The double dagger or, Nat Ridley's Mexican trail
looking at the man who confronted him from the upper berth. It was past
midnight, and the passengers entering the train in the Pennsylvania
Station went directly to bed or sat in the smoking compartment until
ready to turn in, for the porter had all the sections made up.
Then the Mexican, Spaniard, or whatever he was, let his eyes fall
before the steady gaze of the detective and thrust one leg out over the
edge of the berth.
"I am sorry, señor," he began, but Nat was in no mood for polite
rejoinder and merely remarked:
"It's all right--not your fault so much as it is this porter's," and
he nodded toward the Negro. "But I always travel this way--can't sleep
with anyone above me, and I'm not going to begin now. I guess you can
find another berth."
"No, sah, boss--beggin' yo' pardon, we's full up!" exclaimed the
porter. He saw that he had made a mistake and, looking to the tips in
prospect--as well as to the bribe already pocketed--he tried to carry
water on both shoulders and propitiate both travelers. "I's mighty
sorry, boss," he went on to Nat, "dat I took one ob yo' two berths.
I didn't s'pose any one man would want two, 'less he were twins. I
figgered de clerk in de ticket office done make a mistake, an' so I
told dis gen'men he could hab de upper."
"I'm sorry; but he can't," said Nat, with finality.
"I'll fix him up in de smokin' room," said the porter. "Come on, boss,"
he continued. "I kin fix you a good bed."
By this time the stranger was in the aisle, having climbed down the
little ladder the porter brought for him. He had slipped a coat over
his pajamas. He had evidently counted on a full night's sleep when Nat
aroused him. The detective looked narrowly at the fellow, but his face
was not familiar and Nat did not remember to have seen him before,
either in the trio on the street near the cab containing the murdered
body of Lemberg or in the Club Tamalle.
"But if he isn't one of the Tola gang, he belongs to the same race, and
I don't trust them--not now," decided Nat. "I don't want them sleeping
above me."
While the Mexican, with more murmured apologies, went to the other
end of the sleeper, Nat piled his baggage into the upper berth and
then sat down on the edge of the lower bed to think the matter out.
Decidedly, he did not like what he had just discovered.
"I think they're on my trail, in spite of all my precautions," mused
the sleuth. "They must have spotted me in the ticket office, and they
easily found out where I was going and what berth I had. Then this
fellow probably bribed the porter to let him come in here. Well, I've
spiked their guns for a time."
But the more the detective thought it over the less he liked it, and he
finally reached a decision that caused him to chuckle silently as he
began to undress.
Before stretching out Nat rang for the porter and said:
"Don't worry, George, I won't hold it against you that you tried to get
away with one of my berths. Here's a dollar, and when you get to the
end of your run I may have another for you."
"Dat's de kind of talk I likes t' heah, boss!" and the porter grinned
from ear to ear.
"But don't disturb me during the night, and make sure no one else
does," warned Nat. "I've got a terrible temper when I'm awakened out of
a sound sleep. See that I'm not disturbed."
"Dat's what I'll do, boss. I suah will!"
Then Nat went to sleep, first having taken the precaution of slipping
his automatic under his pillow where it was ready to his hand. The
train rumbled out beneath New York City, beneath the Hudson River, out
over the Newark meadows and so toward the south and Texas. Nat Ridley
slept, while, curled up none too comfortably on the leather seat in the
smoking compartment was a dark-faced man whose scowl did not add to his
looks. From time to time when alone he muttered something beneath his
breath. But when the porter came in during the night, he always found
his guest smiling.
Morning came, and, with the dollar bill in mind, the porter did not
call Nat Ridley, whose temper was so short when suddenly aroused. Not
until every other passenger in the sleeper was up and dressed did the
porter venture carefully to open the green curtains of lower twelve to
say softly:
"It will soon be brekfust time, sah!"
There was no answer, and the window curtains were still down, shrouding
the berth in gloom.
"Does yo' still crave sleep?" asked the porter softly, as he reached
forth a hand to shake, as he thought, the slumbering form. But his
black fingers encountered nothing but bed clothing, and with an
exclamation of surprise the porter swung back the curtains, letting
in light enough to see that the berth was empty. The man who always
traveled double had disappeared, bag and baggage.
"Well, whut yo' know 'bout dat?" gasped the black fellow.
"What is the matter?" asked the Mexican, pressing forward eagerly. "Has
anything happened to the señor who was so selfish?" and from the cruel
and crafty smile on the face of the man who had slept in the smoking
compartment a close observer might have gathered that he would not
greatly have minded had the "selfish" man died in his sleep.
"He's done gone--dat's whut happened!" exclaimed the porter. "An' he
done owes me a dollar! De nex' time I lays myse'f out----"
But he checked himself suddenly and a grin replaced the scowl of his
face as he reached down on the pillow and picked off a crisp dollar
bill. Nat Ridley had not forgotten his promise.
"But where is the señor--what has become of him?" asked the Mexican.
"He mus' 'a' got off in de night," said the porter. "We made quite a
stop at de junction, an' he mus' 'a' got off den. But he had a ticket
clean through to Paloma," he added.
"Yes, I know he did!" exclaimed the Spaniard.
"Yo' knowed dat?" asked the porter suddenly.
"Well--er--I think I heard him say he was going there," was the
confused answer. "Why should he get off short of his destination?"
"I dunno, 'less he couldn't sleep," chuckled the Negro. And then, as he
kissed the dollar bill before putting it in his pocket, he added: "But
I should worry! I got mine!"
* * * * *
It was a hot night in Paloma, Texas, and the temperature of the night
appeared to have imparted something of its nature to what was going on
in the Cordova Club, a resort much frequented by Americans as well as
by Mexicans filtering over the border line.
A jazz band was blaring out its most blaring music--a band composed, it
would seem, of negroes, though in its advertisements the Cordova Club
made much of its Spanish orchestra. There was a scurrying to and fro of
waiters bearing tall glasses of cooling drinks, and it might be argued,
other drinks, cooling in so far as ice was concerned, but which seemed
composed of liquors that set the blood tingling.
In other words, it was pretty freely whispered about in Paloma that
much stronger "stuff" than the legal half of one per cent. was freely
dispensed at the Cordova Club.
It was what might be called a high class resort--that is, evening dress
for the men and women predominated, though it was not absolutely
required that a man have on his "soup and fish," or that women must be
bared of arm and shoulder. But that was usual.
Among others who sauntered into the gay and blaring club this hot night
was a well-dressed man who seemed bubbling over with good nature. His
evening clothes were worn with an air as if he put them on each night
to saunter forth for hours of gay life, and he had that about him which
caused the head waiter to hurry forward deferentially to ask:
"How many, sir?"
"I'm alone," was the smiling answer. "And I'd appreciate it, captain,
if you could put me at a table with some gentlemen where I can enjoy
myself."
"Of a surety, señor," was the ready response. "I will place you among
what we call the Bohemians."
"Fine and dandy! That suits me right down to the ground!"
A little later the well-dressed stranger was ushered into a circle
of equally suitably attired men at a central table, near the dancing
floor. As the head waiter left this stranger remarked:
"I suppose there will be no objection if I order some bubble water for
the crowd?"
"Bubble water, señor?" questioned the waiter who had come up at a
signal from the captain.
"Champagne!" exclaimed the stranger. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce
myself," he went on. "Bill Brice is my name. I'm traveling for the
National Hardware Corporation and I'm taking a night off. Will you
oblige me by imbibing a bit of bubble water with me?"
Would they? You should have seen their eyes sparkle at the mention of
the sparkling wine. And the waiter, at a signal from his chief, hurried
off to fill the order.
Champagne for the whole table! It was seldom done, but----
"He must be a free spender," one of the crowd remarked as they all gave
their names to "Bill Brice" in return for his own. "Well, they can't
come too free for me."
Then the jazz band blared on, the glasses tinkled, and the champagne
frothed while, in a quiet corner, a dark-faced man remarked softly:
"So, he got here after all, did he? But when did he leave lower twelve
and slip away from me? That is what I would like to know."
CHAPTER XII
EL CAPITAN
None of the parties in the Cordova Club was any more lively or gay
than the one at the table where Bill Brice, of the National Hardware
Corporation, sat buying champagne. There were songs in English and
Spanish, though it must be admitted the Spanish ones were the best
sung since, it developed, most of the men who were partaking of the
hospitality of Bill Brice were Mexicans, though many claimed to be pure
Castilians.
"This is the life for me!" boasted Mr. Brice, who still had in front of
him the same first glass of champagne he had ordered at the start of
the evening. He had taken a single sip, when his new friends insisted
on drinking his health, but thereafter the bubbles rose from the bottom
of his glass unnoticed.
One of the Mexicans, who had said he ran a moving picture theater in
Paloma, noticed this and remarked on it.
"I had plenty before I drifted in here," explained Mr. Brice, "and I
find it sets better on my stomach if I smoke a bit between drinks, my
friend."
With that he pulled out a strong, black cigar and began puffing on it,
blowing smoke rings to the no small admiration of his companions.
The evening wore on, the band played louder, more men and women entered
the club, and the waiters hurried here and there with their bootleg
products, for so near was the Mexican border that the customs officials
were hard put to prevent contraband being smuggled over the line.
"This is the life!" exclaimed Mr. Brice more than once. "I'm about
sick of the hardware line," he confided to his neighbor. "I wish there
was some other way of making money. You wouldn't like to be selling
tractors, plows, hoes and rakes all your life, would you?"
"Of a surety not, señor," was the reply.
"Maybe you make yours in some easier way?" suggested Mr. Brice. "Say
oil wells, now."
"Let us say oil wells," agreed the other, with a smile.
"No, but seriously," went on the free spender, "are you in oil?"
"I am, of a surety, señor."
"And do you know where I could invest some money?"
The eyes of the other gleamed as he answered:
"Naturally. If you are interested----"
But he broke off as a commotion at the entrance indicated something
unusual going on, and a moment later a party of several men and women,
headed by an individual who would attract attention anywhere, entered
the club. He was a big, handsome, swarthy man, and he wore a uniform
that became him well.