Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

“Your husband is convinced that Cross and Taggert are conspiring.”

“I couldn’t say. I never met Mr. Taggert.”

“You met Cross.”

“I did. He showed the condominium to some people. Bud was playing golf.”

“What did you and Cross discuss?”

“Not a lot,” Helen said. “It’s funny, you know. I would have sworn he’d make the sale.”

“Why?”

“His clients were an attractive young couple who were positively giddy about it. Evidently they didn’t smell the mildew. As they scampered through the rooms like children, Mr. Cross remarked to me how he hoped they could qualify financially, they loved it so, and it was such a bargain. Well, in the final analysis, they couldn’t swing it. They were so disappointed.”

“What did the couple look like?”

“The picture of health. They obviously exercised and ate right. Mr. Bud Lamm could learn a lesson from that pair.”

“How were they dressed?”

“Normal for Cancún and the Caribbean. Beach casual. Between you and me and the gatepost, Mr. Balam, he was a cutie. He wore a tank top. Nice skin tone. The young lady, a gorgeous toucan was printed on her T-shirt.”

“Did you exchange names?”

“No, but when I spotted that toucan, I asked if she liked birds. She loves them. She has parakeets and finches at home, and she was worried whether their housesitter was caring for them properly. Oh my.”

Helen was looking above and behind Luis. He turned and saw a flock of black vultures circling.

“What could be enticing them?”

“The jungle,” Luis said. “It always has what they want.”

Luis picked up Ricky Martinez as persuasion ammunition and went to Hector Salgado.

“Luis, let me understand,” Hector said wearily. “I am to don my uniform and we as a threesome are to intimidate Chester Cross?”

“And scare him witless!” Ricky said, shaking a fist.

“I perceive my role,” said a glaring Hector, who did not especially like lawyers.

“I don’t believe he will reveal the identities of that couple unless he is frightened,” Luis said. “The couple can lead us to Taggert.”

“Luis, do I have to put on the uniform?”

“Hector,” Luis said, “you are a kind and reasonably honest man, but in khaki and epaulets you are a stereotype of corruption, torture, and filthy Mexican jails.”

Hector Salgado Reyes rose, smiled, unbuttoned a shirt button, and said, “Yes, I am, aren’t I?”

On the drive to Paradise Investment Properties Associates, Ricky proposed that they stop and buy Hector a riding crop, as an added dash of implied cruelty. Luis and Hector in chorus told Ricky not to push it.

Hortencia was respectful and immediately ushered them in to Chet Cross, who provided scant resistance.

“Salting the mine, what’s wrong with that? Their excitement is infectious. They get the renters enthused. They’re possibly motivated to make the best investment decision of their lives.”

“A valuable public service is performed,” Hector said, looking at Luis.

“Who are they?” Luis asked Cross.

“Real nice kids named Beth and Corky. I don’t know their last names. I met them at a bar in the hotel here. They had long faces. It was their last night. They were broke and had maxed out their credit cards. They didn’t want to go home.”

“You provided a means to remain in paradise,” Luis said.

“Money,” Cross said, twirling a finger, “makes the world go around.”

“Where are Beth and Corky?” Luis asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. They’re scraping by, but they’re not flush enough to stay in these digs.”

Inspector Hector Salgado Reyes stood and asked. “Where are Beth and Corky?”

“Xcacel,” Cross said quickly. “The campground. They bought a tent.”

Xcacel (sha-SELL) was a beach near BLACK CORAL. A sign at the highway advertised “The Wildest Beach Around.” This was not true, Luis knew. The waves were not particularly hazardous, and resort accommodations were primitive. Budget travelers with expectations of tranquility were drawn to Xcacel.

Xcacel was out of Hector’s jurisdiction, but he went along for fun and procrastination of paperwork at the station. His value to Luis persisted. The caretaker snapped to attention and directed them to Beth and Corky. They were beside their tent, drying off after a swim, lean North Americans in skimpy bathing suits, blond hair sunbleached more white than yellow, skin as brown as Luis’s.

“Chester Cross told you where we were, I presume,” Corky said, focused on Hector. “I’m an attorney, incidentally. What we’re doing isn’t illegal.”

“I’m an attorney, too,” Ricky said. “And this isn’t California. Incidentally.”

“Why did you mention Cross?” Luis asked. “He isn’t your only client.”

“He is,” Beth said. “Honestly.”

“You don’t have to answer their questions,” Corky told Beth.

“Correct,” Hector said. “You have the right to remain silent in jail while we investigate further.”

“What did we do?” Corky said defiantly.

“Bud and Helen Lamm,” Luis replied.

“Helen,” Beth said. “Isn’t she that sweet older lady who likes birds?”

Luis nodded. “Wife of Bud, who was cheated out of sixty thousand dollars, sold the flamingo condo on phony papers.”

“Fraud is a crime in any land, attorney,” Hector said to Corky.