“It’s a fact. Ramundo shot him at close range, but the devil went down fighting. They’ve got Ramundo.”
The fat man snorted.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked.
“For us, no; for him, yes,” said the man carelessly. “Ramundo knows nothing except that he has been living in the lap of luxury in London on the wages of an unknown employer.”
“What will he get?” asked the stout man nervously.
The man looked at him curiously.
“You are getting jumpy, friend Grayson,” he said coolly.
“I am getting sick of this life,” said Grayson.
“We’re making money by the million, but what is the use of it? We are dogs that dare not show our noses abroad; we’re exiled and damned, and there is no future.”
“You might as well be here as in prison,” philosophised his friend. “And in prison you most certainly would be, if not worse—”
“We had no hand in the murders,” interrupted Grayson pleadingly. “Now did we, Baggin?”
“I know little about the English law,” drawled George T. Baggin, sometime treasurer of the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Securities Syndicate.
“But such knowledge as I have enables me to say with certainty that we should be hanged — sure.” The fat man collapsed, mopping his brow.
“Ramundo killed one and Poltavo the other,” he mumbled. “What about Poltavo?”
“He was standing by when T.B. was shot; but, as soon as he saw the policeman was down and out, he skipped. He arrives tonight.”
Some thought came to him which was not quite agreeable, for he frowned.
“Poltavo, of course, knows,” he went on meditatively. “Poltavo is one with us.”
“He has been a valuable member,” ventured Grayson.
“Had been,” said the other, emphasising the first word.
“What do you mean? Was it not he who established our stations and got the right men to work ‘em? Why, he has got the whole thing at his fingers’ ends.”
“Yes,” agreed Baggin, with a wry smile. “And he has us at his fingers’ ends also — where are our friends? — the other matter I have arranged without calling in Poltavo.”
“They are returning tonight.” The fat man shifted uncomfortably. “You were saying about this T.B. fellow — he is dead?”
“Not dead, but nearly; Poltavo saw him carried into the house, and a little later an ambulance came flying to the door. He saw him carried out. Later he enquired at the hospital — sent in his card, if you please — and found that Smith was shot through the shoulder.”
Grayson lowered his voice.
“Is Poltavo—” He did not complete his sentence.
“He’s dangerous. I tell you, Grayson, we are on tender ice; there’s a crackling and a creaking in the air.”
Grayson licked his dry lips.
“I’ve been having dreams lately,” he rumbled.
“Horrid dreams about prisons—”
“Oh, cut it out!” said Baggin. “There’s no time for fool dreaming. I’m going to the committee tonight; you back me up. Hullo!”
A beggar had sidled into the café in the waiter’s absence. He moved with the furtive shuffle of the practised mendicant.
His hair was close-cropped, and on his cheeks was a three days’ growth of beard. He held out a grimy hand.
“Senor,” he murmured. “For Dios—”
“Get out.”
The man looked at him appealingly.
“Diez centimes, senor,” he whined.
Baggin raised his hand, but checked its descent.
He had seen something behind the ragged jacket closely buttoned at the throat.
“Wait for me on the road to Jerez,” he commanded, and tossed the man a silver piece. The beggar caught it with the skill of an expert. Baggin cut short the torrent of thanks, blessings, and protestations.
“Meet me in half-an-hour; you understand?”
“What the devil are you going to do?” demanded Grayson.
“You shall see.”
Half-an-hour later they emerged from the café, Baggin to his horse, and the fat man to a capacious victoria that he had summoned from the hotel stables.
A mile along the road they came up with the beggar.
“Get down, Grayson, and send the victoria on; you can signal it when you want it.”
He waited until the empty victoria had driven away; then he turned to the waiting ragamuffin.
“What is your name?”
“Carlos Cabindez,” said the man hesitatingly.
“Where do you live?”
“At Ronda.”
“Where have you come from?”
“Tarifa.”
“What is your trade?”
The man grinned and shuffled his feet.
“A fisherman,” he said at last.
Baggin’s hand suddenly shot out; and, grasping his collar, tore open the frayed jacket. The man wrenched himself free with an imprecation.
“Take your hand from that knife,” commanded Baggin. “I will do you no harm. Where did you get that shirt?”
The beggar scowled and drew the threadbare coat across his chest.
“I bought it,” he said.
“That’s a lie,” said Baggin. “It is a prisoner’s shirt; you are an escaped convict.”
The man made no answer.
“From Ceuta?”
Again no reply.
“What was your sentence? Answer.”
“Life,” said the other sullenly.
“Your crime?”
“Asesinatos.”
“How many?”
“Tres.”
Baggin’s eyes narrowed.
“Three murders, eh?” he said. Then, “You would like to earn a thousand pesetas?” he asked. The man’s eyes lit up.
Baggin turned to the troubled Grayson.
“You can go on, Grayson,” he said. “I shall see you tonight. In the meantime, I wish to have a little talk with our friend here.
23. The House on the Hill
Beyond the town of Jerez and on the road that runs westward to San Lucar, there is a hill. Once upon a time, a grey old watchtower stood upon its steepest place, but one day there came an eccentric American who purchased the land on which it stood, demolished the tower, and erected a castellated