Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Inside was a comfortably furnished sitting overlooking Avenida Alvear. Two enormous silver wine coolers had been set up, each holding two bottles of Champagne. A coffee table held an array of dishes covered with silver domes, and a table against one wall held an array of whiskey bottles.

“The German Ambassador is having dinner—” Enrico began.

“In the main dining room,” Jorge interrupted.

“With him is a young German caballero, el Mayor von Wachtstein,” Enrico went on.

“A tall blond gentleman,” Jorge said.

“Would it be possible to have a bellman tell him—loudly enough for the others to hear—that Señorita Carzino-Cormano wishes to speak to him on the telephone, and bring him here?”

“It will be done,” Jorge said.

“Do it, Jorge, please,” Enrico said, and shook his hand. This last was done in such a manner that Clete had no doubt that Jorge was suddenly much better off financially than when he entered the room.

“Your guests, Señor Frade,” Jorge said, “will be here momentarily. And if there is anything else you require…” He pointed at the telephone.

“Thank you very much, Jorge,” Clete said.

“I will now park our car,” Enrico announced. “And then I will be in the room off that room until you need me.” He pointed to one of the three doors opening off the sitting.

“Thank you, Enrico.”

Enrico followed Jorge out of the room.

Clete looked around the room, and then went to the door Enrico had pointed out. It was a bedroom with a double bed. It, too, had two doors opening off it. Behind the first door was a bathroom, and behind the second was a smaller room equipped with a small, single bed, an armchair, and a small table. An ashtray and a copy of La Prensa were on the table.

I wonder how often Enrico has waited there before? And who was with my father when he did?

Clete explored the other rooms—another bedroom and a small kitchen, complete with refrigerator. It held at least a case of wine and Champagne.

Then he went back into the sitting and looked out the window onto Avenida Alvear. The off-the-street drive to the hotel was concealed from his view, and thus he couldn’t tell if Enrico had moved the Buick, but on Avenida Alvear a backed-up line of six cars was waiting to enter the hotel drive.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Clete walked to it and pulled it open.

Two young women were standing in the corridor, a redhead and a blonde. They were well-dressed and good-looking.

They don’t look like whores or prostitutes. But, then, what does a whore or a prostitute, by any name, look like?

“Won’t you please come in?” Clete said, pulling the door all the way open.

The women walked to the center of the sitting and turned to look at him.

“My name is Frade,” Clete said.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor,” the redhead said, and offered her hand. “My name is Estela Medina, and this is Eva Duarte.”

Duarte, like Humberto? A distant cousin from the country, maybe?

“I’m very pleased to meet you both,” Clete said.

“May I express my most sincere condolences on your loss of your distinguished father, Señor Frade?” the blonde asked. “And be permitted to offer my best felicitations on your upcoming marriage?”

Well, at least she gets the message I won’t be playing around.

Unless she thinks—everybody thinks, starting with Jorge-the-concierge—that this is my farewell-to-bachelorhood party. Cigarettes, and whiskey, and wild, wild women.

“You are very kind, Señorita…Duarte, you said?”