The next day Brainard entered the City of Mexico, lean and brown and
hard, with a very much travel-stained valise. So far as he could learn
from the few American newspapers he had come across, there had been no
further excitement over Krutzmacht’s death, and the robbery of his safe.
If a pursuit had been undertaken, the fact had been carefully kept from
the press; and he felt confident that by this time either it had been
given up, or the persons interested were watching the wrong places.
There was a steamer sailing for Havre from Vera Cruz sometime towards the
end of the month, and he resolved to take it, meanwhile resting and
making a few preparations for his voyage. It was the first time in his
life that he had been outside his own country, and every sight and sound
in this bastard Spanish metropolis filled him with curiosity and
pleasure. He secured his cabin on the _Toulouse_, and then set out to do
the sights.
The second evening, as he was resting after a busy day in the cool
courtyard of the old Hotel Iturbide, a little man in a bedraggled linen
duster hitched his chair across the stones toward Brainard.
“Just come down from the States?” he inquired. Brainard nodded.
With this slight encouragement, the stranger launched forth upon a
rambling talk about himself. He had come to Mexico, several years
before, to manage a rubber-planting enterprise, and the “dirty dagoes”
had done him out of his last cent. Soon he proposed having a drink with
his compatriot, “in honor of the greatest country in God’s world.” When
Brainard refused, saying that he was tired and was going to bed, the
American shambled along by his side through the corridors.
Judging that his fellow countryman was a harmless dead-beat, Brainard put
his hand into his pocket, and drew forth a bill, as the easiest way of
ridding himself of an unwelcome companion. At sight of the money, the
man’s eyes filled with tears. Taking his benefactor’s arm, he poured
forth a flood of personal confession and thanks that lasted until they
were at the door of Brainard’s room.
“Let me come in and talk to you a minute,” the stranger begged. “Ain’t
often I see a decent man from God’s country, and I get lonely down here,”
he whimpered.
“All right,” Brainard replied reluctantly, wondering how he could rid
himself of the fellow.
When he turned on the electric light, the stranger’s eyes roamed
carelessly over the room. It seemed to Brainard that his guest exhibited
much more keenness than his forlorn and lachrymose state warranted.
As Brainard turned to the wardrobe to fetch a box of cigars, he caught
the man’s eyes fastened on the valise which was shoved under the bed.
Brainard gave him a cigar, but did not invite him to sit down, and after
a little while he left, thanking Brainard profusely for his hospitality.
As he went out of the door, his eyes rested once more on the bag beneath
the bed.
After his visitor had left, Brainard prepared to undress. First he
placed his watch and pocketbook on the night table. Over them he laid
his revolver, which he had purchased in his wanderings, and, under
Gunnison’s directions, had learned to use. Now that he was outside the
States, whoever might dispute with him the possession of Krutzmacht’s
property would have to make good his demands. He had lost every trace of
that nervous fear which had made miserable the day after his departure
from San Francisco.
Before turning out his light, he glanced into the courtyard, and caught
sight of his recent acquaintance skulking behind a pillar. For several
minutes Brainard stood behind his curtain, looking into the courtyard,
and in all this time the man did not move from his post.
There was no reason, Brainard said to himself, why this dead-beat should
not spend the night in the courtyard of the Hotel Iturbide. Turning out
the light, he got into bed; but he could not sleep, and presently he rose
and peered cautiously out into the dark. The courtyard, faintly lighted
by the lamps in the office, was empty. This disturbed him rather more
than the skulking presence of the American, although he could give no
reason for his suspicion beyond the stranger’s apparent interest in his
valise.
He got back into bed, but not to sleep. After tossing restlessly for
another hour, he rose and dressed. As soon as the first light appeared,
he took his bag and groped his way through the dark corridors to the
office. He inquired of the night porter about trains and found that
there was an early morning train to the North. Saying that he had had a
bad night and thought he would go to the railroad station and wait there
for the train, he paid his bill, not forgetting to add a good tip. The
man offered to get him a cab, but he refused, saying that he could easily
pick up one in the street. As the porter who had been roused to
something like animation by his _pour boire_ unbarred the great door,
Brainard asked him casually:
“Do you know that _Gringo_ who was talking to me last evening—the one who
was hanging about here all the evening?”
“No, _señor_,” the man replied. “He’s been in and out at the hotel for a
week. Just come from the States, and lost all his money at cards so
soon. A bad lot!” with a final shrug of the shoulders.
“He told me he had been here several years!” Brainard exclaimed.
“No, _señor_, that cannot be. He knows no Spanish. Probably he wished
money from you to go back to the States.”
“Very likely—well, he didn’t get much!”
After a short walk Brainard came out upon the plaza in front of the
cathedral. The cracked bells of that great edifice were clanging
inharmoniously for the early mass. Already country people had arrived
with market produce, and there was considerable stir in the beautiful May
morning. Brainard walked about the plaza until he found an old, muddy
diligence drawn by four little mules that was about to start for some
village of an unpronounceable Indian name. Brainard took a place inside
and waited for it to fill with passengers. At last the driver climbed
into his perch, and the diligence rattled off through the square over the
stone streets just as the sun was rising into a clear sky. A regiment of
_rurales_ came galloping down the narrow street, with its band playing a
lively air. The diligence pulled to one side, then turned off towards
the west, and soon it was out in the flowering fields of the great
plateau. As he left the city pavements, Brainard smiled to himself at
the disappointment his acquaintance of the night before might be having
at the railroad station. Of course, he might be nothing worse than a
stranded dead-beat anxious to sponge a few dollars from a good-natured
compatriot who appeared to be in funds.
But Brainard would take no chances! If the contents of his battered
valise were as valuable as he thought they must be, the persons
interested in securing them would spare no effort or expense in tracking
him. Although he had grown brown from the sun and much stouter and had
discarded his spectacles, still it would not be difficult for a good
detective to identify him from a description furnished by the
stenographer.
And if this fellow were really after him, it was not likely that he was
alone. So it was important that he should find some small place where he
could spend the remaining days before the departure of the French line
boat. It was a pity that the diligence he had chosen at random should
apparently be making in the opposite direction from Vera Cruz. But the
morning was too brilliant, and Brainard’s nerves were too sound to let
anything worry him. Thus, with the few words of Spanish which he had
acquired while he was with old Gunnison, he launched himself again gayly
upon the unknown in Mexico.
“The world is full of ways,” he said to himself. “All you have to do is
to take one!”