“Well, you’re wrong.” Caldwell spoke with a triumphant air. “It’s p-political. It’s the National P-Party again.”
Frowning, I shook my head. “I don’t see that,” I said. I didn’t. Things had been rather quiet on the political front for the past three or four days; the Citizens’ Party was like a snake without a head, having lost Guerrero, Lucas, and Arrio, all three — Guerrero dead, Lucas under arrest while the allegations of conspiracy against him were investigated, and Arrio awaiting trial for murder as a result of his duel with Mendoza. Likewise, the Nationals lacked any notable figure around whom they could rally, for Dominguez, though a supporter, was not an official of the party, and Murieta’s action against Arrio had apparently been dictated by his literary friendship with Felipe Mendoza, not by politics at all.
But this wasn’t Caldwell’s view. Smiling, he took some papers out of his pocket.
“I’ve b-been at the s-state c-custodian’s office this morning,” he said. “I’ve b-been looking th-through the account b-books th-they recovered from B-Brown’s office. And who do you th-think p-paid the fee for S-Sigueiras’s case against the city c-council?”
I shook my head.
“It appears to have been Pedro Murieta,” said Angers in a dry voice, and Caldwell shot him an annoyed glance, as though he had been deprived of springing a great surprise on me.
Nonetheless, it was a surprise. I said, “I thought Murieta’s only interest in the matter was because he financed the publication of Mendoza’s novels — wasn’t that right?”
“Th-that’s what we were meant to th-think,” said Caldwell significantly. “There’s more to th-this than meets the eye.”
He got to his feet. “Well, I’m g-going to tell P-Professor Cortes about th-this,” he said. “P-people ought to know what’s really g-going on.”
When he had left us, I stared at Angers. “Do you think this is as important as he wants to make out?” I asked.
Angers shrugged. “I honestly don’t know,” be said in a faintly puzzled voice. “Before you came in, he was dropping dark hints about the extent of Murieta’s complicity in some shady traffic that’s supposed to go on in the shantytowns, and especially in the station slum.”
“Oh, not again!” I said wearily. “You know how he took me on this guided tour of the vice spots of Vados, don’t you? All he could show me was one plot of ground where someone was supposed to be growing hemp for marijuana, and one hut occupied by a prostitute who wasn’t at home. Frankly, I take anything Caldwell says to me now with a sack of salt — I think he’s suffering from some kind of strain, and his imagination is playing tricks on him.”
“If it weren’t for Dr. Ruiz bearing out what he says,” Angers admitted after a pause, “I’d be inclined to agree with you.”
“Well, Ruiz isn’t in any too comfortable a position himself,” I pointed out. “There were some pretty nasty allegations being made against him when he was giving evidence in Sigueiras’s case, weren’t there?”
“If there’d been any substance to them,” said Angers with asperity, “you may be sure the National Party would have kept on with them. But that’s a standard part of their propaganda technique — planting nasty rumors and letting them grow unchecked till someone who’s actually been accused of some very small offense indeed is being described as a murderer or worse.”
Whether it was part of the National Party’s technique or not, that method worked extremely well for Caldwell over the weekend.
It happened this way. Liberdad — Cortes apparently having been impressed by Caldwell’s story — published the information about Murieta financing Sigueiras’s case, but took the precaution of checking with Murieta first. As it happened, Murieta was in New York for the weekend on a business trip, but his personal secretary suavely confirmed the tale. His employer, the secretary said, had been asked by Felipe Mendoza to aid Sigueiras, and owing to his well-known concern for the rights of the private citizen, had consented.
And Caldwell snapped back that apparently Murieta’s view of the rights of the private citizen included the right to take drugs and indulge in sexual perversions, because this was what Sigueiras specialized in providing.
There was a charge — uttered with the theoretical approval of the city health department — that really called for an answer. But Caldwell didn’t stop there. I never found out how anyone allowed him to get away with it, but he topped off his list of charges with a flat statement that Murieta was little better than a professional pimp.
In the twenty-four hours that preceded Murieta’s return from New York, rumors followed this story like weeds sprouting on burned ground. I heard them, even. I was told confidentially how, in the dim recesses of Sigueiras’s slum, children, virgin girls, and raddled old hags were made available at a stiff price to wealthy and debauched patrons; I was told how the air was never free of the stink of marijuana; I was even informed that the livestock in the shantytowns was kept for other purposes than feeding people.
Myself, I wondered how the putative “patrons” of Murieta’s supposed vice ring would have enjoyed indulging their tastes in the uncomfortable and insanitary condition below the monorail central. But only a very few Vadeanos who repeated the rumors had any idea of the real state of things down there, and doubtless assumed that the clients would appreciate a sordid setting for their sordid activities.
By Monday the whole matter had gone past a joke, and tempers were running high. Inoffensive peasants from the shantytowns had been stoned on the streets; police had twice had to be called to the monorail central to drive away indignant bands of demonstrators and enthusiastic would-be customers; and, much to the annoyance of business people and the city tourist bureau, a large party of statesiders had noisily canceled their visit to Vados because they got wind of what was being said about the city’s morals.
Caldwell turned up again in Angers’ office on Monday morning, looking bloody but unbowed — not, this time, specifically to talk about Murieta, but on formal health department business. Nonetheless, Angers and I both went for him, and from his reaction I gathered that we weren’t the first by a long way.
“I t-tell you I’ve s-seen all th-this for myself!” Caldwell kept insisting, his voice shaking with rage. The fourth or fifth repetition was too much for me.
“If you have,” I snapped back, “you’re probably Murieta’s only customer yourself!”
I thought for a long instant that he was going to throw himself at me like a wild animal, and I automatically tensed to beat him off. But at that very instant the door was thrust open and one of Angers’ assistants, looking harassed, put his head into the office.
“Señor Angers,” he began, “por favor—”
He got no further before he was pushed to one side bodily by a huge bull of a man in an open shirt and canvas trousers which stretched so tight across his seat they threatened to split at every step he took. He was very large and very dark, and it seemed for a moment that he filled the entire doorway, shutting out the light beyond.
“Caldwell aquí?” he demanded; then his eyes fell on Caldwell who had dropped back into his chair as the door opened, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction. Turning, he signaled to someone behind him.
This was a rather small man, immaculately dressed in a snow-white summer suit and cream Panama hat, smoking a king-size cigarette and holding a silver-knobbed walking cane. He had a thin moustache and brilliantly white teeth.