The Hairless Mexican was a tall man, and though thinnish gave you the impression of being very powerful; he was smartly dressed in a blue serge suit, with a silk handkerchief neatly tucked in the breast pocket of his coat, and he wore a gold bracelet on his wrist. His features were good, but a little larger than life-size, and his eyes were brown and lustrous. He was quite hairless. His yellow skin had the smoothness of a woman’s and he had no eyebrows nor eyelashes; he wore a pale brown wig, rather long, and the locks were arranged in artistic disorder. This and the unwrinkled sallow face, combined with his dandified dress, gave him an appearance that was at first glance a trifle horrifying. He was repulsive and ridiculous, but you could not take your eyes from him. There was a sinister fascination in his strangeness.
William Somerset Maugham (1874–1965) was an English playwright and author whose clinical prose and worldly detachment shaped early modern fiction. Drawing on his own experience working for the British Secret Service, Maugham distilled the quiet dread of espionage into stories that read less like fiction and more like confession. Teeming with quiet realism and psychological depth, “The Hairless Mexican” is one such confessional. This compact tale sees British agent Ashenden paired with a professional assassin to eliminate a German courier in wartime Italy. The eponymous hitman — bald, flamboyant, and disturbingly efficient — executes his task with a detachment that unnerves even the seasoned spy. What unfolds is not a thriller but a study in cold precision, where duty trumps empathy, and the machinery of war leaves no room for sentiment. This is Maugham’s memo from the trenches of spycraft: a meditation on the wages of secrecy, a portrait of calculated violence, and a parable of precision gone sideways, where the devil is not in the details but in the dispatch.
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It’s worth noting, for proper context, that Maugham entered the SIS at a moment when British intelligence was still defining itself. The machinery was new, the methods untested, and the moral boundaries porous. Field agents were rarely briefed on the larger picture, and even the men running operations were feeling their way through a fog of hasty improvisations. That atmosphere of uncertainty — precise work done for imprecise ends — is the soil from which Ashenden grows. Maugham wasn’t inventing a spy; he was distilling the strange mixture of tedium, danger, and ethical murk he had lived through. In the preface for the book’s 1941 reissue, Maugham underscores that tedium, “The work of an agent in the Intelligence Department is on the whole extremely monotonous. A lot of it is uncommonly useless. The material it offers for stories is scrappy and pointless . . . ”
Eric Ambler, introducing his 1965 anthology To Catch a Spy, notes that while there are a few spy stories that predate Ashenden, Maugham’s creation is “the first fictional work on the subject by a writer of stature with first-hand knowledge of what he is writing about.”
Robert Calder, in his biography of Maugham, sharpens the point: “Ashenden presented for the first time a totally different picture of the life of a secret agent . . . It is the first exposure of what espionage really means—not romance, but boredom, callousness, and dehumanisation.”
And contemporary readers noticed that harsh reality from the outset, as the Times Literary Supplement for April 12, 1928, wrote: “Never before or since has it been so categorically demonstrated that counter-intelligence work consists often of morally indefensible jobs not to be undertaken by the squeamish or the conscience-stricken.”
And it’s Calder who identifies where that bleak clarity reaches its peak: “The most powerful dramatisation of the callousness of the ethics of espionage is the episode where Ashenden accompanies the ‘Hairless Mexican,’ a professional killer, on a mission to prevent an enemy emissary from reaching his contacts in Rome.”
An assessment echoed by a 1928 Buffalo Times reviewer who declared the Hairless Mexican “so extraordinary a creation that he is worth the price of the book.”
We Heathens wholeheartedly agree with both observations, which is why we have extracted the story to create this standalone Short, letting its cold precision stand stripped of the surrounding tales.
In Heathen-speak: this tale, on its own, ’tis a doozy!
In Maugham’s book, the story of the “Hairless Mexican” comprises Chapters 4 through 6, which we have renumbered, here, as Parts 1 through 3 — and, concerning the text, since Maugham was English we have retained all of his British spellings; however we have modified some hyphenated words so as to bring them more inline with modern standards: to-day is now today, to-morrow has become tomorrow, and so on. Likewise with words which were once two but are now one: good night has become goodnight, for ever is now forever, etc.
Though the true majority of our work lies in the 101 footnotes we’ve appended throughout the text for context, clarity, and commentary where necessary.
“A breath-catcher.” —The New York Times
“Thrilling and absorbing.” —Louisville Times
“Provides some highly delicious entertainment . . . the Hairless Mexican — this character is so extraordinary a creation that he is worth the price of the book.” —The Buffalo Times
“The author of Of Human Bondage is at his best in portraying the multitude of types encountered in the dangerous and stealthy work of espionage.” —Forth Worth Star-Telegram
“A sharply etched, often tense account of some of the important things that happen far away from battlefields when nations go to war.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer
“There is no question that the character portrayal of the hairless Mexican . . . stands out as of paramount interest — a man to revolt, to startle and disgust, but never to bore.” —The Houston Post
“Ashenden, the British secret agent, is one of Maugham’s most striking characterizations . . . It is not difficult to see that he has fashioned his book from the stuff of his own experience.” —The Houston Chronicle
“Less than a novel . . . more than a thriller. Just when one is on the point of remarking how ingeniously a dramatic situation is contrived in this story, or how strikingly a character is invented, the thought suggest itself that perhaps, after all, the dramatic situation, the striking character, were realities and that Mr. Maugham has not much changed them. His ‘Hairless Mexican,’ so perfectly undertaking murder in order that a few scraps of paper shall go to London instead of Berlin, would be impressive but incredible in any other story.” —Harold A. Small, San Francisco Chronicle
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