“Peculiar, ain't it, Mr. Boggs?” Ogilvy said. “This fellow Cordova lives poor in the Mexican quarter, so what was he doing with an expensive gold statue? And why didn't he report it stolen?”
“Why, indeed?” Quincannon said, and went to find out.
TWO
The neighborhood in which Luis Cordova lived and worked was a poor one, as both Witherspoon and Ogilvy had indicated; but it was not without its pride or its zest for life. There was a good deal of activity along Canon Perdido Street, a good deal of animated conversation flavored with laughter. Inside a cantina someone was playing a guitar with enthusiasm; Quincannon recognized the liquid rhythms of “Cielilo Lindo” as he passed. The spicy scent of frijoles and simmering taco meat floated on the balmy spring air, reminding him that he had not eaten since breakfast.
He dismounted in front of Luis Cordova's dry-goods store and looped the claybank's reins around the tie rail. The building, of wood and adobe, with an upstairs front gallery, was situated at the end of a mixed block of private dwellings and similar small businesses-a harness shop, a feed store, a shabby tonsorial parlor, a greengrocer's. An outside stairway led up along the east wall, giving access to Cordova's upstairs living quarters; a huge olive tree effectively concealed the upper half of the stairs from the street, an arrangement to tempt the black soul of any housebreaker. The westside wall faced on an intersecting street; it was open now and a buckboard had been drawn up near it. Two young men were busily unloading bolts of brightly colored cloth and carrying them into a rear storeroom. Neither man was Luis Cordova; Senor Cordova, Quincannon was told when he approached them, could be found at the front of the shop.
He entered through the front door and was greeted by the not-unpleasant odors of dust, cloth, lye soap, and oiled leather. The interior was well-stocked with a variety of goods, among them simple clothing for men, women, and children, boots and huaraches and high-top shoes, serapes, rebozos, textiles of different types. In the middle of all this, a thin gray-haired man of indeterminate age was having a spirited argument with a fat woman over an inexpensive black mantilla. The woman, as near as Quincannon could tell with his limited command of Spanish, was upset over the fact that the brand-new mantilla had torn the first time she put it on; she wanted it replaced. The man kept insisting that the mantilla had not been damaged at the time of its sale, that he always inspected each item for defects before allowing it to leave the premises.
The argument raged for another five minutes, with neither side gaining an advantage. Finally the fat woman threw up her hands, told the gray-haired man that she would never again buy so much as a button from him, told him further that he was an hijo de garanon-son of a jackass-and stormed out. Quincannon smiled at her as she passed, and tipped his hat; he received a milk-curdling glower in return.
The gray-haired man sighed elaborately, as if such altercations offended his sense of propriety. Then he dusted his hands together and moved to where Quincannon waited. If he was surprised to find a gringo in his store, and a gringo who resembled a pirate at that, he gave no indication of it. He said, “Buenos tardes, senor. I may help you?”
“If you are Luis Cordova, you may.”
“Si. Yes, I am.”
“I'd like a word with you about the burglary you suffered six months ago.”
“Que pasa? My English, it is not so good. Burglary?”
Quincannon rummaged through his Spanish lexicon and said haltingly, “Robo con escado. Soy aqui a discutir un ladron que escala una casa.”
“Ah, si, si.” Interest brightened Cordova's swarthy features, but it was outweighed by an odd sort of apprehension. “You are from the policial
“I represent a man who now possesses one of the items stolen from you,” Quincannon said in Spanish.
“What item is that, senor?”
“A gold statue of the Virgin Mary.”
Cordova winced as if he had been struck. He backed up a step, put out a defensive hand, and said anxiously, “There must be some mistake, senor. I know nothing of such a statue.”
“It was sculpted by Francisco Portola for Don Esteban Velasquez in 1843. These words and date are engraved in the base.”
“I have never seen such a statue.”
“It was stolen from your rooms.”
“No, senor. No …”
“A man named James Evans has admitted stealing it from you,” Quincannon lied. “In the face of this, do you still deny possessing it?”
Cordova backed up several more steps, shaking his head violently. Fear glistened in his dark eyes; the sweat of it beaded his forehead. Its cause, Quincannon thought, was something profound, to affect the man this way.
He pursued Cordova until the storekeeper's retreat was stayed. by a low wooden counter. Then he said with as much portent as he could muster in his halting Spanish, “The rightful owner of the: statue is the family of Don Esteban Velasquez in Santa Ynez Valley. It is now in the hands of Felipe Velasquez, Don Esteban's son; he is the man I represent. Are you aware of the statue's history, Senor Cordova?”
Cordova kept shaking his head. His mouth quivered open, but he didn't speak.
“It is one of many artifacts hidden by Don Esteban in 1846, during the war with Mexico. It is the only one that has been found since. Perhaps you know the whereabouts of the others?”
“No, I know nothing …”
“How did the statue come into your possession?”
“Please, senor…”
“Did you steal it? Are you a thief?”
“Madre de Dios! No, no …”
“Then how did you come to have it?”
“I did not have it, I have never seen such a statue, I know nothing about Don Esteban Velasquez, nothing!” The words burst out of him in a spray of spittle, his voice rising on each one until the last few were a shout. He twisted away to one side, almost upsetting a table stacked with rough-cloth peasant shirts; swung around and pointed a trembling finger at Quincannon. “Go away! Leave my place of business! You are not policia; you have no right to remain here without permission. Leave, or I will have you put out by force!”
Quincannon hesitated. “Listen to me, Senor Cordova-”
“No, no, I will not listen! Alfredo! Sebastian! Come in here, quickly!”
A rear door was thrown open, and the two young men ran in from the storeroom. Big, both of them-and strong; Quincannon knew it would be painful to do battle with them, even with his college training in pugilism and even if he had been inclined to a fight, which he wasn't.
He said to Cordova, “Very well. As you wish. But I will soon return, or others will come in my place. The policia, perhaps. You cannot hold your silence forever, amigo.”
Cordova said nothing. He seemed to have aged several years in the past few minutes, to have become a stooped and shrunken old man; even his clothing seemed to hang on him now, as baggily as on a scarecrow.
“We will know the truth,” Quincannon said ominously. “Sooner or later, we will know the truth.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
He sat the claybank for a full minute, waiting to see if Cordova would follow after him for any reason. No one followed after him. Finally, feeling disgruntled, he reined the horse around and made for Victoria Street and the Arlington stables.
It had been an odd encounter, he thought as he rode. Cordova had acted as though he were the thief, not the victim. Had he stolen the Velasquez statue? If he hadn't, how had it come into his hands? And why was he so afraid to admit to knowledge of it?