"If we have to meet tonight, I'll tell Pepe where we can do it. I'd better tell him now. Have some more coffee while I dress, chico. And don't worry." Duarte went upstairs.
Hall endorsed a hundred-dollar money order and ran after Duarte. "One other favor, Felipe. Ride to town with Pepe and me, and after I get out at the railroad station, please force that Asturian mule to accept this check. He's refused to take a cent from me since I'm in town—and I found out how much gasoline is selling for in San Hermano."
The train to Juarez was on the line to the north which had been built in Segura's time. The graft which had gone in to the building of the road was now scattered over the far corners of the earth. Somewhere in Paris, one of the chief contractors still lived on his share of the booty, paying varying fees to the Nazis for butter and woolens. In New York, one of Segura's army of illegitimate sons was studying medicine on the proceeds of some shares in the line which had belonged to his mother. Estates whose rolling lands touched the rails on either side belonged to old Seguristas who had bought the lands with the money they had managed to steal from the project. The money was gone, but the steel cars the builders had bought in Indiana and Pennsylvania remained. It was still a good railroad, and even though it now belonged to the government, the trains not only ran on time but were much cleaner and charged lower fares than before.
Hall watched the green countryside until the rolling landscape and the rhythm of the wheels made him drowsy. He turned away from the window, opened his newspaper to stay awake. The news was vague. The bulletin from the Presidencia stated simply that Ansaldo had spent four hours with Tabio but had issued no verdict. Those were exactly the words, "no verdict," and reading them again Hall grew angry. He tried to figure out some foolproof way of cabling to Havana, but the censorship hazards were too great.
The inside pages had little of interest. Bits of international and Washington news. A feature story from Mexico City on the great religious revival that was sweeping Mexico and threatening the Marxist forces in the government. This was in El Imparcial, and Hall recognized the byline of the author, a prominent lieutenant of the Mexican fascist leader, Gomez Morin. There was a full page of local society items, dry stuff about weddings, dinners, parties, the goings and comings of the smart set. And the inevitable puff story, this one about the "great and noted lawyer" Benito Sanchez, about whom no one had ever heard a thing and who would sink back into obscurity until he paid for another personality feature at so much per column, cash on the barrel. Hall forced himself through this flowery account of the lawyer's ancestry, wit, humanitarianism, piety, fertility, education, patriotism, skill in court, and kindness to his mother. Try as he could, the hack who wrote this story had not been able to completely fill three columns, the accepted length for such compositions. The bottom of the third column had therefore been filled with a stock item in small type: "Ships Arriving and Leaving Today and Tomorrow."
Mechanically, Hall read the shipping notes. The Drottning-holm was in port. The Estrella de Santiago was returning to Havana. Tomorrow, the Marques de Avillar was due from Barcelona. Tomorrow the Ouro Preto was sailing back to Lisbon. The City of Seattle was now six days overdue; U. S. Lines, Inc., had no explanation. Mails for the Ouro Preto closed at midnight.
Hall turned the page and stopped. The rustle of the paper struck a hidden chord in his mind. He turned back to the shipping news, read it carefully. The Marques de Avillar became as great as the Normandie and the Queen Mary rolled into one. He recalled the conversation he had overheard between Ansaldo and Marina. Find out if they came today.... Too dangerous to come by Clipper. But by Spanish boat?
He went back to the conversation. Yes, that was exactly the way they talked. And after the talking came the rustling of a paper. Not evidence, of course, and even in wartime you couldn't shoot two bastards like them unless you knew more. But was it worth following up? Perhaps Margaret Skidmore would be able to supply another piece of the jigsaw. She had a sharp tongue, and this meant a sharp head. Sharp and tough, and Felipe was probably right about her other value, but if it happened at all it would have to happen when this mess was cleared up.
The train pulled into Juarez on time. Hall got off and gaped at the station. It was covered from ground to roof with the blazing "tiger vines" whose orange orchid-shaped flowers were the unofficial flag of the country. Margaret was waiting for Hall under the station shed. "Hi," she shouted, "have a nice trip?"