RICHARD CARY STROLLS ALONE
A wisp of an elderly man appeared in the moonlit _patio_, with no more
sound than the rustle of a dry leaf. He seemed to move with an habitual
air of stealth. Bent and meager, his linen clothes flapped on him. He
peered this way and that. The little brown monkey came dancing down from
the trellis and perched, chattering, upon his shoulder. He stood fanning
himself with a dingy straw hat. He was short of breath, wheezing
audibly. No matter how trifling his errands, it was to be conjectured
that he always flitted to and fro in a hurried, secretive manner.
Teresa moved out of the shadows. He jumped back, easily startled. His
niece called out some affectionate Spanish phrase and dutifully advanced
to embrace him. Señor Ramon Bazán pecked at her cheek, cackled a
welcome, and wriggled clear. He was fascinated by the formidable size of
the stranger who hovered between the galleon bell and the oleander tree.
It was a phenomenon that provoked excited curiosity.
Uncle Ramon Bazán sputtered questions. Teresa proudly presented the
second officer of the _Tarragona_ who felt baffled because he could talk
no Spanish. This failed to check the wordy welcome of the uncle of
Teresa. He was impressed and amused. On tiptoe he patted Cary’s mighty
shoulder and measured his height. It was like a terrier making friends
with a Saint Bernard.
“He says you are as big as the hill of La Popa,” swiftly interpreted
Teresa. “You do his poor house an honor. Everything in it is yours. You
have made a delicious hit with him, Ricardo. He does not like many
people.”
Cary bowed and conveyed his thanks. Uncle Ramon chuckled like the squeak
of a rusty hinge. He had made a joke, explained Teresa. Why offer the
house to this Señor Cary when he could easily carry it off on his back
if he felt so disposed? They found chairs near the fountain. The Indian
_muchacho_ brought glasses of iced lemonade. Cary smoked his pipe and
idly listened. To hear Teresa’s voice, flowing, musical, talking in the
language of her native Cartagena, was a new delight.
Presently the wee brown monkey clambered to his knee and sat there. The
wrinkled visage bore an odd resemblance to that of Señor Ramon Bazán.
Richard Cary knocked the ashes from his briar pipe and laid it on the
bench beside him. The monkey noted the procedure, with a grave scrutiny.
Then it picked up the pipe, carefully rapped the bowl against Cary’s
knee, and inserted the stem between its teeth. Cary courteously offered
his match-box and tobacco-pouch. Uncle Ramon’s shrill mirth was so
violent that a coughing fit was nearly the death of him. Teresa was
gleeful because to win the monkey’s favor was a signal distinction. In
her uncle’s sight, it was the final seal of approval.
Soon it was time to go back to the ship. The host escorted them to the
street and sent the Indian lad in quest of a carriage. He warmly urged
Richard Cary to make the house his home whenever he was in port. It was
expressed with gusto. They left him in the doorway, a bizarre figure,
the monkey tucked under one arm.
“Never have I seen my uncle like this,” said Teresa as they drove away.
“He hates ’most everybody. You are his big pet, Ricardo. Any favor you
ask, he will tumble over himself to do it.”
“I was sorry I couldn’t have a chat with him, he seemed so cordial. A
comical old chap.”
“Pooh, he can talk English when he wants to. He lived in Washington one
time, for the government at Bogotá. He is funny. To-night it was a
trick, his talking only Spanish. Maybe you would say something about him
to me, eh? He was sizing you up. He is just as sly as that little
monkey. But I must not speak so horrid of my uncle. He is a very old
man—cracked—some bats in the _cabeza_. How old do you think he is?”
“I couldn’t get a slant on him in the moonlight,” answered Cary. “He is
pretty well warped and dried up, but he seems to have a kick in him.”
“Nobody knows how old that Ramon Bazán is, Ricardo. He looked just like
this when I was a little, little girl.”
Cary absently filled his briar pipe. Teresa snatched it from him and
objected:
“That monkey was trying to smoke it just like a man. Dirty beast! Here,
you take a cigarette from me and I will scrub that pipe with boiling
water.”
One other thing troubled her. That story of the galleon bell. Did
Ricardo think she was stupid to believe all that stuff? It sounded true
in the _patio_, in the moonlight of Cartagena, but would he laugh at her
when he was at sea again in the _Tarragona_ with that wise _amigo_ of
his, the chief engineer? Listen! It was no more wonderful than the
marble pulpit in the cathedral, all carved with the images of the
saints. It was well known to everybody that the Pope had commanded the
best artists of Spain to carve that pulpit for a gift to the faithful
people of Cartagena. The Pope had blessed it before the ship sailed from
Cadiz. Oh, very long ago!
The ship was close to the Spanish Main when the English buccaneers had
captured her. They were very angry to find the cases of marble that were
all carved with the blessed images of the Catholic saints. So they threw
the cases overboard when they plundered the ship. All this heavy marble!
It did not sink at all, but floated on the waves. A long time these
cases of marble floated until, one day, they washed right up on the
beach of Cartagena.
The bishop called all the people to see the holy miracle and there was a
procession to the cathedral with incense and banners and hymns. And
there is the marble pulpit to-day, and the priests saying Mass under the
canopy.
Richard Cary gravely agreed that such a miracle could not be doubted,
even by a heretic. And he did not have to be persuaded to believe in the
marvelous powers of the galleon’s bell to toll a warning of disaster.
This comforted the heart of Teresa Fernandez, so shrewd and yet so
credulous. She was radiantly happy in these golden moments with the man
she loved.
He left her at the ship’s gangway. The chief officer was on watch. Dour
and taciturn, he was human enough to say:
“You didn’t have to hurry back, Mr. Cary. A pity to cut it short on a
night like this. The old man is ashore.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, but the stewardess had to come back and
report for duty.”
“An uncommonly pretty young woman,” was the gruff comment, “and as good
as she looks, from all accounts. I can’t blame you for taking notice.
Don’t lose your head, though. Going to sea is a dog’s life for a man
that’s fool enough to get married.”
“Exactly what I used to say,” replied Cary, “but a man has been known to
change his mind.”
He drifted along the promenade deck and chatted with a passenger or two.
This failed to interest him. In the lee of the cargo sheds, where the
ship was moored, the air was hot and heavy. He went to his room and
tried to read. A cabin steward came in with the briar pipe, sent by
Teresa who had thoroughly cleaned and boiled it. He lighted the pipe and
went on deck again, roaming to and fro alone.
It occurred to him to walk into Cartagena, as far as the nearest shops,
and buy some picture postcards to send to his mother in New Hampshire.
He had noticed them in the windows, attractively colored, giving
impressions really vivid of the charm and antiquity of the place. They
would be treasured at home, probably passed around at a meeting of the
missionary society or the Ladies’ Aid.
It was an excuse to work off his restless humor. An absurd anticlimax,
in a way, to be tied to the routine of a fruit steamer, to be separated
from one’s sweetheart because, in the role of a stewardess, she had to
wait upon a lot of fussy, pampered women. Richard Cary swore under his
breath. Dreams of adventure? The sense of tingling expectancy? Bonds not
easy to break constrained him, habits of discipline and environment. He
was torn two ways. It was a conflict between the two Richard Carys.
After finding the postal cards and mailing them, he walked through one
quaint, shadowed street after another. Certain buildings he felt drawn
to find, the House of the Holy Inquisition, the towered cathedral, which
was so bold a landmark from seaward, the cloistered convents whose nuns
had fled inland whenever the topsails of the buccaneers had gleamed off
the Boca Grande or the Boca Chica.
He was passing a café when he noticed, with a casual glance, a military
officer seated just inside the iron grillwork of a long window. The
officer waved a hand and called out a courteous invitation. Cary
recognized him as Colonel Fajardo, the _Comandante_ of the Port. This
was rather surprising. Affability was unexpected. Richard Cary was
intrigued. The chief engineer had taken pains to warn him against this
gentleman as both truculent and dangerous where a woman was involved.
Apparently Colonel Fajardo wished to dispel such an impression. He
pointed at the tiny cognac glass in front of him and suavely suggested:
“Will you give me the pleasure? You are enjoying the lovely night, and
alone? How unfortunate!”
“Thank you. I can tarry a few minutes,” replied Cary. He entered the
door and took a chair facing the Colombian colonel. The café was more
than respectable. It was what one might have called a resort of fashion.
A perfectly safe place in which to sit with Colonel Fajardo and sip a
tiny glass of cognac. He was sober enough, reflected Cary. Haggard and a
little the worse for wear, but not in the least quarrelsome. Jimmy, the
bartender of the _Tarragona_, must have been unduly excited. No prospect
of melodrama in such a situation as this.
Nonsense, to imagine plots of revenge and murder just because a man was
a South American and had a few drinks in him! It was true enough that
Colonel Fajardo looked the part. To incur his dislike and then encounter
him in a dark street might possibly be unhealthy. Apparently, however,
he had thought discretion the better part of valor. It was off with the
old love and on with the new.
“You will stay in the _Tarragona_?” inquired the colonel, with an air of
friendly solicitude. “You are fond of the ship and the trip to Colombian
ports?”
“Yes, thank you. It is a pleasant change after the North Atlantic. I
hope to stay in the ship, if only to see Cartagena again.”
“Ah, ha, there is no other reason, Mr. Cary? Pardon me, I do not intend
to be personal,” murmured Colonel Fajardo. He laughed, without mirth.
The leathery cheek was flushed. Richard Cary ignored the implication. He
was not one to invite trouble. Let the other man show his hand.
Colonel Fajardo smothered a yawn. It had been a fatiguing day. Cary
found little to say. At his leisure he finished the glass of cognac.
Colonel Fajardo declined another. He had an engagement to wait for a
friend. Cary therefore bade him good-night. A courtly bow from the
waist, a graceful phrase, and the colonel sat himself down again.
Rather fortunate, reflected Richard Cary as he resumed his promenade
through the streets of Cartagena. He would have to meet this man on
shipboard every voyage. It might have been disagreeable, also awkward, a
personal row with the _Comandante_ of the Port.
Into a sleeping square hemmed in by houses rambled Richard Cary and came
to the massive church of San Pedro Clavér whose bells had jangled in the
squat tower through long centuries. At its altar the Spanish conquerors
had knelt in ornate armor before invading the fetid jungles and daring
the unknown mountains to seek the fabled El Dorado.
Crossing the square and halting to gaze at the church, Cary happened to
notice, from the tail of his eye, several men loitering on a corner
underneath a balcony. The shadows somewhat obscured them. He thought
nothing of it. One thrummed a guitar. They were singing some plaintive,
long-drawn love song with many minor chords.
The second mate of the _Tarragona_ glanced at his watch. He ought to be
retracing his course, in the direction of the waterfront. He walked
along one side of the square. The group of serenaders beneath the
balcony strolled in the same direction. They were still singing. It was
agreeable to listen to them.
Richard Cary turned into a street which was no more than a gash between
shuttered walls of stone. No lights were visible. The musicians,
care-free and idle, drifted into the same street and followed along
behind him. They were in no haste. The night was still young. Cary felt
like loitering until they finished a song whose refrain carried a
cadence sweet and wistful.
They walked a little faster. The guitar and the harmonious voices were
silenced. Richard Cary quickened his own gait and swung into a long,
easy stride. Presently it caught his attention that the musicians had
also increased their pace. He was not drawing away from them. This was a
trifle odd. The Colombians of Cartagena were not apt to walk as fast as
this. They seldom exerted themselves.
As a rule, this stalwart American mariner was contemptuously careless of
danger nor borrowed trouble of any sort. He was likely to be
unsuspicious. Now, however, he turned to glance over his shoulder at
these unusually energetic Colombians. His ear noted that they were not
shod with leather. Their footfalls made a quick, soft pit-pat on the
stone pavement. It was like the tread of furtive animals.
They crossed a thin, white shaft of moonlight where a house had crumbled
and fallen. It was discernible that they were young men, quick and
slender, wearing white shirts, but no coats. A moment later Cary saw
them divide, two flitting across the street.
He looked ahead of him. The street was like a dark ravine. It had taken
a slight bend. He could see one lighted window, perhaps a hundred feet
distant, a long, yellow rectangle laced with iron bars.
He was unarmed. The bamboo cane was merely ornamental. Instinct told him
that he stood in peril of his life. These bravos of Cartagena were not
intent on robbery. They were of the breed of the mediæval night-hawks of
the cloak and sword, the _gente de capa y espada_, the rufflers who did
murder for hire.
Long of limb and deep-lunged, Richard Cary might have run away from them
and saved his skin. There was no pith in these thugs of the Cartagena
slums to overtake him in a stern chase. He flung the thought aside. By
God, no Devon man had ever turned his back when outnumbered in these
same narrow, frowning streets. Five to one? They paid him a handsome
compliment.
He suddenly whirled about to face the pursuers. He stood massive and
alert, head thrust forward, like a bull about to charge. The two bravos
who had crossed the street came gliding back to take him in the rear.
The three whom he faced deployed to encircle him. They moved rapidly, in
silence.
He dreaded to hear a pistol shot. They were not as clumsy as that, to
make a noise and alarm the street unless it had to be done that way.
Richard Cary was ashamed to cry out for help. It was like striking his
flag. He drew in his breath. His strong teeth were set tight together.
His fists were clenched. They swung at his sides. They were like
terrible mallets.
He moved, slowly, until his back touched the wall of the overhanging
house. He was at bay. The bravos approached him like cats. They
entertained a profound respect for him. The most reckless one of them
plucked a knife from his shirt. He led the attack. A quick thrust or two
and the thing would be done. It would be like sticking a steer for beef.
Colonel Fajardo was waiting at the Café Dos Hermanos for the word that
the business had been dispatched. He had the money ready in his pocket.
It would not do to fail. _Madre de Dios_, no! Not when a man like that
one gave the order. He knew too much about these five bad young men of
Cartagena. He had them by the scruff of their necks, as you might say.
In spite of this, there was a reluctance to close in with the huge
figure of the yellow-haired _Americano_ who stood so silent, so
unafraid, with his back against the wall. He was mysterious, terrifying.
However, there could be no delay. It was a ticklish undertaking at best,
to kill him in an open street, in the middle of the evening. Earlier
they had trailed the open carriage in which he rode with the woman from
the ship, but it had been impossible to arrange anything.
The leader of the bravos lunged forward, one arm upraised. He stooped
low, to thrust up. The _Americano_ had no pistol. He would have fired it
by now. Before that upraised arm could drive home the knife, it was
gripped between the elbow and shoulder. Richard Cary’s hand had been as
swift as the dart of a snake. Here was better luck than he had dared
expect. His other hand clamped itself on the bravo’s forearm.
Before the rest of them could rush in to cut him down, he leaped away
from the wall, dragging his struggling captive by the arm. The fellow
was scrawny, no great weight for Richard Cary to do with as he pleased.
He planted his legs apart, tightened the grip of his two hands and swung
the body of the helpless bravo by the arm as a handle. Sheer over his
head he swung him, in a circle as he might have whirled a bludgeon.
As he swung this extraordinary weapon he ran forward, with an agility
amazing, dumbfounding. It cleared the path. The four ruffians scattered.
They were crying out to each other. One dropped upon his knees. Another
flung himself flat. A third was not quick enough. The revolving body of
the bravo, extended straight, seemingly rigid, struck him with a
peculiar thud. He reeled and limped into the shadows.
With a laugh, Richard Cary released his grip. The bravo, converted into
a missile, went hurtling into the middle of the street with a dreadful
momentum. He flew as if propelled from a catapult. His body smote the
cobblestones. It sprawled without motion.
Snatching at this brief respite, Richard Cary turned and ran. It was not
a retreat. He was running for that lighted window with the rusty iron
bars set in the ancient mortar. The four bravos rallied. They were
mindful of the menace of Colonel Fajardo’s wrath, as well as of the fat
price he had promised them. They sprinted to overtake the fleeing
_Americano_, wary to avoid such a blunder as had cracked the skull of
their leader.
Richard Cary was too quick for them. He plunged against the iron bars of
the window. A glance showed him an empty room. There was no help there.
He had not hoped to find it. This was his own joyous battle, to be waged
alone. At random he laid hold of an iron bar of the grating. Both ends
of it were embedded in mortar which had become cracked and rotten. He
braced a knee against the stone window ledge. His broad back heaved. The
great shoulders strained. The veins purpled his temples. Suddenly his
back straightened. The bar came away in his hands, bending, ripping out
of the sockets in the mortar. It had been the work of a moment.
Now he had a weapon to his liking. Again he laughed. The bravos disliked
the sound of that laugh. It made them tremble. By the light from the
window they could see the iron bar in the hands of the colossal
_Americano_. One of them jerked out a pistol and fired. The bullet
clipped a lock of Cary’s yellow hair.
Before the rascal could pull trigger again, the iron bar smote him a
slanting blow on the neck. He crumpled upon the cobblestones. His neck
was beyond mending. There were three of them left. Two took to their
heels. Behind them the iron bar beat the air like a flail. They moaned
prayers to San Pedro Clavér, to the Blessed Virgin herself. They were
murderers grown suddenly religious.
One of them stumbled. Death fanned him with its breath. He tried to
wheel, knife in hand. Over him loomed the dread figure of the giant with
the charmed life. The bravo was of a mind to clasp his hands and wail
for mercy. The iron bar fell. It crashed against his shoulder and
crushed it like putty. He rolled over, kicking and making queer noises
in his throat.
Richard Cary halted in his tracks. One lone bravo was in sight, fleeing
for the slums which had spewed him forth. He ran with the staccato
pit-pat-pat of feet that spurned the cobblestones. Never in his life had
he run with such speed. A bullet could not have overtaken him.
Four of the gang had been disposed of. Where was the fifth? Richard Cary
was puzzled. He turned to search the street behind him. As he moved, a
shadow moved with him. It was the shadow of the fifth bravo. He had
recovered his wits, this cool and vigilant one who had a flair for
dexterous assassination. Instead of exposing himself to a blow from that
bone-crushing iron bar, he had hugged the nearest wall, awaiting an
opportunity, keeping himself at Richard Cary’s back, shifting whenever
he did. He hunted like a ferret.
From a trousers pocket he withdrew a bit of rubber hose filled with bird
shot, flexible and heavy. He slipped his hand through a loop of cord.
The weapon hung from his wrist. In the other hand was a knife with a
thin blade.
Unable to fathom the disappearance of the fifth bravo, Cary delayed an
instant longer. The iron bar was poised in his two hands. Just behind
him moved a shadow. Suddenly he seemed to sense its presence. He
stiffened and turned his head. It was a fraction of a second too late. A
blow on the head stunned him. His eyes were filled with fire. His
strength left him. He toppled forward with a groan. The iron bar clanged
on the pavement.
As he fell, a knife was driven between his shoulder blades. He felt it
sear like a red coal. A tremor passed through his mighty frame. Then he
stretched prone and inanimate, an arm twisted under his head.
The only sound in the dark, narrow street was the pit-pat-pat of a man
running away.