Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  Tony looked back regretfully as they rushed away. If his theory were true this was the ideal spot. Close to the city, yet isolated enough for clandestine arrival and departures. They should have looked closer, but there was not much time. They turned a bend and he had a last fleeting glimpse of the bay before it vanished behind the screen of trees again.

  “Stop the car!” he shouted.

  Higginson hit the brakes and, being power brakes, they locked and the car skidded wildly across the road, spinning uncontrollably under the cruel corrections of the power steering. Higginson fought the careening red whale every foot of the way until it ended up on the far side, its nose buried in the red earth and rich mosses of the embankment there. Higginson turned about slowly, unclamping his fingers from the wheel, and glared coldly at Tony.

  “And why did you say that?”

  “Just before we turned, I had a glimpse of something coming into the bay, a bow, a boat of some kind.”

  With the rear wheels spinning and smoking on the tar, Tony, Billy Schultz and Stocker braced and, pushing the bumper, the Lincoln managed to pull itself back on the road. They hurtled off on the return leg and, once over the rise, saw that indeed a boat had entered the bay. A high-powered, high-bridged, pole-be—

  decked sports fishing boat with its name, Tiburon, prominent on its wide stern when it spun about and dropped anchor. Then the trees intervened again. Billy shouted into the handy-talky. This time they turned off onto the unpaved track through the trees, bobbing and thudding over the spring-destroying uneven surface. As they drove down, the long car scraping the brush on both sides as they negotiated the sharp turns, they had tantalizing glances of the water below.

  Man climbing down from boat into dinghy.

  Dinghy pushed off.

  Dinghy proceeding toward shore.

  Then the road emerged from the trees onto the summit of a vine-covered bluff that ran down to the beach. There, waiting on the shore for the rapidly approaching rowboat, were three men standing next to a small pile of luggage.

  Sixteen

  Until they were clear of the trees the dense tropical jungle had swallowed the sound of the engine, but when they reached the bluff the rumble of the exhaust sounded clearly on the beach. As though pulled by the same string the three heads turned about as one, staring up at the sudden apparition. Then one of the men began waving to the dinghy, a second scrabbled at the luggage, the third, who supported himself on two canes, began to hobble to the water’s edge.

  “Get down there!” Tony shouted. “We have them.”

  The CIA man needed no urging. The big car flew down the slope, hurling itself around the sandy curves, negotiating with a great grinding sound the last turn that brought it back in the direction of the beach below. A pink jeep was parked where the road debauched onto the beach and there was no way around it. Scarcely slowing, the Coronel Glanders Chicken wagon smashed into it with a great crashing of glass and screech of torn metal. The jeep bounced forward, its rear wheels locked by the handbrake, skidding in the sand but urged on by the churning horsepower behind it. Once it had been pushed out onto the beach, Higginson spun the wheel and shot around it.

  Other than a few discarded suitcases, the shore was empty. The dinghy was halfway back to the boat, low in the water with its heavy load, paddles flashing brightly in the sun.

  “We must stop that boat!” Tony shouted.

  “If y’U let me out ah’U be glad to,” Stocker said. He had dug a long-barreled revolver from an inside pocket and was now remov—

  ing a plastic stock from a sling under his arm. This clicked into a slot in the revolver’s butt to make a short but sinister-looking rifle.

  Stocker jumped from the car, cracking open the revolver as he went, jamming in a long-nosed bullet. “Armor piercing,” he said as he leaned his elbows on the hood. Someone in the dinghy was firing a pistol at them now but the aim was erratic, though one bullet hit the sand close by and screamed away. Stocker ignored this completely, letting his breath out, sighting, squeezing off a round.

  It had no apparent effect. The dinghy was almost to the fishing boat now, waiting hands reaching down, when he fired again. And again.

  Angry shouts could be heard as the thudding of the engine slowed and grated into silence. Stocker was not through, however. From another of his lumpy pockets he extracted a canister a the size of a beer can which slipped over the muzzle of the gun. This time he dug the butt into the sand and, estimating the distance, aimed the gun barrel into the air almost vertically. There was a dull bang and the canister shot into the sky in a high arc to splash into the water beyond the boat. There was a much louder explosion and a geyser of water shot into the air; the boat rocked dangerously.

  “A mite over. Just correct by a hair.”

  “You’re not going to blow them up?” Tony asked, wide-eyed.

  “First shake em up. Now some tear gas to quiet em down.”

  “But how do we get them back. Look—they’re beginning to row.”

  “That headland, those rocks,” Billy called out, pointing, “They’re beyond the boat. We can swim in from there, head them off.”

  “I don’t swim,” Higginson said.

  “Tony and me will be enough,” Billy said. “Let’s go.”

  “Hand tuh hand,” Stocker said. “Take this.” He produced a combat knife which he handed to Tony, and a second for Billy Schultz. They were triangular bladed, very sharp, with knuckleduster hilts studded with sharp spikes.

  “Get that tear gas in and keep us covered,” Higginson ordered, gunning the car to life.

  “Clothes off,” Billy ordered, and they did a struggling Laocoon disrobement in the back seat as the Lincoln bounced down the beach. Higginson did not spare the car, going at full speed over the gravel and boulders, dodging the largest so that the men in the back fell into each other, pants caught on feet, shirts flapping, revolvers tumbling. With a final last grinding thud the Lincoln impaled itself on a fang of rock and would go no further.

  Billy led the way, bounding from rock to rock like a demented mountain goat, tastefully clad in orange undershorts and combat knife. Tony followed, wincing at the sharp ridges, peeling down to more proletarian white shorts as he went. There was much shouted activity from the boat as well as a number of shots, some of which came close. Another explosion showered water on the craft as well as engulfing it in a white cloud. Billy seized the knife between his teeth, pirate fashion, and dived into the water. There were rocks under the surface that he barely missed so Tony entered more hesitatingly, climbing in, then biting onto the knife which promptly cut the corner of his mouth, swimming after Billy’s muscular back and thrashing arms.

  A great deal of coughing and multilingual cursing could be heard from the boat as they came close, a metallic hammering followed by the sound of an electric starter. The engine gasped twice, then subsided. The high wooden side rose above them and Tony followed Billy around to where a ladder was built into the stern. Billy Schultz surged up it—then dropped quickly back as a bullet dug a chunk of wood out of the transom.

  “Stay here for a diversion,” he whispered to Tony. “I’ll go around behind and over the side. If I can reach the rail I can pull myself up.” He bulged a massive biceps to prove it, then churned away.

  Diversion, what did he mean? Sitting duck would be more truthful. Tony shivered and looked up, expecting a gun to be pointed over the side to blow his brains out. A wisp of gas blew past and his eyes began to burn and tear. He dived under to wash them out

  then thought What the hell! and surged out of the water and up the ladder with a rush.

  The cockpit was a shambles; his eyes took the whole scene in on instant. Floor boards up while a dark-skinned man in a striped shirt dug into the engine’s innards. Beyond him Robl and D’Isernia huddled low, ugly-looking Lugers ready in their hands. Tony grabbed the knife and threw it, shouting wordlessly at the same time. The knife skidded across the deck and bumped harmlessly into RobPs leg. The Germa
n raised his gun, shouted an oath, leveled it at Tony, certain death this close. A muscular form rose over th beyond him, too far away to help.

  D’Isernia raised his gun too, then shoved the barrel into the side of Robl’s neck.

  “Don’t shoot or I will kill you. We are caught, no murders at least.”

  Robl shouted and swung the butt of the pistol at the Italian, but before it could hit, a powerful hand reached down and plucked it easily from his grasp and viced fingers clamped onto his neck. Tony climbed all the way into the boat, saw the crewman huddling in the other side of the cockpit and the closed doors to the cabin. Unthinking, carried away by excitement, he raced to the threw them open, and dived in.

  Two shots sounded like cannon rounds in the cabin, the bullets tearing through the wood where he had been an instant sooner. Unplanned, he dived forward and crashed into the man sec the table, carrying him down with him. The gun went spinning, the old man cursed feebly in German and thrashed on the deck stood, blinking smoke and tear gas from his eyes, and retrieved the gun. A familiar-looking suitcase lay on the bunk to one side. It was unlocked and opened to his touch. Money, dollars, greenbacks, packed solid, and exuding the rich odor of wealth. One of the packs had been broken into, greedy, greedy, but the bills should n gone very far. Qosing the suitcase again he took it and the gun and went back on deck. Billy Schultz had organized everything swiftly; D’Isernia and Robl sat by the dead engine under die watchful barrel of his pistol while the two boatme craft toward shore.

  “The money’s here,” Tony said. “And Adolf is down there as well.”

  “Couldn’t be better. Why don’t you hold up the suitcase so they can see it on shore, before Stocker drops any more of those rifle grenades on top of us.”

  Tony raised the case over his head and there was a lusty cheer from the beach where the population had grown considerably. A number of Lambretta motor scooters were parked on the sand, with more arriving every moment, and the Cadillac was bumping down the road as well. Tony shouted and waved back and his stomach dropped as a thought finally penetrated the haze of excitement.

  “Wait, I almost forgot, everything happening at once. Where is the Cellini painting?”

  “Permit me,” D’Isernia said, and his fingers twitched slowly toward his inner jacket pocket under the unwavering muzzle of Billy Schultz’s gun. He withdrew a flat, wooden box and passed it over to Tony. “All is as it should be. It is a beautiful piece.”

  Tony looked inside and relaxed. “It’s all right. Everything is all right I guess.”

  Willing hands pulled the boat in until it grated on the sand; many guns were leveled as the prisoners emerged. Adolf Hitler-Jakob Platz was carried ashore and his canes were restored to him. Stocker dived onto the suitcase like a hound dog on its prey and looked up coldly after a quick perusal.

  “Some of thu money’s missing!”

  “Relax,” Tony said, mission accomplished, at peace with the world. “Search the prisoners, it must be on them. Nothing to worry about.”

  “A well-done FBI operation,” Sones said.

  “Impossible without the CIA,” Higginson snapped in answer, which offended Timberio.

  “You are not forgetting the Agenzia Terza to whom you came for aid when all was lost?”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Tony said. “There is glory enough for all. Let us not spoil this victory by squabbling. Look at Jacob Goldstein, his people deserve as much credit as any of you and he’s

  making no claims.” Goldstein was silent, his eyes fixed coldly on the prisoners. “All’s well that ends well, as the quote goes. We’ve done it, tied this one up neatly, there’s nothing more to worry about.”

  “Absolutely correct,” a new voice said.

  Detective Lieutenant Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez emerged from the undergrowth followed by two sunglassed policemen who carried drawn guns. “I shall now close the final curtain on this little drama by arresting you, Antonio Hawkin, for the murder of your FBI colleague Davidson.”

  He advanced, grimly, handcuffs ready.

  Seventeen

  “Now wait a minute, just a minute, hold on,” Tony said, backing away. “This is all a mistake.”

  “Drop the gun. Do not resist.”

  Tony became aware that he still held the captured Luger and he threw it hastily from him, suddenly feeling very naked and exposed in his sopping underwear. “I did not kill Davidson,” he protested.

  “We feel otherwise.”

  “But you have no evidence. However, the real killer is now among us and since you have the handcuffs ready I suggest you arrest him instead.”

  Gonzales halted, his eyes moving about the beach and the assembled men; weapons vanished as he looked around. “Indeed,” he said. “You would not care to name this killer and give me evidence to support your contention?”

  “I would. Very few people knew that Davidson had been stabbed, certainly not the general public because the papers mentioned only death by violence, without details. Is that true?”

  “It is. We do our best not to supply future murderers with lessons on technique.”

  “Agreed. Yet there is one man here who knows all about this technique. Not too long ago he said something to me about not caring if I decimated the FBI ranks completely with my knife work.” Tony stabbed an accusing finger in Carlo D’Isernia’s direction. “You said that, didn’t you?”

  172 montezxjma’s revenge

  D’Isernia looked very tired. “There is always the possibility,” he sighed.

  “Sounds logical,” Sones said. “The knife, a traditional Italian weapon.”

  “No ethnic insults,” Timberio shouted. “The knife is an Int tional weapon, you cannot calumnify Italians in that manner!”

  “Please,” D’Isernia said. “I wish to make a statement.” He was not only tired, but seeming very old. “Though I did not kill Davidson I know who did. And, in a way I feel responsible for that man’s death. The murderer is . • .”

  “Schwein!”

  Robl shouted the word as his hand whipped the knife from his pocket, the great blade springing out, striking instantly to sink it up to the hilt in D’Isernia’s back. It happened in less than a second, the knife slamming home, D’Isernia’s eyes going wide with shock, the shouted word still in the air.

  Gonzales was moving at the same time, but he was yards away and could not stop the blow. But he did seize Robl an instant after it had been struck and with sudden twists and rapid motions of his hands had him in the air, on the ground, pinned solidly with his arms locked behind his back.

  “Karate shotokan at least,” Sones said, nodding appreciatively.

  D’Isernia was lying on his side on the sand looking suddenly shrunken, the wicked handle of the knife protruding from his back. He smiled crookedly when Tony bent over him, he spoke his voice was weak but clear.

  “You see how he condemns himself? If not out of hi mouth at least out of his own hand. But he struck too quickly this time, not true—though true enough. I do not mind. No! Do not touch the knife. Listen to me instead, while I can still talk. man, can you hear me?”

  “I can,” Gonzales said, kneeling close while Robl was held securely by his patrolmen. The others gathered around, whole plan, all of it, it is my doing, my creature. And the too, although indirectly. We were watching at the airpor and I, when the airplane arrived with Hawkin here and the other FBI agent, Davidson. I recognized him. He used to wo

  ruins of the museum. And the fragment from the corner of the Da Vinci, all that was left after the raid. I bought them and paid him well. But I could do nothing with the paintings, other than to admire them, they were too well known to sell. The Cellini has helped me during some very bad times. But they did serve a purpose when I sought out Robl and told him the plan. A fake Da Vinci was painted, done by Elmyr, a very good man though quite expensive, and the real fragment of painting integrated into the corner. The rest you know. I have failed. You have Robl, a simple murderous type, and you have his fak
e Hitler accomplice, Jakob Platz, for all he is worth. But I have failed in the bigger thing. All of this was meant to smoke out Hochhande, but it has not succeeded. I have failed.”

  “On the contrary, my good friend, you have succeeded admirably, your plan worked to perfection.” Jacob Goldstein sir down at the dying man.

  “What … what do you mean? Do not torture me at this last hour.”

  “I speak only the truth. You have smoked him out and he is here.” Goldstein spun about to face the silent watchers. “Come now, Hochhande, speak up. I know who you are. Your fingerprints will prove it. Step forward and admit your existence—or must I drag it from you?”

  There was utter silence; no one moved. The sun shone warmly on the sand. Then the sand moved, whispered as a foot shu. forward, then another.

  “I am tired of hiding,” Jakob Platz-Adolf Hitler said, leaning on his canes and moving painfully. “It took you many years to find me. Fools. That Italian thief is smarter than you all. I never suspected him, never.” He drew himself up, as well as he could, coming to attention. “I am Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, My disability prevents me from clicking my heels.”

  “At last …” Carlo D’Isernia said, smiling, and died.

  “Would someone be so kind as to explain?” Lieutenant Gonzales said.

  “Permit me,” Jacob Goldstein said. “A tale of murder and greed now comes to an end. This Hochhande ran a prison camp in Italy

  where, apparently, D’Isernia’s family was killed. D’Isernia concocted a plan to unearth Hochhande using these works of art. The Americans were blamed for destroying the museum that housed them, and he played on this guilt by asking a large sum of money for their return. Unhappily, they must continue to bear this guilt, only partly alleviated by the return of one of the paintings to Italy. So the pieces fall into place. Italy has the painting.”

  “Safely,” Timberio said. “It will be returned and the Americans will get full credit for their part in this matter.”

  “Davidson was murdered, and the police now have the killer in their hands.”