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Authors: Stuart Palmer
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the sound of quick resolute footsteps in the corridor. Someone rapped sharply upon the cell bars, and the weary and disgusted inspector looked up to behold an apparition.
It was certainly a mirage, a fantasy born of his sickness of soul. There was no sense, no reason, in this sudden appearance of the visage of a plain, angular spinster, tinted a pale Nile green from the effects of twenty-four bumpy hours in the air.
Miss Hildegarde Withers peered at the three bedraggled and alcoholic Indios who were his cellmates. Then, as the inspector rose from his cot and came bewilderedly forward, she cleared her throat.
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
V
Let the Buyer Beware
“I COULDN’T REMAIN IN New York and let you railroad Dulcie Prothero into a Mexican jail,” Miss Withers advised the inspector a few minutes later, thoughtfully poking her finger at a massive steel bar.
“Wait a minute!” gasped that gentleman. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but who’s in this Mexican jail? I go to a lot of trouble to investigate a murder case, and these idiots turn the suspects loose and put the detective in the cell! Beat it while you can, Hildegarde, or they’ll have you in here too. And we’re crowded as it is.”
“Don’t be so subjective in your viewpoint,” she chided him. “On the plane coming down here I got to thinking that the trouble with your theory is—”
“Hildegarde!” he broke in, speaking with a painful distinctness, “Hildegarde, please! Will you do something? For God’s sake wire the commissioner in New York or get in touch with Washington or something. Haven’t we got an ambassador in this country?”
Miss Withers smiled wryly. “From what I hear there are two schools of thought on that subject. It appears—”
“If I was a British subject they’d have a gunboat in the harbor inside of twenty-four hours,” he declaimed.
But Miss Withers reminded him that Mexico City has no harbor. “I, Oscar, am your gunboat,” she consoled him. “No remarks, please, about my superficial resemblance. But I have the matter well in hand. Unless I miss my guess this person coming down the corridor has the keys to your cell.”
The jailer, a bowlegged man with sweeping mustachios, puttees and a denim jacket, unlocked the gate with much ceremony, stood back as the inspector stepped out, and then barred the way to the remaining prisoners.
“G’by, boys,” the relieved Piper called back to them.
They responded with wide smiles and a united “¡ Adios, señor! Hasta luego !”
“That means ‘Until we meet again’,” Miss Withers obligingly translated for him as they went on down the corridor.
“Yeah? Well, suppose you tell me what this means. Am I turned loose, or do they line me up against a brick wall?”
It turned out to be a little of both. A reception committee met them in the hall, just inside the main gate of the Delegatión. The inspector found his hand shaken by a number of officials in business suits, by an officer or two in uniform. The spokesman, a worn, youngish man with a prematurely bald poll, introduced himself as no less than Capitán Raoul de Silva, aide and assistant to the lieutenant colonel of police. There were explanations and apologies.
“If we had but known, señor !” There was much shrugging of shoulders. “To know is to forgive, is it not? Never in the world would we have given the slightest inconvenience to a representative of the police force of Nueva York, a fellow warrior in the endless battle against the forces of the underworld. But how could our men know? By the way, it is that the Señor is feeling much better this morning, is it not?”
“Huh?” grunted Piper. “I wasn’t …”
Miss Withers nudged him sharply in the back, as Captain de Silva sailed on. “I have the honor—we all have the honor—of extending to you the courtesy of the ciudad !” Piper found himself fingering a small card embossed with the red, white and green flag of the Republic.
It was certainly a mirage, a fantasy born of his sickness of soul. There was no sense, no reason, in this sudden appearance of the visage of a plain, angular spinster, tinted a pale Nile green from the effects of twenty-four bumpy hours in the air.
Miss Hildegarde Withers peered at the three bedraggled and alcoholic Indios who were his cellmates. Then, as the inspector rose from his cot and came bewilderedly forward, she cleared her throat.
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
V
Let the Buyer Beware
“I COULDN’T REMAIN IN New York and let you railroad Dulcie Prothero into a Mexican jail,” Miss Withers advised the inspector a few minutes later, thoughtfully poking her finger at a massive steel bar.
“Wait a minute!” gasped that gentleman. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but who’s in this Mexican jail? I go to a lot of trouble to investigate a murder case, and these idiots turn the suspects loose and put the detective in the cell! Beat it while you can, Hildegarde, or they’ll have you in here too. And we’re crowded as it is.”
“Don’t be so subjective in your viewpoint,” she chided him. “On the plane coming down here I got to thinking that the trouble with your theory is—”
“Hildegarde!” he broke in, speaking with a painful distinctness, “Hildegarde, please! Will you do something? For God’s sake wire the commissioner in New York or get in touch with Washington or something. Haven’t we got an ambassador in this country?”
Miss Withers smiled wryly. “From what I hear there are two schools of thought on that subject. It appears—”
“If I was a British subject they’d have a gunboat in the harbor inside of twenty-four hours,” he declaimed.
But Miss Withers reminded him that Mexico City has no harbor. “I, Oscar, am your gunboat,” she consoled him. “No remarks, please, about my superficial resemblance. But I have the matter well in hand. Unless I miss my guess this person coming down the corridor has the keys to your cell.”
The jailer, a bowlegged man with sweeping mustachios, puttees and a denim jacket, unlocked the gate with much ceremony, stood back as the inspector stepped out, and then barred the way to the remaining prisoners.
“G’by, boys,” the relieved Piper called back to them.
They responded with wide smiles and a united “¡ Adios, señor! Hasta luego !”
“That means ‘Until we meet again’,” Miss Withers obligingly translated for him as they went on down the corridor.
“Yeah? Well, suppose you tell me what this means. Am I turned loose, or do they line me up against a brick wall?”
It turned out to be a little of both. A reception committee met them in the hall, just inside the main gate of the Delegatión. The inspector found his hand shaken by a number of officials in business suits, by an officer or two in uniform. The spokesman, a worn, youngish man with a prematurely bald poll, introduced himself as no less than Capitán Raoul de Silva, aide and assistant to the lieutenant colonel of police. There were explanations and apologies.
“If we had but known, señor !” There was much shrugging of shoulders. “To know is to forgive, is it not? Never in the world would we have given the slightest inconvenience to a representative of the police force of Nueva York, a fellow warrior in the endless battle against the forces of the underworld. But how could our men know? By the way, it is that the Señor is feeling much better this morning, is it not?”
“Huh?” grunted Piper. “I wasn’t …”
Miss Withers nudged him sharply in the back, as Captain de Silva sailed on. “I have the honor—we all have the honor—of extending to you the courtesy of the ciudad !” Piper found himself fingering a small card embossed with the red, white and green flag of the Republic.
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