“And then?”
“Then Lieutenant Guataquero in command of the rurales, gave a baile — a dance — at the town hall. It was his birthday, which he had forgotten about, but remembered just in time to organize the entertainment. Everybody went. Oh, a fine fiesta! Rurales and all were there. Plenty of liquors, and roast pork and dulces, very fine! It started at ten, that night, and was to last till morning.”
“Did the postmaster go, too?”
“No, señor. That good man remained away, at the office, to guard the money. Don Mario Tiburón, his name is. He would not attend. Said his first duty was to protect the $200,000 till he deliver it safely into the hands of the central paymaster, in the morning. But alas, señor—”
“Well?”
“Alas, what mischance! At two in the morning, when everybody was dancing and making merry with the wine, the cry of ‘Fire! Fire!’ was heard. Ay mi madre! It was the post office that was burning! The poor postmaster had fallen asleep on his lonely vigil, while smoking a cigarette, and the building had caught fire. He woke up, stifled with smoke, just in time to save his life. Though he got out, he was somewhat burned.”
“Too bad!” I commiserated.
“Yes, señor,” agreed the padre. “We have no firemen, no engine. Nothing we could do availed to save the post office. It was burned flat, señor, with all the mail and everything. What a fatality, verdad?”
“It surely was. And nothing was saved? None of the money at all?”
“Very little, señor. The ashes were searched when they were cool enough, but only a few charred pieces of bills were recovered. A very great misfortune, indeed.”
“Ah, well,” said I, “no misfortune lasts a hundred years. How much money was recovered, and where is it now?”
“Only a few dollars, señor. The postmaster has it all, keeping it for the government inspectors, when they come.”
“Haven’t they been here yet?”
“Not yet, señor. You know how it is, here. Always mañana. But some day they will arrive. And when they do, the postmaster has all the recovered money to show them. A very brave, honest man is our postmaster. His bums are now, thank God, quite healed.”
I figured I’d got an earful, all right, and didn’t want to ride luck any further than it would tote me without arousing suspicion, so I let the talk swing around to other subjects. But next day I drifted into the new post office — a plain, whitewashed shack near the jail. Americano cigarettes are the best small-change with which to get acquainted in all Latin-America, and I had plenty. It wasn’t long before the brave Senor Tiburón, postmaster of San Fulano, was smoking cigarettes that even he, lazy as he looked, might have walked at least a kilometer for. Also, he was talking, showing me where he’d been burned, and everything.
III
There was no business, nothing to do but kill time — and mosquitoes and ticks — so we sat on a couple of goatskin chairs, smoking and chewing the rag. My Mexican accent got across, all right, and the postmaster would have taken his bible oath I was a genuine Mexicano. It wasn’t long before he was proudly exhibiting the fragments of charred bills that had so fortunately been rescued from the ruins of the post office.
“Here they are, señor,” said he. “And do you think there is enough left of this money, so the Yanqui government will redeem it?”
“Undoubtedly,” I assured him, though I saw at once it would hardly be worth the trouble. The charred pieces could not have represented more than $150 or $200, all told. And more interesting still, I saw that every piece was the fragment of either a one-spot or a two!
“Now then,” I figured, when I’d got through with the good, honest postmaster of San Fulano, “now then, we’re beginning to get somewhere. The mail-pouch with the $200,000 came in unexpectedly. Friend Lieutenant, the black hombre, got up an impromptu fiesta and served plenty of aguardiente to all hands. He had all his rurales at the shindig. The post office remained unguarded, except by the postmaster. It caught fire from a ‘cigarette.’ And the only pieces of bills recovered were ones and twos. Bueno!”
The whole case was opening up like a clam in hot water. Why were there no fragments of fives, tens and twenties? That was the big question now!
I followed it up by exploring the country, all around about, for mining properties. On horseback and mule-back I trekked hither and yon, sometimes putting up at fincas or farms, again at sugar-centrals, or cattle ranches, or what have you. At last in a wretched little village named Pozo Negro I picked up a red-hot clue — an almost new American five-dollar bill.
I saw this bill paid over the counter of a posada, or inn. It was passed by a mulatto foreman of a sugar-mill. I offered this man a drink, got acquainted with him, asked him about mines, and next day went to see him at his central. There, at a little cantina, I treated him and some others, and paid with an American twenty. In change — among all sorts of queer chicken-feed, I got an American ten-spot!
Now things were turning up!
I beat it right back to my good padre, at San Fulano, invited him to dinner and then got down to business. Our table was out in a patio, where nobody could overhear us, and we talked in low tones.
“See here, padre,” said I, “I might as well come clean with you. I’m no more a mining engineer than you are, but a detective, a Secret Service man from the United States, down here to trace the big robbery.”
“What robbery, señor?”
“That $200,000 pay roll. Now then, don’t look surprised! I happen to know that the fire was only a blind, to cover a robbery. I know all about it, except where the money is — what’s left of it. Suppose I were to receive a little useful information, it would not be impossible that a certain church in a certain town not a thousand miles from here might receive a little donation for a new building. A donation of, say, five thousand pesos. Well, father?”
The excellent padre considered a moment, then sighed deeply.
“My son,” said he, “much sorrow has lain on my heart, because of certain matters that have distressed me. I have been wondering what to do; been may triste — very sad, eh? And why?”
“Yes, why?” I asked, feeling that the trail was getting hot, indeed.
“Ah! Rumors have been circulating, underground, about this affair, and a certain Mariposa. About a possible connection between them, sabe? I have felt that an investigation was needed, but by whom? In this unfortunate country whom I could trust? To whom could I communicate my fears?”
“It’s a tough job, padre,” I admitted, “communicating anything in this republic. But I’m an Americano, and you’ll be safe with me. As we say in our lingo, could you not spill a few beans?”
“Beans, señor? What do you mean, beans?”
“It is our way of saying, give information.”
The padre considered a moment, then made an uncertain gesture with his ancient, corded hand. He shook his head.