THE MAN WHO LIED
These last hours before the sailing of the _Tarragona_ made the indolent
wharf bestir itself against its inclination. It was a pity to disturb
the tranquil noontide when all Cartagena closed the shutters and went to
sleep. In its baking, quivering streets the proverbial pin would have
dropped with a loud report. However, for every departing passenger many
friends exerted themselves to go down to the steamer, even though the
voyage might be no farther away than Santa Marta or Porto Colombia. The
promenade deck was like the stage of an opera, tears, embraces,
perfervid dialogue, animated choruses surrounding the actors.
The railroad whose tracks ran out upon the wharf shared this intense
excitement. Belated freight cars filled with hides and sacks of coffee
came rolling down in frantic haste. It was always that way, a general
air of surprise, almost of consternation, that the steamer actually
proposed to sail on time instead of _mañana_. Why, she was mad enough to
leave passengers, influential people of Colombia, and heaps of coffee
and hides, even if they were only a few hours late. It was discourteous,
to say the least.
Amid this confusion and noise, Colonel Fajardo moved like an imperious
dictator. He was unmistakably the _Comandante_ of the Port. Thievish
idlers fled from the gaunt figure in the uniform of white with the
medals and gold stripes. A scowl and a curse, and the traffic untangled
itself to let a porter pass with a trunk on his back or an American
tourist buying a green parakeet and the beaded bags woven by the Indian
women.
Teresa Fernandez desired another interview with Colonel Fajardo. It was
imperative. To make a scene on board the ship, however, was repugnant to
her sense of decorum, of her fidelity to the Company’s service. This
difficulty perplexed her. She was jealous of the ship’s good name. She
was a deep-water sailor with a sailor’s loyalties and affections for the
ships she served in.
Her eyes followed the movements of Colonel Fajardo who found much to do
on the wharf. She had certain questions to ask him. Liar that he was,
the odds were all against his answering anything truly, but the chance
would be offered him. Justice demanded it. Intently she watched him as
he stalked to and fro. She was singularly unmoved by impatience. What
was destined to happen would happen.
No longer did her gaze, questing and wistful, turn landward in the hope
of seeing Richard Cary come back to the _Tarragona_. There was no such
thing as hope.
The cargo sheds extended almost the length of the wharf. Between them
and the ship were the railroad tracks and the entrance from the
custom-house gate. On the farther side of the cargo sheds was a narrow
strip of wharf where smaller vessels could tie up, mostly Colombian
sailing craft that traded with the villages on the lagoon or made short
trips coastwise. Just now the graceful masts of one schooner lifted
above the roofs of the sheds.
It did not escape Teresa’s notice when Colonel Fajardo passed around the
outer end of the cargo sheds to the narrow strip of wharf behind them.
He was screened from the sight of the ship; also from the laborers at
the freight cars and the hoisting tackle. He had betaken himself into a
certain seclusion which offered Teresa the opportunity she craved.
Unheeded she tripped down to the wharf. It was usual for her to pass to
and fro on farewell errands, perhaps to purchase curios for the ladies
who were unable to bargain in Spanish. And there were always friends,
residents of Cartagena, with whom she enjoyed exchanging greetings. The
sailing hour was likely to be a gala time for Señorita Teresa Fernandez.
She was the most popular stewardess of the steamers in this service.
Slipping aside, she followed Colonel Fajardo around the outer end of the
long cargo shed. He had been on the deck of the Colombian schooner
alongside and was just stepping back to the string-piece of the wharf.
Evidently he had found no one in the schooner. Whatever the purpose of
his visit may have been, it was banished from his mind by the sight of
Teresa Fernandez. He appeared startled.
Walking a little way along the edge of the wharf, he was abreast of the
schooner’s stern when Teresa confronted him. He halted there, lifted his
cap with an elaborate flourish, and signified that he could not be
detained. Teresa put a hand in the pocket of her apron. She kept it
there while she said:
“Please do not move, Colonel Fajardo. It will be unfortunate for your
health. I am so glad that you came to this quiet spot where we are not
interrupted. I could not sail without giving myself the pleasure of
saying adieu. The other side of the wharf is so crowded, so
conspicuous.”
He was not deceived into surmising that this desirable woman had
repented of her coldness. It was no coquetry. Her voice had a biting
edge. Her face was even whiter than when he had met her on deck.
Uneasily he glanced behind him and then over her shoulder. They were
alone and unobserved. The Colombian schooner, her crew ashore, rocked
gently at its mooring lines. Beyond it was a wide stretch of azure
harbor upon which nothing moved except a far distant canoe as tiny as a
water bug. Between this strip of wharf and the shore was a high wooden
barrier with a closed gate. It was a curious isolation, with so much
life and motion on the other side of the cargo sheds, only a few yards
away.
Colonel Fajardo bared his teeth in a forced smile as he said:
“As I remember, señorita, you were not so anxious for the pleasure of my
company yesterday. I am, indeed, flattered to have you seek me out for
an adieu, but I must return to my duties. The _Tarragona_ will soon blow
her whistle. Have you anything of importance to say before you sail?”
Teresa removed her hand from the pocket of the white apron. Her hand
almost covered the little automatic pistol. The colonel caught a glimpse
of it, this object of blued steel with a round orifice no bigger than a
pill. He was still standing close to the edge of the wharf. Astonished,
he almost lost his balance. Recovering himself, he snatched at Teresa’s
hand. She eluded him with a quick backward step.
The pistol was aimed straight at the belt of Colonel Fajardo. He stood
rigid, his posture that of a man mysteriously bereft of volition.
Carefully Teresa lowered her hand until the pistol nestled in the pocket
of her apron, concealed from view, but the short barrel bulged the white
fabric. It was still pointed at the middle of Colonel Fajardo.
Instinctively he flattened his stomach until it was like a board. He had
a shrinking feeling in that region, like that of a man who has fasted
many days.
Thus they stood facing each other in a tableau as still as a picture.
When Teresa Fernandez, spoke, it was not loudly, but her voice vibrated
like a bell.
“Place your hands on your hips, outside your coat, Colonel Fajardo. And
be careful to keep them so. Your own pistol is in a holster inside your
coat. I have noticed it there. It will be unwise for you to try to get
it.”
Her captive’s gaze was wild and roving. He dared not cry out. This
hell-begotten woman carried death in a touch of her finger. Lunacy
afflicted her. It was a predicament for such a man as himself, a
situation incredibly fantastic. His gaze returned to her face, and also
to that little bulge in the pocket of her apron. It gave him the effect
of being cross-eyed. The nervous twitching of his upper lip was like a
grimace. He was grotesque.
Teresa Fernandez had no time to waste. She asked, peremptorily: “Where
is the second officer of the _Tarragona_? What misfortune occurred to
Señor Cary in Cartagena last night? The truth, Colonel Fajardo, or, as
God beholds me, I shall have to kill you.”
He could not make himself believe that the game was up. He had twisted
out of many a tight corner. It was impossible for him to conceive of
being beaten by a woman. He would endeavor to cajole this one, to play
for time. Her nerves would presently break under the strain. He was
watching her like a cat. Let her waver for an instant and he would
pounce. He answered her questions in the earnest tones of a man who
lived on intimate terms with truth.
“By the holy spirit of my dead mother, señorita, your words are like the
blank wall of the shed yonder. They mean nothing. You have deluded
yourself. Some malicious person in the ship must have led your mind
astray. I have made enemies. Why not? It is evidence of my integrity and
courage. What is this big second officer of the _Tarragona_ to me? I
have not even spoken to the man. He is a stranger.”
Teresa’s hand moved slightly in the pocket of her apron. The little
bulge indicated that the orifice of the pistol was pointed somewhat
higher than the colonel’s belt. He perceived this. His two hands rested
upon his hips, outside the coat. They seemed to have been glued there.
His leathery cheek blanched to a dirty hue. He swallowed with an effort.
The cords stood out on his neck.
Solemnly Teresa Fernandez framed her accusation in words: “You have
killed Señor Ricardo Cary. You yourself, Colonel Fajardo, or more likely
by the hands of others. If you are ready to confess it, I will permit
the Government of Cartagena to decree the punishment. It will be left to
the law and the courts. Do you confess?”
“Confess to what, my little one?” he blurted, with a touch of the old
bravado. “Careful! You are in a strange frenzy, and that pistol may
explode before you know it.”
“I will know it,” said Teresa, “and you will know it, Colonel Fajardo. I
am familiar with the little pistol. For the last time, are you a guilty
or an innocent man?”
“As innocent as the Holy Ghost—” he protested, but his voice stuck in
his throat, for he read death in the girl’s unflinching glance.
Desperately he attempted to snatch at the holster on his hip, with one
swift motion to take her by surprise and slay her where she stood. It
was instinctive, like the leap of a trapped wolf.
Teresa read his sinister purpose. If he was swift, she was the swifter.
She raised her hand from the pocket of her apron. It paused for a small
fraction of a second and almost touched a bit of red ribbon attached to
a medal on the left breast of Colonel Fajardo’s handsome white coat. He
stammered thickly:
“Ah, wait—wretched slut of a woman—Jesus, have mercy—oh, oh, my
heart—may you roast in hell—”
The report of Teresa’s pistol had been no louder than the crack of a
whip. One report, no more. When a bullet had drilled clean through a
man’s heart, it was unnecessary to fire again.
Colonel Fajardo’s hands flew from his hips. They were beating the air.
His mouth was slack, like that of an idiot. He blinked as if immensely
bewildered. His chin fell forward. His body swayed tipsily. Teresa stood
waiting, her left hand clasped to her bosom. It was the end. She had
seen death come by violence to men on shipboard.
The unforeseen occurred when Colonel Fajardo, swaying and sagging,
tottered backward and disappeared. He had been standing close to the
edge of the wharf. His fingers clawed the empty air as he plunged
downward, barely clearing the overhanging stern of the Colombian
schooner.
Teresa laid hold of a piling and stared down at a patch of frothy water.
Small waves ran away from it in widening circles. They lapped against
the schooner’s rudder. Nothing else was visible. Presently, however, a
huge black fin, triangular, sheared the surface like a blade. Another
like it glistened and vanished. There was the sheen of white bellies as
the greedy sharks of Cartagena harbor swirled downward into the green
water.
Teresa Fernandez averted her eyes. The body of Colonel Fajardo would
never be seen again. He was obliterated. She let the pistol fall through
a crack between the planks of the wharf. Then she walked to the side of
the cargo shed and leaned against a timber. She had pictured herself as
almost instantly discovered and seized, the body of Colonel Fajardo
lying upon the wharf. For this she had prepared herself. She had been
willing to pay the price.
Now she realized that her deed was undiscovered. The isolation was
unbroken. The harsh commotion of the ship’s winches, the rattle of the
freight cars as the switching engine bumped them about, the yells of the
Colombian stevedores, had made the whip-like report of the pistol
inaudible. And the whole thing had been so quickly done. Perhaps two or
three minutes she had stood there and talked with Colonel Fajardo.
A revulsion of feeling shook the soul of Teresa Fernandez. Why should
she suffer bitter shame and die in expiation of a righteous act? It was
no crime in her sight. She had administered justice because otherwise it
would have been forever thwarted. And, in the last resort, had she not
fired the little pistol in self-defense? These thoughts raced through
her brain during the moments while she leaned against the timber of the
cargo shed.
She mustered strength. Her knees ceased trembling. A hint of color
returned to her olive cheek. Her lips were not so bloodless. Head erect,
she walked along the narrow strip of wharf, but not to pass around the
outer end of the shed. Instead of this, she sought the shoreward exit
through the high wooden barrier. The gate was fastened, she found, but
another way of escape led through an empty room in which baggage was
sometimes stored for examination. She passed through this room and
emerged on the railroad tracks.
Between two freight cars she made her way and so to the custom-house
gate and the main entrance from the open square beyond. In a shady spot
squatted an Indian woman with beaded bags displayed on her lap. Another
drowsed beside a pile of grass baskets. Teresa paused to buy two beaded
bags and a basket.
Just then a carriage dashed into the open square. A portly Colombian
gentleman and his wife called out cordial salutations to Señorita
Fernandez. A small boy fairly wriggled with joy as he flew out of the
carriage to fling both arms around the waist of the stewardess of the
_Tarragona_.
She welcomed them gayly. They had made the southward voyage with her
several months earlier, _en route_ to their home in Bogotá. Teresa
walked back to the ship with them, the small boy clinging to her hand
and piping excitedly in Spanish. Would she show him again how to play
those wonderful games of cards? He had forgotten some of them. And the
story of the jaguar that sat on the roof of the peon’s hut and clawed a
hole through the thatch and tumbled right in?
Yes, Teresa would tell him all the tales she could remember. There would
be plenty of time during the voyage to New York. In this manner the
stewardess returned to the ship, beaded bags and grass basket on one
arm, the happy urchin from Bogotá clinging to the other. The youthful
third officer was at the gangway. He halted her to say:
“Nothing doing. Not a sign of Mr. Cary. The chief engineer drove into
town. He may dig up a clue, but I doubt it.”
“Mr. McClement is a sharp one,” said she, “but the time is too short.”
“Sure! It seems as if that chesty gink, Colonel Fajardo, might have
helped. He ought to be wise to what goes on in Cartagena.”
“Ah, yes, it would seem so,” said Teresa as she stepped on board the
ship. She found the staterooms of the family from Bogotá and saw that
nothing was lacking for their comfort. Then she proceeded to her own
room, but not for long. She washed her hands, scrubbing them with
particular care. In a way, it was a symbol. Then she put on a fresh
apron. The one she had worn on the wharf was wrinkled. The pocket showed
a small stain of oil where the little pistol had nestled.
A few minutes later she met the chief steward in the corridor. He
detained her to rumble:
“You haf tooken my advice, Miss Fernandez, and laid off a leetle while?
Now go chase yourself on the job.”
“All right, Mr. Schwartz. I will make myself pleasant to that cranky
woman in seventeen.”
Teresa went and knocked at the stateroom door. A querulous voice said,
“Come in.” The woman curled up on the divan, under the electric fan, was
not much older than Teresa, but she looked faded and unlovely. Rouge and
lip-stick simulated a vanished bloom. An empty cocktail glass was at her
elbow. An ash tray reeked with dead cigarettes.
“For God’s sake, Miss Fernandez, is the ship ever going to leave this
beastly hole?” she complained. “I’m dying with the heat and bored sick.
Rub some of that bay rum on my head. It feels as if the top would fly
off.”
“Yes, madam. It will be cooler soon, when we get out of the harbor.
Cartagena is always hot in the middle of the day.”
“Hot? You said something. And stupid! I didn’t mind the cruise until we
tied up to this dump. A fool doctor shoved me off on a sea voyage, and
my husband couldn’t leave his business. It was wished on me, all right.”
“Cartagena is very beautiful, so many people think,” ventured Teresa.
“Huh, they must be dead ones. Nothing has happened here in three hundred
years. I’ll bet you couldn’t wake it up with a ton of dynamite. How did
you ever stand living here? You seem to have some pep. Got it in little
old New York, I’ll bet.”
“Perhaps, madam. New York is a live one.”
“Right-o. That’s where you get action. No Rip Van Winkle stuff. You can
always start something. These Colombians? Dead on their feet—asleep at
the switch.”
“I am a Colombian, madam,” smiled Teresa, an absent look in her eyes.
“Yes, nothing ever happens in Cartagena. It is stupid and asleep. Nobody
could start anything at all.”
Deftly the stewardess ministered to the aching head of the woman in
seventeen, soothing her with a murmurous, agreeable flow of talk. The
steamer blew three long, strident blasts. Teresa excused herself and
hastened on deck. The _Tarragona_ was moving slowly away from the wharf.
Presently she swung to traverse the wide lagoon and so reach the open
sea through the narrow fairway of the Boca Chica.
The swell of the Caribbean was cradling the steamer when Teresa
Fernandez found time to rest in the wicker chair beside the staircase.
She gazed into the dining-saloon. At a small table in a corner sat a
wireless operator and the assistant purser. Between them was an empty
chair. Teresa sighed and closed her eyes. She would move her wicker
chair to another place. She did not wish to see the second officer’s
empty chair.
Late in the afternoon she met the chief engineer on deck. In spotless
white clothes he strolled with hands clasped behind him, alone as usual,
a lean, abstracted figure. He paused to stand at the rail beside the
stewardess.
At first they found nothing to say. They were staring at the roseate,
misty city of Cartagena. It seemed to rise from the sea and float like a
mirage. The surf flashed white against the wall of enduring masonry that
marched around this ancient stronghold of the _conquistadores_. Teresa
Fernandez said in a low voice:
“Do you understand what Mr. Cary meant when he talked about the
Cartagena of ages and ages ago, as if he had really been there? He is
dead, I know, but it seems to me that he must be alive, that he will
always be alive in Cartagena.”
“It was a romantic obsession of his, Miss Fernandez. By the way, did you
say anything to Colonel Fajardo? I fancied you might have given him the
third degree, after the session in my room. I found out nothing when I
drove into town. It was a gesture, as you might say. I had to be doing
something.”
“I asked him very straight, Mr. McClement,” replied Teresa, her eyes
meeting his. “He swore he had nothing to tell me.”
“Humph! Then I’m afraid we can never find out.”
McClement resumed his stroll. More than once he glanced at Teresa still
lingering at the rail and looking at distant Cartagena, now a vanishing
vision. The chief engineer shook his head. The expression of his
intelligent and reflective face was inscrutable. To himself he muttered:
“But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts.”