"And you don't know where Nacha is?"
"Yes. She's...."
She moved her cigar stump to the other side of her mouth.
"See here, young man, if you put down fifty pesos of that thousand now, I'll give you a pretty little piece of information. True as I'm telling you! This old body wouldn't lie! I was raised to speak the truth, and I'll die doing the same!"
Monsalvat handed her the sum she asked, and the old creature gave him two bits of advice. He was to talk to a certain Amiral, a poor wretch who was a friend of Arnedo's, and who, for money, would get the truth out of Pampa. However, the other, and the better course to follow, in her opinion, was to see a washerwoman named Braulia, who knew all the vicious resorts of the district for she kept them "stocked" with girls.
Braulia proved to be a negress, who lived in a shanty, at the back of a vacant lot. After much chattering she told him that she would answer his question the following night, when he was to meet her at a certain café, on the river bank. Fearing a decoy, for he had learned to be mistrustful, he asked her why he could not wait on the street corner, or in some café he knew. The negress replied that he would have to go where she told him, and if that didn't suit him he could go without what he was looking for.
The next evening he went to the café designated. His entrance there appeared not to attract attention. As a matter of fact its patrons had instantly spotted him, but they pretended not to notice his presence. The place was a foul den, much like a cave, so low was its roof. The chairs, benches and tables were greasy and ill-smelling. A mulatto in his shirt-sleeves was waiting on the customers. Three North American negroes, so drunk they could not stand, were singing something with a cakewalk rhythm. Opening their mouths wide, they stretched their thick lips from ear to ear, showing their red gums and gleaming white teeth. One of them was playing a large accordion. From the table where Monsalvat was sitting he could see the port light of a boat, and above, the starry sky. Every few minutes a drunken man staggered up the street.
While he was waiting for some message from the negress, a man came up to him, and, telling him he belonged to the secret police, advised him to leave. "This is no place for you," he said. "Whoever it was told you to come here is just planning to rob you." Monsalvat left the place, and never returned to it.
He decided to see Amiral; but this turned out to be more easily planned than done. Amiral apparently never ate at home and rarely slept there; and it was of course useless to write to him since he was quite likely to show the communication to Arnedo. So, while trying to find the elusive Amiral, Monsalvat continued his seeking of Nacha. He was beginning now to absent himself from his office for entire afternoons. List in hand, he went about stirring up all the back waters of this dismal slough of despond.
"She is not here. We don't know her," they would tell him.