IT was at a brisk walk Appleby left the banker's house, but he stopped a
few minutes later where several streets branched off from a little
plaza. He had some trifling business with a tobacco merchant who lived
in one of them, but he decided after a moment's reflection that it was
scarcely likely he would find the man, who probably spent the evenings
at a cafe, at home just then. Appleby had, however, stopped somewhat
suddenly, and noticed that the footsteps he had heard behind him also
ceased a second or two later. This, he surmised, had in all probability
no special significance; but he raised his hand to an inner pocket where
the letter the banker had given him lay. It was evidently of some
importance, and he remembered that it was not money the man he had
surprised at the hacienda was in search of.
As it happened he carried another letter, which he meant to ask somebody
at the "Four Nations" to post. It was of very little consequence, and
contained only a list of American tools and machinery which Harding
dealt in, and Appleby smiled as he slipped it into the lower pocket of
his jacket. Then he took out his cigar-case and slowly lighted a cigar,
so that anybody who might be watching him should find a motive for his
delay. He looked about him cautiously as he did so.
The plaza was small and dark, though a thin crescent moon was just
rising over the clustering roofs. Its faint light silvered the higher
portions of the two square church towers that rose blackly against the
velvety indigo with one great star between them, but the rest of the
building, which was the one Nettie Harding had found shelter in, was
blurred and shadowy. Beyond it a few lights blinked in the calle he had
just passed through, but they only intensified the darkness of the
narrow gap between the flat-roofed houses, and--for it was getting late--
the street seemed utterly silent. Yet Appleby had certainly heard
footsteps, and no closing of a door to account for their cessation. The
houses were large in that vicinity, and built, for the most part, round
a patio, the outer door of which not infrequently consisted of a heavy
iron grille which could scarcely be closed noiselessly. In front of him
two streets branched off, one broad and well paved, the other narrow and
very dark. The latter, however, led straight to the "Four Nations," past
the carniceria, or butchery, and two or three of the little wine-shops
of shady repute which are usually to be found close to the principal
church in a Spanish town. Here and there a blink of light streamed out
from the open lattice of one of them.
Appleby stood still a moment, and then, reflecting that anybody who
might be following him would expect him to take the broader way, slipped
into the narrow street. A day or two earlier he would have laughed at
the notion, but the footsteps which had stopped so abruptly troubled
him. He had passed one wine-shop when he heard them again, and, though
it seemed at least possible that they were those of some citizen going
home, there was an unpleasant suggestiveness in them, and when the light
of the second wine-shop fell across the street he decided to enter it.
If the man behind him also stopped, his motive would be apparent.
Two or three men sat in the wine-shop with little glasses of cana before
them, and Appleby was reassured when he glanced at them. They were
evidently of the humbler orders, men who earned a meagre two or three
pesetas a day; but their garments of cotton and coarse unstarched linen
were, as usual, spotlessly clean, and he surmised from their shade of
complexion that they had emigrated to Cuba from the Canaries. They
saluted him courteously when he took off his hat on entering, and one
laid down the torn and wine-stained journal he was reading.
"The war is making sugar dearer, senor," he said.
Appleby was not altogether pleased at being recognized, as the
observation implied, but the man seemed civil, and he smiled.
"It also puts up the cost of making it," he said, turning to the
landlord, as an excuse for remaining a little occurred to him. "You have
Vermouth in an open bottle?"
"No, senor," said the other, as Appleby had expected. "Since the war
makes pesetas scarce one drinks the thin red wine and cana here. Still,
I have a few bottles with the seal on."
Appleby laughed. "Well," he said, "as it has been observed, sugar is
dear, and Vermouth is a wine I have a liking for. It is conceivable that
these gentlemen would taste it with me."
The men appeared quite willing, and one of them brought out a handful of
coarse maize-husk cigarettes when the host laid down the bottle with the
white Savoy cross upon it and a few little glasses.
"It is not the tobacco the senor usually smokes, but his cigar has gone
out, and one offers what he has with the good will," he said.
The man was clearly a peon, a day laborer, but Appleby fancied his
manner could not have been improved upon, for it was free alike from
undue deference or any assertion of equality. He took one of the
cigarettes, and when he had handed round the little glasses sat with his
face towards the door. The light from it, as he was pleased to notice,
fell right across the narrow street, and he sat with his back to it. He
had also not long to wait, for a patter of footsteps flung back by the
white walls grew louder, and Appleby noticed that while they had rung
sharp and decided they appeared to slacken as the man approached the
wine-shop. This appeared significant, since it suggested that the man
did not wish to cross the stream of light.
It was, however, evident that he must either stop or pass through it,
and in another moment Appleby saw him. There was nothing especially
noticeable about him except that the broad felt hat was pulled down a
trifle lower than seemed necessary, and Appleby wondered if his
suspicions were causeless, until the man turned his head a trifle. The
movement was almost imperceptible, but Appleby felt that the dark eyes
had rested on him a moment. Then as the stranger passed on he saw one of
the men in the wine-shop glance at his companion, who made a little
gesture of comprehension. It was, however a few moments later, and there
was once more silence in the shadowy street when he turned to Appleby.
"It is getting late, senor," he said significantly. "You sleep at the
'Four Nations'?"
"No," said Appleby, who wondered if this was intended as a hint. "Still,
I am going there."
The peon, he fancied, glanced at the landlord. "Then it would perhaps be
better to go round by the calle Obispo."
Appleby reflected a moment, for he fancied there was a meaning in this,
but he knew the calle Obispo would be almost deserted at that hour;
while by going through the carniceria he would shorten the distance,
and, at least, have the man he suspected in front of him.
"I think I will go straight on," he said.
"Then you will find it convenient to walk in the middle of the road,"
said the peon.
Appleby glanced sharply at the man. He had seen sufficient of Spanish
towns to know that there were reasons quite unconnected with the safety
of foot passengers or their property which warranted the warning; but
the olive face was expressionless, and with a punctilious salutation he
left the wine-shop. Glancing over his shoulder a moment or two later, he
saw the men silhouetted black against the light as they stood in the
doorway, and swung into faster stride. He felt he had nothing to fear
from them, but their hints had been unpleasantly suggestive.
In two or three minutes he reached the dark slaughterhouses, which were
faced by a wall with one or two unlighted windows high up in it, and as,
treading softly, he strained his ears he once more caught a faint patter
behind him. This was somewhat astonishing, as it was evident that if the
man who passed the wine-shop still desired to keep him in view he must
have made a considerable round. Appleby stopped suddenly, and made up
his mind when the footsteps ceased too. The spot was lonely, and shut in
by the slaughter-houses and high blank walls; while the feeling that
somebody was creeping up behind him through the darkness was singularly
unpleasant, so much so, in fact, that it changed the concern he was
sensible of into anger. He had also distinct objections to being stabbed
in the back, and decided that if an affray was inevitable he would, at
least, force the assailant's hand, and to do that cover of some kind was
necessary. Sooner or later he would find a doorway he could slip into,
and he went on again softly and hastily.
He had made another fifty yards, and the footsteps were plainer still
behind, when a pillar partly bedded in it broke the bare line of wall,
and pulling out the little pistol from his hip pocket he turned sharply
and flung himself into the gloom behind it. Then he realized his
blunder, and that he had two men to deal with instead of one, for a
strip of heavy fabric was flung about his head, and hard fingers
fastened on his throat. Appleby gasped, and drew the trigger
convulsively, while there was a crash as the pistol exploded. Then he
felt it slip from his fingers, for the strength seemed to go out of him,
and he was only sensible that he was fighting hard for breath. How long
the tense effort lasted he did not know, but his faculties had almost
deserted him when a cry he could scarcely hear rose from the street, and
was followed by a sound of running feet.
Then he was flung against the pillar, and there was a crash as a shadowy
object leapt into the doorway. A man reeled out of it in a blundering
fashion, another sped down the street, and Appleby, staggering out,
leaned, gasping, against the wall. It was some moments before he could
make anything out, and then he saw two men standing close in front of
him. One held something in his hand, and by their voices he fancied they
were the peons he had met in the wine-shop. Looking round him as his
scattered senses came slowly back, he saw another man apparently
crawling out of the gutter. Then there was a rapid tramp of feet further
up the street, and one of the men seemed to look at his companion, who
made a sign of agreement.
"The civiles!" he said.
Then they fell upon the man in the gutter, dragged him to his feet,
drove him before them with kicks, and stood still again while he reeled
away in an unsteady fashion which suggested that he was at least half
dazed. In the meanwhile the rapid tramp behind them had been growing
louder, and the shuffling steps had scarcely ceased when a light was
flashed into Appleby's face, and he saw a man with a lantern in trim
white uniform standing a few paces away, and another who carried a
pistol behind him. Then the light was turned aside, and revealed the two
peons from the wine-shop waiting quietly to be questioned.
Appleby recognized the men in uniform as civil guards, and knew that
almost every man in that body had won distinction in the military
service.
The street was now very silent again, and it was evident that the peons
did not consider it advisable to put the civiles on the track of the
fugitive just yet. The one who held the lantern looked at them, standing
erect, with knee bent a trifle and a big pistol projecting from the
holster at his belt.
"There was a shot, and by and by a shout," he said. "An explanation is
desired. You are warned to be precise."
"It is simple," said one of the peons. "Comes this senor the American,
into the wine-shop of Cananos where we are sitting. There he takes a
glass of Vermouth and goes away. Then comes a man slipping by where it
is darkest, and we go to warn the senor taking the cana bottle. It
appears there is another man waiting in this doorway, there is a
struggle, and Vincente strikes down one of the prowlers with the bottle.
He gets to his feet again, and they go in haste when they hear you
coming. Then we find the senor faint and short of breath."
The civile stretched out his hand for the cana bottle, which was
apparently corked, and balanced it. "It would serve--a man might be
killed with it," he said. "But you had a knife!"
"With excuses," said the peon. "We respect the law. The knife is
forbidden."
There was a little grim twinkle in the civile's eyes, but he fixed them
on Appleby. "I will not ask you to shake your sleeve, or question your
comrade, because his tale would be the same," he said. "That is what
happened, senor?"
"Yes," said Appleby, "so far as I can remember. I was going from the
banker's to the 'Four Nations' when I became aware that there was a man
following me. To avoid him I slipped into this doorway, where another
man was waiting. It was my pistol you heard, but the other man, whom I
had not expected, had his fingers on my throat, and I was helpless when
these others appeared."
The civile made a little gesture of comprehension, and then, tilting up
his chin, laid his fingers on his throat. "The head drawn back--and the
thumb so! With the knee in the back at the same time it was as sure as
the knife. The senor is to be felicitated on his escape. But the motive?
Even in Santa Marta men do not fall upon a stranger without a purpose."
Appleby, who was on his guard at once, felt his pockets, and was
sensible of a vast relief when he found the letter the banker had given
him was still in his possession. The other in his outer pocket had,
however, as he expected, disappeared.
"I think their purpose was evident. It is for money one usually goes to
a banker's," he said. "It is also known that I have dealings with the
Senor Suarez. Still, thanks to the promptness of the gentlemen here,
nothing of importance has been taken from me."
The civile with the lantern glanced at his comrade, who nodded.
"It would be wiser to go there in the daylight another time," said the
latter as he held out Appleby's pistol, which he had unobtrusively
looked for and picked up. "One cartridge burned--it confirms the story!
You would not recognize the men who attacked you?"
"No," said Appleby, and the peon whom the civile turned to shook his
head emphatically.
"It was very dark," he said.
The civiles asked a few more questions, and then one of them insisted on
escorting Appleby, who apparently failed to make the peons understand
that he desired a word with them, to the "Four Nations." The man,
however, left him outside the hotel, and Appleby had spent a few minutes
there waiting for his mule when one of the peons came quietly up to him
in the patio.
"The senor lost this letter not long ago?" he said.
"I did," said Appleby, taking the envelope. "Where did you find it?"
The peon smiled in a curious fashion. "It seems you know our country. I
took it from the man Vincente felled, but it did not seem wise to
mention it before the civiles. They have sharp eyes, those gentlemen."
"I am indebted," said Appleby. "It is, however, of no importance."
The peon smiled again. "And yet you knew you had lost it, and said
nothing. Why would one run a risk to seize a letter?"
"I don't know," said Appleby. "Nor am I sure why you and your companion
should take so much trouble to guard a stranger. I would not, of course,
offend you by suggesting that you did it to repay me for a glass of
Vermouth."
"For the charity then?" said the peon, smiling.
"I do not think so," said Appleby, who looked at him steadily.
The man laughed. "Well," he said reflectively, "there may have been
another reason. It is known to a few that Don Bernardino is a friend of
liberty."
Appleby was a trifle astonished, but not sufficiently to show it, since
he had already had vague suspicions.
"It is," he said, "a thing one does not admit in Santa Marta, but if one
might reward a kindness with money I have a few dollars."
"It is not permissible, senor--not from a comrade," and the man
straightened himself a trifle. "Still, one might be grateful for a
little bottle."
Appleby laughed, though he was not quite at ease, and entering the hotel
came back with two bottles of somewhat costly wine, which he thrust upon
the man.
"If I can be of service I think you know where I am to be found," he
said.
Again the curious little smile showed in the man's face, but he took off
his hat and turned away; while ten minutes later Appleby rode out of
Santa Marta somewhat troubled in mind. It was tolerably plain to him
that Harding's affairs were being watched with interest by the
Administration or somebody who desired to gain a hold on him, and that
his own connection with the Sin Verguenza was at least suspected by the
peons who had befriended him. That being so, it appeared likely that
others were aware of it too.