“I’ve done more than any one else of them,” he declared, “but they don’t promote me because I haven’t any pull. It was the same way with my father. He caught more thieves than the whole police department of Madrid put together, but nothing doing. He never advanced beyond the grade of captain. Then they transferred him to the sewer district and he saw to every squabble they had down there.... Yet he never carried a revolver or a stick, like me. Only his blunderbuss. He was a soldier, he was.”
They happened to be passing a tavern, so they went in, had a glass of wine, and in the meantime Manuel scrutinized the men who were gathered about the tables.
“There’s nobody here that you’re looking for,” said the tavern-keeper to the policeman.
“I see that there isn’t, Tío Pepe,” answered Ortiz, extracting some coins from his pocket to pay for the drinks.
“My treat,” said the man behind the counter.
“Thanks. Good-bye!”
They left the tavern and reached the Plaza de la Cebada.
“Let’s go over to the Café de Naranjeros,” suggested the captain. “Though it’s not likely that our bird is flying thereabouts. Still, often where you least expect....”
They entered the café; there were only a few men chatting with the singers. From the doorway Ortiz shouted in: