In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  “Don’t believe it,” Limón cried. “It is this gringo who chases the women, not the other way around. He considers himself El Amador, The Lover.”

  “Is that true?” Guiot asked.

  “You can’t accept my word? Ask any of the hotel staff.”

  “I am asking him,” Guiot told Limón tiredly. “Do you wish to know why we are getting nowhere in our questioning? You are supplying all the answers.”

  The arresting officers turned away to hide their amusement and Buchanan used the interlude to compose a description of Marina. He had stupidly blurted out the truth when first collared by Limón. Now, with a harsh spotlight shining in his face, he belatedly realized that any link with her automatically associated him with the curadora’s death in Santa Luisa. He had to fix it so the police would never find his alibi.

  What did Marina look like? He’d give her breasts, not too large, because he wanted no confusion with Adele, but at least breasts. The kind of softly curving buttocks that could break a man’s heart. An insatiable sexual appetite? No, no, that again was too much like Adele, but at least a normal interest in sex, or else why should she be chasing him?

  “Well, which is it?” Guiot demanded, turning back. “Are you or are you not a lover?”

  “I perhaps enjoy a small reputation,” Buchanan admitted.

  “A paid lover?”

  “If the lady insists.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Buchanan shrugged.

  “Hmmm,” Guiot said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that explains it. A run of bad luck. Purses which remained closed.” He crossed to a table against the wall. “You became desperate?”

  “No.”

  Guiot picked through the modest possessions laid out on the table. The ring with the fake diamond. The watch that didn’t keep proper time. The wallet that was empty.

  “No?” Guiot repeated, holding up the wallet, spreading it open, displaying the empty, gaping cavern.

  Buchanan stared at it miserably. “I have credit.”

  “Oh? Where? From whom?”

  “Friends.”

  Guiot tossed the wallet back on the table. “Very well. Can you give me a list? Six people who are willing to advance you money?”

  “Why should I?” Buchanan asked lamely.

  Guiot smiled. “Your friends, like the lady who chases you, they are elusive, sí? Not around when you need them?” He moved under the light and blocked out the harsh glare. “I am a reasonable man. You say you have an alibi. I ask only that you produce it. Where is this lady?”

  “I’ve already told you. I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I, and to be perfectly frank, I find that very strange, Sr. Buchanan. This mysterious lady must have been in the hotel when you were arrested. If she wanted you so badly, why didn’t she come forward then, pray tell? What better time to press her claim than when you were in custody?” There was a long pause. “Do you have any answer for that?”

  “No,” Limón shouted, unable to contain himself.

  Guiot sighed and took the fat hotel detective aside. He spoke to him in the barest whisper. “Do you want a conviction in this case?”

  “You know that,” Limón hissed. “It’s been six months since my last arrest. The hotel manager is starting to look at me. Who needs a detective who can’t solve crimes?”

  “Then listen,” Guiot said softly, moving him toward the door. “This is a small matter. An American. A first offense. No money was taken. The judge is liable to dismiss the charge. Unless …”

  Limón was already starting to sweat. He reached into his pocket. “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much money should he have stolen?”

  “Fool,” Guiot said, pushing the bills away. “You haven’t enough for that.” He got his hand on the door and started to ease it open. “Your only guarantee is a guilty plea. This Buchanan must be made to sign a confession.”

  Limón nodded eagerly, the sweat oozing from him now, huge beads bulging on his forehead. “You want me to beat him? I will do anything you say. Just tell me how I can help.”

  “You can leave,” Guiot said, pushing him into the hall. “You can get out and stay out.”

  “But …”

  Contreras took advantage of this opening to barge in with his entourage, Dr. Noble Enrique, the eminent psychiatrist, and his two aides, fondly nicknamed Mongo and Igor.

  “I really must condemn this outrage,” Contreras protested. “Your prisoner is insane. I have the papers here to prove it. Duly signed …” He turned and whispered to Enrique, a small man with bulging frog eyes, no chin. “Psst! Have you signed them?”

  Enrique put on his glasses. “Perhaps I should first see the patient?”

  “Get out!” Guiot raged, his patience exhausted. “Get out, get out, get out. I am in command here. This is my interrogation room. This is my prisoner.”

  “You’re right, Contreras,” Enrique said. “The man is obviously demented. I’ll sign immediately.” He motioned to his aides and singled out Guiot. “You may have trouble. Use the straitjacket.”

  “No, no,” Contreras shouted. “You’re making a mistake.” He pointed to Buchanan. “It is this man who is crazy.”

  Enrique put his glasses back on. “No, it is you who is making the error, Contreras. This man looks fine to me. But the other?” He twirled a finger at his forehead. “Cuckoo, cuckoo.”

  Guiot backed into a corner. “The first one who touches me gets shot.”

  “You see the violent nature, Contreras?” Enrique asked smugly. “What other proof do you want?”

  “No, no, no,” Contreras screamed, pulling desperately at Mongo. “You stupid idiots. You’re taking the wrong person.”

  Mongo shrugged him off like a flea. He glanced knowingly at his employer. “The doctor? Maybe he’s the one who is crazy?”

  Enrique put on his glasses once more. That was possible, very possible.

  Buchanan’s hopes began to rise. If this kept up, they’d all be at the funny farm, save him. He was about to take his leave—no one was watching—when the door was suddenly kicked open.

  “What in Our Lady’s name do we have here, Lieutenant?” Mendoza demanded, his bull’s head cocked expectantly, his bulk taking up the whole passage. “Is this any way to run an interrogation?”

  Buchanan paled at the sight of his arch enemy from the Zona Rosa. All was lost now.

  “M-my apologies, Captain,” Guiot spluttered, snapping to attention. “I think I can explain …” He considered briefly and then discarded the idea. How could anyone explain this debacle?

  Enrique made a closer examination of Guiot. The man was a lieutenant of police? Well, no wonder he was loud, violent, menacing. What embarrassing situation had Contreras allowed him to bungle into?

  “Permit me, Captain,” Enrique said, his only hope swift action. “I am the consulting psychiatrist at Nuevo Mundo Sanitarium. I have committal papers here for …” He swung around dramatically. “Dr. Hector Contreras.”

  “Me?” Contreras demanded, turning up his hearing device. “Me?”

  Mendoza sighed. He knew Contreras well. Yet it was about time. “Then take him away.”

  “Mongo, Igor,” Enrique ordered, snapping his fingers. The two hulking aides moved in on the good doctor and he was whisked out kicking and screaming.

  “Now,” Mendoza said, bulling into the room with the careless authority of an elephant consorting with ants, “what do we have here?”

  Noli popped out from behind him, anxiously checking Buchanan for marks of a rubber hose. “I brought him as soon as I could, señor.”

  “Gracias” Buchanan said bitterly, thinking that it was a thoughtful gesture, but a dumb one. Didn’t Noli realize that Mendoza had been trying to get him for years? The blustering bullyboy would blow this thing into heroic proportions. A simple burglary was about to become a major heist. A few months behind bars was about to stretch into an eternity.

  “De nada. It i
s nothing,” Noli said. “Are we not amigos? Would you not do the same for me?”

  Buchanan cringed. How could he stop his “friend” from hanging him? Noli would be babbling all about Marina next. Her name. Everything.

  Mendoza smiled. He found many pleasures in his work. One of the most satisfying was the consternation he could strike with his mere appearance on a scene.

  Guiot couldn’t figure it. “Do you know this suspect?”

  Mendoza looked at the arresting officers. A small movement of his head was all that was necessary. They slid away like lizards leaving a cold rock.

  “We are acquainted,” Mendoza said then. “I wouldn’t say friends. I simply know him.” He approached the cringing Buchanan. “I know him for what he is.”

  “A thief?” Guiot asked hopefully.

  Mendoza helped himself to Buchanan’s last cigar twist. He removed the cellophane very slowly, crumpling it into a ball, letting it drop to the floor. “You’re charging him as one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad,” Mendoza said, lighting the cigar. He blew out the match and let it drop. “It won’t stick.”

  “It won’t …”

  “No,” Mendoza said, watching Buchanan’s expression, the faint glimmer of hope. “He told you about the woman, didn’t he?”

  Guiot tried to laugh. “The woman who was supposedly chasing him?”

  “It’s true,” Noli cried, making the sign of the cross. “I swear. My sainted mother.”

  “Shut up,” Mendoza told him. “Get the hell out of here.” He waved his cigar for the benefit of Buchanan. “You, too.”

  Buchanan stared at him. “You mean it?”

  Mendoza nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Well,” Buchanan said, slipping off the stool. “I hardly expected …” He paused, flustered. “What can I say except thank you?”

  “For what?” Mendoza asked. “For being an honest cop?” He puffed on the cigar and decided it didn’t meet his standards. “That’s a big shock to you, is it, Sleepery Sleek? You didn’t think we had one in Mexico?”

  “Yes. I mean no …”

  “Dios mío,” Mendoza said, letting the cigar drop. “Do me a favor, just leave, will you? Stick around and we’ll really have a charge. Defaming our national honor.”

  Buchanan smiled weakly and slipped by him. He grabbed up his belongings from the table and was out of the door without another word.

  Guiot recovered from his daze as it slammed shut. “That’s my prisoner!”

  “Was,” Mendoza said, grinding out the cigar under a heavy foot.

  Guiot summoned up all his courage. “This is most unusual. Might I have some explanation?”

  “Here it is,” Mendoza said. He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket and handed it over. “We don’t want him for some stupid burglary. We want him for murder.”

  Marina sat crying in her cab parked down the block from police headquarters. More than an hour had passed and still there was no sign of Buchanan. His release was growing ever more doubtful—and with him was the salve sample.

  Ramón, her driver, a former bullfighter, a man with a soul, was getting a case of the sniffles himself . When a señorita’s flow of tears could not be stemmed, they bespoke a great tragedy, verdad?

  “The man the police took, is he your husband?” Ramón asked gently.

  Marina shook her head, dabbing at her face, her makeup ruined. “No.”

  “Your intended?”

  “No.”

  “A good friend?”

  “No.”

  Ramón racked his brain. There must be some connection. The poor woman was drowning in her sorrow. “Perhaps a relative?”

  “Yes,” Marina told him, desperate to end his questions. “A brother.”

  Ramón wished now that he hadn’t inquired. A husband or lover would be bad enough. But to have your own blood in irons. Trágico.

  “For you to cry so, to be without hope, he must be guilty,” Ramón said after a while. “What did he do? Fail to pay his hotel bill?”

  Marina blew her nose. “No.”

  “Commit some theft?”

  “No.”

  Ramón hesitated. What was left? Assault? A sex crime?

  “Murder,” Marina said, getting it over with. Perhaps now the incessant questions would stop.

  “Oh,” Ramón said softly, sorry he had asked. “Is it the one in today’s newspapers? The bruja tortured to death at Santa Luisa?”

  Marina’s crying jag stopped as suddenly as it had started. “What did you say … ?”

  “The bruja,” Ramón repeated, but before he could get further, Marina was out on the sidewalk, snatching a paper from a nearby newsboy. Flipping through it, she soon found the story, and a quick glance sent her back into the cab, struggling to compose herself.

  “Get the hell out of here,” she ordered.

  Adele and Herbert watched in bewilderment as Marina sped away. Why would she leave now?—with Buchanan still in police custody?

  Adele decided the sudden departure must have been prompted by something in the newspaper.

  “May I?” she said, borrowing their driver’s. “Gracias.” Herbert took it from her in turn and a moment later they were reading the fateful story together.

  “Move this heap,” Adele instructed, even before they had finished.

  “Fast,” Herbert added.

  Harry looked up from reading the comics. All of them leaving?—and without Buchanan?

  Hmmm, Harry thought. He had to do this right. Should he follow or stay behind?

  “You want to go?” his driver asked, pointing to the departing cabs.

  “Stay,” Harry decided. Whatever had scared them off, it was nothing that he, Harry, had to worry about. He finished reading his favorite, Barney Google, which he had saved until the last, and thumbed back through the paper, looking for Uncle Ray.

  “Uh, just a minute,” Harry said, coming upon the story out of Santa Luisa. “Perhaps we’d better scoot along after all.”

  Buchanan sneaked out of the back door of the police headquarters with Noli, who, stalwart friend, had waited for him in the lobby, there to babble out the whole shocking story.

  Marina, God forbid, had a gun in her purse, and he had overheard her enter into a partnership with the Glasses, the object being to “nail” Buchanan.

  Not only that, but when they all jumped into cabs, chasing after him from the hotel, a fairy named Harry, the one with the orange hair and the lame foot, had also given chase. Only a few minutes earlier, when Noli last looked, they had still been parked down the block, waiting …

  “Enough,” Buchanan protested, feet flying. They must save their breath to escape such a multitude.

  In the course of the afternoon, they changed cabs five times, took the subway on four other occasions, and dodged through the crowds at all three public markets, the San Juan, Lagunilla and Merced. Only then were they satisfied that they had lost their pursuers.

  They were wrong, though. The wily Mendoza was still on their trail, and he was satisfied, more than ever, that he could pin a murder rap on Buchanan. Would an innocent man run so hard?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Buchanan and Noli sat sipping Penafiel at the Toulouse-Lautrec restaurante-galería around the corner from the Geneve.

  “Why do you still worry, amigo?” Noli wanted to know. “Were you not released from jail? Have we not eluded those who wish to kill you?”

  Buchanan nodded miserably. He had purposely chosen the sidewalk cafe for its carnival atmosphere. The Zona Rosa’s chic young crowd babbled happily on all sides. Hawkers cried everywhere with their flowers and chiclets and puppets and lottery tickets. Birds sang sweetly in their cages.

  “Have I not arranged for a small sum to tide you over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I not arranged for your suitcase to be smuggled out of the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I not arranged other lodgings?”


  “Yes.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  Buchanan looked about him in wretched despair. Today they were serving happiness only at the other checkered tablecloths spread under the bright pink umbrellas. Good food and strong drink and old friends to share them with. Men who were macho, very male, and women who were beautiful, incredibly so, ripe flesh straining in their high fashion clothes, eager smiles flashing with the pure wild joy of life.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Noli asked solemnly.

  “Yes,” Buchanan admitted. Ever since he had found time to think he had been unable to put Marina out of his mind. Reason dictated that she could not be guilty of Doña Otelia’s murder or even be aware of the fact. If she was implicated, she’d be in hiding by now, or out of the country, not chasing after him. The same applied to Adele and Herbert.

  “I can hardly blame you, I suppose,” Noli said. “If a woman came after me with a pistol …” He shuddered at the memory. “I forgot to ask. What did you do to her?”

  Buchanan shrugged hopelessly. “That’s just it. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Noli laughed. “What do you take me for? If you don’t wish to tell, I will accept that, but don’t lie to me, amigo.” Buchanan was about to argue and then the absurdity hit him. No one with a speck of sense went gunning without reason. They at least had to think—however incorrectly—that you had done them some terrible wrong.

  “I am not the type to pry,” Noli said. “On the other hand, if you perchance need a confidant, a trustworthy repository …”

  Buchanan’s mind was elsewhere. He had, by simple deduction, cleared Marina and the Glasses of the curadora’s foul murder, but had they granted him the same courtesy?

  “Who can understand women?” Noli counseled, trying another tack.

  Buchanan nodded absently. Women always did the exact opposite of what you expected. Their mechanisms ran counter to all that was established and orderly. Perverse, contrary, impossible …

  “That’s it!” Buchanan cried suddenly, leaping up.

  Noli barely managed to save the Penafiel. “That’s what?”

  “She believes I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  The murder, Buchanan thought, barely stopping himself from saying the awful word aloud. Yes, yes, Marina believed him guilty, and so did the Glasses. That’s why they had teamed up to “nail” him.