Gatt was a man of about fifty-five and a little overweight. He was as smooth as silk and had the politician's knack of talking a lot and saying nothing. According to him, he had long admired Professor Fallon and had regretted not being able to meet him before. He was in Mexico for the Olympic Games and had taken the opportunity of an excursion to Yucatan to visit the great Mayan cities -- he had been to Uxmal, Chichen Itza and Coba -- and, hearing that the great Professor Fallon was working in the area, he had naturally dropped in to pay his respects and to sit at the feet of genius. He name-dropped like mad -- apparently he knew everyone of consequence in the United States -- and it, soon turned out that he and Fallon had mutual acquaintances.
It was all very plausible and, as he poured out his smokescreen of words, I became fidgety for fear Fallon would be too direct with him. But Fallon was no fool and played the single-minded archeologist to perfection. He invited Gatt to stay for lunch, which invitation Gatt promptly accepted, and we were all set for a cosy chat.
As I listened to the conversation of this evidently cultured man I reflected that, but for the knowledge gained through Pat Harris, I could have been taken in completely. It was almost impossible to equate the dark world of drugs, prostitution and extortion with the pleasantly spoken Mr. John Gatt. who talked enthusiastically of the theatre and the ballet and even nicked Fallon for a thousand dollars as a contribution to a fund for underprivileged children. Fallon made out a cheque without cracking a smile -- a tribute to his own acting ability but even more a compliment to the fraudulent image of Gatt.
I think it was this aura of ambivalence about Gatt thai prevented me from lashing out at him there and then. After all, this was the man who had caused the death of my brother and I ought to have tackled him, but in my mind there lurked the growing feeling that a mistake had been made, that this could not be the thug who controlled a big slice of the American underworld. I ought to have known better. I ought to have remembered that Himmler loved children dearly and that -a man may smile and be a villain. So I did nothing -- which was a pity.
Another thing which puzzled me about Gatt and which , was a major factor contributing to my indecision was that I couldn't figure out what he was after. I would have thought that his reason for 'dropping in' would be to find out if we had discovered Uaxuanoc, but he never even referred to it. The closest he got to it was when he asked Fallon, 'And what's the subject of your latest research. Professor?'
'Just cleaning up some loose ends,' said Fallon noncommittally. 'There are some discrepancies in the literature about the dating of certain structures in this area.'
'Ah. the patient spadework of science,' said Gatt unctuously. 'A never-ending task.' He dropped the subject immediately and went on to say how impressed he had been by the massive architecture of Chichen Itza. 'I have an interest in city planning and urban renewal,' he said. 'The Mayas certainly knew all about pedestrian concourses. I've never seen a finer layout.' I discovered later that his interest in city planning and urban renewal was confined to his activities as a slum landlord and the holding up of city governments to ransom over development plans. It was one of his most profitable sidelines.
He didn't concentrate primarily on Fallon; he discussed with Halstead. in fairly knowledgeable terms, some aspects of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, and talked with me about England. 'I was in England recently,' he said. 'It's a great country. 'Which part are you from?'
'Devon.' I said shortly.
'A very beautiful place,' he said approvingly. 'I remember when I visited Plymouth I stood on the very spot from which the Pilgrim Fathers set sail so many years ago to found our country. It moved me very much.'
I thought that was a bit thick corning from a man who had started life as Giacomo Gattini. 'Yes, I rather like Plymouth myself.' I said casually, and then sank a barb into him. 'Have you ever been to Totnes?'
His eyes flickered, but he said smoothly enough, 'I've never had the pleasure.' I stared at him and he turned away and engaged Fallon in conversation again.
He left soon after lunch, and when his plane had taken off and headed north, I looked at Fallon blankly and said, 'What the devil do you make of that?'
'I don't know what to make of it,' said Fallon. 'I expected him to ask more questions than he did.'
'So did I. If we didn't know he was up to something I'd take that visit as being quite above board. Yet we know it wasn't -- he must have been after something. But what was it? And did he get it?'
'I wish I knew,' said Fallon thoughtfully.
II
