Chapter 6

NEXT MORNING AT DAWN the band of chickens set up a loud crowing among the junked cars in the alleyway, announcing their claim on the territory. From one high window, a severe-looking old matron threw an empty tin can at them. Another woman diligently took down the previous day’s laundry hung from a clothesline that connected the two buildings, then hung a new dripping batch.

In a dim, shabby room in the Hotel Grande de Lujo, slanted sunlight trickled through holes in a tattered window shade to illuminate a narrow bed and a wardrobe that tilted awkwardly on one broken leg. The bathroom walls were so blotched with mildew and water spots that it was impossible to tell where the stains ended and the tile began.

A tan suitcase leaned against the tilted wardrobe. The book Famous Naval Battles lay discarded against the wall; the bookmark had fallen out in the scuffle.

Lieutenant Tom Smith lay in the middle of the floor on his face, stripped down to his skivvies, with silver duct tape across his mouth. A braided cotton rope bound his ankles together and tied his wrists behind his back. The position wasn’t very comfortable at all, as Smith discovered as soon as he returned to consciousness.

Groggily, Smith twisted on his side and gave a muffled groan through the tape covering his mouth. His head hurt as if a rambunctious child with his first toy drum set had taken up residence inside his skull. He fell back on his face in the middle of the filthy floor, where he blinked repeatedly, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten there.

He rolled his eyes upon hearing a clatter of buckets in the hall outside, the thunk of a mop handle striking the wall. A key clicked in the lock, and the splintered wooden door opened on its ancient hinges with a truly amazing squeak.

A bland-faced maid entered the room, looking tired and not the least startled by seeing Smith’s prone form on the floor. She was dressed in colorful clothes, her glossy dark hair braided neatly. She was hard-working and intent on her job — but she apparently hadn’t been hired to get hapless tourists out of trouble.

He squirmed and made a muffled sound through the duct tape, begging her to help him, though the efforts only made his head pound harder. She paid him no mind at all.

Carrying a mop, a ring of keys and a feather duster, the maid went right to work. She propped her equipment in the doorway, then began to hum as she dragged in a sloshing bucket filled with soapy water.

Nonchalantly, the maid used her feather duster lightly on Smith’s back, then tucked it under her arm. Seeing the dirt on the floor in front of his face, Smith couldn’t imagine why she was being so meticulous now. Maybe she is a new employee, he thought.

Still humming, the maid dallied in the bathroom, splashing chlorine-smelling water on some of the worst stains, emptying the chamber pots, then came into the main room to smooth the bed coverings. Finished, she grabbed her bucket and mop, and turned for the door.

Smith struggled and squirmed in the center of the room, trying to get her to help him. He groaned and mumbled, then waggled his eyebrows.

Finally, the maid paused and stopped humming. Her forehead furrowed. She looked on the bed and on an ancient dresser, as if she’d forgotten something. After an interminable moment, she glanced down at the bound man on the floor.

“Wrrr umph,” Smith said behind his gag, his eyes flashing.

The maid hummed again as she bent over to untie the knots around Smith’s ankles and wrists, not hurrying, as if this was just another part of her job. No doubt she routinely found men tied up on the floors of various rooms — especially in a place like this. When she finished, she held out her hand and waited for a tip.

Smith struggled with the remaining ropes around his wrists and at last pulled his hands free. He sat up, rubbing his throbbing hands, then bent to wrestle with the ankle cords and slid them off.

He patted his boxer shorts, as if to apologize for not having any change. Through a sealed mouth, he grunted an apology.

The cleaning woman eyed him with a bland look, then grabbed the duct tape around his mouth. She gave the tape a ferocious yank. Smith gasped with a shock of pain.

“I’m sorry, but someone has taken my clothes,” he apologized.

“Lying pervert,” she muttered in Spanish. “I see your kind all the time.” She wearily picked up her bucket and exited, closing the door behind her and clicking the key in the lock.

Smith put both hands against his stinging mouth and cheek, then tore open the tan suitcase, looking for the bottle of soothing lotion he had carefully packed. It worked on sunburns, and he hoped it would work on his face. He found a pint bottle of clear liquid, and splashed the lotion onto his face.

It burned the raw skin like acid.

Gasping, Smith fanned his hand rapidly to cool his face. He looked at the bottle in his hand and finally registered what the label said. “Rum! But I never drink rum — in fact I never drink alcohol. How did that get in my luggage?”

Still smarting, he pawed through the contents of the open suitcase, perplexed. “No wonder — this isn’t my suitcase.”

He stared at the unfamiliar objects. He pulled out a straight-edged razor. After looking at the long and wicked blade, he snapped it shut again. “That’s definitely not my razor. It doesn’t even look safe.” Then he rubbed his raw cheeks and reconsidered, frowning at the rough stubble he had grown. “Well, I’ll just have to make do for now. I need to make myself presentable before I give the management of this hotel a piece of my mind.” As he considered the situation, he pursed his lips. “Besides, I’ll bet Admiral Horatio Nelson used a straight razor, even on choppy seas.”

A while later, Smith stood in his skivvies before the cracked bathroom mirror, trying to shave with the primitive tool. He had tried to smooth his unkempt hair back into place as he attempted to figure out what had gone wrong. This was supposed to be his perfect vacation! He should have stayed in New York looking at missile plans.

He went on shaving, but the straight razor was very unkind.

* * *

The strange suitcase lay open on the bed, its contents ready for inspection. Smith, damp from a sponge bath and feeling somewhat better at last, stood with a towel wrapped about his middle. Bloodstained flecks of tissue paper clung to the numerous nicks and cuts from his shaving adventure.

Rummaging through the strange suitcase, Smith lifted out a khaki safari suit and pants. He held them against him. “Well, at least they look like they’ll fit.” He patted the pockets, feeling perplexed.

Why would someone mug me, he wondered, and then leave me in a room with the wrong suitcase? Maybe this guy mugged lots of people, and just happened to mix up the suitcases.

“Hey, I wonder if he left my wallet?” That wallet had more than his money in it; it had credit cards and ID. Smith searched through the strange suitcase, frantic, then he rushed across the room to open the leaning wardrobe. But he found it empty except for a few mouse droppings and a dead spider in the corner.

Dropping to his knees beside the narrow bed, he lifted the mattress, peering under it for any scrap of his own belongings, but found only a discarded sock with holes in the toe.

His only belonging in the room was the paperback history book he had been reading in the taxi. Seeking comfort in his historical hero, he picked up Famous Naval Battles, sat down in his underwear on the end of the bed and looked sadly around.

“No money, no papers, no passport.” He looked down at the book, which apparently the thieves hadn’t considered worth stealing. He was certainly in a fix, and he had no idea how to solve it. “I wonder what Nelson would have done in a case like this?”