Crows Can't Count

by A. A. Fair

  I said, “Let me think it over. I want to talk with my partner.”

  “And before we see you again,” Jurado said, as though he had merely been discussing a proposed plane trip to the capital, “something may happen to you”

  I knew then they weren’t going to let me go. I sat down and told them the whole story.

  “You should have told us sooner,” Maranilla said when I finished.

  “But he was so panic-stricken over the idea of an interpreter and—Well, you gentlemen were the only two interpreters available. Therefore, I gathered that—er—” I laughed and said, “My position is a trifle awkward.”

  “Quite,” Maranilla said dryly.

  “After all,” he reproached, “with us having extended to you what might be called professional courtesies, it was hardly cricket to assist in suppressing evidence.”

  “Hang it,” I said, “it wasn’t evidence. Not of what you’re interested in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I surmised it wasn’t.”

  Maranilla shook his head, pushed back his chair. “Well, I will do what I can, but these things are not always simple. Your partner should have demanded the return of the paper or else seen that it was impounded in a proper manner with the proper authorities and that she received a receipt.”

  I said, “You’ve seen my partner. You can imagine that she didn’t calmly sit by and let herself get pushed around. She undoubtedly made all the demands in the world, but the officers didn’t understand English. Not when she wanted anything. They only could speak enough to tell her what they wanted.”

  Maranilla said, “When one travels in a Spanish-speaking country, it is well to have a knowledge of Spanish. Or else to have an interpreter along.”

  “I can see that,” I added, “—now. And yet I have an idea that if there had been an interpreter along, Murindo would never have told me what he did.”

  “And you have no idea what it was?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t remember any of the words?”

  I said, “I remember madre.”

  Maranilla said, “That is the Spanish word for mother. Do you remember any others?”

  I shook my head.

  I said, “Wait a minute, there was another word, cree-ah.”

  “Cree-ah?”

  “That’s right. The accent was, I believe, on the first syllable. I remember writing it.”

  “Cria,” Jurado said, “means a breed or a brood of animals.”

  “Of course,” I said, “I was writing it phonetically. I can’t be certain that I had the word right, but I remember writing cree-ah.”

  Jurado and Maranilla exchanged glances. Suddenly Maranilla’s face lit up. “Wait,” he said, “was there another word with this cree-ah? Was it, perhaps, but part of an expression? Was the expression ama de cria?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “I remember, now that you’ve mentioned it. It was ama de cria.”

  Jurado was frowning now, frowning thoughtfully.

  I glanced from him to Maranilla.

  Maranilla furnished the information.

  “Ama de cria,” he said, “is the expression signifying nurse.”

  “Far removed from the subject of contraband emeralds,” Jurado said, almost to himself.

  I said, “Perhaps, gentlemen, in the course of an investigation of this accident you will investigate Felipe Murindo and in particular you will investigate his connections.” “Why?” Maranilla asked.

  I said, “It seems strange to me that a man who had been placed in the position of mine manager would be one who could neither read nor write. This Murindo couldn’t even read the words printed in a Spanish-American dictionary. The manager of the mine must have participated in the contraband activities. He must have been the one who mined the stones and delivered them to Cameron. Therefore, he must have made the first discovery.”

  “Why do you say that?” Maranilla asked.

  I smiled. “Because the man who did make the first discovery would hardly have quit and he certainly wouldn’t have been fired. Therefore it seems strange to me that two trustees who were hiring the man for the responsible position of manager of a mine—two trustees, moreover, who were of necessity absent for months at a time and desired, naturally, to know what was going on in the mining property—would have hired a man who could neither read nor write.”

  Maranilla said, “There is much logic in what you say, Señor. The situation becomes even more strange—”

  Abruptly Ramon Jurado snapped his fingers—involuntary betrayal of the triumphant emotion of a man who has suddenly got a definite idea.

  Maranilla barely glanced at Jurado. There was only a moment’s hesitation as he switched the subject abruptly but kept right on talking, saying, almost in the same voice, “Your co-operation is certainly appreciated. You are at liberty to leave any time you desire, Señor Lam. And if you have an appointment with your partner, there is no reason why we should detain you.”

  They were both on their feet, gravely, courteously shaking hands.

  I left them and went to the hotel.

  Walking across through the warm night, I couldn’t help reflecting that I would have given much to know why Ramon Jurado had snapped his fingers.

  Chapter Twenty-One:—BOTH ENDS AGAINST THE MIDDLE

  BERTHA COOL HAD FINISHED HER APPOINTMENT with the bathtub. She was wearing a light housecoat and slippers. A double whisky-and-soda at her elbow was doing much to put her in a better humor.

  “Now what the hell do you suppose happened to that paper?” she asked me.

  I said, “What do you suppose happened to Felipe Murindo?”

  “Arrested?” she asked.

  I said, “A ton of dynamite was exploded in his backyard. It was, of course, an accident, but Felipe Murindo was scattered over the countryside in very fine pieces. Unless we can recover that paper, we’ll never know what he was trying to tell us.”

  Bertha said, “Well, I’m going to notify the consul. You can’t have things like that happen to an American citizen and—”

  I said, “You’re not going to notify the consul. We’re not going to notify anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I said, “these people are not as simple as you might think. There’s an undertone of polished subtlety which permeates official circles here, particularly when you begin to have anything to do with emeralds.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” Bertha said sarcastically. “I’m a visitor here. Of course, you old-time residents get to know the ins and outs of things.”

  I said, “Save it. I don’t need it.”

  Bertha’s face flushed. “Well, you aren’t going to tell me what to do and what not to do!”

  I said, “As a matter of fact, you’re in rather a precarious position. Apparently you came here in the employ of Harry Sharples.”

  “What if I did?”

  I said, “Suppose the officials should choose to regard you as an accomplice.”

  She glared at me and said, “I wouldn’t put anything past them—the high-handed way they arrested me. Damn being in a country where people can’t understand what I’m talking about when I give them a good, honest dressing down. I gave him the best I had and it just rolled off him.”

  I said, “The point is, Cameron was murdered. We haven’t any definite motive for that murder. We do know that Harry Sharples, Robert Cameron, and Shirley Bruce were mixed up in a plan to get emeralds out of Colombia, smuggle them into the United States, and market them illegally. There must have been a nice profit for all concerned. When you can handle emeralds that way, you can really clean up.”

  “What will our government do—about the smuggling?” Bertha asked.

  I said, “Probably it will do quite a bit. Of course, they’re going to have some trouble proving anything on Sharples. The Colombian government caught Sharples with uncut emeralds in his possession. Those emeralds were mined here. Sharples hadn’t, as yet, tried to smuggle
those into the United States.”

  “But how about all the smuggling that had been done before?”

  I said, “Cameron was the one who made most of the trips to South America. He was the one who did the field work.”

  “How about Shirley Bruce?”

  “They’re going to have a devil of a time proving anything. She may not have been in on it. That story she told about the old heirloom may have been one Sharples told her to tell. She might not even have known why.”

  “But how about this dough she’s been getting?”

  “That is something the government will undoubtedly look into. The probabilities are they’ll start doing it through the income tax department.”

  “And where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves us right where I wanted to be all the time, standing off at arm’s length from Harry Sharples.”

  “How did you know he was crooked?”

  “I didn’t know, but I felt certain Sharples knew all about that pendant before he came to us.”

  “Damned if you aren’t a brainy little devil,” Bertha admitted grudgingly.

  I said, “Cameron is dead. Several people had an opportunity to profit by his death. An attempt was made to poison Dona Grafton—Juanita got the poison. The clues in that poisoning case point most strongly to Robert Hockley. Now we have Felipe Murindo murdered and, at the time of his murder, there were apparently only two persons in Colombia who could conceivably have been connected with the death of Cameron—Robert Hockley and Harry Sharples. If the two murders are linked together, we have certainly narrowed our field. But that’s a great big if.”

  Bertha said, “Harry Sharples and Robert Hockley were both in custody. They couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.”

  “Do you think the explosion of that dynamite was an accident?”

  “No,” Bertha said. “It was too damn opportune.”

  I said, “I felt certain, before I came here, that there were emeralds being mined in the Double Clover Mine. I wanted to get some evidence which would enable me to put the screws on Sharples. Unfortunately for us, the Colombian authorities were also on the trail. But there’s one other thing in the back of my mind—something that is beginning to grow and develop.”

  Bertha’s eyes sparkled.

  “That’s the boy, Donald! Can the agency make any money out of it?”

  “The agency,” I said, “might make quite a little money out of it.”

  “Go to it,” Bertha said. “Does it have something to do with Cameron’s murder?”

  “Of course. That has to be our starting point for anything we’re working on.”

  Bertha said, “I hate to seem dumb, but I didn’t get all this business about the gloves and the shot with the .22 and the fact that the gun was fired as a last resort. What in hell were you talking about?”

  I said, “Robert Cameron shot the .22 revolver and missed.”

  “How do you know he missed?”

  I said, “He must have missed.”

  “You mean he was shooting at that hole and missed it and the bullet nicked the edge of the wood?”

  I said, “He wasn’t shooting at the hole, Bertha. Didn’t you get it when I was talking with Maranilla and Jurado?”

  Bertha was angry in an instant. “How in hell could I get it? I don’t understand a lot of double-talk. What the hell were you talking about?”

  I said, “Robert Cameron had his gloves on when he fired the shot.”

  “At the murderer?”

  “Not at the murderer, Bertha, at the crow.”

  “At the crow?” Bertha screamed at me. “For heaven’s sake, are you nuts? The crow was his pet. Why the hell should he have shot at the crow?”

  “Because,” I said, “crows can’t count.”

  Bertha glared at me in an ecstasy of impotent rage.

  At that moment the telephone rang. Bertha scooped it up, said, “Hello,” and then shouted into the transmitter, “Speak English. Who the hell—Oh,” she said in a strangely subdued voice. She listened for a minute, then said, “Thank you, I’ll tell him,” and hung up the telephone.

  All the rage had gone from her now.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “Rodolfo Maranilla,” she said. “He rang up to tell us that Robert Hockley and Harry Sharples made their escape from jail shortly after we left this afternoon. The circumstances surrounding their escape indicate there may have been bribery. The matron insists the paper she took from me was placed in an envelope and put on the desk of the captain of police. Sharples and Hockley were in the jail at that time. They disappeared shortly afterward and the paper also disappeared.”

  I said, “That will explain a lot.”

  “And,” Bertha went on, “Maranilla wanted me to tell you that with your permission he’s putting a guard in front of both of our rooms. He suggests it might be well for us to take extraordinary precautions for the moment.”

  “Nice of him,” I said.

  “Damn it,” Bertha flared, “that’s the way with you. You’re always playing both ends against the middle and wind up with us in some sort of a mess.”

  I said, “That wasn’t the way you felt about it a few minutes ago, Bertha.”

  “Well,” she snapped, “a few minutes ago I was thinking about money. Now I’m thinking about dynamite!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two:—GOOD-BY, PLEASE!

  RODOLFO MARANILLA CALLED ON ME soon after breakfast the next day. He was suave but firm. It was unfortunate that Hockley and Sharples had escaped. Details were not available but the story of the man primarily responsible for their custody was not logical. He had, apparently, been guilty of negligence, probably of something worse.

  Maranilla accepted the situation philosophically. Many of these law-enforcement officers in the outlying districts were inadequately paid. As a result, they accepted bribery, particularly when the bribe was sufficiently large. Perhaps even in the United States, where policemen were much better paid, bribery was not unknown. During prohibition, perhaps—No-o-o-o?

  “They were in on it together?” I asked. “Both Hockley and Sharples?”

  “We do not know,” Maranilla said. “They both escaped but that was to have been expected. With an avenue of escape opened for one, the other would have been foolish to have remained.”

  I said, “Well, they’ve escaped and that’s that.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And, of course, under the circumstances there is your safety for consideration. It is a responsibility.”

  I nodded, waiting to see what was coming.

  “A responsibility,” he said, “which we would not like to prolong.”

  I kept quiet.

  “Your work here is finished,” Maranilla pointed out, “and I assume that your partner, the delightful Señora Cool, would be only too glad to return to her office. After all, the nature of her business here could only prove embarrassing to her and it has been completely finished.”

  “When do we go?” I asked.

  “Two friends of mine who happened to be leaving on the plane this afternoon were sympathetic when the circumstances were explained to them. They have given up their seats and I am prepared to place them at your disposal.”

  I said, “There are a few angles I’d like to investigate here.”

  “It would be most embarrassing if something happened to a distinguished visitor from the United States.”

  “I would dislike very much to leave until I have found out more about the background of Felipe Murindo.”

  Maranilla dismissed that with a gesture. “I beg of you, Señor Lam, give it no thought. The facilities of our department are at your disposal. Already we have learned much of Murindo’s background.”

  “What is it?”

  “He virtually inherited his job. He grew up on the mine.”

  “So?”

  “His mother brought him there as a lad of nine and Murindo started working in the mine. Gradually other workmen quit but his mother stayed on and s
o Murindo stayed on. He grew up to the stature of a man and drew the wages of a man. So what more natural than that he should have been the manager, when the other workmen drifted away and new men came in? New men did not know the method of operation as well as this lad who had grown up on the property. He stayed on, saved his money carefully and put it in the bank, just as a more educated man would have done. He left much money.

  “I am sorry, Señor Lam, if perhaps you felt there was some mystery in connection with Murindo. In our business we must learn to move cautiously and never to jump at conclusions. No?”

  “No,” I said.

  He laughed, rose abruptly. “This afternoon, then, at two o’clock.”

  I said, “I don’t know just how Bertha Cool is going to take this.”

  “That,” he said, with relief in his voice, “is something I will not attempt to anticipate. I have explained the situation to you. I leave it to you to explain it to her. Because of important matters in my department, and because of the presence of Ramon Jurado who wishes to wind up this case with the greatest celerity, my time is in much demand. We will be at the plane to see you off, amigo. Be sure you are there!”

  Maranilla shook my hand and walked out of the doorway, leaving me to cross the hall and break the news to Bertha.

  Bertha took it in her stride. “You mean we’re being kicked out?”

  “Our departure has been facilitated by the use of official influence.”

  “Damn it,” Bertha blazed at me, “you’re getting as suave as the rest of these birds. Leave you down here a couple of weeks more and I’d have to hire an interpreter to find out what the hell you were getting at. All right, let’s quit the damn country!”

  I said, artfully, “I came down on my own. I hate to make such a short trip of it. You, of course, were employed by Sharples. I take it you got sufficient money in advance to cover expenses.”

  I knew as soon as I said it, from the look on her face, that this was once she’d slipped up and had been kicking herself ever since.

  “Mr. Sharples told me to spare no expense,” Bertha said with dignity.

  “Indeed. How did he give you instructions?”

  Bertha said, “He wrote me, told me he was embarking on a mission of some delicacy, that in the event I didn’t hear from him to the contrary within twenty-four hours, would I please pick up a reservation which had been made in my name, go at once to Colombia and go to the Double Clover Mine. At that point he would give me further instructions. In the event he was not there, I was to go at once to the United States consul and ask that a complete investigation be launched.”