CHAPTER XII

EL CAPITAN

None of the parties in the Cordova Club was any more lively or gay than the one at the table where Bill Brice, of the National Hardware Corporation, sat buying champagne. There were songs in English and Spanish, though it must be admitted the Spanish ones were the best sung since, it developed, most of the men who were partaking of the hospitality of Bill Brice were Mexicans, though many claimed to be pure Castilians.

"This is the life for me!" boasted Mr. Brice, who still had in front of him the same first glass of champagne he had ordered at the start of the evening. He had taken a single sip, when his new friends insisted on drinking his health, but thereafter the bubbles rose from the bottom of his glass unnoticed.

One of the Mexicans, who had said he ran a moving picture theater in Paloma, noticed this and remarked on it.

"I had plenty before I drifted in here," explained Mr. Brice, "and I find it sets better on my stomach if I smoke a bit between drinks, my friend."

With that he pulled out a strong, black cigar and began puffing on it, blowing smoke rings to the no small admiration of his companions.

The evening wore on, the band played louder, more men and women entered the club, and the waiters hurried here and there with their bootleg products, for so near was the Mexican border that the customs officials were hard put to prevent contraband being smuggled over the line.

"This is the life!" exclaimed Mr. Brice more than once. "I'm about sick of the hardware line," he confided to his neighbor. "I wish there was some other way of making money. You wouldn't like to be selling tractors, plows, hoes and rakes all your life, would you?"

"Of a surety not, señor," was the reply.

"Maybe you make yours in some easier way?" suggested Mr. Brice. "Say oil wells, now."

"Let us say oil wells," agreed the other, with a smile.

"No, but seriously," went on the free spender, "are you in oil?"

"I am, of a surety, señor."

"And do you know where I could invest some money?"

The eyes of the other gleamed as he answered:

"Naturally. If you are interested----"

But he broke off as a commotion at the entrance indicated something unusual going on, and a moment later a party of several men and women, headed by an individual who would attract attention anywhere, entered the club. He was a big, handsome, swarthy man, and he wore a uniform that became him well.

"Is he the commander-in-chief of the Mexican army?" asked the man who had called himself Bill Brice.

"That is El Capitan," was the answer.

"Captain of what?"

"He was of the army," was the reply. "But he is retired. It was he of whom I was about to speak when you mentioned investing in oil, my friend. He has large holdings, señor. El Capitan would be the one for you to know."

"Then I'm going to cultivate his acquaintance," was the laughing comment. "And when Bill Brice goes cultivating, something grows," and he chuckled with easy good nature. "Could I meet this captain?"

"He is called El Capitan, señor," said the other, making three, full syllables of the name. "He is also Martolo."

"Martolo!" exclaimed Mr. Brice with such sudden energy that his companion stared at him in surprise and asked:

"You know him already, then, señor?"

"Oh, no--no," and the hardware man laughed and blew another ring of smoke. "But I have heard the name."

The distinguished former soldier and his party were deferentially escorted to a table, and at once ordered champagne, so it would seem that Mr. Brice had done the proper thing.

The evening wore on, the club becoming gayer and gayer, and the bottles of "bubble water," accumulating at the table of Mr. Bill Brice--but they were empty bottles. Meanwhile, he had talked further with Señor Valdez, his nearest neighbor, about investing in oil wells, and had received the promise of an introduction to El Capitan later in the evening.

As a matter of fact, there was none of the evening left. It was long past midnight, but still the jazz band played on and the glasses tinkled while the dancing became more and more abandoned.

"It is a good time now, I think," said Señor Valdez to the hardware man, "to have you meet El Capitan. He is in the mood."

"Suits me," was the answer. "I sure do want to get out of the game of selling plows and tractors. It isn't my line."

Mr. Bill Brice spoke truly, his line was detective work, and the free spender was none other than Nat Ridley. He had decided to take no chances in the sleeper and had slipped out at the junction, laying over until the next through train to Paloma, and, thereby, greatly surprising not only the porter, but the man who had unlawfully been in upper twelve.

Many of these who had been at the table of Mr. Brice, or Nat Ridley, had by this time drifted away. The gay party was breaking up, but there were still congenial spirits in the club, and the center of life was now about the table of El Capitan.

Thither Señor Valdez and Nat Ridley, known to the Mexican as "Bill Brice, a free spender," made their way, moving amid the dancers, the coming and going of guests and the rushing of eager waiters.

El Capitan Martolo seemed very popular indeed. Someone was continually leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, or pledging his health in a glass of champagne. Now and then men who glided in to speak to him glided out again as quickly, bent on some mission, it would seem.

"El Capitan is a very busy man," commented Nat. "Very busy--with oil?"

"With oil--and other interests," admitted Señor Valdez, with a smile. "If it pleases him to take you into his confidence you will be a lucky man."

"I guess I'm pretty lucky, anyhow," returned Nat. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here."

"You were in some danger, then, Señor Brice?"

"Yes, you might call it that. But I'm generally able to take care of myself. I suppose there is trouble here now and then?" His voice was questioning.

"Trouble? Of what sort, señor?"

"Well, you know the prohibition authorities----"

"Oh, they are a joke!" laughed Señor Valdez. "We never have any trouble from them. But it is true that, now and then, someone drinks not wisely but too well, and there is what you call a fracas."

"Oh--a fracas," repeated Nat. "You mean shooting and all that?"

"Yes. It is well that the señor is lucky. But to-night is a quiet one. Nothing will happen."

Nat recalled that statement a little later and had to smile to himself as he did so, in spite of the seriousness of his situation.

He and his new friend were almost at the table of El Capitan when a man, who seemed greatly excited, brushed his way none too gently through the press of persons and handed the former officer of the Mexican army a letter. At once a wild desire to see that note took possession of Nat Ridley, and he made up his mind he would get it.

El Capitan read the missive through quickly--it was not long--and he was thrusting it into the side pocket of his coat, having directed the messenger with a nod to stand aside a moment, when Nat was brought up for introduction by his new friend.

"He would like to invest in oil wells," said Señor Valdez.

"Ah--oil wells? It takes much money," said El Capitan, with a smile, as he shook hands with Nat and the latter noted the powerful build of the Mexican.

"Well, I happen to be pretty well fixed," Nat, with an easy air, replied. "And I'm tired of selling hardware. So, if you could put me wise to something in the game----"

"Ah, yes, Señor Brice, it is a game!" declared the army man. "I have been in it some time, but there is yet much for me to learn. But I shall be glad to teach you."

"Thanks, El Capitan," responded Nat. "I can't learn any too soon if I want to make anything. There are a lot of wells being put down now, aren't they?"

"A few, Señor Brice, and I control some of them. Now, if you wish to talk business," and the Mexican's eyes gleamed, "I shall be happy to receive you at my office."

At that moment El Capitan struck a match to light one of his strong cigarettes, and Nat at once pulled out another strong, black cigar, bit off the end and leaned over, very close to the Mexican, to take advantage of the occasion, murmuring:

"A little of your fire, if you please, El Capitan?"

"As much as you please, señor," was the gracious response, and Nat's hand went in a stealthy fashion he had learned from an expert pickpocket to the side pocket of the Mexican. When the detective leaned up the letter the messenger had brought had been transferred from one pocket to the other.

There was further talk of oil wells, and Nat made a date with the big officer to talk more the following day, or rather, this same day, for it was now long past midnight.

Excusing himself for a moment, the detective went to a washroom, where he took out the letter he had purloined. He wanted to read it before anything could happen.

As he expected, when he unfolded it under the lights in the small anteroom, the missive proved to be in Spanish. But Nat had in the last week or so given himself enough mastery of the language to make out something of the contents of the note. He saw that it referred to the Lemberg family and to further plans for making them give up their title to the oil wells which were wanted to further the plans of the Tola gang.

"I'm on the right track!" mused Nat as he thrust the letter back in his pocket to return to El Capitan. As he left the washroom the detective noticed the messenger who had brought in the note coming out after him, but he thought little of it at the moment.

A little later Nat invited El Capitan to share a bottle of champagne with him, though the detective did not intend to drink any of the wine himself. It was while he was seated at the former officer's table that the messenger who had delivered the note approached. He made a sign to El Capitan and, at the same moment, spoke in Spanish. Nat looked up in time to see the messenger pointing what seemed to be an accusing finger at him.

El Capitan shot out a sharp question, and there was a quick interchange of excited words. Then El Capitan turned to Nat and began:

"It seems, señor, that you have----"

"The fat's in the fire!" was the thought that rushed into Nat Ridley's mind.

"Pardon," murmured a voice in Nat's ear. A hand touched his shoulder, and a man he had noticed drinking heavily at the captain's table confronted him. There was a Mexican girl, pretty in a bold sort of way, standing beside Nat's accoster, and the man went on: "This lady say you have insulted her!"

"I have insulted her?" cried Nat, taken, naturally, by surprise. "I never saw her before and haven't even spoken to her!"

"Nevertheless the señorita say you have given the insult," murmured the man, and there was a dangerous look in his eyes. "You must to me, her affianced, give satisfaction."

"Oh, so that's the game, is it?" cried Nat. "Well, I----"

At that moment a shot rang out from somewhere in the crowd back of the accuser. The first shot was followed by several others, and Nat dropped to the floor just as the lights began to go out.

A moment later the place was in darkness and there were confused shouts and cries of alarm.

"At their old tricks!" murmured the sleuth, as he began to crawl toward a flight of steps leading into the cellar from which the supply of wine was brought up and of which he had taken note earlier in the evening.