THE CONVICT FROM CEUTA
The streets of Cadiz were deserted. Only by the Quay was there any
sign of life, for here the crew of the Brazilian warship, the _Maria
Braganza_, were languidly embarking stores on flat-bottomed lighters,
and discussing, with a wealth of language and in no complimentary
terms, the energy of their commander. It was obvious, so they said
in their picturesque language, that a warship was never intended to
carry cargo, and if the Brazilian Government was foolish enough to
purchase war stores in Spain, it should go a little farther, and
charter a Spanish merchant ship to carry them.
So they cursed Captain Lombrosa for a dog and the son of a dog, and
predicted for him an eternity of particular discomfort.
Captain Lombrosa, a short, swarthy man, knew nothing of his
unpopularity and probably cared less. He was sitting in the Café of
the Five Nations, near the Plaza Mayor, picking his teeth
thoughtfully and reading from time to time the cablegram from his
Government which informed him that certain defalcations of his had
been discovered by the paymaster-general of the navy, and demanding
peremptorily his return to Rio de Janeiro.
To say that Captain Lombrosa was unperturbed would be to exaggerate.
No man who builds his house upon sand can calmly regard the shifting
foundations of his edifice. But he was not especially depressed, for
many reasons. The Government had merely anticipated events by a week
or so.
He read the cablegram with its pencilled decodation, smiled sadly,
put up his feet on a chair, and called for another bottle of Rioja.
There is an unlovely road through the dreary waste that leads from
Cadiz to San Fernando. Beyond the city and beyond the Arsenal the
road winds through the bleak salt marshes to Jerez, that Xeres de la
Frontera which has given its name to the amber wine of Spain.
A solitary horseman cantered into San Fernando, his clothing white
with brackish dust. He drew rein before the Café Cruz Blanca and
dismounted, an untidy barefooted boy leading his horse away.
There were few people in the saloon of the café, for a chill wind was
abroad, and the _cappa_ is a very poor protection against the icy
breezes that blow from the Sierras.
A man greeted the horseman as he entered--a stout man with bulging
cheeks and puffy eyes. He breathed wheezily, and his hands moved
with a strange restlessness.
They hailed each other in the Andalusian dialect, and the newcomer
ordered "_Café c'leche_."
"Well, friend?" asked the stout man, when the waiter had disappeared.
"What is the news?"
He spoke in English.
"The best," replied the other in the same language. "T. B. is
finished."
"No!"
"It's a fact. Ramundo shot him at close range, but the devil went
down fighting. They've got Ramundo."
The fat man snorted.
"Isn't that dangerous?" he asked.
"For us, no; for him, yes," said the man carelessly. "Ramundo knows
nothing except that he has been living in the lap of luxury in London
on the wages of an unknown employer."
"What will he get?" asked the stout man nervously.
The man looked at him curiously.
"You are getting jumpy, friend Grayson," he said coolly.
"I am getting sick of this life," said Grayson. "We're making money
by the million, but what is the use of it? We are dogs that dare not
show our noses abroad; we're exiled and damned, and there is no
future."
"You might as well be here as in prison," philosophised his friend.
"And in prison you most certainly would be, if not worse----"
"We had no hand in the murders," interrupted Grayson pleadingly.
"Now did we, Baggin?"
"I know little about the English law," drawled George T. Baggin,
sometime treasurer of the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Securities
Syndicate. "But such knowledge as I have enables me to say with
certainty that we should be hanged--sure."
The fat man collapsed, mopping his brow.
"Ramundo killed one and Poltavo the other," he mumbled. "What about
Poltavo?"
"He was standing by when T. B. was shot; but, as soon as he saw the
policeman was down and out, he skipped. He arrives to-night."
Some thought came to him which was not quite agreeable, for he
frowned.
"Poltavo, of course, knows," he went on meditatively. "Poltavo is
one with us."
"He has been a valuable member," ventured Grayson.
"Had been," said the other, emphasising the first word.
"What do you mean? Was it not he who established our stations and
got the right men to work 'em? Why, he has got the whole thing at
his fingers' ends."
"Yes," agreed Baggin, with a wry smile. "And he has us at his
fingers' ends also--where are our friends?--the other matter I have
arranged without calling in Poltavo."
"They are returning to-night." The fat man shifted uncomfortably.
"You were saying about this T. B. fellow--he is dead?"
"Not dead, but nearly; Poltavo saw him carried into the house, and a
little later an ambulance came flying to the door. He saw him
carried out. Later he enquired at the hospital--sent in his card, if
you please--and found that Smith was shot through the shoulder."
Grayson lowered his voice.
"Is Poltavo----" He did not complete his sentence.
"He's dangerous. I tell you, Grayson, we are on tender ice; there's
a crackling and a creaking in the air."
Grayson licked his dry lips.
"I've been having dreams lately," he rumbled. "Horrid dreams about
prisons----"
"Oh, cut it out!" said Baggin. "There's no time for fool dreaming.
I'm going to the committee to-night; you back me up. Hullo!"
A beggar had sidled into the café in the waiter's absence. He moved
with the furtive shuffle of the practised mendicant.
His hair was close-cropped, and on his cheeks was a three days'
growth of beard.
He held out a grimy hand.
"Señor," he murmured. "Por Dios----"
"Get out."
The man looked at him appealingly.
"Diez centimes, señor," he whined.
Baggin raised his hand, but checked its descent. He had seen
something behind the ragged jacket closely buttoned at the throat.
"Wait for me on the road to Jerez," he commanded, and tossed the man
a silver piece. The beggar caught it with the skill of an expert.
Baggin cut short the torrent of thanks, blessings, and protestations.
"Meet me in half-an-hour; you understand?"
"What the devil are you going to do?" demanded Grayson.
"You shall see."
Half-an-hour later they emerged from the café, Baggin to his horse,
and the fat man to a capacious victoria that he had summoned from the
hotel stables.
A mile along the road they came up with the beggar.
"Get down, Grayson, and send the victoria on; you can signal it when
you want it."
He waited until the empty victoria had driven away; then he turned to
the waiting ragamuffin.
"What is your name?"
"Carlos Cabindez," said the man hesitatingly.
"Where do you live?"
"At Ronda."
"Where have you come from?"
"Tarifa."
"What is your trade?"
The man grinned and shuffled his feet.
"A fisherman," he said at last.
Baggin's hand suddenly shot out; and, grasping his collar, tore open
the frayed jacket.
The man wrenched himself free with an imprecation.
"Take your hand from that knife," commanded Baggin. "I will do you
no harm. Where did you get that shirt?"
The beggar scowled and drew the threadbare coat across his chest.
"I bought it," he said.
"That's a lie," said Baggin. "It is a prisoner's shirt; you are an
escaped convict."
The man made no answer.
"From Ceuta?"
Again no reply.
"What was your sentence? Answer."
"Life," said the other sullenly.
"Your crime?"
"_Asesinatos_."
"How many?"
Baggin's eyes narrowed.
"Three murders, eh?" he said. Then, "You would like to earn a
thousand pesetas?" he asked.
The man's eyes lit up.
Baggin turned to the troubled Grayson.
"You, can go on, Grayson," he said. "I shall see you to-night. In
the meantime, I wish to have a little talk with our friend here."