The Texcocan group consisted of Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts to one side of him, Generalissimo Taller and six highly bemedaled Texcocans on the other.
Before taking a seat Barry Watson barked, "Where's Amschel Mayer? I've got some important points to cover with him."
"Take it easy," Kennedy slurred. "For that matter, where's Joe Chessman?"
Watson glared at the other. "You know where he is."
"That I do," Kennedy said. "He's purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won't be anything left of you by the time our half century is up." He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who'd been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. "Let's have some refreshments here. What'll everybody have?"
"You act as though you've had enough already," Watson bit out.
Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious. Then he said, slyly, "I see we've been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you'd know more of our affairs."
"Not all our agents," Watson barked. "Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?"
Peter MacDonald, who, with Buchwald, was for the first time attending one of the decade-end conferences, had been hardly recognized in his new girth by the Texcocan team. But his added weight had evidently done nothing to his keenness of mind. He said smoothly, "Our good Amschel is under arrest. Imprisoned, in fact." He shook his head, his double chin wobbling. "A tragedy."
"Imprisoned! By whom?" Taller scowled. "I don't like this. After all, he was your expedition's head man."