The double dagger or, Nat Ridley's Mexican trail
"Is he the commander-in-chief of the Mexican army?" asked the man who
had called himself Bill Brice.
"That is El Capitan," was the answer.
"Captain of what?"
"He was of the army," was the reply. "But he is retired. It was he
of whom I was about to speak when you mentioned investing in oil, my
friend. He has large holdings, señor. El Capitan would be the one for
you to know."
"Then I'm going to cultivate his acquaintance," was the laughing
comment. "And when Bill Brice goes cultivating, something grows," and
he chuckled with easy good nature. "Could I meet this captain?"
"He is called El Capitan, señor," said the other, making three, full
syllables of the name. "He is also Martolo."
"Martolo!" exclaimed Mr. Brice with such sudden energy that his
companion stared at him in surprise and asked:
"You know him already, then, señor?"
"Oh, no--no," and the hardware man laughed and blew another ring of
smoke. "But I have heard the name."
The distinguished former soldier and his party were deferentially
escorted to a table, and at once ordered champagne, so it would seem
that Mr. Brice had done the proper thing.
The evening wore on, the club becoming gayer and gayer, and the bottles
of "bubble water," accumulating at the table of Mr. Bill Brice--but
they were empty bottles. Meanwhile, he had talked further with Señor
Valdez, his nearest neighbor, about investing in oil wells, and had
received the promise of an introduction to El Capitan later in the
evening.
As a matter of fact, there was none of the evening left. It was long
past midnight, but still the jazz band played on and the glasses
tinkled while the dancing became more and more abandoned.
"It is a good time now, I think," said Señor Valdez to the hardware
man, "to have you meet El Capitan. He is in the mood."
"Suits me," was the answer. "I sure do want to get out of the game of
selling plows and tractors. It isn't my line."
Mr. Bill Brice spoke truly, his line was detective work, and the free
spender was none other than Nat Ridley. He had decided to take no
chances in the sleeper and had slipped out at the junction, laying
over until the next through train to Paloma, and, thereby, greatly
surprising not only the porter, but the man who had unlawfully been in
upper twelve.
Many of these who had been at the table of Mr. Brice, or Nat Ridley,
had by this time drifted away. The gay party was breaking up, but there
were still congenial spirits in the club, and the center of life was
now about the table of El Capitan.
Thither Señor Valdez and Nat Ridley, known to the Mexican as "Bill
Brice, a free spender," made their way, moving amid the dancers, the
coming and going of guests and the rushing of eager waiters.
El Capitan Martolo seemed very popular indeed. Someone was continually
leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, or pledging his
health in a glass of champagne. Now and then men who glided in to speak
to him glided out again as quickly, bent on some mission, it would seem.
"El Capitan is a very busy man," commented Nat. "Very busy--with oil?"
"With oil--and other interests," admitted Señor Valdez, with a smile.
"If it pleases him to take you into his confidence you will be a lucky
man."
"I guess I'm pretty lucky, anyhow," returned Nat. "If I wasn't, I
wouldn't be here."
"You were in some danger, then, Señor Brice?"
"Yes, you might call it that. But I'm generally able to take care of
myself. I suppose there is trouble here now and then?" His voice was
questioning.
"Trouble? Of what sort, señor?"
"Well, you know the prohibition authorities----"
"Oh, they are a joke!" laughed Señor Valdez. "We never have any trouble
from them. But it is true that, now and then, someone drinks not wisely
but too well, and there is what you call a fracas."
"Oh--a fracas," repeated Nat. "You mean shooting and all that?"
"Yes. It is well that the señor is lucky. But to-night is a quiet one.
Nothing will happen."
Nat recalled that statement a little later and had to smile to himself
as he did so, in spite of the seriousness of his situation.
He and his new friend were almost at the table of El Capitan when
a man, who seemed greatly excited, brushed his way none too gently
through the press of persons and handed the former officer of the
Mexican army a letter. At once a wild desire to see that note took
possession of Nat Ridley, and he made up his mind he would get it.
El Capitan read the missive through quickly--it was not long--and he
was thrusting it into the side pocket of his coat, having directed the
messenger with a nod to stand aside a moment, when Nat was brought up
for introduction by his new friend.
"He would like to invest in oil wells," said Señor Valdez.
"Ah--oil wells? It takes much money," said El Capitan, with a smile, as
he shook hands with Nat and the latter noted the powerful build of the
Mexican.
"Well, I happen to be pretty well fixed," Nat, with an easy air,
replied. "And I'm tired of selling hardware. So, if you could put me
wise to something in the game----"
"Ah, yes, Señor Brice, it is a game!" declared the army man. "I have
been in it some time, but there is yet much for me to learn. But I
shall be glad to teach you."
"Thanks, El Capitan," responded Nat. "I can't learn any too soon if I
want to make anything. There are a lot of wells being put down now,
aren't they?"
"A few, Señor Brice, and I control some of them. Now, if you wish to
talk business," and the Mexican's eyes gleamed, "I shall be happy to
receive you at my office."
At that moment El Capitan struck a match to light one of his strong
cigarettes, and Nat at once pulled out another strong, black cigar,
bit off the end and leaned over, very close to the Mexican, to take
advantage of the occasion, murmuring:
"A little of your fire, if you please, El Capitan?"
"As much as you please, señor," was the gracious response, and
Nat's hand went in a stealthy fashion he had learned from an expert
pickpocket to the side pocket of the Mexican. When the detective leaned
up the letter the messenger had brought had been transferred from one
pocket to the other.
There was further talk of oil wells, and Nat made a date with the big
officer to talk more the following day, or rather, this same day, for
it was now long past midnight.
Excusing himself for a moment, the detective went to a washroom, where
he took out the letter he had purloined. He wanted to read it before
anything could happen.
As he expected, when he unfolded it under the lights in the small
anteroom, the missive proved to be in Spanish. But Nat had in the last
week or so given himself enough mastery of the language to make out
something of the contents of the note. He saw that it referred to the
Lemberg family and to further plans for making them give up their title
to the oil wells which were wanted to further the plans of the Tola
gang.
"I'm on the right track!" mused Nat as he thrust the letter back in his
pocket to return to El Capitan. As he left the washroom the detective
noticed the messenger who had brought in the note coming out after him,
but he thought little of it at the moment.
A little later Nat invited El Capitan to share a bottle of champagne
with him, though the detective did not intend to drink any of the wine
himself. It was while he was seated at the former officer's table that
the messenger who had delivered the note approached. He made a sign to
El Capitan and, at the same moment, spoke in Spanish. Nat looked up in
time to see the messenger pointing what seemed to be an accusing finger
at him.
El Capitan shot out a sharp question, and there was a quick interchange
of excited words. Then El Capitan turned to Nat and began:
"It seems, señor, that you have----"
"The fat's in the fire!" was the thought that rushed into Nat Ridley's
mind.
"Pardon," murmured a voice in Nat's ear. A hand touched his shoulder,
and a man he had noticed drinking heavily at the captain's table
confronted him. There was a Mexican girl, pretty in a bold sort of way,
standing beside Nat's accoster, and the man went on: "This lady say you
have insulted her!"
"I have insulted her?" cried Nat, taken, naturally, by surprise. "I
never saw her before and haven't even spoken to her!"
"Nevertheless the señorita say you have given the insult," murmured the
man, and there was a dangerous look in his eyes. "You must to me, her
affianced, give satisfaction."
"Oh, so that's the game, is it?" cried Nat. "Well, I----"
At that moment a shot rang out from somewhere in the crowd back of the
accuser. The first shot was followed by several others, and Nat dropped
to the floor just as the lights began to go out.
A moment later the place was in darkness and there were confused shouts
and cries of alarm.
"At their old tricks!" murmured the sleuth, as he began to crawl toward
a flight of steps leading into the cellar from which the supply of wine
was brought up and of which he had taken note earlier in the evening.
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE DUNGEON
Nat Ridley was doing some quick and hard thinking as he made his way
like an eel along the floor toward the cellar stairs. He realized that
he was in great danger, but he could not be certain that the shots
fired had been aimed at him.
"If those shots weren't for me, there would have been some coming my
way in a little while," mused the sleuth. "That messenger was sharper
than I thought. He spotted me with El Capitan's letter," and Nat's hand
went to his pocket to make sure he still had the note. He also wanted
to be certain that he had his automatic.
"Tried to force a quarrel on me! That's what they did!" decided Nat as
he hurried to the head of the stairs in the darkness. Fortunately he
had noticed them well when the lights were on, as he had thought he
might have to make use of them.
"I wish I knew more Spanish," mused Nat, who was by this time at the
head of the cellar steps. "I'd like to know just what El Capitan said
when he heard the messenger give me away. Well, I'll have to let that
go and save myself. Whew, they're going it in there!"
Indeed, great excitement now prevailed in the main room of the night
club. Several more shots were fired, but Nat knew now that the bullets
could not reach him. He closed the door back of him and, not relishing
going down unfamiliar stairs in the dark, he took out his flashlight.
This he screened by holding it in his hand so that only the faintest
glimmer came from between his fingers. But it was enough to enable him
to see so he would not stumble.
Nat expected to observe some of the club servants or habitués come
running up the steps at any moment to ascertain what the excitement was
about. But he saw no one, and the change from the noise of the main
room to the comparative quiet of the cellar was a relief. Nat Ridley
was not an admirer of jazz, and loved to be quiet.
He reached the bottom step and noted that the cellar was a large one,
extending in two directions from the flight of stairs. There were dim
lights burning here and there, and in the distance Nat could hear the
tinkle of glasses and bottles.
"They must have private rooms down here, where they have all sorts of
high jinks," reasoned the sleuth. "Well, I'll give it the once over."
There was now no need of using his flashlight, for the cellar had its
own illumination, though not of the brightest, and Nat did not want to
make himself a conspicuous object by holding the little electric torch
in his hand.
He put it in his pocket and, making sure again that his automatic was
in readiness, he stepped out and walked softly along the cement floor
of the cellar.