’t need it, do you? Isn’t one sample enough for analysis?” He stopped, puzzled by her pallor, which seemed off a shade. “Is this what you meant when you accused me of switching?”

  “I, uh, yes, I suppose so,” Marina said vaguely. Her mind was racing ahead. She had to get to Contreras as soon as possible, and Buchanan, of course, must be kept in the dark. Saving the fool’s life was one thing. Giving him a piece of the action was quite another.

  “How did you know of this, anyway?” Buchanan asked.

  “Part of my charm,” Marina assured him. It was time again to change the subject. “I have a car at the Plaza. We’ll pick it up and go to the María Isabel. I left all my documents in my suite there. All my money …” She paused. “You did have the good sense not to go to my hotel?”

  Buchanan hesitated in his answer, the vision of the feather bed fading, replaced by dollar signs. There was money in that envelope. Money?

  “Oh, no,” Marina said. “You went there, didn’t you? With Mendoza on your trail, and Adele and Herbert, too?”

  “With Mendoza,” Buchanan admitted. “But you needn’t worry your pretty head. I took care of the clod in quick fashion.” The stricken look on her face overcame his brief reversal in morals. “Your documents and money. They wouldn’t have been in a manila envelope? Sealed with a heavy tape?”

  Marina started breathing again. “You’ve got them … ?” “Had them,” Buchanan groaned, patting for a non-existent pocket. “I put the envelope in my jacket, but then, when I changed clothes with that fairy …”

  “Fairy? Which fairy?”

  “The fairy in your suite.”

  Marina couldn’t believe her ears. “There’s a fairy in my suite?”

  “Yes,” Buchanan admitted, “and Mendoza as a matter of fact, and the hotel detective, too. I, uh, put them all there.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Because they were cluttering up the hall.”

  “Cluttering?”

  “There was a fight,” Buchanan explained, not inadvertently making himself the hero, “and they all ended up unconscious. They wouldn’t fit in the garbage chute so I stacked them in your suite for the sake of convenience. How did I know we’d be wanting to use it so soon?”

  “A fight?”

  “A brawl, actually,” Buchanan said, barely resisting the impulse to blow on his fingernails. “Three against one. But I managed.”

  Marina put her reeling head in her hands. She didn’t want to hear any more. Oh, he’d managed, all right. To foul up completely. “My package. How are we going to retrieve it now?”

  “No problem,” Buchanan said blithely. “When I knock them out, they stay knocked, my dear. We’ll simply go and get it.” He glanced at his watch and checked it against the jeweler’s display clock on the corner. “It wouldn’t hurt to hurry, mind you.”

  Marina was going to protest—to return to the María Isabel was madness—and yet no alternative offered itself. She couldn’t get out of the country without proper documents. Or last the day without funds. “We’ll have to chance it, I suppose. You’ve got my gun?”

  Buchanan squirmed, already having second thoughts, the lack of a weapon the first reason. Upon relieving Marina of her pistol at Guevara’s, he had disposed of it in a sewer, not wishing to be tempted in its use. “Who needs a gun?” he asked bravely.

&nb
sp; Marina groaned. I do, she thought. For suicide. How had she ever fallen in with this nincompoop? He was beyond saving—not even worth the effort—and still she persisted.

  Why? She was afraid to ask herself. Afraid of the answer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Buchanan discreetly put an eye to the much-used keyhole of Marina’s suite at the María Isabel. Everything was exactly as he had left it. Mendoza, the hotel dick, the fairy—all neatly stacked.

  “It’s all right,” he called softly, motioning to Marina. He unlocked the door and pushed inside and held it open for her. His jacket was where he had left it, hanging over a chair. He’d have it and the envelope in a moment.

  “Still dead to the world?” Marina whispered, joining him.

  Buchanan nodded tersely. Of course.

  Marina felt her pulse quicken as she surveyed the scene. Despite his other lacks, which were many and severe, the brute did show a certain skill at fisticuffs.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Marina promised, heading for the bedroom. “I just want to grab my makeup. Pack a bag.” She glanced back at him. “The envelope?”

  Oh, yes, Buchanan thought, shaken from his reverie. The envelope. He was beginning to believe his fanciful tale of having personally disposed of these three. The longer he viewed the stacked bodies, the deeper sank the truth, drowned in his black lake of falsehoods. He crossed to the chair and picked up his jacket and patted the pockets. The envelope …

  A scream interrupted him. He swung around to find Marina tottering out of the bedroom, her face chalk white, unable to speak.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, uncomfortably eyeing the stacked bodies. Had someone there twitched at that high-pitched howl?

  Marina could only point to the bedroom.

  Buchanan was disposed to grab her and run, but that hardly fit his new image of the strong, valiant knight protector. He must, alas, investigate.

  “Stay here,” he ordered, not for her protection but the sake of company. Thrusting by her—this had to be done quickly or not at all—he forced himself to peer around the half-open bedroom door.

  Good grief! How had this happened? There sat Adele and Herbert, ensconced on the bare mattress of the circular bed, back to back, bound and gagged. All around was the shambles of a hurried but thorough search.