In a Lady’s Service Read online

  Also by Tom Ardies

  Kosygin is Coming (aka Russian Roulette)

  In a Lady’s Service

  Palm Springs

  The Charlie Sparrow Series

  Their Man in the White House

  This Suitcase is Going to Explode

  Pandemic

  As Jack Trolley

  Balboa Firefly

  Manila Time

  Juarez Justice

  La Jolla Spindrift

  As Richard O’Brien

  Storming Heaven

  Gangster Jazz (aka By Friends Betrayed)

  IN A LADY’S SERVICE

  TOM ARDIES

  Copyright © 1976 Tom Ardies

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by

  Brash Books

  PO Box 8212

  Calabasas, CA 91372

  www.brash-books.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  CHAPTER ONE

  Buchanan sighed. The Hotel Geneve’s bar, known to its intimates as The Jungle, was normally a gold mine by four o’clock, but pickings were awfully thin this afternoon. The bejeweled dowager hiding behind the split-leaf philodendron was far too long in the tooth and the Vogue cover girl needed another thirty pounds to be comfortable in bed. The long-nosed matron in the low-cut peasant blouse, now there was a real pip for you, but she was under escort, so that ended that. Unless one had a hankering for the fairy across the way.

  He wasn’t that desperate—yet, Buchanan decided, continuing down the aisle for a quick survey of the farthest reaches of the potted flora. As he feared, there was no one else to be found, and he reluctantly returned to the front of the bar, settling two tables away from the cluster of other patrons. Force of habit governed this discreet placement. Not too close, and yet not too far, either.

  “The usual?” Noli called from his station.

  “Por favor,” Buchanan said.

  “Been to the Hipódromo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t win them all,” Noli counseled. Resplendent in his airline pilot’s uniform, a dark sky blue laced with gold braid, he disappeared down the corner stairwell, bound for the dispensary, which, for reasons known only to the management, was hidden in the basement.

  Buchanan got out a black cigar twist and wondered if he ought to reconsider about the Vogue bone bag. Though pretending to be engrossed in her Guide to Mexico City, she had, actually, taken careful note of his arrival. He recalled Spencer Tracy’s appraisal of Hepburn. There wasn’t much meat, Tracy often said, but what there was, was choice. Might the same thing apply to this strangely translucent creature?

  No, he decided immediately, marshaling patience. He lit his cigar and leaned back to wait. The Jungle was one of his favorite hunting grounds. Chances were that a whole gaggle of better prospects would come limping by any moment now. Had the Geneve ever failed him in a pinch?

  The answer, again, was no, Buchanan thought, fondly reviewing past conquests. The hotel was a massive old pile, dating back forever, marked by a certain seedy opulence, and exuding a style and charm and grace that you would never find in a thousand gleaming Hiltons. Exactly the kind of relic that appealed to unattached ladies. Its popularity, in fact, was nothing short of incredible, and they came to it in absolute droves. Especially rich widows.

  But what really made the place, at least for Buchanan’s purposes, was the location of The Jungle, brilliantly situated so that guests had to pass through it to get to their rooms in the older section. In another hour or so, the guided tours would start to straggle back, sweaty, footsore, mind-boggled. Halfway down the long center aisle, the vision of a bath, the only thing to sustain her thus far, might well give way in a spent woman’s mind to that of a frosty margarita. If she succumbed, and if one led to another, and if she was blessed with silky hair and a good bust and a clear complexion, it was quite possible that she would find herself in conversation with Buchanan. Once this happened you could safely bet that the small talk would soon switch from the Temple of Quetzalcoatl to the Violins at the Villafontana.

  Ah, yes, Buchanan thought, puffing more contentedly on his cigar. It was amazing the number of women who lost their senses at the dark rustle of violins. He took advantage of his smoke screen to steal a quick glance at the old dear back of the philodendron. His latest intelligence had her identified as the widow Elizabeth Fadden (one of the El Paso Faddens, admittedly, but nevertheless a Fadden). Chalo, the Geneve’s bell captain, Buchanan’s most industrious informer, figured she was worth several million at the very least. The diamonds she was wearing now were paste compared to those she had stashed in the office safe. Too bad her advanced years made her overripe for plucking.

  “Haig and Haig,” Noli announced grandly, returning from the basement. He set the glass down with a flourish, uncapped a bottle of soda with even more flair, and presented the customary bowl of peanuts as if they were a gift from the gods.

  Buchanan could imagine eyes flicking his way. The most expensive drink in the house. Twenty pesos.

  “Rivas was around,” Noli said, waiting to be paid.

  Buchanan got out his wallet and extracted a twenty and a five for the tip. “Asking for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Buchanan said. He put back his wallet and tried his best to keep up a brave front. “Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  “Quién sabe?” Noli shrugged. “Who knows?” He paused briefly, considering something more, and then changed his mind. The empty tray spun on a blunt fingertip and he moved back to his station.

  Buchanan frowned. Debts, debts, debts. How had he ever gotten in so deep? Especially with the bookmaker Rivas, who, if his threats were to be believed, would slit his throat soon. He poured about an inch of soda atop his scotch, took a small, sampling sip, and then ran through Chalo’s report again. This could well be his last drink. He ought to know who he was having it with.

  The widow Fadden, of course, topped the list, described with deadly accuracy. “A wrinkled fart, but who cares?” Me, Buchanan muttered to himself. Bankruptcy or not, a man had his pride.

  He moved down farther. There was no mention of the fairy, an oversight he appreciated, but the couple mooning in the corner, eyes only for each other, were doubtlessly the Glasses. Chalo also had them pegged. “The spider and the cow.”

  Buchanan smiled. Herbert Glass, a used car salesman from Toronto (Hustling Herb, his business card boasted), did indeed have the look of a spider. He was squat and very hairy, with a big potbelly, skinny arms and legs. It was easy to imagine him scuttling when he walked. And his fulsome companion Adele? Well, twelve could suckle there, with enough left over to make butter.

  Though they had registered as man and wife, Chalo had his since
re doubts. Their lovemaking, he reported, was far too fierce for a matrimonial base, featuring all the niceties so quick to wither once vows were said. It was respectfully suggested that they sell tickets for a certain keyhole. “Meet Adele, the Glass blower, ha, ha.”

  Buchanan moaned inwardly—Chalo was a bright boy, but his forte wasn’t humor, was it?—and skipped quickly down the list. There ought to be something on the bone bag. Ah, yes, here she was, at the very bottom, and deservedly so. Miss Marina McKenzie, from New York, New York (she had written it that way when she registered), and while there was nothing concrete to indicate her profession, what else could she be but a model? Chalo argued persuasively that no one would appear in public in such a pitiful state unless one’s career demanded it. A swift forage through her luggage had led him to set her worth at minimal. “Another phffft!”

  Exactly, Buchanan thought. He stuffed the list back in his pocket, took a small sip of his drink, and then exchanged it for the comfort of his cigar. Patience. The key was patience. He let himself be lulled by the faint funereal circus throb of “Les Bicyclettes de Belsize,” a marimba band arrangement being scratched out somewhere on an ancient record player, and thought of all the reasons why Marina McKenzie, of New York, New York, wasn’t up to his usual high standards. Eyes overlarge for her head, her mouth too full and wide, a mole in the wrong place, and, worst of all, so thin you could practically see through her. Buchanan thought that it must take a supreme effort of will to become so emaciated purposely.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” he suggested at last, merely making conversation, but she didn’t reply, still feigning interest in the guidebook.

  Buchanan shrugged. The snub was one of the hazards of his profession, and in the present instance, being equally uninterested, it bothered him not at all. It merely demonstrated how fortunate he was to have Chalo’s keen eye in his employ.

  The boy’s advance reports—detailed, encompassing, perceptive—were a priceless asset that could save him hours and even days of wasted maneuvering. Good intelligence was the key to success on any battlefield and one could make truly tragic errors without it. It was a poor general who charged a supposed fort and found he had captured an outhouse. Verdad?

  Marina suddenly put down her book. “Why are you staring?” she asked, louder than necessary.

  Buchanan felt his cheeks color. Perhaps he had been guilty of stupidly staring, but that hardly called for a scene, damn it. “I beg your pardon,” he said, properly apologetic. “It’s just that you remind me of my dead wife. A striking resemblance.”

  He was rewarded with a grunt of disdain instead of a show of sympathy. “Oh, God. How many times have I heard that line?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Buchanan protested, unhappily aware that all eyes had turned his way. It had been a dull afternoon and at last some entertainment had been provided. “This, mind you,” he added, recovering nicely, “was after she had been dead for some time.”

  From the Glasses’ table, courtesy of Adele, there was a badly muffled snicker, and Buchanan thanked her with a slight nod of his head. How unfortunate that she was teamed up with Herbert. Another Elizabeth Taylor were it not for the long nose. He could get along famously with her.

  “Your late wife, she’d be a suicide, I take it?” Marina countered sweetly.

  It was the spiderlike Herbert who snickered this time and Marina was quick to imitate Buchanan’s little nod of thanks. Then she turned back ready for further battle. The pale blue cat’s eyes were flashing. The thin jaw was jutting forward.

  Buchanan put his cigar aside. He could sense a long and bitter campaign unless he struck hard and fast. Already the miserable little snip was poised for her next thrust.

  “Suicide?” Buchanan repeated harshly. “The truth, madam, is that I killed the bitch, she being so much like you.”

  Marina stared at him unsurely. Nothing in her carefully rehearsed repartee seemed to fit that admission.

  “You may be interested in my method of disposal,” Buchanan continued, raising his voice. “I put her through a meat grinder, combined the pellets with raisins and peanuts, covered the whole mess with a rich brown chocolate—and her friends ate her as Bridge Mix.”

  The widow Fadden gasped, Marina seemed to turn a trifle green, and even the Glasses looked rather shattered. Buchanan retrieved his cigar and pushed back happily. That, he thought, ought to hold them for a while, but then he belatedly realized that their state of shock wasn’t entirely his doing.

  “May I trouble you for your passport, señor?” a voice of authority asked in confirmation.

  Buchanan turned apprehensively. Captain Pollo Mendoza, his most sinister nemesis, was beaming down at him, frayed wallet open at the appropriate plastic insert, warrant to badger displayed for all to see. Buchanan silently made a package of all the papers that would be eventually required and passed them over as one. His tourist card, auto permit, driver’s license and auto insurance were included with the passport.

  Mendoza accepted them gravely and pulled out a chair and delivered his bulk into it. He moved Buchanan’s scotch to one side and spread out his spoils on the table. He licked a finger for page turning.

  Buchanan knew without looking that no one in the audience would have the good manners to leave. He could imagine them all staring in utter fascination—the bone bag’s glint of anticipation vulgar at best.

  “It’s fortunate I happened by,” Mendoza announced. “Very, very fortunate.” He turned to Marina. “Do you realize who you’ve been arguing with? The notorious Sleepery Sleeck.”

  Marina swallowed hard. “The who?”

  “Slippery Slick,” Buchanan translated. “It’s a nickname. Actually …”

  “You mock my accent?” Mendoza demanded menacingly. He unbuttoned his jacket to reveal an ugly automatic jammed under his belt.

  “Not at all,” Buchanan said. “I was just …” He rolled his eyes heavenward and sagged back helplessly. What choice did he have but to play along?

  “That’s better,” Mendoza said. “I’m glad you decided to cooperate. Otherwise …” He smiled and shrugged his massive shoulders. “So tell me now, Señor Sleeck. How many women have you murdered in all?”

  Buchanan stubbed out his cigar and frowned in concentration. “Must I be exact?—or would an estimate do?”

  The fat policeman shrugged again and exchanged the passport for the tourist permit. “I don’t suppose it matters. One, two, the penalty is the same.”

  “In that case, five,” Buchanan said promptly.

  “Five?” Mendoza glanced over the tourist permit and found nothing of interest. “Were you married to all of them?”

  Buchanan shook his head. “No. Only two. The others were merely friends. One just a passing acquaintance.”

  “Yet all were crimes of passion?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Mendoza made a clucking sound, suggesting that he understood, perhaps even sympathized. The driver’s license and auto insurance got only the most cursory examination. Then he put the documents back in the same neat pile in which he had received them.

  “These foul murders,” Mendoza said, sliding the stack toward Buchanan. “Do you recall when the last took place?”

  Buchanan thought for a moment. “Seven years to the day.”

  Mendoza’s black face brightened. “Then the statute of limitations applies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lucky for you,” Mendoza said, pushing to his feet. He bowed all around, very correct and formal, and then once more to Marina, swooping down so low he almost lost his balance.

  Buchanan marveled at how lightly he was being let off. Mendoza was normally inclined to make much more of their encounters, which took place with distressing and unavoidable regularity in the Zona Rosa, the tourist hub of Mexico City. The finest hotels, the leading restaurants, the best clubs and the most elegant shops were all jammed into the compact wedge south of Reforma from the Cuauhtémoc Circle to the Diana Fountain. Everyt
hing one could possibly want in this world was laid out for those with the money or guile to take it. Mendoza’s beat, and Buchanan’s, too.

  Mendoza was about to leave when he became aware of the faint palpitations emanating from behind the philodendron. He moved closer and parted the leaves and found the widow Fadden quietly freaking out. She obviously had taken his performance to heart.

  Interesting, Mendoza thought, turning back. How very, very interesting.

  Buchanan groaned. How could Mendoza mistake that wrinkled lump for his prey? There would be absolutely no mercy shown now. High office demanded that such innocents be protected.

  “You’re a professional man, Señor Sleeck?” Mendoza asked, making it sound like an afterthought. “Might I enquire as to which profession?”

  Buchanan tried to think. He had been a gynecologist the last time and sky diver before that. “Palmistry,” he decided.

  “Really?” Mendoza said. “That, as I recall, is one of the oldest professions, dating back to the Chaldeans. What was it they claimed? That God placed signs in the hands of men so that they might know their works?”

  “It’s a fact,” Buchanan said, grabbing the policeman’s fat paw. “You see the broadness of your palm? That denotes a kind, affectionate, generous nature. An objective and broad outlook on life. A consideration for the feelings and ideas of others. A likable personality.”

  “You practice here, do you?”

  “No,” Buchanan said, quickly releasing him. “The law, as you well know, states that it is forbidden for a tourist to work, or to engage in any lucrative or paid activity.”

  Mendoza smiled. “And what does it say about labors of love?”

  “I’m not familiar with that part of the code,” Buchanan answered lamely. He wondered why he was doing so badly. The Geneve, after all, was home ground.

  Mendoza’s smile turned on the widow Fadden. It was heartening to have touched a nerve so early in his probing. The old girl must be worth a fortune. “You ought to look it up.”

  “If you say so,” Buchanan mumbled, almost reduced to pleading. He was personally immune to Mendoza’s gringo gigolo guff and a thousand withered widows could flee in terror for all he really cared. Being shafted in the bone bag’s presence was what smarted so. Especially when she smiled with her too wide mouth.