“You mean when this case against Guerrero’s chauffeur is tried again?” I said.
Brown finished his drink and nodded; his cheeks shook. I finished mine also and called for a repeat.
“Confusion to you in the witness box!” Brown said with a big grin, and lifted the glass.
“Down with lawyers,” I replied.
The television set at the end of the bar came on; it was six o’clock. I saw the familiar face of Francisco Cordoban smiling down at me. I deliberately turned my back. Whether or not the picture they interspersed with the programs by subliminal perception were a fair representation of the state of things, I preferred to form my own judgments.
I had a sudden vision of Maria Posador, perched on the bench in the concrete shed where she had shown me those pictures, her long slim legs swinging, her lovely face drawn and serious.
“Well, see you tomorrow,” Brown said after a pause, gulping the contents of his glass. The CO2 in the drink came back in an unashamed burp. “Make a mess of you — promise. ’Night.”
I stayed only a few minutes longer myself and then went back to my hotel, intending to have dinner there. First, though, I went upstairs to clean up and change my shirt — the day was hot and sticky, and even the air-conditioned court building had wilted the one I was wearing.
There was a man sitting in my room reading one of my textbooks.
I stopped with one hand still on my key, in the act of withdrawing it from the lock, and said in an incredulous voice, “Who in hell’s name are you?”
Unconcernedly, he shut the book. Then he rose very leisurely to his feet. “Good evening, Señor Hakluyt,” he said. “Please come in. Close the door, if you don’t mind.”
I took a good look at him. He was six feet two and broad-shouldered. He had big hands, which held the fat textbook as though it were a paperback. He had dark brown skin, darker than sun-tan, and his hair was inclined to be nappy. He wore a gray suit, a real silk shirt, expensive hand-lasted shoes. Diamond cuff links. Platinum watch. Wealthy.
He outweighed me by about forty pounds; he outreached me by inches in every direction. Obviously, I couldn’t throw him out. Well, either he was here for some good reason — in which case I had better hear what he had to say — or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, maybe I still ought to hear what he had to say. I shut the door.
“Thank you,” he said. He spoke good English with a vanishing trace of a local accent. “I should apologize for the intrusion, but it was necessary, I assure you. Kindly be seated.”
With a generous gesture he offered me the chair he had been sitting in. I shook my head.
“Well, our talk may take some time, but if you prefer to stand, let us not argue.” His eyes twinkled. “My name, señor, is Jose Dalban, and I have come to discuss with you the subject of your presence in Ciudad de Vados.”
“I’m here,” I said shortly. “What else is there to say?”
“Oh, very much! Very much indeed! Such as why you are here, and what you are doing. Now please” — he raised one hand; the broad palm was very bright pink — “do not try to be elusive and say you are only here because you signed a contract and you are doing only what that contract calls for. What I wish to make clear to you is what your contract implies — what misery and deprivation for how many human beings.”
“Señor Dalban,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve probably heard all this before. I know quite well that if I do what I came here to do, a lot of people are going to be made temporarily homeless. I can’t see, though, that anything could be much worse than the so-called homes they have at the moment. Sooner or later the government is going to have to face the problem squarely; till then, what I do isn’t going to be as important as you seem to claim.”
“I represent,” he said, not answering me directly — he sounded as if he were launching into a prepared speech — “a group of private individuals who are afraid that if the government’s plans are put into effect, there will be civil war in Aguazul, and that soon. I have come to suggest to you that you might consider changing your mind. You would not, of course, lose by doing so. You might even profit.”
“Out of the question,” I said. “For one thing, I’m a freelance expert. I’ve worked for years to build up my reputation. If I quit this job, it wouldn’t just be a contract I’d broken; it would be a setback to my professional status.”
“Señor Hakluyt,” said Dalban, blinking rapidly, “we are businessmen, we for whom I speak. We are not poor. If it were necessary, we would guarantee your earnings for life — outside Aguazul.”
“The hell with money!” I snapped. “I do this work because it’s the work I want to do! And let me tell you this. Getting rid of me would solve nothing. Nothing at all. If I don’t do the job, since the government seems determined to have it done by somebody, Angers and his crowd in the city traffic department will probably be turned loose on it. They’re not competent. The result will be a botched makeshift worse than what you’ve got already.”
Dalban looked at me steadily for a long while before speaking again. “I apologize,” he said at last. “I had been of the impression that you did not know what you were doing. I realize you have given much thought to the matter. The only cause for regret is that you have come to a wrong conclusion.”
“If there’s going to be civil war in Aguazul, then it’s not going to be my fault,” I retorted. “The suggestion is ridiculous.”
“You must accept, señor, that your departure would materially improve our chances of escaping that civil war.” Dalban kept his voice level. “I fully realize that you did not choose the key position in which you now find yourself; however, it will be the act of an intelligent man to recognize the fact that you are of importance and that your least decision now affects many people beside yourself.”
He smiled. “Therefore I must say this. Either you change your mind voluntarily — or means will be found to compel you to do so. You will find me in the telephone directory if you want me: Jose Dalban. Good night.”
He went past me and opened and shut the door with a swift coordinated movement. The instant he was out of the room I went to the phone and rang the reception desk, demanding that Dalban be stopped before he left the hotel, demanding how he had got into my room in the first place.
The receptionist, bland-voiced, echoed the name. “Dalban, señor? Yes, I would recognize Señor Dalban. But he is not in the hotel.”
Infuriated, I realized that bribes must have passed somewhere. Large ones, which would stick. I demanded the manager and got no satisfaction out of him, either. Blank-faced, he poured out streams of denials in his own defense — adding assertions about the rectitude of Señor Dalban and the unlikelihood of his doing any such thing as I accused him of.
“Who is this bastard, anyway?” I demanded.
“Why, he is a businessman of great distinction and wealth, señor! Even if he were to desire to do such a thing, he would not come himself — he would send an agent!”
“Get me an agent,” I said. “Of police. And with speed!”
A blank-faced man who might have been the manager’s elder brother was brought; with an air of pandering to the whim of a mad foreigner, he took down particulars in a scrawling hand and promised to report it at the police station. I had a suspicion that report would never materialize; in a last burst of annoyance I called police headquarters and demanded to speak to el Jefe O’Rourke in person.