Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 3, August 1959

Save Me in San Salvador by Bill S. Ballinger

A very famous mystery writer laces grand larceny with a dash of Latin humor and high-tension suspense.

“Well,” said Dort, “I received a letter from a guy you know.”

“Who?” asked J. J. Peterson, vice-president in charge of claims for the North American Coastal Insurance Company. He began, leisurely, to unwrap a large cigar.

“Herman K. Berman,” replied Dort, glancing idly out the window of Peterson’s New York office to watch a pigeon plane in for a perfect three point landing. Peterson’s fingers snapped the expensive cigar and the ends flipped to the carpet. “Sure,” continued Dort, returning his attention to Peterson, “Berman sort of indicated you knew him.”

“I know him all right,” said Peterson, breathing heavily. “He’s an embezzler who cost us twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“How’d it happen?” asked Dort.

“It was one of those things which don’t make much sense. Berman used to teach college — he was a classics professor at Markam — a little fresh-water college on Long Island. Had been a fixture for ten, fifteen years. Then an old biddy named Elsa Shrewsbury kicked off and left twenty-five thousand bucks to establish an Otto Shrewsbury Scholarship Award. Old man Shrewsbury was her husband who’d died thirty years before and left her a wad of dough.”

Peterson paused, then continued indignantly. “This Professor Herman Berman had always kept his nose clean, and he was put in charge of the dough.” Peterson shook his head. “Who’d ever suspected the egg-head?”

Dort, a special investigator, had done business many times with Peterson. He said, impatiently, “So Berman grabbed the dough and departed.”

“Your understatement is admirable,” said Peterson. “Berman stole the dough and rah like hell.” Spotting a long segment of the broken cigar, he retrieved it. Lighting a match, Peterson settled back in his chair and continued, “But the college, unfortunately, had previously conceived the bright idea of having the administrator of the funds bonded — Berman.” He regarded the fuming end of his cigar with distaste.

“Maybe,” Dort remarked calmly, “Berman felt he was entitled to the award himself.”

“Berman was a man in his late forties,” Peterson said, “and he was a bachelor. I think he was getting fed up and all of a sudden he decided he’d get romance. He got a bunch of ideas, and a yen to live in Shangri-la.”

“Anyway,” asked Dort, “which’d you rather have back — Herman K. Berman, or your twenty-five grand?”

“I’d rather have both.”

“You can’t have both,” Dort said, “but I’m giving you your choice.”

“In that case,” Peterson said promptly, “I’ll take the dough.”

Dort turned away his boney, angular face to conceal any stray expression of triumph. He said indifferently, “I guess I can get your money back — less, of course, the usual commission.”

“Twenty percent.” Peterson shrugged hopelessly. “All right, Dort — half a loaf and all that.” Then he added hastily, “but you got to pay your own expenses.”

Dort rose to his feet and walked to the door. “It’s a deal, but you’ve got to permit the Professor to return to the States, and agree to drop all charges and prosecution.”

“You get the twenty-five thousand back, and I’ll agree to anything,” Peterson replied, heavily.

On the phone to South America, Dort dropped Ills conversation with the stewardess long enough to read again the letter which he had received from Herman K. Berman. For the second time, he observed the envelope had been slit neatly, then expertly re-glued together. Someone had obviously read Berman’s letter before Dort had received it. The letter was written in a sprawling hand:

The plane landed on a field outside Castelonne. When it had bucked itself to a stop, Dort untangled his seat-belt, reassembled his nerves, and limped forth to locate a taxi to drive him into town. The assembly of adobe houses, plazas, and narrow streets which made up Castelonne pulsated in the afternoon sun, and was shrouded in a dry-mist of dust.

The taxi, a thirty-year-old Stearns-Knight, had determined on a gait similar to a canter on its two remaining cylinders, and it slid into a stop before the Copabonga Hotel like a Dodger sliding into third-base. The hotel was a two story structure with the second story projecting over the first to afford a balcony which completely encircled the building. When Dort registered at the desk, the clerk admitted, indifferently, that he hadn’t seen Berman in four days. Berman’s room number, however, was 217. This total amount of information cost Dort twelve pesos.

While the lock on the door of 217 was strong enough to withstand any sly drafts or idle breezes, it gave way before Dort’s pocket-knife in considerably less than thirty seconds. He sauntered into the room and looked around.

It was similar to the one he had been assigned. Square in shape, it contained a hammered-brass bed, two horse-hair upholstered chairs, a wardrobe standing in one corner, and a large wooden ceiling fan which didn’t work. A series of folding doors opened to the balcony. In the wardrobe was a leather suitcase, a pair of shoes, and two seersucker suits. A large number of books scattered around the room stood in short, irregular stacks and piles against the walls and beside the bed.

Dort’s examination of the room was interrupted by a voice inquiring, from the door to the balcony, “Are you back, Hermie?” The voice spoke with a pronounced French accent, and its tone was unquestionably feminine.

Straightening up, Dort swung around to face an attractive, although weathered, red-headed woman. She was wrapped in a flaming red robe spotted with yellow butterflies. “No,” Dort told her, “I’m not Hermie, and I’m not back. I just arrived.” He closed the wardrobe door, while asking, “Where’d you come from?”

“Oh, I thought you were Hermie.” The woman nodded toward the room to her right. “I have a room next door. I am — what you call — a friend of his.”

“That makes it convenient,” Dort commented. “When did you last see Hermie?”

She cocked her head and considered. “Not for four days.” She stepped into the room. “Have you a cigarette?”

“Sure,” said Dort. He lit one for her and passed it over.

“Are you planning to steal something?” she asked.

“No,” Dort replied. “It’s more in the order of repossessing.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Mimi,” she trilled, rolling her name in accents of French. “Mimi... St. Laurent... de Valliers.” Dort nodded, and she continued, “I am an artiste. I sing in le bristro in the hotel.”

“How long have you been here?”

Mimi paused, momentarily, before admitting, “Over three years.”

“That’s quite a run,” Dort said. “What part of Iowa are you from?”

Mimi sat down in the chair, crossed her legs, and replied. “Not Iowa. Nebraska,” She took a drag on the cigarette, and remarked, “Jeez... it’s hot. I used to think Nebraska was hot in August, but you’d have to add two feet to a Nebraska thermometer to even get it to register in Castelonne.”

“It must get hotter somewhere,” Dort agreed, “but I can only think of one place.” He started probing the mattress and pillow. “Why the French act?” he asked.

“Oh, the locals think it’s great. ’Course they can’t understand French, but they still think it’s the most,” Mimi replied wearily. Rising from the chair, she sauntered to the balcony. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, mister,” she said, “but if it’s dough you won’t find it.”

“Why not?” Dort asked.

“Because Hermie was the slowest man with a buck I ever saw.” She turned away, “See you around.” And walked down the balcony towards her own room.

Dort didn’t find the money. He didn’t find Herman K. Berman either. Although it came as no surprise to Dort that the citizens of San Salvador spoke Spanish, it did surprise him that most of them spoke what they insisted was English as well. Dort had little difficulty in asking questions, but he had great trouble in deciphering the answers. However, they all narrowed down to one point: no one in Castelonne had seen Berman in “it makes four days.”

A realist to the ends of his square white teeth, Dort settled for a mixture of rum and tequilla when he couldn’t locate Scotch, Bourbon, Rye, Irish Whiskey, or Gin — in that order. He contemplated, without pleasure, his glass, glowering at the prospective loss of five thousand dollars.

He considered the situation with sweat dripping from his ears, which added little to his comfort. If, Dort thought, Professor Herman K. Berman had written to him urging him to hurry to San Salvador — then why wasn’t Professor Herman K. Berman on hand to greet him when he arrived?

The answer, Dort assured himself, would be found in one of two reasons. A., Berman didn’t want to meet him, having possibly changed his mind about the deal or B., Berman couldn’t meet him, because if the threat in his letter had materialized, he might very well be dead.

Finishing his drink, Dort calculated that the elapsed time between the liquor sliding down his throat and gushing from his pores was a mere matter of six seconds. He walked across the plaza to the department of police, Captain Hernando Lorca in charge.

The captain’s desk was at one end of a squad room which resembled a pool room with the tables removed. Racks at the walls held a number of ancient carbines, many of them with parts missing. In the waste-basket, by the captain’s desk, a large cat with matted fur was nursing a litter of extremely small kittens. The cat looked suspiciously at Dort, but the kittens didn’t.

Captain Lorca was a tall man, thin to the point of emaciation. His khaki tunic hung loosely from his gaunt frame, and seemed wired to his skeleton by means of a Sam Browne belt drawn as tightly as a corset.

Lorca looked up from behind his desk and said, “Mr. Dort, I’ve been waiting for you to appear.” He stood up, extended a thin hand and pumped Dort’s large one, then promptly reseated himself. Dort was left standing in front of the desk.

“What do you mean you were waiting for me?” asked Dort.

Lorca quickly pasted a wide white smile across his dentures. “Everybody in Castelonne shows up here sooner of later.”

“You knew I was coming?”

“Certainly,” Lorca agreed pleasantly. “I know everything that happens in Castelonne.” He made an attempt to look modest; it failed, so he shrugged instead. “It’s my business.”

“Do you mind if I sit on your desk?” asked Dort. He slipped a leg easily over one end of the scarred piece, and haunched against it comfortably. Folding his arms, Dort looked down at Captain Lorca. Captain Lorca looked back and waited.

“Mind if I smoke?” Lorca inquired politely while lighting a cigarette.

“Not at all. I’ll join you,” said Dort. lighting one too. For some time, both men sat with their own thoughts. This, Dort finally told himself, could continue right through the rainy season. He shook himself mentally, and kicked the conversation back to life again.

“Are you acquainted with an American named Professor Herman K. Berman?” he asked.

“Si — I mean, yes.” Lorca quickly corrected his impeccable English. “Senor Berman is an American embezzler who absconded with twenty-five thousand dollars from his college.” After a slight pause, he added, “He has been in Castelonne for three months.”

“You mean to tell me you knew this guy was a crook,” Dort demanded indignantly, “and you’ve sat here and done nothing about it?”

“Mr. Dort,” Lorca explained softly, “you misunderstand. Consider it from my point of view. First, it was not my money, and it did not belong to anyone from my country. However, that money distributed among the merchants of Castelonne might have induced a slight economic boom.”

Then, as if addressing a backward tourist, he added, “You must realize we have practically no tourist trade here.”

“I can understand that,” Dort said grimly, and mopped the back of his neck.

“However,” Captain Lorca continued, “after three months I can find no indication that Professor Berman spent — what do you call it? — an easy buck.” He shrugged. “So we have all been disappointed.”

“Yeah,” agreed Dort, “that must really have been a bitter blow to your local chamber of commerce. But didn’t you know there was a reward out for Berman? A thousand dollars!”

Lorca nodded patiently. “It came to my attention. You must realize, however, that my immediate superior, Colonel Gomez, owns a large pig farm two kilometers east of Castelonne. The piggery has not prospered.” Lorca looked both sad and thoughtful.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the peons — they will not work hard. They spend their time in the mountains.”

“There’s a reason for that, too?” said Dort.

“Yes. Colonel Gomez’s superior is General Juan O’Brien who has recently invested — disastrously — in a Ford tractor agency. The peons insist on stealing all the tractor wheels.”

“Why do they steal the wheels?” Dort asked. He didn’t want to inquire, but a strong compulsion charged him.

“They bring the wheels down here to sell for scrap iron.” After a pause, Lorca added, “It is a very lucrative racket for the natives. The general is. compelled to buy back the wheels at retail prices.” Lorca shrugged dismally. “Soon the general will go broke — pfhttt.”

Dort shook his head as if to clear it. “What’s all this leading to?”

“Only an explanation why I did not arrest Professor Berman and attempt to collect the reward.” Lorca pursed his lips reflectively. “With Senors Gomez and O’Brien both desperately needing money — and both outranking me—” It was not necessary for him to finish the statement.

“I can see what you mean,” Dort said. “They’d get to the till first.”

Lorca ignored Dort’s comment, as he continued slowly, “On the other hand, as a licensed investigator, you are legally entitled to twenty percent of the stolen money — if you can find it and return it to the bonding company.”

Dort began to feel uneasy. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Then he swung his leg lightly against the desk and admitted reluctantly, “Yeah.”

“So, if I offer you the facilities of my official and efficient organization...” Lorca looked inquiringly at Dort.

“Sure, sure,” said Dort, remembering Peterson’s bitter words about half the loaf. “We split my commission fifty-fifty. That way your pals, the Rover Boys, can’t get their mitts on it.”

“I accept your generaous offer,” Lorca assured him promptly. “Now what can I do to cooperate, Mr. Dort?”

“Change the weather!” Dort snapped. He walked to the door of the guard room. Pausing, he added, “While you’re looking for Berman, I’ll keep looking for the dough.” He left.

At eleven o’clock that night, although it was no cooler, it was considerably darker. Dort sat in the cafe of the Copabonga and watched the wooden fans whirling in the ceilings. The fans did nothing to stir up a breeze, but they mixed efficiently the cigarette smoke with the limp supply of oxygen already trapped in the room.

The long, irregular-shaped room was illuminated at intervals by pink, rose-shaped, silk lampshades clamped to yellowly gleaming lights. The room was hot, dark, and noisy as was the band — a group of three musicians who played guitar, concertina, and wood blocks.

Seated at a table next to Dort was a huge, big-bellied man with the appealing look of a crocodile. With him was Mimi and a dark-haired girl named Ynez. Ynez watched the man with disapproval as he kept up a rapid conversation with Mimi and at the end of each sentence, punctuated his comments with a pinch to one, or both, of Mimi’s well-rounded knees.

Their conversation was in Spanish, and although Dort could not follow it, he learned that the giant’s name was Pablo. Mimi’s and Pablo’s enjoyment of each other’s conversation seemed to grow in direct ratio to Ynez’s disapproval.

Ynez, looking darkly around the room, let her glance fall upon Dort. Dort lifted his glass and nodded. Ynez turned her glance indignantly away, then reconsidering, looked back and smiled.

Dort rose from his table and approached her. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

Before Ynez could reply, Mimi interrupted. “There’s no music,” she said.

“That’s all right,” said Dort, “we can pretend it’s Make-believe Ballroom.”

“Besides,” added Mimi, “she doesn’t speak English.”

“The hell I don’t,” said Ynez.

Pablo regarded Dort obliquely through slate-brown eyes, and spoke rapidly to Mimi. She shrugged and turned to Dort. “He doesn’t like you intruding.” When Dort made no reply, she continued, “I’ll give you a piece of advice. Pablo is tough — plenty.”

“I’m not,” Dort told her, sighing and sinking into an empty chair. “I’m scared to death.” He cupped his chin in a hand and turned to Ynez.

“Beat it,” Mimi told him, “you’re asking for trouble.”

Dort felt a small, warm, feminine hand snuggle into his beneath the table. It came from the direction of Ynez, lingered for a moment, and then hastily withdrew. Dort, rose, stretched, yawned, and hitched up his belt.

“I just wanted to hear you sing,” he told Mimi, “but I guess I’ll go to bed. In room two twenty-two.” He went upstairs.

Dort beat Ynez to his room with six minutes to spare. She slipped quickly inside when he opened the door. Grasping him secretively by the arm, she asked in a whisper, “You are an American agent, are you not?”

“Right,” said Dort, “I belong to the FBI, Military Intelligence, CIA, as well as being a Treasury man, and a Secret Service operative. Furthermore — this is top-level — I’m a B.P.O.E. with three horns.”

“Ahhhh.” Ynez looked around the room suspiciously, then remarked, somewhat loudly. “That Mimi!” The words sounded like ice-water dropped on a hot skillet.

“What about her?” asked Dort. “You promise to me, you make no trouble to Pablo, I tell you something verrrry interesting.”

Dort nodded.

“I love Pablo.” Ynez’ tragic eyes burned brightly as the full current of her love hit her. She rolled them upwards. “But that Mimi — she cause trouble. Very much trouble.”

“How?”

“She has no refined nature, that Mimi. She flirt and chase men. She try to get Senor Berman, the Americano, to give her money. He don’t do so.” Momentarily, Ynez looked triumphant as the memory of Berman’s business acumen. “Mimi — she get mad. She tell Pablo to take money away from Senor Berman.”

Dort poured a glass of warm water from a pitcher and drank it thirstily. “Well, did he?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

“No, but Pablo try. Senor Berman refuse to give up money. Then Pablo he get mad, too, and — you must believe me, Senor, Pablo does not mean it — he threaten to place knife in Senor Berman.” She added angrily, “and all on account of that Mimi!”

“Maybe Pablo didn’t mean it, but I can understand Berman thinking maybe he might,” Dort observed judiciously. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. Senor Berman write letter to you.”

“How do you know that?” Dort asked sharply.

“Everybody know that,” Ynez informed him, simply. “Then Senor Berman disappear.”

“Did Pablo snatch him?”

“Que? I mean, I do not understand.”

“Did Pablo catch him — hold him?”

“Oh, no. Pablo can. not find him. Then that Mimi, she start trying to get my Pablo to give her money.”

“Well, don’t worry,” said Dort. “I’ll have a talk with Mimi. Then I’ll arrest her, and take her back in irons to Sing Sing. When she has gray hair, I’ll send you a lock.”

“That would be nice,” Ynez assured him seriously, and left.

At five o’clock in the morning, the dawn streaked the sky above Castelonne. The last three-year-old baby had been yanked off the streets; the goats, burros, and dogs had given their final bleat, bray, and bark and had been thoroughly thrashed by their owners. All the denizens went to bed. Dort, however, got out of bed and, pulling on shirt and trousers, stalked through the hall to room 217 where he knocked at Mimi’s door.

Mimi answered it leisurely, wrapped in the familiar red and yellow wrapper. Mascara smudged her eyes until they looked not only misshaped but also misplaced. Her voice was hoarse from the hours of conversation in the bistro, and she had put her hair up in curlers.

Dort bowed and said, “You’ve never looked lovelier, M’amselle.”

“Drop dead,” snapped Mimi. “But don’t do it here. Wait until you get further down the hall.”

Dort inserted a size-twelve shoe between the door and its frame, and asked conversationally, “What’s this I hear about you putting Pablo up to slitting the good professor’s gullet?”

“Oh, that,” said Mimi pushing hard against the door in a vain attempt to close it. “Think nothing of it.”

“Well, I might overlook it,” Dort replied calmly, “if my own curiosity was less burning. C’mon, tell me. Did Pablo slit it for Berman?”

Giving up the attempt to close the door, Mimi shrugged and walked back into the room. Dort followed her and looked around. It differed from Berman’s room only by the addition of an old-fashioned dressing table with side mirrors. The table was covered with creams, lotions, bleaches, tanning preparations, colognes, perfumes, powders, pomades, and sundry other items.

“No,” Mimi told Dort. “Pablo threatened to, all right. Then that cheap-skate Berman wrote you a letter and hightailed into nowhere.” She added, musingly, “I still wonder what he did with that dough? I coulda used it.”

“Did you have something special in mind to do with it?” asked Dort.

“Sure,” Mimi answered promptly, “to get the hell out of this hole.” She began to mix a skin oil into her face, counting the strokes of her fingers under her breath, while she continued talking. “I want to go back, get to New York. I want new clothes — plenty of ’em — and a nice place to live with lots of air-conditioning.” Pausing, she regarded herself critically in the mirror. “Maybe also hire a good publicity man.”

“Did you consider the possibility that Berman might resent having Pablo carve him up?” asked Dort.

Mimi, failing to find words to express new opinions of the missing professor, stated finally, “It’d serve him right.”

“Why?”

“Look,” Mimi said, assuming a sweet reasonableness of tone, “the prof was down here for three months. He didn’t know anybody, see anybody, or talk to anybody. He just sort of walked around and looked hot — or else he read books. Then every night, every single night, he’d come to the cafe and sit and wait for me. I’d talk to him all night long.” She shrugged. “I’m not growing any younger. Now and then I’d hint maybe a girl like me would like a little present, even maybe a little money. He’d ignore my suggestions.”

“Maybe he was stupid,” suggested Dort.

“Stupid like a banker!” snapped Mimi. “So then he began to get restless. I could sort of tell he was planning to go away. He was a miserable speciman all right, but he was the best chance I had to get out of this dive. He didn’t offer to take me with him, or give me get-away dough.”

“How’d you find out Berman was loaded with dough?”

“One day I looked through his suitcase, and read all the newspaper clippings.” Mimi scooped up a wad of face cream on her fingers, and remarked, “I don’t think this estogen stuff works.” She rubbed it in anyway.

“I am listening to your story,” Dort reminded her.

“Oh. Well, next I tried to cook up something with Pablo. He don’t look like much, but he’s pretty rich for this place, He made all his dough just being a plain crook. He’s louse enough to go for a fast deal. Pablo and I agreed to split Hermie’s dough.”

As she turned back to the mirror, her eyes rose to two volumes of books stacked carelessly on top of the wardrobe. Motioning to the books, she said to Dort, “There’s the result of the prof’s generosity — for three solid months of my time.”

Dort wandered closer to examine the two volumes. He stood by the wardrobe and looked up to where they were resting. Their titles read:

He reached up and removed one of the volumes. The pages were uncut. “Yeah, I know,” Mimi observed, “I thought the same thing. I saw those lousy books in his room and that ‘Libri Sex’ threw me. I got the idea maybe they were sex books.” After a furious pause, she asked, “Do you want to know what that means? It means ‘six volumes’ in Latin.” She added, “Anyway, it’s all about some jerk named Lucretius, and I couldn’t care less!”

Dort placed the volume on the dressing table and turned to leave. Before he reaced the door, however, it opened inward with a tremendous thrust and Pablo heaved his bulk belligerently into the room. While glaring at Dort, he spoke rapidly to Mimi.

Mimi smiled modestly, batted her eyes, and said to Dort, “Isn’t Pablo a dear? He’s very angry — and very jealous of you! He thinks we’ve...” She permitted her voice to trail a way delicately.

“Tell the ape to go out and pick cotton,” Dort replied as he attempted to circumnavigate Pablo’s bulk.

Pablo moved with surprising quickness for a man of his size, and Dort continued to find Pablo between himself and the door.

Dort said to Mimi, “Please tell him it’s too early in the morning.”

“He won’t believe me,” Mimi explained.

Pablo clenched his teeth, slitted his eyes, and growled menacingly in his throat. It was an impressive performance. Dort realized that as he spoiled the effect, somewhat, by hitting Pablo in the belly. Pablo inhaled deeply, sharply, then swung a huge fist that caught Dort on the side of the head and knocked him half way across the room.

Mimi, watching curiously, found the courtesy to observe the formalities and protest weakly. “I wish you boys wouldn’t fight over me.”

“So do I,” agreed Dort, and went back to work.

He became quite strenuously occupied with Pablo. He became distracted after a moment, however, by sounds of an extremely high frequency. The sounds seemed to originate in the room and, by mutual consent, he and Pablo discontinued their own activities to watch and listen. Ynez had entered into a discussion with Mimi.

Standing with hands on their hips, the two girls carried on a conversation pitched to the top of their voices — a conversation which seemed to consist mostly of undesirable words in English, French, and Spanish. Other guests of the Copabonga, drawn to the scene of the discussion, lingered in the hall and lined the balcony, shouting words of encouragement.

Mimi, realizing her voice was giving out, retreated slowly to her dressing table to collect additional ammunition. She scooped up a volume of Lucretius and hurled the heavy book through the air. It missed Ynez by several feet and slamming into the wall, bounced back to the floor. The heavy cover flew open and pages, twisted and tom during the flight, disgorged hundred-dollar bills around the room.

All action, all sound ceased as a score of assorted sets of eyes followed the gently floating bills. Then a voice announced, “I will take charge of the books!” Captain Lorca, followed by two police in khaki uniforms carrying short carbines, entered the room.

At six o’clock in the morning, it was growing hot again in Castelonne. Dort, Mimi, Pablo and Ynez were gathered in Captain Lorca’s office. During the exchange of protests, denials, charges and counter-charges, Lorca had continued to cut the pages of the two volumes of Lucretius and remove hundred-dollar bills.

Dort stood, with folded arms, and mentally kept count with Lorca. The captain having removed the last bill from the last page, stood and regarded the prisoners.

“How much money do you have for bail?” he inquired. Amidst protests from Pablo and tears from Mimi and Ynez, they pooled twenty dollars in American money, thirty in Mexican, and forty one in San Salvador pesos.

“That comes out exactly right,” Lorca announced calmly. He put the money in his desk drawer, and dismissed the prisoners. Turning to Dort, who had paid no bail, the captain continued, “You will undoubtedly wish to return to the United States on the first plane.” He pushed a large document across his desk to Dort. “You will please sign, here.”

The document, printed in Spanish, was a mystery to Dort. “What in hell are these for?” he asked.

“Formalities,” Lorca replied casually.

“If I don’t sign it?” asked Dort.

“You don’t leave San Salvador,” explained Lorca.

Dort signed the document, and turned to leave the guardroom.

Lorca remained behind his desk where he had two stacks of bills. In one pile were twenty-five century notes. Lorca picked the entire pile up, edged it carefully, then tucked it in his tunic. The balance of the money, twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars, he shoved toward Dort.

“Don’t forget to take the money,” Lorca said.

Dort turned and regarded the captain in amazement. “I figured it was a contribution to a pig farm, and tractor agency,” he said.

“Under no circumstances!” Lorca replied rather coldly.

Dort scooped up the bills and distributed them throughout his pockets. Then he said to the captain, “I still don’t get it. You could keep it all.”

Lorca, reminded of the large sum of money, sighed regretfully, but shook his head. “You forget Colonel Gomez, and General O’Brien,” he said. “They would get it.” Lorca patted his tunic where the smaller stack nestled. “This — which you have given me — they cannot touch.”

“Okay,” said Dort. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go now.”

“You are free to leave anytime you wish,” Lorca assured him politely. “But do you not wish to speak to Professor Berman first?”

Dort, who had nearly reached the door, stopped, abruptly. Going a little pale he turned by degrees to face Lorca again. “You’ve got him here?”

“Four days — five now.” Lorca added, “Cell nine.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Dort.

“You didn’t ask me,” Lorca replied reasonably. He carefully rearranged his desk calendar, note book, and small vase of flowers. “Professor Berman has been inquiring for you.”

“My God!” breathed Dort.

“But he has not been a particularly cooperative prisoner,” Lorca said, shaking his head gently. “After I read his letter to you, I inquired of him regarding the money. Naturally, he denied any knowledge of it.”

Lorca shifted slightly to escape a ray of brassy sunlight which was stealthily creeping toward his chair. “However, it seemed reasonable to assume that if you arrived, Senor Dort, you would find the money.”

“I get it,” Dort said, his face emotionless, “you let me do all the leg work.”

Slowly the pieces began to fall into place, and he continued more rapidly, “As a matter of fact, you didn’t want Berman to turn over the dough to you, because if he did you could have collected only the reward money and Gomez and O’Brien would have grabbed that!” Lorca lighted a cigarette and listened politely. “So you waited and made a private deal with me. You held on to Berman, telling yourself that I would have to find the money, and cut you in on my percentage.”

Dort stumped out his own cigarette and began to grin — a wolfish, hungry expression. “You know, Lorca,” he admitted, “I’d have done the same to J. J. Peterson, myself.” Dort began to laugh.

Captain Lorca joined him politely.

J. J. Peterson said, “All right, here’s the receipt for the twenty thousand.” He pushed the slip of paper across the desk. “Incidently,” he added, “when does Berman expect to return to this country?”

“The Professor can come back any time he wants, I guess,” said Dort. “But I think maybe he’s going to stay awhile in San Salvador.”

“Why?” asked Peterson.

“He’s got a new job working for a guy named Lorca. Lorca needs smart guys,” Dort explained. “He’s trying to build a brain trust.”

“What for?” asked Peterson. “By the way, is the air-conditioner too cold for you?”

“It’ll never be too cold again,” Dort said. “But getting back to Lorca, I’ve got a hunch he’s bucking to replace a colonel.” After a pause, he added, “And I think he’s just about got it made.”

“Won’t the colonel cause trouble?” J. J. Peterson began to unwrap a cigar.

“Frankly,” replied Dort, “it isn’t the colonel who’s going to cause any trouble. It is the general.”

“I don’t get you,” said Peterson.

“It’s this way,” explained Dort. “The general is going to be awful damned mad if he ever finds out that Lorca owns the junk yard which buys up all his stolen tractor wheels.”