Read Online Puzzle of the Blue Banderilla by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Palmer
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day’s news, it came as something of a shock to him to realize that this young man was dead. The name beneath the picture was “Manuel Robles.”
“That settles it!” he said savagely.
At Lecheria he took the bull by the horns and sent a telegram to the Jefe de Policía, Mexico, D.F. It was a crisp and definite message, indicating that immediately upon arrival he wished to turn over to agents of the department of public safety proof that the death at Nuevo Laredo of customs examiner Manuel Robles yesterday was not a natural death, together with party indicated as responsible for same.
At Tacubaya, fifteen minutes out of the capital, five faintly harried-looking men in plain clothes boarded the train and were taken by the conductor to the seat wherein Inspector Oscar Piper waited. One of them, it appeared, could speak English.
They were, he announced, agentes de la Seguridad Publica. And what was all this about?
The inspector, a little regretfully, named Miss Dulcie Prothero as suspect number one. He mentioned the possible motive for her having attacked her former employer, a grudge motive. He touched upon the suspicious actions of Julio Mendez. And he produced the bottle of Elixir d’Amour.
At last the agentes showed real interest. They seemed to have no doubt at all of the identity of that faint bittersweet odor of almonds which the perfume had half concealed. They took the bottle, studied it gingerly and with great respect.
“One of your suspects is in the day coach,” Piper said. “The other—and I’d give him a good going-over—must be up there with the girl, because he ducked out of this car as you came in.”
They translated for each other, made copious notes. And then, as the train pulled into the Mexico City station, it was requested of the inspector that he produce his credentials.
“Gladly,” he said. From his coat pocket he took a large envelope, well stuffed. But when he saw that it was stuffed with a folded railway time-table instead of his pink tourist card, instead of the splendid letter from the Mexican consul in New York which commended him to the civil and military authorities of the Republic, instead of his police identification card, his letter of introduction to the jefe from the commissioner of New York—when he saw that this sheaf of invaluable impedimenta was gone, the inspector murmured words and phrases quite untranslatable.
He felt in his vest pocket with anxious fingers, but there was no gold badge where it should have been. Billfold, American and Mexican money, silver, his watch—all were intact. But he had not the faintest proof of his identity. The train was coming to a stop now.
The agentes drew closer, conferring in liquid Spanish which he could not understand. They were suddenly very grave, very stiff and distant. Perhaps if the gentleman would accompany them … One motioned toward the front of the car.
Piper went up the aisle. And then his companions started down the steps toward the platform instead of going toward the girl in the day coach. They waited for him to advance.
He twisted his arm away. “What in hell …”
“A few minoots, señor, and no doubt everything can be explained,” said the agente.
“What? Do you know what you’re talking about?”
“But yes, señor. Possession of poison by an alien, concealment of evidence for twenty-four hours, lack of the required tourist card …”
Even then it might have been smoothed over somehow had not the inspector quite lost his temper and taken a poke at the nearest of the bland, ununderstanding faces. Before he could say “Jack Robinson,” or anything more suitable to the occasion, Oscar Piper found himself whirling through the murky streets of Mexico City faster than even a taxi could have taken him, found himself whisked down the Calle Revilla-gigedo and put behind the bars of a large, dark, and extremely solid-looking cell.
He was still fuming there at eight o’clock next morning when he heard
“That settles it!” he said savagely.
At Lecheria he took the bull by the horns and sent a telegram to the Jefe de Policía, Mexico, D.F. It was a crisp and definite message, indicating that immediately upon arrival he wished to turn over to agents of the department of public safety proof that the death at Nuevo Laredo of customs examiner Manuel Robles yesterday was not a natural death, together with party indicated as responsible for same.
At Tacubaya, fifteen minutes out of the capital, five faintly harried-looking men in plain clothes boarded the train and were taken by the conductor to the seat wherein Inspector Oscar Piper waited. One of them, it appeared, could speak English.
They were, he announced, agentes de la Seguridad Publica. And what was all this about?
The inspector, a little regretfully, named Miss Dulcie Prothero as suspect number one. He mentioned the possible motive for her having attacked her former employer, a grudge motive. He touched upon the suspicious actions of Julio Mendez. And he produced the bottle of Elixir d’Amour.
At last the agentes showed real interest. They seemed to have no doubt at all of the identity of that faint bittersweet odor of almonds which the perfume had half concealed. They took the bottle, studied it gingerly and with great respect.
“One of your suspects is in the day coach,” Piper said. “The other—and I’d give him a good going-over—must be up there with the girl, because he ducked out of this car as you came in.”
They translated for each other, made copious notes. And then, as the train pulled into the Mexico City station, it was requested of the inspector that he produce his credentials.
“Gladly,” he said. From his coat pocket he took a large envelope, well stuffed. But when he saw that it was stuffed with a folded railway time-table instead of his pink tourist card, instead of the splendid letter from the Mexican consul in New York which commended him to the civil and military authorities of the Republic, instead of his police identification card, his letter of introduction to the jefe from the commissioner of New York—when he saw that this sheaf of invaluable impedimenta was gone, the inspector murmured words and phrases quite untranslatable.
He felt in his vest pocket with anxious fingers, but there was no gold badge where it should have been. Billfold, American and Mexican money, silver, his watch—all were intact. But he had not the faintest proof of his identity. The train was coming to a stop now.
The agentes drew closer, conferring in liquid Spanish which he could not understand. They were suddenly very grave, very stiff and distant. Perhaps if the gentleman would accompany them … One motioned toward the front of the car.
Piper went up the aisle. And then his companions started down the steps toward the platform instead of going toward the girl in the day coach. They waited for him to advance.
He twisted his arm away. “What in hell …”
“A few minoots, señor, and no doubt everything can be explained,” said the agente.
“What? Do you know what you’re talking about?”
“But yes, señor. Possession of poison by an alien, concealment of evidence for twenty-four hours, lack of the required tourist card …”
Even then it might have been smoothed over somehow had not the inspector quite lost his temper and taken a poke at the nearest of the bland, ununderstanding faces. Before he could say “Jack Robinson,” or anything more suitable to the occasion, Oscar Piper found himself whirling through the murky streets of Mexico City faster than even a taxi could have taken him, found himself whisked down the Calle Revilla-gigedo and put behind the bars of a large, dark, and extremely solid-looking cell.
He was still fuming there at eight o’clock next morning when he heard
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