by A. A. Fair
“Those people get more out of life than we do. They get more out of their friendships. They live a marvelously happy existence. They have more culture, more consideration, more courtesy. Somehow, they seem to have a clearer perspective. Don’t know why I should talk this way to you, but you’re interested and I’d like to see you get off on the right foot. I’d like to see you locate there in Medellín. But whether you can make any money or not depends a lot on the way you go about it. There’s room for a man with capital in that country, but the country doesn’t want to be exploited.”
“I think this chap Cameron made a pretty good thing out of it, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Cameron is well fixed, I guess. Interesting chap but pretty close-mouthed.”
“I met a Mrs. Grafton,” I said. “She was from down there somewhere. Know her?”
He shook his head.
“A Juanita Grafton. She was the widow of a mining man.”
“Oh, I place her now,” he said. “I don’t know her personally. I’ve heard someone talk about her. She had some money at one time, or thought she was entitled to some money or something, and lost it. While she’s in Colombia she lives like a lady. When her money runs out, she goes to the States and, they tell me, gets a job at the most menial type of housework until she can get a stake together. Never spends a nickel, they say. Works like a dog. Then she softens up her hands, buys a few clothes, and comes back to Medellín, where she doesn’t even lift her finger.”
“Someone told you about her?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“You haven’t got it mixed, have you? It isn’t in Medellín where she works?”
“Shucks, no. When she’s there, she’s a regular lady. Knowing the ropes, she can take the money she brought from the United States and get by pretty well. Up until recently. Right now there’s a species of inflation down there and the rate of exchange isn’t so favorable. I mean in terms of spending power of the money.”
I did a bit of thinking. The sun came up and caught the plane, spearing it with a warming shaft, holding it in golden brilliance, while down below the ground was still gray with pre-dawn shadows. Then the rays of light gilded the tops of some mountains ahead and slowly crept down the shoulders of the high places, until finally it penetrated through to the jungle.
“We’re going up over some mountains in a few minutes,” Prenter said. “You’ll see a big, beautiful lake. Some magnificent houses around it. Some marvelous scenery around there. We’re getting into the coffee belt. They grow marvelous coffee around here. You ought to try the Colombian coffee. You never tasted anything like it in your life. Nothing bitter about it, no matter how strong and black you make it. Just an aromatic drink with lots of flavor.”
I said musingly, “Colombia. Isn’t that where all the emeralds come from?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you pick them up pretty cheap there?”
He shook his head.
“Perhaps pick up rough emeralds and then have them cut somewhere else? I understand the duty on uncut stones isn’t as high.”
He merely smiled tolerantly and shook his head.
“They have quite a few emerald mines, don’t they?”
He looked me over.
I kept waiting for an answer.
“I’m not certain that I know,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of gold mining there. Now if you want to invest in some gold property, it might be possible to pick out something that was really good. They have some very fine properties that can be worked by hydraulic mining. An abundance of water, you know, and an opportunity to build up quite a pressure.”
“Are there any emerald investments?”
“No.”
“What amusements are there?” I asked. “That is, what comprises your social life?”
“It’s hard to tell you so you’ll understand. People enjoy each other. In the States, when friends get together, they have to pull out the cards and start playing bridge or rush out to a movie or something like that. Pretty much all through South America people are accustomed to getting enjoyment out of each other’s companionship. You’ll have to see it to understand it.”
I said, “You make the country sound very attractive. Did you know a Robert Hockley?”
“Hockley?” he asked frowning. “What did he do?”
“I don’t know. I think he owns some properties down in Colombia, or has an income of some sort.”
“What kind of properties?”
“I don’t know. I heard him mention them rather vaguely.”
Prenter shook his head.
We were silent for a while and then the scenery claimed my attention. We passed a beautiful lake, the surface calm and unruffled by even the faintest breeze. Then we passed through a few miles of bumpy air and suddenly were banking into a turn and coming down at Guatemala.
Prenter seemed rather reserved after we left Guatemala. He replied almost in monosyllables to my casual questions about the country. Apparently he was doing much thinking. And on two or three occasions, when his head was tilted back and his eyes were closed as though sleeping, I sensed a certain tension about him which made me feel that his mind wasn’t relaxing at all.
We went over towering mountains, droned past a live volcano. The plane was flying high. We could look down to the Atlantic on one side and over to the Pacific on the other.
“I suppose we’re approaching Panama,” I ventured.
“It won’t be long now.”
There was a moment or two of silence, then Prenter abruptly turned. “Look here,” he said. “You won’t think it out of place if I give you a little advice?”
“I’d be glad to have it.”
“Shut up about emeralds.”
I let my face show startled surprise. “Why, what’s wrong with emeralds?”
“You talk to a lot of people the way you talked to me,” Prenter said grimly, “and you’d damn soon find out what’s wrong with them.”
“What do you mean?”
He said, “The emerald business is a government monopoly. Do you get what that means?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“The emerald business throughout the world is something rather big.”
“Yes, I can imagine that.”
“The Colombian government controls it absolutely.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that the Colombian government regulates the number of emeralds placed on the market. They regulate the prices of emeralds. Obviously, if too many emeralds were released at one time, that would have a disastrous effect on prices. If the big gem dealers knew exactly what the situation was in regard to emeralds, that might have a bad effect.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, think it over sometime when you have nothing else to do. Suppose you were a government. Suppose you had the exclusive information which would fluctuate the price of the commodity you controlled on a world market. Now do you begin to get it?”
“I guess perhaps I can get a glimmering of what you mean.”
“Well,” he went on, “think that over until the glimmering becomes a flicker of light, and then that flicker of light becomes a blinding flash of understanding. And so you’ll have ample opportunity to do it, I won’t bother you with any more conversation for a while. We’re coming down at Panama. You’ll be questioned there and you’ll be detained overnight. If anyone has the idea you’re particularly interested in emeralds, in a business way, you’ll never get to Colombia.”
“You mean they’d refuse to honor my United States passport?”
“Oh, nothing crude like that,” he said. “You’re in a country where diplomacy is a fine art. No one would think of being crude about it. You’d simply find that in your own particular case there were certain technicalities which through an oversight just hadn’t been complied with. And the next thing you knew, you’d be all tied up in red tape. I’m just telling you. Think it over.”
“I will,” I promised.
“See that you do. You’re inclined to overdo that eager tourist business—if you don’t object to my criticizing your technique. I don’t know what it is you want, but it’s something very definite. Good day.”
With that he ostentatiously closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the pillowed cushion, and withdrew from the conversation as effectively as though he’d stepped out of the plane.
Chapter Seventeen:—ON A SPANISH HOT SPOT
IT WAS A GOOD THING he’d given me the tip about Panama. It helped me to keep my temper and my eyes open. It just hadn’t occurred to me how careful they are about what goes on in Panama. The Good Neighbor Policy is quite a thing and it functions so smoothly it’s like a piece of machinery running in an oil bath.
I answered the questions all right and when I showed up at the airport the next morning I was relieved to find that no one tapped me on the shoulder to explain there were certain irregularities about my ticket. I found myself on the plane for Medellín in and this time George Prenter had been careful to select an outside seat up near the front of the plane, next to a grey-haired, motherly woman.
I took the hint and kept my conversation to myself.
Prenter didn’t even speak to me all the way in.
We flew over a steamy tropical jungle. Wide, sluggish rivers flowed so smoothly that they gave no visible clue as to the direction of the current. From the height at which we were flying they looked like huge snakes that had gone to sleep.
Here and there along the banks one could, see little groups of thatched huts huddled together as though for protection. Such a small area of cultivated fields made it look as though the men who lived there were afraid to venture more than a stone’s throw from the village.
Mountains began to show ahead. The jungle drifted monotonously past and abruptly the Andes hurried forward to greet us. The plane tossed in cross currents and then topped a ridge. A fertile valley with roads and haciendas, oblongs of cultivated fields, and winding trails climbing up to the very tops of the mountains offered variegated scenery.
From the height at which we were flying it was possible to see the whole economic development of the country—from little crude farms up on the tops of the mountains, connected only by mule trails with dirt roads, on down to the paved highways with more pretentious farms, huge haciendas, and at last the quaint picturesque little towns laid out like whitewashed villages.
For a long time I watched the country below, noticing the spacious patios, private swimming-pools, evidences of a quiet, well-ordered prosperity on the part of the wealthy landowners.
Almost before I knew it, the plane was gliding down a mountain pass. Green-covered, fertile mountains rose so close to the wing tip that I could look across on a level with a little thatched hut and see grazing cattle raising curious heads to regard us with lazy interest. Then Medellín loomed ahead and the pass opened into a broad, sunswept valley. A few minutes later we were skimming along a concrete landing-strip.
Prenter left the plane without even uttering a word to me.
I bought a Spanish dictionary at the airport, took a cab to the main part of the city, secured a room in a hotel, cashed a couple of traveler’s checks, and went up to the office of the United States consul to report.
There was a letter there. It was from Captain Sellers It read:
Dear Donald:
Bertha is running blood pressure. I don’t know what you’ve got me into, but I am beginning to think you may be on the right track.
Robert Hockley got a passport, bought an airplane ticket through to Medellín, then promptly proceeded to disappear. He traveled as far as Panama on his airplane ticket. He got off the plane at Panama. When the plane was ready to take off again, there was no Hockley. The captain held up the plane for nearly an hour. There was quite a bit of commotion about it, but no Hockley.
In the meantime, at this end there have been some developments.
The poison used in the candy apparently came from Hockley’s shop. The typewritten shipping-label on the candy was written on Hockley’s typewriter. The laboratory boys went over Cameron’s place with vacuum cleaners and microscopes. They found a few crystals of copper sulphate. They found copper sulphate in quantities at Hockley’s place. All in all, it looks as though there’s a case against Hockley.
You’ve seen this man and talked with him. You can identify him. I am getting in touch with the local police in Medellín. I wish you’d drop in, get acquainted, and ‘put yourself at their disposal.
I don’t mind telling you that having you already on the job down there and being able to report to the chief that you went on down ahead at my suggestion has boosted my stock quite a bit. You’re a good egg.
Wire me if you find out anything.
I read the letter, went on down to the police, and after quite a bit of running around located the man I wanted, who was, as it happened, the man who wanted me.
Señor Rodolfo Maranilla was small in stature, wiry of frame, quick of motion. Crow’s-feet were stamped around his eyes. His lips turned slightly up at the corners, Riving his mouth the appearance of smiling. But his eyes were the eyes of a poker player watching an opponent shove a stack of chips to the center of a table.
He listened to the story I told him and then said urbanely and in excellent English, “So you are interested in investments, Señor Lam?”
I nodded.
“In mining properties?”
“I think those represent the best investments.”
“And you wished to look around at various properties while you are here?”
“Precisely.”
“I think it could be arranged. Were there any properties in particular which you had in view?”
“No, I’m a stranger here.”
“But this Robert Hockley—you have known him?”
“I’ve met him, yes.”
“And this Hockley has an interest in mines in this vicinity?”
“I believe so, yes. I understand he is one of the beneficiaries under the trust of a Cora Hendricks, who left some mining properties. There’s a man by the name of Sharples and a Robert Cameron, the man who was murdered, who were trustees.”
“Ah, yes. The Señor Cameron has been a visitor quite frequently. It is so fortunate that a man who can identify this Robert Hockley is here. By this I mean you yourself, Señor Lam. If there is anything we can in turn do to help you, we are your servants. I am familiar with the Sharples and Cameron properties. Would you like to look at them?”
Señor Maranilla was studying me, his face a mask of gentle kindliness, all except those eyes which were making my mind do a strip tease for him.
“I don’t see what good it would do to look at those properties,” I said, “unless they’re for sale. Do you know if they are for sale?”
“Probably anything is for sale if there is money enough.”
I nodded gravely.
“Would you say that you did not want to see those properties?”
I said, “No. It might be advantageous to look at them. It would at least give me some idea of values.”
“My car will be ready at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I will accompany you and we will have a chauffeur. Down on the river it will be hot, so wear light clothing. We will be gone two days.”
I wanted to ask him a few more questions but he was on his feet suavely bowing me out. And this time I wasn’t so dumb but what I realized there were two shadows on my tail as I went back to the hotel.
I didn’t sleep much that night. The climate, which had seemed balmy and thoroughly delightful when I had first disembarked from the plane, now seemed heavy,
Cathedral bells wakened me hours before daylight. At intervals the booming of various church bells, the shuffling of feet on the sidewalks as the residents of Medellín walked to work made me conscious of living in a strange country. Apparently these people walked for miles in order to save the few pennies required for carfare. They walked
cheerfully, steadily, with a swinging stride which meant that walking was all a part of the day’s work.
I got up and sat by the window to watch the dawn.
The morning air was as crisp as a lettuce leaf. I saw the mountains in the east silhouetted against flaming color, saw the buildings of the city assume outline and substance, watched the steady stream of workers walking with rhythmic, unvarying pace, hearing now and then snatches of conversation in the liquid Spanish tongue, occasionally hearing a burst of laughter. There was no grumbling, no grouching. These people were straight, erect, and dignified. They accepted the tasks of life cheerfully.
At seven-thirty I had breakfast: the thick, piquant juice of some tropical fruit; bananas, which had a distinct pineapple flavor, rather tart and very delicate; papaya, the black seeds giving it a distinctly peppery flavor, the whole garnished with juice of a fresh lime. Then there were soft-boiled eggs, Melba toast, and Colombian coffee which had none of that slightly acrid bitterness which frequently distorts the taste of a strong brew. It was black in the cup, amber in the spoon, and nectar to the palate.
When I had finished breakfast, I didn’t care whether or not the whole Colombian Army was shadowing me.
Señor Maranilla’s automobile was announced promptly on the stroke of nine o’clock.
It was a big shiny car with a dark-skinned chauffeur—a heavy-featured man who apparently wasn’t even interested enough to turn his head to see what I looked like as he held open the door of the car. I was wondering how a peon like that could ever learn to drive a car when Señor Maranilla extended his hand.
“Buenos dias, señor,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. Lam,” he retorted in his melodious voice.
I settled myself comfortably back on the cushions of the car. A quick-moving little chap at the hotel who handled the baggage and did the chores brought out my bag and was duly impressed by the car and the company. The chauffeur placed the bag in the trunk of the car, took his place behind the steering-wheel, and we were off.