by W E Johns
Ritzy was looking hard at Nifty but he said nothing.
‘I will return to my daughter; she is very distressed,’ said the old man, thereby confirming what Ginger had supposed. He turned and walked away in the direction of the house.
‘We’ll go home, too,’ said Biggles. ‘If you want to ask us any more questions you’ll find us at the posada.’
Juan made no protest so they walked on.
‘I suppose there’s no doubt that José did the shooting?’ said Ginger.
‘None whatever, as far as I can see. But in the absence of a witness that might be hard to prove.’
‘Then why did Juan say so definitely that he didn’t know who had done the shooting?’
‘I imagine he had his reasons. He knows the behaviour of people here better than we do. He may have an idea that the old man shot Cornelli.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Nifty told us he didn’t approve of Corny making up to his daughter. In Spain family honour is a very serious thing. Once a marriage has been arranged for a girl it’s absolutely forbidden for her to have anything to do with another man. She mayn’t dance with one even if her mother is with her. But I think we’re in the clear so what does it matter who did the shooting? Corny may have been the man who shot the caretaker, in London, at the time of the diamond robbery. He carried a gun. If that’s so he’s got what was coming to him.’ Biggles smiled. ‘Maybe José was a bit snappier on the draw.’
‘You noticed Nifty didn’t want Ritzy to know he’d been talking to us?’
‘Yes. I noticed that all right. Judging from the way Ritzy looked at him I’m not sure that he believed him.’
Proof of this was soon to come. As they were turning into the hotel a car pulled up beside them and Ritzy jumped out. Walking quickly up to Biggles he said: ‘Was my friend Brimshawe here with you tonight?’
‘I might have got a bit mixed up about that,’ returned Biggles, evenly. ‘We were just talking about it. It could be that I was thinking of earlier in the day, when he was here with you.’ Biggles said this loudly enough for Nifty to hear.
‘Thanks,’ replied Ritzy. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. Just curiosity, that’s all.’ He got back in the car and drove on.
‘That was sailing a bit near the wind, but I don’t want to fall out with Nifty — yet,’ Biggles told Ginger as they went into the hotel. ‘Had I said definitely that Nifty was here with us he wouldn’t have dared to speak to us again. We should have put him in wrong with Ritzy and he wouldn’t have forgiven us.’
* * *
1 Gentleman (literally, ‘knight’).
2 Hidalgo (Spanish nobility) is a traditional title of persons of the Spanish nobility or gentry. The word is a contraction of the phrases 'hijo de algo', literally "a son of something."
3 Estate.
CHAPTER 8
THE BLUE CADILLAC
THE following day dawned with the promise of being another scorcher.
‘Our first job must be to see about the car, or some other form of transport,’ said Biggles, as they dressed. ‘We can’t just sit here doing nothing about it or Ritzy, not being a fool, will wonder why. We must at least make a pretence of being anxious to get away. This is no health resort where one might feel inclined to linger for a few days. The breakdown suits our purpose, of course, but it’s a bit disconcerting to know we couldn’t get away if we wanted to. As soon as we’ve had our coffee we’ll get cracking on finding out what transport is available in an emergency.’
They went down to the patio and there Pepe brought them their breakfast. He could talk of nothing but the shooting of Cornelli and made no secret that he knew who had fired the shot. They had some difficulty in getting rid of him.
As they were finishing their frijoles Juan the policeman appeared. He joined them and accepted a cup of coffee. He, too, and quite naturally, was full of the shooting, and assured them that he knew the man responsible. He said this with a wink. It was clear that as far as he was concerned his inquiries were a foregone conclusion. José always had been a wild one, too handy with his gun, he confided.
‘You’re sure he did it?’ questioned Biggles.
Juan looked astonished by the question. ‘Of course he did it,’ he declared. ‘It was his girl Cornelli was after, wasn’t it?’
This apparently was sufficient motive for the murder.
‘Have you arrested José?’ asked Biggles, curiously.
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you going to?’
Juan, looking worried, considered the question. ‘I shall send for him,’ he decided.
‘Why haven’t you been to question him?’ asked Biggles.
Juan’s eyebrows went up. ‘In this heat? His hacienda is seven miles away. Besides,’ he added significantly, ‘he carries a gun.’
Biggles smiled at this naive admission of cowardice.
Juan dropped a small object on the table. ‘There is the bullet that killed Senor Cornelli,’ he declared dramatically. ‘The doctor took it out of his brain.’
‘Why are you carrying it about with you?’ asked Biggles. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘I shall keep it for a souvenir,’ replied Juan, casually. ‘I have several bullets in my collection. I could tell you the name of the man each one killed.’
Ginger frowned at this gruesome claim. It was already clear to him that Juan had no intention of pushing his inquiries any further, either because he was afraid of the gunman or possibly because murder was not an uncommon event in this part of Mexico.
Juan put the bullet back in his pocket and got up. ‘Women,’ he sighed. ‘They’re the cause of all the trouble in this world, señores.’ And with that piece of primitive philosophy he walked away.
Biggles watched him go with an expression of disapproval tinged with amusement. Then he turned to Ginger. ‘So José did not kill Cornelli after all,’ he remarked.
Ginger raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you know?’
‘I wouldn’t say I know anything for certain, but I’ve seen a few bullets in my time and know something about them. When we saw Jose and stopped to ask him the way to the posada the weapon in his holster was an old-fashioned, pearl-handled Colt forty-five. You may have noticed it.’
‘I did.’
‘It would, like all revolvers of that period, fire a soft lead bullet. Surely if Jose intended to shoot someone that’s the gun he’d use. The bullet Juan just showed us was a hard-nosed thirty-eight, the sort that’s fired by a modern automatic pistol. Of course, for all we know José might possess such a weapon, but it strikes me as being highly improbable.’
‘But if José didn’t shoot Cornelli, who did?’ questioned Ginger. ‘We know he was there at the time, or thereabouts. We also know what most people seem to think was a justifiable motive.’
‘Because the motive was so obvious everyone has jumped to the same conclusion. Juan is so sure that José killed Cornelli that he hasn’t even troubled to think about it. He’d decided that last night. Those questions he asked were simply a matter of form. I don’t know who shot Cornelli but I’d wager it wasn’t José, no matter how black the evidence against him. Who else had a motive? The girl’s father? We know he disapproved of Cornelli courting his daughter, and if you say that was not a sufficient motive for shooting remember where you are. This is Mexico, not England.’
‘He didn’t look the sort of man to commit murder,’ said Ginger dubiously.
‘He may not have intended to kill Cornelli. He may have fired a shot to put a stop to the serenade as one would throw something at a cat caterwauling in the garden, and by mere chance hit the amorous gent with the guitar. The old man couldn’t have been far away at the time.’
Ginger shook his head. ‘When we saw José riding away he was going flat out like a guilty man.’
‘Maybe he thought he’d been shot at.’
‘He wouldn’t have run away from Cornelli,’ argued Ginger.
‘He might have thought the girl’
s father had fired the shot. In that case he wouldn’t return the fire for fear of hurting his prospective father-in-law. Only one shot was fired, remember. But why—’
Biggles broke off, staring up the street. ‘Holy smoke!’ he breathed. ‘Look who’s coming.’
Ginger looked. It was José himself. He stopped outside the posada, threw his reins over the hitching rail and walked straight up to them. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, in English, speaking with his slight American accent. ‘May I ask you a few questions?’
‘We will do our best to answer them,’ replied Biggles, courteously. ‘Won’t you sit down? May I offer you such hospitality as we have here?’
‘No thank you. Last night you were sitting on the hill outside the town.’ This was a statement rather than a question.
‘That is correct,’ agreed Biggles.
‘You saw me.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have told people that you saw me?’
‘No.’
José looked surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I have learned to mind my own business.’
‘You know that last night a man was shot?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know that everyone is saying I killed this man — Cornelli.’
‘Yes.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Before I answer that question, señor, let me ask you one. Do you carry any other gun except the one I see in your holster?’
‘No. I have no other gun. This one is enough. Why would I need another?’
‘In that case I do not believe you shot Cornelli.’
‘You must be the only man in the town who believes that.’ said José, bitterly. ‘Have a you reason?’
‘Yes. Juan was here this morning and he showed me the bullet that killed Cornelli. It could not have been fired from the gun you are carrying.’
‘Did you point that out to Juan?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have already said, señor, that I do not talk about what is not my business. Certainly it is not for me to teach the police.’
‘In Mexico that is wise, señor. But do not misunderstand me. It was my intention to shoot this gringo1 Cornelli. I had a reason. That was why I came to the village last night. But the work was done for me. Foolishly, acting without thinking, I rode away. Had I been given the pleasure of shooting Cornelli I would have stayed. It would have been nothing to be ashamed of. As it is, I object to being blamed for a shooting done by another man. People will think I am a coward because I ran away. At least, they think I ran away.’
‘But you did run away.’
‘Not for the reason you think.’
‘You must have been near Cornelli at the time he was shot. Did you see the man who shot him?’
‘Yes, quite plainly, in the moonlight. After firing the shot he vanished.
‘Into the house?’
Jose frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought it might have been the father of Señorita Margarita.’
‘No, señor. He hated Cornelli but he would not have shot him. He will not even kill a rattlesnake. For what reason Cornelli and his friends came here I do not know, but they have stayed too long.’
‘Do you know of any reason why anyone else should want to shoot Cornelli?’ asked Biggles.
‘No, señor. I do not know. But I must go to see Juan. I came to see you first to find out how much you knew of the affair. Adiós, señores, and a thousand thanks. If I can be of assistance to you at any time you have only to let me know. I am often in the village.’
With a sweep of his sombrero José returned to his horse, swung a leg over the saddle and rode away.
‘He knows who shot Cornelli,’ said Biggles, as he watched him go.
‘Do you think he’s going to tell Juan?’
‘I don’t know. If we hadn’t seen him last night there would be no evidence that he was in the village. People would have taken it for granted that he had shot Cornelli but there would have been no proof. That’s why he came to see us. What he really wanted to know was, had we told Juan we saw him.’
‘You believe his story?’
‘Every word of it. He’s a gentleman, as proud as they come, and in a Spaniard that means something. Notice the way he admitted he was prepared to shoot Cornelli; but he’s not going to be saddled with something he didn’t do. That’s different. I’d say he’s gone to see Juan. But let’s take a stroll and make inquiries about local transport, if there is any.’
They proceeded with their quest, and in less than an hour had learned that, as Biggles had suspected, there was no regular transport. A bus came about once a month from Hermosillo, bringing stores and returning with produce. There were two privately owned cars, both very old, and a crock that had once been a jeep. There were a few horses, mules and donkeys, but they were not even considered. Somewhat depressed they returned to the inn and resumed their chairs on the patio.
They had been there about twenty minutes when the sound of an approaching car turned their eyes in its direction. It was a Cadillac, and its colour was blue.
‘Looks as if Schultz has got here at last,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t arrive just yet. It means we shall have to get busy. If Schultz once gets those diamonds in his car, stuck here as we are without a conveyance of any sort we can say good-bye to them. Negotiations with Ritzy might only take a few minutes, or at most a few hours. It’s going to be galling to see that car start back for the States with no way of following it.’
The car pulled up outside the inn. There were three men in it. One of them lowered the window and shouted: ‘Is this the hotel?’
‘What passes for one here,’ answered Biggles.
The three men got out, one carrying a fat portfolio, and walked up to the patio, the man who had spoken leading the way. He was a big man wearing thick-lensed glasses. He walked with a limp. In every respect he answered to the description of Schultz given to Biggles by von Stalhein. The other two men, glancing about them, kept close to him.
‘Escort,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Schultz has arrived, and it looks as if he’s brought the cash.’
Schultz shouted loudly for the proprietor. He glanced at Biggles. ‘I suppose we can get a drink here?’ He spoke in English with a pronounced foreign accent.
‘Orange juice is the only safe bet,’ answered Biggles.
Pepe appeared, bowing and washing his hands in invisible water.
Schultz ordered the drinks with plenty of water. He looked hot and tired. He looked again at Biggles. Indicating the retiring Pepe he said: ‘Does this fellow speak any language except Mexican Spanish?’
‘No,’ Biggles told him. ‘Can I help? What do you want?’
‘I want three bedrooms for at least one night. I’m not going to cross that desert twice in one day.’
‘You’re out of luck,’ said Biggles. ‘There are only three rooms here and we’re in one of them. One of the other two rooms is a double, though.’
Schultz subjected him to a penetrating stare. ‘Are you staying long?’
‘I don’t know. My car’s broken down.’
Schultz, rudely, turned his back.
Pepe appeared with the drinks. From the way they were consumed the travellers were obviously thirsty, which Ginger could well understand. All three of them then followed Pepe inside, presumably to look at the accommodation.
Biggles looked at Ginger with a whimsical smile. ‘We’re getting quite a party.’
‘You’re sure it’s Schultz?’
‘Unless a miracle has happened in the way of coincidence it couldn’t be anyone else.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Frankly, I don’t know. We knew Schultz was likely to arrive but I wasn’t reckoning on three of them. However, if they’re staying the night we have a few hours to think about it. We’ll watch them. What Schultz does should tell us if he has the diamonds.’
The three newcomers were still inside — they could be heard washing — when down the street, walking fast and sometimes breaking into a run, came Nifty.
‘News travels fast,’ said Ginger. ‘Fancy running in this heat.’
‘I have a notion something’s happened,’ muttered Biggles. ‘If Ritzy knew the Cadillac had arrived why didn’t he come himself? And why not use the car?’
Nifty came up. His face was pale and his manner agitated. ‘How long’s that been ‘ere,’ he panted, pointing at the blue car.
‘It arrived a few minutes ago,’ Biggles told him.
Nifty’s face screwed into a mirthless smile. It would come today,’ he groaned, slumping into a chair.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’ inquired Biggles. ‘It’s the car you were expecting, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. But—’
‘But what?’
‘It’s come too late.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Biggles, trying not to show too much interest.
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘We’ve heard nothing. What’s happened? Pull yourself together, man.’
Whatever answer Biggles might have expected it was not the one he received. That was made abundantly clear from the expression that came over his face when Nifty blurted: ‘It’s Ritzy.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been arrested.’
‘Arrested!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘For what?’
‘Murder.’
For a second Biggles could only stare. ‘Who is he supposed to have murdered?’
‘Cornelli.’
Understanding dawned in Biggles’ eyes. ‘What gave the police that idea?’
‘José. He saw him do it.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Biggles. ‘Where’s Ritzy now?’
‘They’ve taken him to the police-station.’
Nifty mopped his sweating face helplessly.
‘Get a grip on yourself and tell us what happened,’ requested Biggles.
* * *
1 Foreigner.
CHAPTER 9
BIGGLES MAKES A DEAL
