Captain Lorca was a tall man, thin to the point of emaciation. His khaki tunic hung loosely from his gaunt frame, and seemed wired to his skeleton by means of a Sam Browne belt drawn as tightly as a corset.
Lorca looked up from behind his desk and said, “Mr. Dort, I’ve been waiting for you to appear.” He stood up, extended a thin hand and pumped Dort’s large one, then promptly reseated himself. Dort was left standing in front of the desk.
“What do you mean you were waiting for me?” asked Dort.
Lorca quickly pasted a wide white smile across his dentures. “Everybody in Castelonne shows up here sooner of later.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“Certainly,” Lorca agreed pleasantly. “I know everything that happens in Castelonne.” He made an attempt to look modest; it failed, so he shrugged instead. “It’s my business.”
“Do you mind if I sit on your desk?” asked Dort. He slipped a leg easily over one end of the scarred piece, and haunched against it comfortably. Folding his arms, Dort looked down at Captain Lorca. Captain Lorca looked back and waited.
“Mind if I smoke?” Lorca inquired politely while lighting a cigarette.
“Not at all. I’ll join you,” said Dort. lighting one too. For some time, both men sat with their own thoughts. This, Dort finally told himself, could continue right through the rainy season. He shook himself mentally, and kicked the conversation back to life again.
“Are you acquainted with an American named Professor Herman K. Berman?” he asked.
“Si — I mean, yes.” Lorca quickly corrected his impeccable English. “Senor Berman is an American embezzler who absconded with twenty-five thousand dollars from his college.” After a slight pause, he added, “He has been in Castelonne for three months.”
“You mean to tell me you knew this guy was a crook,” Dort demanded indignantly, “and you’ve sat here and done nothing about it?”
“Mr. Dort,” Lorca explained softly, “you misunderstand. Consider it from my point of view. First, it was not my money, and it did not belong to anyone from my country. However, that money distributed among the merchants of Castelonne might have induced a slight economic boom.”
Then, as if addressing a backward tourist, he added, “You must realize we have practically no tourist trade here.”
“I can understand that,” Dort said grimly, and mopped the back of his neck.
“However,” Captain Lorca continued, “after three months I can find no indication that Professor Berman spent — what do you call it? — an easy buck.” He shrugged. “So we have all been disappointed.”
“Yeah,” agreed Dort, “that must really have been a bitter blow to your local chamber of commerce. But didn’t you know there was a reward out for Berman? A thousand dollars!”
Lorca nodded patiently. “It came to my attention. You must realize, however, that my immediate superior, Colonel Gomez, owns a large pig farm two kilometers east of Castelonne. The piggery has not prospered.” Lorca looked both sad and thoughtful.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the peons — they will not work hard. They spend their time in the mountains.”
“There’s a reason for that, too?” said Dort.
“Yes. Colonel Gomez’s superior is General Juan O’Brien who has recently invested — disastrously — in a Ford tractor agency. The peons insist on stealing all the tractor wheels.”
“Why do they steal the wheels?” Dort asked. He didn’t want to inquire, but a strong compulsion charged him.
“They bring the wheels down here to sell for scrap iron.” After a pause, Lorca added, “It is a very lucrative racket for the natives. The general is. compelled to buy back the wheels at retail prices.” Lorca shrugged dismally. “Soon the general will go broke — pfhttt.”
Dort shook his head as if to clear it. “What’s all this leading to?”
“Only an explanation why I did not arrest Professor Berman and attempt to collect the reward.” Lorca pursed his lips reflectively. “With Senors Gomez and O’Brien both desperately needing money — and both outranking me—” It was not necessary for him to finish the statement.
“I can see what you mean,” Dort said. “They’d get to the till first.”
Lorca ignored Dort’s comment, as he continued slowly, “On the other hand, as a licensed investigator, you are legally entitled to twenty percent of the stolen money — if you can find it and return it to the bonding company.”
Dort began to feel uneasy. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Then he swung his leg lightly against the desk and admitted reluctantly, “Yeah.”
“So, if I offer you the facilities of my official and efficient organization...” Lorca looked inquiringly at Dort.
“Sure, sure,” said Dort, remembering Peterson’s bitter words about half the loaf. “We split my commission fifty-fifty. That way your pals, the Rover Boys, can’t get their mitts on it.”
“I accept your generaous offer,” Lorca assured him promptly. “Now what can I do to cooperate, Mr. Dort?”
“Change the weather!” Dort snapped. He walked to the door of the guard room. Pausing, he added, “While you’re looking for Berman, I’ll keep looking for the dough.” He left.
At eleven o’clock that night, although it was no cooler, it was considerably darker. Dort sat in the cafe of the Copabonga and watched the wooden fans whirling in the ceilings. The fans did nothing to stir up a breeze, but they mixed efficiently the cigarette smoke with the limp supply of oxygen already trapped in the room.
The long, irregular-shaped room was illuminated at intervals by pink, rose-shaped, silk lampshades clamped to yellowly gleaming lights. The room was hot, dark, and noisy as was the band — a group of three musicians who played guitar, concertina, and wood blocks.
Seated at a table next to Dort was a huge, big-bellied man with the appealing look of a crocodile. With him was Mimi and a dark-haired girl named Ynez. Ynez watched the man with disapproval as he kept up a rapid conversation with Mimi and at the end of each sentence, punctuated his comments with a pinch to one, or both, of Mimi’s well-rounded knees.
Their conversation was in Spanish, and although Dort could not follow it, he learned that the giant’s name was Pablo. Mimi’s and Pablo’s enjoyment of each other’s conversation seemed to grow in direct ratio to Ynez’s disapproval.
Ynez, looking darkly around the room, let her glance fall upon Dort. Dort lifted his glass and nodded. Ynez turned her glance indignantly away, then reconsidering, looked back and smiled.
Dort rose from his table and approached her. “May I have this dance?” he asked.
Before Ynez could reply, Mimi interrupted. “There’s no music,” she said.
“That’s all right,” said Dort, “we can pretend it’s Make-believe Ballroom.”
“Besides,” added Mimi, “she doesn’t speak English.”
“The hell I don’t,” said Ynez.
Pablo regarded Dort obliquely through slate-brown eyes, and spoke rapidly to Mimi. She shrugged and turned to Dort. “He doesn’t like you intruding.” When Dort made no reply, she continued, “I’ll give you a piece of advice. Pablo is tough — plenty.”
“I’m not,” Dort told her, sighing and sinking into an empty chair. “I’m scared to death.” He cupped his chin in a hand and turned to Ynez.
“Beat it,” Mimi told him, “you’re asking for trouble.”
Dort felt a small, warm, feminine hand snuggle into his beneath the table. It came from the direction of Ynez, lingered for a moment, and then hastily withdrew. Dort, rose, stretched, yawned, and hitched up his belt.