The Aztec Avenger

by Nick Carter

  Carefully, I rolled the thin rug around his corpse. It didn’t quite come down to his ankles but at least his face was covered. With strips of cloth that I tore from a pillowcase, I tied the rug at his chest and at his knees.

  I looked around for a hiding place in the room. The clothes closet was too dangerous, so for the time being I settled for pushing the rug-wrapped body under the double bed, dropping the bedspread down the side so that its edge came almost to the floor.

  With Jean-Paul out of the way for the moment, I turned my attention to cleaning up the evidence of what had happened. I turned on the hall light, checking the walls for spatters of blood. I found a few. The lower panel of the door was a mess. In the bathroom, I soaked a towel in cold water and went back to the entry hall and washed down the door and the walls.

  The rug had prevented any blood from getting on the floor.

  Afterward, I rinsed out the towel as much as I could and balled it up and threw it on the floor under the sink. I stripped off my own blood-stained clothes and showered.

  I used two more towels drying myself off and balled. them up and threw them under the sink along with the other towel. Let the maid think I was a slob. At least, it would stop her from examining the first towel too closely.

  After I shaved, I changed into a clean sport shirt, slacks, and a Madras jacket.

  I was going to strap on Hugo and wear Wilhelmina, my 9mm Luger, but a 9mm handgun of any size makes a pretty hefty bulge. You can see it too easily under tropical weight clothes, so I left the gun and the knife in the false bottom of my attaché case.

  I settled for Jean-Paul’s .38 Airweight instead.

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have worn the jacket. In May, Acapulco evenings are too warm to make a jacket anything but unnecessary, but I was carrying Jean-Paul’s revolver and small as it was it was still too noticeable unless I wore something to cover it.

  When I finished dressing, I went back into the bathroom one more time. I took a small vial of nembutal sleeping pills from my shaving kit. There were ten or twelve capsules in the vial. Occasionally, when I can’t fall asleep, I’ll take one of them. Now, I had another use for them. I put the small, plastic container in my pocket, along with a roll of half-inch adhesive tape that I had in my first-aid kit.

  Back in the bedroom, I picked up my camera and slung the bulky camera equipment bag over my shoulder.

  As I went out the door, I hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign oyer the outer doorknob. I put the room key in my pocket. Like many hotels, the Matamoros attached a heavy, bronze plaque to the key so that guests wouldn’t want to carry it around with them and would get in the habit of leaving the key at the counter. I don’t like to do that. I want to be able to get in and out of my room without attracting notice by stopping at the desk each time. The key and plaque sat heavily in the hip pocket of my slacks.

  Going down to the lobby, I saw no one either in the corridor or in the elevator. At the front desk, I stopped to ask if there was any mail for me. I didn’t expect any, but as the clerk turned to the racks behind him, I was able to check the slot for Suite 903. Both keys were in the box. Apparently, Dietrich still had not come in.

  The clerk turned back, smiling regretfully. “No, senor, there is nothing for you.” He wasn’t the same clerk that I’d talked to earlier in the day,

  “Do you know Senor Dietrich?”

  “Senor Dietrich?”

  “Suite nine-oh-three,” I prompted him.

  “Ah! Of course. He is the very nice gentleman who checked in yesterday. I registered him myself.”

  “He’s not in now, is he?”

  The clerk shook his head. “No. I saw him leave about half an hour ago.”

  “You’re sure? A man in his middle sixties—I stopped. That was as much as I knew about Dietrich’s appearance. I hoped the clerk would go for the bait.

  “Certainly, I know what he looks like! Quite tall. Very thin. Very distinguished. Silver hair. Blue eyes. He walks with a slight limp although he does not carry a cane. His daughter is most beautiful.”

  “His daughter?”

  “Si, senor. One does riot forget a young woman as beautiful as she! Such long blond hair!” Then the clerk caught himself as the idea struck him. He arched a knowing eyebrow. “Of course, perhaps she is not his daughter, eh, senor? We do not ask such questions.”

  “That’s Dietrich, all right.” I passed a bill to the clerk. “I’ll get in touch with him later.”

  “Shall I leave word for him, senor?”

  “No, I’m not sure just when I’ll be able to see him. Thank you for the information.”

  “De nada.”

  At the Hertz office, I rented a sedan and drove to Sanborn’s where I purchased a detailed street map of Acapulco. In the dining room, I sat in a booth and ordered coffee and spread the map out on the table in front of me. I tried to trace the route to Bickford’s villa over which Consuela had driven me last night. The map didn’t show all the smaller byways, so I wasn’t completely sure that I had the right street. I remembered that it was a short cul-de-sac and that there were only a few houses on it. All of the houses overlooked the bay. I felt sure that I’d recognize the street if I could find it again. Bickford’s house was the very last one at the end of the cul-de-sac, isolated from the others.

  In my mind, I went over all the possibilities until I narrowed them down to three. It took me two cups of coffee and half a dozen cigarettes before I finally folded up the map and left.

  The first street tried wasn’t a dead end as the map showed it to be. It had been extended to join another, so I turned back and tried the second. This one was a dead-end street but there were too many houses on it, all jammed as closely together as they could be built.

  I made another attempt. This one was wrong, too, so I drove back to the highway and pulled the car off the road. By now, it was getting on toward ten-thirty. I turned on the dome light and spread out the map again, trying to discover where I’d gone wrong. Finally, I found it. I’d made my turn at the wrong traffic circle. I turned off the light, folded up the map and pulled back out onto the road.

  This time, I found the street on my second attempt. Four widely separated houses were spaced along its length. Bickford’s house was the last one on the side toward the bay; A high, adobe brick wall with an ironwork grilled gate faced the street. I didn’t drive down to it. I left the car out of sight around the corner and walked down the unpaved road to the gate which was secured with a chain and padlock. I pressed the bell and waited. In the darkness, I heard the chirp of insects and the clacking rustle of palm fronds rubbing against each other in the gentle, moist sea breeze.

  It was several minutes before the gateman showed up, an elderly, gray-haired mestizo with a bristling stubble of whiskers, tucking his shirt into his baggy trousers as he came padding up the path.

  I gave him no time to think.

  “Hurry up, viejo!” I snapped curtly in Spanish. “Senor Bickford is waiting for me!”

  The old man stopped a foot away from the gate, peering at me, his brows wrinkling in thought.

  “I know nothing—”

  “Open the gate!”

  The old man took a flashlight out of his pocket He turned it on my face.

  “Not in my eyes, you old fool! Turn the light on my hand.”

  Obediently, the old man pointed his flashlight down. He saw the blued steel of the Smith & Wesson .38. His eyes still fixed on the gun, the gateman took a fat bunch of keys from a pocket of his worn trousers. His fingers trembled as he selected the key and inserted it The padlock snapped open. I reached in with my left hand and unhooked the chain. I pushed the gate open, still pointing the gun at the old man, and moved inside.

  “Close the gate, but don’t lock it.”

  He did as I told him.

  “Who else is here?” I motioned with the gun to step off the path.

  “Only the senor and the senora,” he answered nervously.

  “Your wife?”

 
; “Mi mujer es muerta. She’s dead, there’s only myself.”

  “The other servants?”

  “Gone. They do not sleep here. They will not be back until morning.”

  “Has Senor Bickford gone to bed yet?”

  The old man shook his head. “I do not think so; The lights are still on downstairs.”

  He lifted watery, frightened eyes to me. “Por favor, senor, I am an old man. I want no trouble.”

  “There could be much trouble here tonight,” I said, watching him.

  “I can be very far away in a very short time,” the old man said, pleading now. “Especially if the police might come.”

  “All right,” I said. I reached for my wallet and took out four hundred-peso notes—about thirty-two dollars.

  “To make your trip easier. For your inconvenience.” I pressed the bills into the gateman’s hand.

  The old man looked down, then thrust the bills into his pocket “I may go now?”

  I nodded. The man opened the gate a hand’s breadth and slipped through. He was running down the dirt lane immediately, his huaraches flapping against his heels and making soft, scrabbling sounds in the gravel as he ran. He turned the corner and was out of sight within seconds.

  I pushed the gate shut and moved into the darkness of the landscaped grounds toward the house.

  From the doorway that led from the kitchen into the dining room, I watched Bickford and his wife. They both sat in the part of the living room that I could see across the dining area.

  Bickford put down the magazine he’d been holding and took off his heavy-framed reading glasses.

  “You want a nightcap before we turn in?” he asked Boris.

  Doris was sitting on the couch painting her toenails with intense concentration. Without looking up, she said, “Make it a double.”

  I walked into the dining room and stopped in the archway that separated it from the living room. “I suggest you save it for later,” I said.

  Bickford looked up in surprise. Doris dropped the bottle of nail polish on the white couch. “Oh, shit!” was all she said.

  I stepped into the living room and let Bickford see the gun in my hand.

  “What the hell is this all about?” he demanded.

  “Your friends don’t want to do things the easy way.”

  He wet his lips, nervously looking at the gun. “Why me? I did what you asked.”

  “As you once said, you’re just the guy in the middle. I guess that means you get it from both ends.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Not much. You and I are going to take a little ride together.”

  “Hey, wait a second!” Doris cried out.

  “He won’t be hurt if he does what I tell him to,” I reassured her.

  “What about her?” Bickford was still nervous about the gun.

  “She stays behind.” I took the vial out of my pocket and shook out two capsules onto the top of the bar.

  “Mrs. Bickford, I’d appreciate it if you’ll just take these pills—”

  “No!” Bickford burst out, getting to his feet “Leave her out of this!”

  “That’s just what I’m doing. I’m not foolish enough to tie her up. There’s too much chance of her getting free. And I’d rather not hit her on the head.”

  “What—what are they?” he asked.

  “Sleeping pills. They won’t hurt her.”

  Doris rose from the couch and came over to the bar. I noticed that she wasn’t frightened at all. She even gave me a quick smile that Bickford couldn’t see. She picked up the pills and poured herself a glass of water.

  “You’re sure they won’t hurt me?” There was a tinge of amusement in her voice, her heavily lashed green eyes stared boldly into mine. She put the pills in her mouth and washed them down, then stepped closer to me. “All I’m going to do is fall asleep?”

  “Go sit down, Mrs. Bickford.”

  “Doris,” she murmured, still staring boldly into my face, the tiny smile locked on her lips.

  “Back on the couch.” Doris turned away from me slowly and walked back to the sofa, deliberately putting a swing into her hips. Bickford crossed to her and sat down beside her. He reached solicitously for her hand, but she pulled away.

  “For Chrissake, Johnny. I’m all right, so calm down, Will you? If he wanted to hurt me, you couldn’t stop him.” She turned her face toward me. “How long does it take?”

  “Ten to twenty minutes,” I said. “You might just as well stretch out and relax. We’ll wait.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Doris closed her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell in the easy rhythm of sleep. I waited another five minutes and then motioned Bickford away from her.

  “Let’s go.”

  Bickford got to his feet. “Where?”

  “We’re going to pay a visit to a tuna boat,” I said “The one tied up down at the malecon—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “—and once aboard,” I went on as if Bickford hadn’t said a word, “you’re going to get hold of the captain and give him a package. You’ll tell him that it’ll be picked up in San Diego in the usual way.”

  “You’re crazy!” Bickford burst out. “You want to get both of us killed?”

  “You’re not dead yet,” I said, raising the gun to his chest.

  He stood there, hulking, aging, defeat turning him older than his years. “But they’ll kill me when they find out. You know that, don’t you?” He looked up at me. “How did you know about the tuna boat?” he asked, dully.

  “I told you last night that I had a list of the vessels your people have been using to smuggle heroin into the States. The tuna boat is the Mary Jane, out of San Diego. It’s been hanging around for several days now, waiting for another shipment.”

  “You’re guessing,” Bickford said, hesitantly, but I’d caught the flicker of expression on his face and it was all the confirmation I needed.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Let’s go bring them the package they’re waiting for.”

  There was no problem in delivering the package to the tuna boat. We took Bickford’s car down to the malecon, Bickford driving and me beside him with the .38 in my hand.

  Once on the boat, Bickford went directly to the captain’s cabin. The three of us filled the small room. Bickford went through the story. The captain asked no questions except to look suspiciously at me when I handed him the laundry parcel.

  “He’s all right,” Bickford vouched for me. “It’s his buy. He just wants to be sure we deliver it.”

  “We’ve never had any trouble before,” the captain complained, taking the parcel from me. He looked down at it and turned it over in his hands. “Laundry? That’s a new one on me.”

  “How soon can you get under way?”

  “Half an hour—maybe less.”

  “Then you’d better be going.”

  The captain looked inquiringly at Bickford. “Do as he says,” Bickford told him.

  “What about the shipment I’ve been waiting for?”

  Bickford shrugged. “It’s been delayed. We can’t have you hanging around here too long.”

  “All right,” said the captain. “The faster you two clear my decks, the sooner I can get underway.”

  Bickford and I left the cabin, making our way slowly in the dark along the cluttered deck. I stopped once beside a tarpaulin-covered lifeboat, and swiftly, with Bickford’s back to me so he couldn’t see what I was doing, I pushed the second laundry package under the heavy canvas and into the lifeboat.

  As we dropped onto the dockside, we heard the engines start up. On deck there was a flurry of activity.

  We crossed to where Bickford had parked his car on the Costera.

  “Now what?” Bickford asked me, as we got in.

  “I think we should pay a visit to Brian Garrett,” I said. Bickford started to protest, then thought better of it. I held the stubby, blued-steel revolver only a few inches from his side. He drove the car e
ast along the Costera Miguel Aleman out of town and to the top of the headland. Finally, he turned onto a secondary road, and after a few minutes, he slowed to a stop.

  “That’s Garrett’s place down there. You want me to drive right in?”

  The house was set off by itself just under the crest of the ridge on the edge of the cliff that dropped away below it some two hundred feet to the sea. We were about a hundred yards away from the driveway that led to the main gate of the house.

  “No, pull over here.”

  Bickford turned the car to the side of the road. He brought it to a stop and shut off the ignition and the headlights. Sudden darkness closed us in, and, in that moment, I whipped the gun butt against the back of Bickford’s head, catching him just behind the ear. He slumped forward against the wheel. I put the gun in my right-hand jacket pocket, and, reaching into the other pocket, I brought out the roll of adhesive tape. I pulled Bickford’s hands behind his back, taping his Wrists with a dozen turns of the surgical tape. I stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, taping a strip of adhesive from one cheek to the other to hold the gag in place.

  Going around to the far side of the sedan, I opened both left-hand doors. Bickford was heavy. The years had put him well into the heavyweight class. I had to struggle to move his inert body into the back of the sedan. I bent over and taped his ankles and his knees. When I was through, I’d run out of tape, but he was securely bound. I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting loose.

  Ten minutes later, I was moving silently through the darkness along the edge of the road until I came to the high wall that surrounded Garrett’s villa. The wall began at the sheer drop of the cliff edge on my right, cut through the field, then made a semi-circle all around the sprawling house to the cliff-edge on the far side.