Captain Gringo left Gaston’s and, having no place better to go, headed back to Sir Basil Hakim’s to have dinner.
He didn’t make it. It was still daylight, but the sun was painting long, dark shadows on the brick walks, and as he stepped into another arcade in the confusing light, he was hit high, low, and in the middle.
As he went down under at least four men Captain Gringo kneed one and tried to get at his gun. A wet sponge was clamped over his mouth and nostrils; the first sniff warned him not to take a second. The sponge had been soaked in chloroform.
He tried not to breathe as he fought silently with the men who’d jumped him from the shadows, but they were good, damned good, and his eyes were already filled with spinning little stars. He didn’t remember inhaling, but he must have. The next thing he knew he was seated in a comfortable overstuffed chair with no memory of how he’d gotten there.
He wasn’t tied up, so he reached for his gun. It wasn’t there. He sat up, feeling drunk, and stared at the man seated on the other side of the heavy desk between them. They were in some sort of paneled room with oddly curving walls. There was an overhead electric lamp shining in his eyes and masking the other man in shadow. Captain Gringo said, “I give up. You’re the Czar of all the Russians, right?”
“Greystoke here. On Her Majesty’s Service. You may remember me from our little talk on the Atlantic coast. I underestimated you, Captain Gringo.”
“You want your shirt back, huh?”
Greystoke chuckled and poured himself a drink without offering any to his prisoner. He said, “Gin and tonic on chloroform would be a dreadful thing to do to our carpeting. You’re aboard the yacht Corgie Dubh, out of Waterford. Private registry, but, as you’ll have guessed, charted to the British Secret Service.”
“You sailed to the Pacific in a yacht? I thought they were still working on the canal.”
“Don’t be an ass. I took the train, the same as you. Corgie Dubh is our, ah, unofficial headquarters here. We’re a few yards offshore and it’s getting quite dark, now.”
“Shit, I had a dinner date, too.”
“Heavens, that was no veiled threat to put you in the locker, old bean. You’re much too valuable to drown. The point I was trying to make is that you are out of reach of Sir Basil’s agents, and the paid-off Colombian police don’t know you’re aboard.”
“Consider your point made. Before we get the whips out, would it save time if I told you I don’t know what’s going on, either?”
“Oh, damn, I was afraid you’d take that line. My service frowns on torture, as you doubtless know. Makes it dreadfully difficult to question suspects, what? On the other hand British Intelligence enjoys a certain reputation for dealing honorably.”
“I’ll buy that, with a grain of salt. What’s your deal?”
“I propose we open a fresh deck. I admit I made a mistake about you. I frankly didn’t think you were up to the Byzantine chess we expect from the likes of Hakim. I took you for just another thug. They’ve been coming in like dung flies with another revolution in the air.”
“I told you the first time: I wasn’t even aiming for Panama when they threw me off that freighter.”
“Yet here you seem to be, staying at Sir Basil’s. With a wallet full of money.” He quickly added, “Don’t bother to grab, old bean. We counted it, but you still have your wallet. We’re British agents, not criminals.”
He let that sink in. Then he said, “You are the criminal, Captain Gringo. At this moment a U. S. Navy gunboat is steaming this way from Valparaiso, bound for San Diego, California. They should arrive within seventy-two hours. If they were to learn we had a wanted American aboard, it would be our simple duty to hand you over. Britain and the United States have several treaties dealing with the subject.”
“You’ve made the threat. Make your point.”
“The point is that if you were ashore when they arrived, I’d have no way of returning you to U. S. jurisdiction, would I? Why not do yourself a favor? No one will ever know what you tell me, in confidence. Just tell me what Hakim’s up to and you’ll be put ashore to wend your merry way.”
Captain Gringo ran a hand over his own face and muttered, “Oh, boy. Maybe we’d better bring out the whips and boiling oil after all. You might believe me if I let you work me over. Greystoke, I honest to God don’t know a thing you don’t.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He did. He had nothing to hide, so he told Greystoke the whole story, from his jailbreak to the present, leaving out only Marie and Gaston. The Englishman interrupted once to say, “You met San Bias in the jungle and they let you live? Go over that again.”
Captain Gringo repeated his meeting with the young Indian couple, and the British agent said, “I don’t think you could have made that up. You say you were naked and squatting over a fire when they came upon you?”
“Sure. I’d been swimming.”
“Hmm, that ties in with something a missionary wrote about the San Bias. They don’t think Christians are people. Many Panamanians have Indian features, of course, but the San Bias lump us all together. They run absolutely naked, as you know, and eat all sorts of strange things. You doubtless gave them a turn. A big blond man with a gun, squatting naked in the jungle eating crocodile. While they were trying to figure out what in the blazes you were, you offered them food. Since they took it, they must have decided you were some sort of strange Indian.”
“Well, I didn’t try to change their religion or put clothes on ‘em.”
“You were just lucky and Her Majesty’s Service is not interested in anthropology. Please continue.”
Greystoke listened quietly until they wound up in the here and now. Then he said, “You left out spending the afternoon with Marie Chambrun, but I’ll credit you with gallantry.”
“Up yours. Were those your guys who shot those alley thugs with a silencer?”
“Of course. You have a date with a U. S. federal judge, unless you decide to stop beating about the bush with us. Can’t have co-operative informants bashed in an alley, what?”
“Look, I’m perfectly willing to co-operate. I don’t owe Hakim any loyalty. But I just don’t know why he’s here or what he’s up to.”
“Have you been contacted by the New York interests?”
“Buddy, I didn’t even know anyone from New York was here.”
“You doubtless forgot to mention Gaston Verrier and the Balboa Brigade in your understandable rush to tell all, eh?”
The American hesitated and Greystoke pulled a bell cord by his desk as he said, in a weary tone, “You’re really rather boring to talk to, Walker. You don’t speak with any real flare for it.”
A door behind Captain Gringo opened and two armed crewmen appeared. The agent said, “Put him in the hold with the other American we’re holding for their Navy.”
“Look, Greystoke. I forgot to tell you about this one-eyed sailor in the cantina.”
“Get out of here, Walker. I have work to do. You’ll have a day or so to come up with something better and I may drop down to the hold for a chat if I want a laugh.”
The crewmen took the American on either side and lifted him from the chair to frog-march him aft. He braced for a chance to break free and dive over the side, but they led him down the companionway to a hatch, opened it, and shoved him in without comment. A single dim bulb warned him just in time to grab the rails on either side of the steep ladder. He still slid as much as walked down the steps. He recovered his balance at the bottom, cursing. He was in a dimly lit hold, as promised. There were crates and barrels partly blocking his view, but he could see the sweating walls and bulkheads were riveted steel. So much for the idea about carving his way out with the penknife they’d left him.
He stiffened as something moved toward him in the dim light and a female voice called out, “Are you from the American consul, sir?”
She was a distraught ash blonde of about twenty-five. The print cotton blouse and twill riding skirt were a bit tight for her hour-glass figure and she looked too upset for him to tell if she was very pretty. He shook his head ruefully and said, “No, they’re holding me for Uncle Sam, too. My name’s Dick Walker.”
“I’m Sally Blackwell, from Lockport, New York, and there’s been a terrible mistake. I haven’t done anything!”
“That sounds reasonable. I’m wanted for murder, myself.”
The girl took a nervous step backward as she licked her lips, then smiled uncertainly and decided, “Oh, you’re just teasing, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry. It’s sissy to kill girls. Why are the Limeys holding you if you’re American?”
“I only wish I knew! I keep telling them they have me mixed up with some other girl, but they keep telling me I’m some sort of spy and that I came down here to overthrow the government.”
He led her to a crate and suggested, “Let’s sit down while you tell me why you did come down here, Sally. Do you mind if I smoke?”
She sank down on the crate and answered, “Not if I can join you. I’m an actress. That’s not why I smoke. It’s what I’m doing in this awful little country.”
He fished out two smokes and lit both before passing one to Sally. She took a deep grateful drag and explained in a long, confusing saga filled with digressions and asides about people he didn’t know and never wanted to. In essence, her story was that she’d been had. She’d taken a job with an outfit representing itself as a dramatic touring company. Before she got to the breathless point, he cut in and said, “Right. When you got here you found out the theater was a parlor house near the waterfront.”
“How did you know? I was never there, not even for one night! I knew right away what they were trying to pull on us girls. So I flounced right out! I mean, I know what they say about life upon the wicked stage, but this was … well, if I ever get back to Lockport!”
“What happened to the other girls they stranded?”
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t know any of them all that well, and one or two were, well, not very nice.”
“I understand. How come British Intelligence picked you up? White slavery is a police matter.”
“Oh, I went directly to the police! Do I really look that stupid?” She sniffed and added, “They were beastly to me. None of them spoke English and they kept pinching my bottom and laughing. They put me in a cell with some awful native girls who took my hat and silver locket. Then that Mr. Greystoke came and told me to come with him. I think the police called him because they thought I was English.”
He blew a thoughtful smoke ring and mused, “Hmm, he should have taken you right to the U. S. consulate, once he found out you were an American. Run that spy stuff past me again, will you?”
“They said I had a Canadian accent. Canadians are British subjects, and if I was working for somebody named Basement it was my duty to the Queen to tell them all about it.”
“Hmm, I was at West Point, so I know upstate New York fairly well. Lockport’s near the Canadian border, and you do hoot your open vowels.”
“What are you talking about? Everybody in Lock-port talks like me! No American has ever said I talked like a foreigner before!”
“Simmer down. I know Canadians and Yankees from the Northeast talk pretty much the same. If they’re not French Canucks, they arrived from England about the same time and there’s been a lot of moving back and forth across the Canadian border since. Greystoke picked up the one sound most Yanks and Canucks pronounce different and built a house on it. A Canadian would pronounce it hoose. I notice you say aboot for about.”
“Pooh! Does that make me Canadian?”
“I’d say it makes Greystoke suspicious. This Basement you were asked about wouldn’t be named Sir Basil, would it?”
“Oh! I think that was the name! He asked me about somebody called Gasket, too!”
“I’ll bet he did. Look, are you sure you’re not wanted for anything back in the States, Sally?”
“I’ve never been in trouble before, if that’s what you mean.”
“Okay, here’s what you should do. There’s an American gunboat on its way. Let Greystoke turn you over to the U. S. Navy on any charge he can manage. They’ll take you to California and as soon as you get to talk to an American judge, you’ll be set free.”
“What am I to do in California? I’ve never been there and—”
“Hey, you like it better down here in Panama? You say you’re stranded here and don’t speak the lingo. Just sit tight and let them put you ashore in your own country. You can wire home for railroad fare, can’t you?”
She lowered her eyes and said, “Not exactly. My father didn’t approve my going on the stage. If you must know, I sort of ran off with the juvenile lead of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and—”
“You’re still better off in any part of the States. I have to get out of here. So I want you to just sort of stay out of the action and wait for the U. S. Navy to bail you out.”
He stood up and began shoving boxes and barrels around as Sally asked, “Oh, how are we to escape?”
“I just told you. You don’t have to escape. I’m piling boxes by the ladderway for you to climb on. This hold takes up the rear third of the yacht. We’re just aft of the engine room and that hump down the middle of the deck is the propeller shaft.”
He built a seven- or eight-foot platform reaching halfway to the overhead decking as she prattled on about some handsome touring actor who’d abandoned her in Jersey City after telling her she had the makings of another Sarah Bernhardt. It wasn’t a very interesting story and he’d heard several versions of it before. The poor little frump was sort of pretty, but girls with Sally Blackwell’s brains were fated to be farmer’s wives or whores.
He told her to climb up on the boxes and hold onto the side rails of the ladder. He helped her up, shoving her the last few feet by getting a hand under her round rump as she warned him not to get fresh. She was running as true to type as if her peewee mind rolled on narrow-gauge tracks. It was too bad. He was rather pleased with the idea he had about getting out of here and had enough of an ego to have enjoyed an audience.
He busted up an empty barrel by stomping it to death with his boot heel. Then he bent one of the metal barrel hoops straight, climbed up the ladderway, and used it to form a trip just above the top step. Sally watched as he went back down and shoved a crate away from a valve set in the bottom plates near the propeller shaft. She asked what on Earth he was doing and, since he didn’t want to frighten her needlessly, he explained, “I’m going to scuttle the yacht. This valve should let in seawater.”
He twisted hard and as a spout of gushing brine shot across the deck he ran over to climb up beside her, saying, “You see?”
“That’s crazy! We’ll drown! Why would anybody build a boat with a hole in the bottom? Oh, I wish I was in Lockport!”
“Take it easy. All vessels are built with valves in the bottom of each hold. They’re to trim the ship in an emergency, to fight a fire below the water line, or to drain a flooded hold in dry dock.”
“Damn it, I don’t care why they put the silly faucet there! We’re trapped like rats down here and you’ve gone crazy and now I’m going to drown!”
“Calm down. You won’t even get your feet wet.”
He climbed from the box they were on and swung himself across the ladderway with a barrel stave in his free hand. He worked his way up to the overhead, his head and shoulders even with the sill of the hatch leading up on deck. He said, “I’d like to be able to put the light out, but we’ll manage. The vessel should start to settle by the stern in a few minutes.”
Sally looked down at the water boiling across the steel plates below and sobbed, “Oh, God! Why do all the boys I meet turn out to be so strange? It’s getting so deep down there!”
“I know. They’ll begin to wonder about the way she’s sitting in the harbor in a few more minutes. Keep your voice down.”
She whispered, loudly, “What if they don’t come? What if they all went ashore?”
“Nobody leaves an expensive yacht unguarded, especially in a port like this one. Besides, flooding this one hold won’t sink the boat completely. We’re just squatting her poop a bit.”
“Oh, fine. They’ll come back someday to find our drowned bodies floating near the ceiling!”
“Shush! I hear footsteps!”
The hatch popped open and a male voice cried out, “Jasus! We must have popped a seam!”
Then the first crewman coming down caught his ankle on the barrel strap, yelled, and went ass over tea kettle to land on his back in the knee-deep water below!
The second one leaned out to ask, “What happened? Are you all right?” And then he saw Captain Gringo clinging like a grinning ape to the framework at his side. The American had already swung his barrel stave, and it caught the second man across the shins. He tried to hold onto the ladder rails, dancing his injured shins in agony, but Captain Gringo wedged the barrel stave behind his butt, heaved, and sent the second man down into the foaming water.
As the two crewmen sputtered and yelled down there, he swung himself up on the ladder and popped out of the hatch in a fighter’s crouch as a third man came down the companionway to see what all the fuss was about. The seaman was unarmed and, taking one look at the barrel stave, turned to run. Captain Gringo caught up with him as he fought to open a sliding hatch at the far end. He grabbed the seaman by the back of the neck, raised the improvised club, and snapped, “Shut up and freeze or I’ll kill you!”
“Anything you say, mate! But this perishing tub is sinking!”
“No it’s not. How many of you are on board?”
“There’s Pat and Charlie, if you haven’t done ‘em. Then there’s the cook and third mate, for’d.”
“That’s it? Where’s Greystoke and the others?”
“Gone ashore, to the British consulate, if you’re talking about his bloody lordship. The other lads has gone ashore to get screwed and tattooed.”
“Skeleton crew, huh? Okay, I’m putting you aft in the hold. I opened the sea cock. You should be able to get at it to shut the water off. It’s only about four feet deep back there. Let’s go.”
He swung his captive around to see Sally closing the hatch. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Those men you threw in the water tried to come up the ladder, I kicked one back down and—”
“Good girl. Stand aside!”
He dropped the stave, grabbed the hatch handle, and opened the hatch. A soaking-wet and sputtering seaman fell forward on his hands and knees, so Captain Gringo stomped him flat as he threw the third man bodily into the hold. As the yelling ended in a mighty splash, Captain Gringo grabbed the man on deck by the hair and shoved him back down the ladder, too, before slamming the hatch shut and dodging it.
Sally followed as he retraced his steps, asking, “What do we do now?”
“There’s two more aboard. You should have stayed out of it, kid. But what’s done is done. You say you kicked one down the ladder?”
“I’m a dancer, too. You should see me do the can-can!”
“I can hardly wait. Okay, as long as you’re in this, you can help take out the mate. Here’s how we’re going to work it.”
A few minutes later, as the English crewman paced the bridge alone and wondered what the men he’d sent aft would find back there, the port hatch opened and a shy voice asked, “Mister, can you tell me the way to Grandmother’s house?”
The mate stared slack-jawed at Sally and gasped, “What the bloody hell?”
Then Captain Gringo charged through the starboard entrance, clubbed him across the nape of the neck with the edge of the barrel stave, and sent him to the deck sans further comment.
The girl asked, “What about the cook?” as Captain Gringo rolled the mate over on his back. Captain Gringo removed the revolver from the unconscious man’s belt and said, “Most sea cooks stay in the galley, drunk. Let’s hope he’s not young and curious.”
“What do we do now? I can swim, but—”
“Just keep it down to a roar and I’ll get you ashore in style. I want to see if there’s anything worth reading in Greystoke’s cabin.”
With the actress at his heels, Captain Gringo broke open a few doors until he came to the compartment he’d been questioned in. He rummaged in the desk and found his own nickel-plated S&W together with a manila folder marked, “Lieutenant Richard Walker, U. S. Army, a.k.a. Captain Gringo.”
They had a dossier on Gaston and the Balboa Brigade. Nothing on Sir Basil. He handed the spare gun and folders to Sally, saying, “Let’s go. There’s a captain’s gig hanging over the starboard rail near the deckhouse.”
“Oh goody! We’re not going to have to swim after all!”
He laughed and led her to the boat. He helped her in and said, “I’ll lower you and drop down as I cast off.”
A sleepy voice called out, “Hoy! What’s going on?”
Captain Gringo asked, “Are you the cook?”
“Yes, sir. Who might you and this lady be?”
“We’re escaping prisoners and we’re both armed. Come over here and help me lower this boat.”
The fat cook considered his options, shrugged, and said, “Right, anything you say, sir.”
As the two of them lowered Sally to the dark slick-ness of Panama Harbor, Captain Gringo explained where the other crewmen were and suggested they could do with a spot of tea once the cook had them back in shape, to drink if. The cook observed, mildly, that Her Majesty’s Government frowned on piracy and would probably be rather annoyed with them all. Captain Gringo said, “Just remember I held a gun on you. Tell Greystoke I’m annoyed at him, too.”
He sent the cook around a bend of the deck, dropped down to join Sally in the boat, and fit the oars in the locks to pull away. As he started rowing, she asked, “Aren’t we going the wrong way? I can see the lights of Panama City just over there to your right.”
He said, “The men aboard the yacht will be giving the alarm any. second. We’re making for a cove down the coast.”
A few moments later they heard the mournful tooting of a steam whistle and he said, “See what I mean?”
“Why didn’t you put the whistle out of order while we had time, on the bridge?”
“Didn’t want to. I wanted to cause as much confusion as possible. Right now Greystoke and the shore party are running for the docks. They’ll take a few minutes getting out to the Corgie Dubh, then waste more time getting back ashore to spread the alarm. They’ll expect us to make straight for shore and they’ll have scads of fun combing the waterfront alleyways for us. By the time they figure out we’re not in some warehouse or cheap hotel, we’ll be dining at Sir Basil’s villa. I’m a little late for dinner and dropping in with an unexpected guest, but he likes novelty, so—”
“Oh, you really know this Sir Basement they kept asking me about?”
“Yeah. It’s no big secret. Greystoke knows as much about his operation as I do. He didn’t have to kidnap either of us. Try to remember the name, though. It’s Sir Basil Hakim. Not Sir Basement.”
“Are you sure I’ll be welcome at this party we’re going to?”
“No, but I can’t see leaving you in Greystoke’s hands. He didn’t have any real charge to hang on you until you started can-canning his men down ladders. Now he’s got you on assault and possibly piracy. We just stole a boat.”
“Oh dear, I’ve always tried to be a good girl, but all the men I meet seem to be so rough. If I had it to do all over again I’d have taken piano lessons like my mother told me. What will happen to us if they catch us, now?”
“Let’s hope they don’t. Sir Basil has the local police on his payroll. Greystoke can’t get at us openly once we’re safe ashore on Colombian soil.”
“What about those sailors on that American gunboat?”
“They could take the whole country, I suppose. But they won’t invade Colombia to pick up two naughty Yanks.”
He frowned but kept rowing as he muttered, “Make that one naughty Yank. I still don’t see how he could have turned you over to the U. S. Navy.”
“I told you, he said I was some sort of spy.”
“I know. But so what? The U. S. Navy couldn’t care less about a spy unless she was spying on them. You can’t be charged with treason to the British in any American court of law, even if you should be Canadian. No American judge gives a damn if people spy on Colombia. The whole story is weird as hell.”
“I thought so, too. But they arrested me just the same.”
“Greystoke has an ace up his sleeve. He’s not as dumb as he talks. Nobody could be. Maybe Hakim can figure it out. We’ll be there in a few more minutes.”
Sir Basil seemed delighted to have Sally as a house guest. Jenny seemed less enthusiastic, but she behaved politely enough as the four of them lounged in the baronial drawing room of the villa. Little Hakim was amused that Captain Gringo had come back not only with his gun and wallet, but also with a beautiful blonde and some confidential papers of British Intelligence.
As they sat before the fireplace with brandy and a tray of snacks, the dapper little mystery man leafed through the dossiers. Sally was still pattering on about her misadventures, and from time to time Sir Hakim nodded as if he was listening to her. He seemed to be one of those Napoleonic types who could play chess and plan a battle at the same time. Captain Gringo wondered if he thought about business deals while he was eating out Jenny.
Jenny wasn’t saying much at all. Once, when Sally mentioned a man who’d betrayed her trust in Philadelphia, the redhead rolled her eyes up at the ceiling beams and, though Sally didn’t see it, Jenny’s lips silently formed a very naughty word.
Hakim said, “All in all, Greystoke’s been rather objective about you, Dick. It says, here, there’s a chance the charge you were condemned for might have been false.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. I killed some people getting away from the Army hangman.”
“Yes, you and Gaston certainly made a mess of Mexico as you were just passing through. You don’t suppose we could recruit this Gaston, do you?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to be able to tell him what you’re up to.”
“That sounds reasonable. What do you think we should tell him I’m up to?”
“Damn it, Sir Basil, I’m tired of playing games. Just say the word and I’ll give you back your money and owe you for the suit and gun.”
“Don’t be absurd. Where would you and dear Sally go?”
“We might start by looking for a place where people didn’t act so coy. I’ve leveled with you since we met. I even told that goddamn Greystoke the truth, since I’ve nothing to hide everyone doesn’t know already.”
“In other words, you’d head for your friends in the Balboa Brigade. Do you think you’d make it, Dick?”
“Don’t know. Would you and yours try to stop us?” Then, before Hakim could answer, the American said, “Scratch that last question. You’d probably lie if the truth was in your favor. I don’t know what I’m going to do. You guys have me just as confused as you must have intended.”
Sir Basil put down his brandy snifter and rose, saying, “Come with me, Dick. I have something to show you.”
Captain Gringo got to his feet. As Sally started to rise, Hakim said, “You ladies will be more comfortable here. Dark crypt, spiders, and all that rot.”
He led the tall American out and down the hall to a side room. He flipped on the light and asked, “What do you think, Dick?” as Captain Gringo blinked at a gleaming mass of oiled metal squatting on a heavy wooden case in the otherwise bare room. It was a factory-new Maxim machine gun. The room was filled with the pungent smell of cosmoline and gun oil. Sir Basil said, “Seven hundred dollars FOB Panama City. I have more where that came from. Enough to supply a heavy weapons company. A thousand rounds per gun. Smokeless powder. What do you think?”
“Price is high. Ammo low. You can’t get serious with a thousand rounds per gun. A Maxim throws six hundred rounds a minute.”
“Yes, but you have a very short battle against troops armed with rifles and bayonets. Burst of ten or twenty here, thirty over there at the bunch behind the tree. Damned ammunition is heavy. It’s the weak link in modern warfare. If they ever discover a way to move wagon-loads of ammo fast, the day of the infantryman is over.”
“You say you have a dozen of these things?”
“Make it half a dozen, one to a squad. Loader, gunner, and lots of wee brownies to run back and forth with ammo belts. Do you think the Balboa Brigade would be interested?”
“If they had over four thousand bucks they’d be.”
“It’s a good price, dear boy. I know places where a machine gun goes for a thousand or more.”
Captain Gringo stepped over to the gun, opened the breech, and stuck his thumb in, stretching his arm and bending over to peer down the barrel. The pink reflection of his thumbnail illuminated the bore as he muttered, “You only lied a little. This gun’s been fired, but it’s in good shape. Where’d you get it?”
“Don’t be so nosy. Guns that shoot don’t need a pedigree. How much do you think Gaston Verrier would pay? You understand, of course, that as my agent he would be entitled to a twenty per cent commission?”
“That would make him want his pals to pay the highest price, all right. But he told me they were el busto.”
“If you’d vouch for him, we may be able to arrange credit.”
Captain Gringo straightened up, worked the bolt, and muttered, “The firing pin hasn’t been removed. What’s the hooker, Hakim?”
“You just said your friends were low on working capital. I said I’d extend a modest amount of credit.”
“Bullshit! Nobody runs guns on the cuff and you know it! Revolution is a cash-and-carry business, Hakim. What are you trying to pull?”
“Perhaps I am a most unusual merchant. What have you to lose? Even if none of the guns I deliver work, you and your friends are hardly out of pocket. If they don’t win their revolution, they don’t pay me. It seems to me I’m taking all the risk, and all I get in the way of a thank-you is more suspicion.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to contact Gaston and tell him you’re ready to furnish him with machine guns and ammo, IOU? Hmm, you and the police both know where Gaston is, so that can’t be the weanie.”
“The local police, let us say, are not as satisfied with the current administration in Bogota as they might be with a Republic of Panama. I have some police officials I’ll introduce you to, later. At the moment they are not ready to reveal themselves. Before you make any more annoying remarks about my word as a gentleman, consider a few facts you know to be true. The police here in town are not after you or your friend, Gaston, even though they know where you are and that you’re both notorious professional revolutionaries.”
“This isn’t my first revolution. I’ll buy some local officials being in on the fix. I understand there are two other rebel factions: one backed by the British, the other by the United States-banking interests who own half the country already. How many guns do you figure to sell them?”
“Alas, not many. We have a rather grotesque situation here. The American-backed rebels may be thought of as conservatives. They want to set up a republic not to change things, but to make things more so. The liberal party in Bogota is against El Pulpo del Norte. They think Americans and other outsiders own too much down here already. The Bogota conservatives are simply underachievers, living in some dream castle of Latin history.”
“So the fighting will be more between the rebel factions than against the far-off central government. Let’s try the British-backed faction for size, Sir Basil. You’re a British subject.”
“True, but a free-lance arms merchant. A British-dominated Panama would be rather dreary to contemplate, don’t you agree? Sunset guns, bagpipes, flag ceremonies, lawn tennis, and, of course, a war with the United States.”
“Back it up. If America might invoke the Monroe Doctrine against a British-led coup—”
“No might about it, dear boy. Your Secretary of State has already delivered an ultimatum. Washington will accept Colombian rule of Panama, for now. Washington would recognize the Balboas, if they won. Washington would wink at an American-inspired takeover. Queen Victoria has been told, in no uncertain terms, to keep her perishing paws off Panama, and with that Bismarck chap upsetting people so in Europe, the Queen’s Government is not ready for a war on this side of the brine.”
“Then what the hell is Greystoke up to?”
“He doesn’t want a revolution at all. The present Colombian clique owns the right of way for the defunct French canal. The Suez Society is Paris-based, it’s true. But guess who owns a major share of Suez stock these days?”
“Queen Victoria?”
“Close enough. De Lesseps gave a major block of stock to Said Pasha, the Wali of Egypt, when they built the original Suez Canal back in sixty-nine. They had no cash to spare for the perishing wog, eh?”
“I read how De Lesseps wheeled and dealed his way in Egypt.”
“I dare say. The British opposed the building of the Suez Canal for the same reason they’re against a Panama Canal, in the hands of anyone but themselves. Britannia can hardly rule the bloody waves with wogs, frogs, greasers, or Yanks collecting the tolls, what?”
“Maybe, but in the end, De Lesseps built the Suez Canal, for France.”
“Not quite, dear boy. You see, the Khedive of Egypt not only out-ranked the Wali, he also wanted in. So more shares were issued and between them, the Egyptians owned about fifty per cent of the so-called French company. The Egyptians, like other sprightly lads, enjoy the good life. Some British Intelligence agents saw to it they had a rollicking good time at Monte Carlo and other spas. Wine, women, and all that rot.”
Hakim chuckled and added, “Alas, all good things end, and the piper must be paid when the party is over. The Egyptian stockholders were persuaded to sell their Suez stock at a modest profit—to the Bank of England. The rest is history, seen through a glass darkly.”
“Then the goddamn Suez Society isn’t really French. It’s half British! That explains why Marie Chambrun was paid off by the Bank of England!”
“Of course, I got word to Greystoke that the girl was trying to contact the government about her widow’s mite and he saw to it Greystoke is what you Yanks call a troubleshooter. His job is to keep everything status quo.”
“But Marie said her husband’s company is bankrupt. How the hell are they ever going to build the canal if—”
“My God, you’re so bloody simplistic! The French company is not dead. It’s in receivership in the French courts after some silly mismanagement and a scandal about the death rate here in Panama. Old De Lesseps will no doubt go down in history as a great engineer, but he’s a perishing brute. Even the Egyptians were shocked the way he used slave labor digging at Suez. Here in Panama, he just tried to bull through the jungle like a dog digging for a bone.”
“Marie told me it was pretty brutal.”
“Brutality has its virtues. De Lesseps was a fool. But he’s in disgrace in France, now. Once the scandal blows over, there’ll be new engineers, who know what they are up to. A lot of the work has been done. The canal will be finished, by someone, in less than twenty years. It’s the someone all the fighting is about. England and the conservatives in Bogota want it to be the company England already owns a major share in. France would no doubt agree, once they stop screaming about whose fault it was. The Yanks, of course, want an American canal.”
“And the Balboa Brigade or native Panamanians?”
“Oh, they’ll bleed hell out of anyone who wants to pick up the pieces and start again. If you say it’s your duty as an American to help the faction backed by Wall Street, I’m really liable to vomit!”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “I don’t owe Uncle Sam anything these days. I see your angle, now. Why didn’t you just say you wanted the Panamanians to set up their own republic so you and your cronies will be in a position to play the United States, France, and Britain off against each other?”
“Perhaps I’m devious. Will you act as go-between with Verrier et al.?”
“I’ll tell him your proposition. I don’t know if it’s safe to run into town right now.”
“Heavens, give Greystoke time to pump out his hold and cool down a bit. In the morning I’ll have a word with the police about his high-handed methods, what? No sense paying good money for police protection if we’re going to be snatched off the streets by Her Majesty’s agents.”
“Yeah, you might point out I know where they gunned down two local citizens, if they want to play rough.”
“Are you talking about those chaps who went for you in the alley? One of my lads took care of them for you.”
“Wait a minute! Greystoke said British agents shot those guys!”
“He fibbed. I sell silencers, too. Are we, ah, stuck with that blonde you brought home with you, Dick?”
“For the moment, until I figure out what to do with her. You see, she’s a stranded American girl and—”
“Good God! I don’t want to hear all that again! I do hope she’s good in bed. She’s a terrible bore in the drawing room!”
He flicked out the light and led the way back to where they’d left the girls. Jenny sat alone. Hakim chuckled and asked if the redhead had pushed her off the terrace. Jenny said, “I put her in Dick’s room. I rather hope she snores.”
Captain Gringo frowned and said, “Hey, we don’t know one another that well, Jenny.”
The redhead sniffed jealously and said, “I’ve no doubt you’ll work something out. She seemed quite impressed by your rescue. She told me she thinks she’s in love with you.”
“In what with me? Oh for God’s sake!”
Sir Basil clapped him on the back and said, “Be brave, my son. Bite the bullet and take your beating like a man. We’ll work out the gun deal over breakfast.”