Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

When $200,000 in Big Bills Burned, but Only Charred “Ones” and “Twos” Could be Found— Well, It Looked Funny

I

The true story of this crime was given me by Secret Service Investigator “Hartwell,” some of whose other adventures I have already recorded. To give his real name would not only endanger his life, but would impair his usefulness to Uncle Sam and would probably lose him his job. Furthermore, as the brother of a former president of a certain Latin-American republic is involved, fictitious names must be used.

Hartwell is a truly extraordinary man, of Franco-American parentage and born in Mexico. He has also lived much among Italians. Thus he speaks French. English, Spanish and Italian perfectly, without a trace of accent. He passes freely as a citizen of the United States, a Frenchman or an Italian, as well as a Spaniard or a Latin-American; and knows not only many local dialects, but also crook slang in four languages.

Hartwell is the last man in the world you’d suspect of being a Secret Service man. He’s not piercing-eyed, lean or in any way like Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary, he’s round-faced, stout, good-natured and cheerful, and an easy mixer. He looks like a salesman, business-man or contractor; and this helps him along. The underworld can’t believe that such an easy-going, jolly and friendly chap can be dangerous. This is one prime reason for his long record of brilliant success.

So much, then, for Hartwell. Now his inside story of the famous $200,000 Pay Roll Arson Case.

In the fall of 1929, the big insurance concern known as Lloyd’s reported a heavy loss by fire. This loss was that of a $200,000 pay roll, all in American bills, at the little town of San Fulano de Tal, in the banana Republic of Equis Igriega, somewhere to the southward of the U. S. A. — never mind just where.

“All we know,” they told me, “is that the pay roll was consigned to the Mengano Sugar Company, about twenty miles from San Fulano, to pay off both the office force and the field hands for a month. The money reached San Fulano, all right. The night of its arrival, before it had been delivered to the Mengano Central, or sugar mill, the post office burned up, and the money was lost — or so the Postal Department of the Republic has the honor to report. We aren’t making any charge of crime, theft, arson, collusion, or anything, but before we pay the insurance we want to know what it’s all about. Now go to it.”

I went to it. First of all, I got a list of the bills sent. There were so many fives, so many tens and twenties. No ones or twos. All fives or better.

My trip to San Fulano is of no importance, except to say that the place was far up-country, away beyond the terminus of even such narrow-gauge and jerkwater railroads as that Spig republic boasted. I let it be casually known, all the way, that my name was Señor Alguien, arid I looked and dressed and talked the part of a mining engineer from Mexico City, interested in picking up any good properties that might be lying around loose.

The last seventy-five kilometers I made along jungle trails on horseback in two days, and as I weigh close to two hundred and was pretty soft from lack of roughing it for some time, it was a mighty lame mining expert who one fine afternoon drew rein in front of the Hotel Encanto, at San Fulano de Tal.

I’ll waste no time describing the town, except to mention three or four alleged streets, some banana palms and coconut trees, plenty of pigs, poultry and buzzards, and a sufficiency of mañana natives in bare feet and dirty white cotton clothes. Also a store, a town hall and a telegraph office, a timeworn church, a few rurales in charge of a lieutenant, and a jail that looked like the last hoosegow in the world I’d ever want to see the inside of. San Fulano seemed to be suffering extensively from hookworm and a lack of insomnia. But the rifles of the rurales were well oiled, and the lieutenant was a black gentleman with a wicked eye. What you’d call a very bad hombre.

As for the Hotel Encanto (which means Enchantment), the least said the most eloquent. I’ve seen a good many better ones of that type, but none worse. However, it was that or else sleep with the scorpions out under a palm tree, so I hired three beds and got settled the best I could.

II

Why three beds? Well, I’ll tell you. There was just one sleeping room, with eight beds in it, at forty cents American a throw. I didn’t want any Spig snoring close to me, on either side, so I took three beds and slept in the middle one, which set me back a dollar twenty a day.

I got cleaned up as well as I could, considering that there was no water except down at a pump in the patio, where horses and mules and various other kinds of live stock were quartered. Plenty of live stock in the beds, too, small but ambitious. That sort of thing, however, is all in the game. I figured that if I didn’t get punctured by anything bigger than a chinche, or B-flat, before I got through, I’d be sitting pretty.

The grub — black beans, tortillas and empanadas or meat cooked in dough — was ladeled out to us in an alleged dining room where dogs and pigs wandered round, and chickens pecked on the tiled floor or even hopped on to the chairs and flew up on the tables, if not shoo’d off. The guests were rancheros, cattle-men and sugar-hands, and all that sort. But one of them was different, a priest named Padre Ninguno, and he was a good scout if there ever was one.

I introduced myself and chummed up to him right away, and spilled my little tale — how I’d been sent there by the Estrella Mining Company, from Mexico City, to look up abandoned mining properties, especially Indian mines. In a day or two we got as thick as two peas in a pod. Of course my being considered a mining man and O. K. by the padre put me in right with everybody, and for the present nobody had the slightest suspicion of my real character or object.

Well, I had my optics peeled, and sized up things pretty carefully, including the ruins of the burned post office. When Sunday came, I was mighty careful to go t o church and contribute liberally. The padre certainly thought I was the goods, and invited me to his house that afternoon.

As I say, the padre was a regular guy, and we had a few refreshments, native style. Without seeming to steer the conversation, which was, of course, all in Spanish, none the less I managed to get it around to the post office fire. The good padre was glad to have something to gossip about.

“A great calamity, señor,” he explained. “And what a fatality that so much money should have been in the building when it just happened to burn! All due to a storm, too.”

“How so, padre?”

“Well, because of the storm, the steamer that was bringing the money wasn’t expected to arrive at Rio Fangoso that day. Don José Chanchullero, the paymaster at the Mengano sugar-central, had been waiting for the pay roll, but went away without it. The steamer came in unexpectedly, and the registered mail pouch was brought here and put in the post office.”

“And then?”

“Then Lieutenant Guataquero in command of the rurales, gave a baile — a dance — at the town hall. It was his birthday, which he had forgotten about, but remembered just in time to organize the entertainment. Everybody went. Oh, a fine fiesta! Rurales and all were there. Plenty of liquors, and roast pork and dulces, very fine! It started at ten, that night, and was to last till morning.”

“Did the postmaster go, too?”

“No, señor. That good man remained away, at the office, to guard the money. Don Mario Tiburón, his name is. He would not attend. Said his first duty was to protect the $200,000 till he deliver it safely into the hands of the central paymaster, in the morning. But alas, señor—”

“Well?”

“Alas, what mischance! At two in the morning, when everybody was dancing and making merry with the wine, the cry of ‘Fire! Fire!’ was heard. Ay mi madre! It was the post office that was burning! The poor postmaster had fallen asleep on his lonely vigil, while smoking a cigarette, and the building had caught fire. He woke up, stifled with smoke, just in time to save his life. Though he got out, he was somewhat burned.”

“Too bad!” I commiserated.

“Yes, señor,” agreed the padre. “We have no firemen, no engine. Nothing we could do availed to save the post office. It was burned flat, señor, with all the mail and everything. What a fatality, verdad?”

“It surely was. And nothing was saved? None of the money at all?”

“Very little, señor. The ashes were searched when they were cool enough, but only a few charred pieces of bills were recovered. A very great misfortune, indeed.”

“Ah, well,” said I, “no misfortune lasts a hundred years. How much money was recovered, and where is it now?”

“Only a few dollars, señor. The postmaster has it all, keeping it for the government inspectors, when they come.”

“Haven’t they been here yet?”

“Not yet, señor. You know how it is, here. Always mañana. But some day they will arrive. And when they do, the postmaster has all the recovered money to show them. A very brave, honest man is our postmaster. His bums are now, thank God, quite healed.”

I figured I’d got an earful, all right, and didn’t want to ride luck any further than it would tote me without arousing suspicion, so I let the talk swing around to other subjects. But next day I drifted into the new post office — a plain, whitewashed shack near the jail. Americano cigarettes are the best small-change with which to get acquainted in all Latin-America, and I had plenty. It wasn’t long before the brave Senor Tiburón, postmaster of San Fulano, was smoking cigarettes that even he, lazy as he looked, might have walked at least a kilometer for. Also, he was talking, showing me where he’d been burned, and everything.

III

There was no business, nothing to do but kill time — and mosquitoes and ticks — so we sat on a couple of goatskin chairs, smoking and chewing the rag. My Mexican accent got across, all right, and the postmaster would have taken his bible oath I was a genuine Mexicano. It wasn’t long before he was proudly exhibiting the fragments of charred bills that had so fortunately been rescued from the ruins of the post office.

“Here they are, señor,” said he. “And do you think there is enough left of this money, so the Yanqui government will redeem it?”

“Undoubtedly,” I assured him, though I saw at once it would hardly be worth the trouble. The charred pieces could not have represented more than $150 or $200, all told. And more interesting still, I saw that every piece was the fragment of either a one-spot or a two!

“Now then,” I figured, when I’d got through with the good, honest postmaster of San Fulano, “now then, we’re beginning to get somewhere. The mail-pouch with the $200,000 came in unexpectedly. Friend Lieutenant, the black hombre, got up an impromptu fiesta and served plenty of aguardiente to all hands. He had all his rurales at the shindig. The post office remained unguarded, except by the postmaster. It caught fire from a ‘cigarette.’ And the only pieces of bills recovered were ones and twos. Bueno!”

The whole case was opening up like a clam in hot water. Why were there no fragments of fives, tens and twenties? That was the big question now!

I followed it up by exploring the country, all around about, for mining properties. On horseback and mule-back I trekked hither and yon, sometimes putting up at fincas or farms, again at sugar-centrals, or cattle ranches, or what have you. At last in a wretched little village named Pozo Negro I picked up a red-hot clue — an almost new American five-dollar bill.

I saw this bill paid over the counter of a posada, or inn. It was passed by a mulatto foreman of a sugar-mill. I offered this man a drink, got acquainted with him, asked him about mines, and next day went to see him at his central. There, at a little cantina, I treated him and some others, and paid with an American twenty. In change — among all sorts of queer chicken-feed, I got an American ten-spot!

Now things were turning up!

I beat it right back to my good padre, at San Fulano, invited him to dinner and then got down to business. Our table was out in a patio, where nobody could overhear us, and we talked in low tones.

“See here, padre,” said I, “I might as well come clean with you. I’m no more a mining engineer than you are, but a detective, a Secret Service man from the United States, down here to trace the big robbery.”

“What robbery, señor?”

“That $200,000 pay roll. Now then, don’t look surprised! I happen to know that the fire was only a blind, to cover a robbery. I know all about it, except where the money is — what’s left of it. Suppose I were to receive a little useful information, it would not be impossible that a certain church in a certain town not a thousand miles from here might receive a little donation for a new building. A donation of, say, five thousand pesos. Well, father?”

The excellent padre considered a moment, then sighed deeply.

“My son,” said he, “much sorrow has lain on my heart, because of certain matters that have distressed me. I have been wondering what to do; been may triste — very sad, eh? And why?”

“Yes, why?” I asked, feeling that the trail was getting hot, indeed.

“Ah! Rumors have been circulating, underground, about this affair, and a certain Mariposa. About a possible connection between them, sabe? I have felt that an investigation was needed, but by whom? In this unfortunate country whom I could trust? To whom could I communicate my fears?”

“It’s a tough job, padre,” I admitted, “communicating anything in this republic. But I’m an Americano, and you’ll be safe with me. As we say in our lingo, could you not spill a few beans?”

“Beans, señor? What do you mean, beans?”

“It is our way of saying, give information.”

The padre considered a moment, then made an uncertain gesture with his ancient, corded hand. He shook his head.

“Were I to tell you anything, señor, and were it to become — what you call? — spilled beans, that it was I who told, how long do you think it would be before I would be one angel?”

“Four minutes, perhaps. Maybe five, if you had luck. However, whatever you tell me will be as if sealed in the tomb. I, too, want to live.”

He looked at me a moment, then remarked:

“More things than bread might be found in the brazero of La Mariposa, in Las Pocilgas. To a good listener, few words.”

I thanked him, and said no more about it. The trail was getting hot.

IV

I sat down in the plaza and had a good smoke and think. A brazero, I knew, was a sort of brick bake-oven, usually built behind a native house. Las Pocilgas was the name of a small village about nine kilometers east of San Fulano. And how about La Mariposa? That meant a butterfly, of course, but it might mean also an inn, or a woman. Anyhow. I was going to find out.

First thing I did was write to the chief of police at San Pedro — capital of the country — for a couple of Secret Service men to be sent me immediately. While waiting for them I did nothing but keep busy looking up old mining titles and such matters at the town hall. That very effectively killed any suspicion that I wasn’t a bona fide mining engineer. Anxious days, those! Were any leak to take place, or anybody get wise to me, what then? A shot at night; a dagger in the back; a nameless grave in the jungle!

For once in my life, I confess I felt a bit nervous. But luck stayed with me, and nothing happened. Four days, and the Secret Service men showed up — “mining engineers,” like myself. We got acquainted and I told them what was doing, Next day we all three set out for Las Pocilgas on horseback.

The rest of this case is short but lively. We put up at a wretched little posada in Las Pocilgas, and wandered round looking the place over. If possible, it was ten times filthier than San Fulano. Inside of two hours we’d located a lady by the name of La Mariposa. Some butterfly! Black as a spade flush, and sinister-looking, she lived in a thatched hut down by a swamp at the far end of the village.

It took only a few drinks and a little gossip with the keeper of the posada to discover that La Mariposa was one of the sweethearts of the rural lieutenant, Guataquero, back there in San Fulano. That bad hombre, we learned, had several women scattered round in different villages, and this bouncing black butterfly was his favorite. Better and better!

Next day we closed in on La Mariposa. We found she had a brick oven in her back yard, all right, and that was what we wanted to get into. We waltzed right in on her, showed our badges, and started to excavate. About then the butterfly went into action. Tigress would have been a better name for her. She grabbed a machete and went to it. I never hit a woman before in all my life, but I hit that butterfly plenty — with a wine jug that I threw just in time to save one of my companions from becoming devilled ham. I knocked her for a row of goals.

She went down, squawking, and we tied her up and gagged her. If we hadn’t, she’d have raised the town about our ears, and the rest would have been just war. We weren’t there for war, but to get the money. And we got it, all right!

The way we ripped that brazero to pieces was a caution. What we found was plenty — a pottery olla, or jar, with $185,000 inside it, all in fives, tens and twenties. Reads like fiction, but it’s a fact. I never saw so much cash in such a humble pot in all my born days.

Only $15,000 had been spent, fixing people and paying off, and so on. The charred ones and twos, you see, had all been out of the conspirators’ own pockets, and as they’d counted on recovering most of that, their expenses hadn’t been heavy. The bills had been burned in such a manner that they could be redeemed, all right; and the fact that the postmaster had “found” them all gave us a pretty good line on him.

Leaving the butterfly’s wings still all wound round with a hempen string, we slung the cash into our saddle-bags and beat it, pronto. We didn’t stop for anything, you bet. Adiós! And no return ticket. If the natives had got wise to us, that would certainly have been one mighty unhealthy jungle. With only three of us, and with that bad black hombre and the rest of them thirsting for our gore — not so hot.

To make it brief, we reached San Fulano in record time, paid our bill at the inn, announced that we had important mining business elsewhere, and kept right on going. Didn’t stop — by horse and narrow-gauge railroad — till we reached San Pedro. There we banked the $185,000 safely, and I stepped out of the picture. It wasn’t up to me to make any arrests. I simply had to unravel the case and get the coin.

The national Secret Service people took up the case, from then on. In two days the bad hombre was pinched. He squealed, implicating the postmaster and the telegraph clerk. Between them, they let a still bigger cat out of the bag — no less a cat than a brother of the president of the republic, who had been the brains and instigator of the affair, and was counting on fifty per cent of the loot.

The three lesser artists got ten years apiece; and that, in a country like the Republic of Equis Igriega, is equivalent to a death sentence.

“And the Big Shot?” I queried, as Hartwell’s story came to a close.

“Whitewashed,” said Hartwell. “In view of his close relationship to the president, what could they do about it? Some country!”

“How about the good Padre Ninguno?” I asked.

“Oh, he got his $5,000, all right. I’ve heard, since, that he’s built a classy new church at San Fulano. But I’ve never been back there to see. I don’t think it would be just what you might call healthy!”