“By tomorrow morning,” I said definitely, “I’m going to reach a decision. Good night.”
I followed him out into the corridor, went down as far as the elevator with him, then went back to my room and sat down and waited.
If that particular cat had been eating any canaries, he had given no indication of the fact. But, perhaps he was too shrewd to be caught licking his chops.
I waited ten or fifteen minutes, then went out to stroll along the narrow, uneven paving blocks of Royal Street.
Everywhere, the night life of the French Quarter was going full-blast. The narrow streets were crowded with people who were there for pleasure — the warm, tropical air, heavy with the scent of lush greenery; the round moon riding toward the meridian; the carefree tinkle of feminine laughter; the low pitched insistence of masculine voices; couples strolling casually from place to place or standing in the narrow doorways talking in low tones; curious sightseers from out of town; the little friendly bars crowded with people chatting back and forth as though they’d known one another for years. It was all a part of the gay Bohemian night life distinctive to the New Orleans French Quarter and for the moment, I all but forgot the grim nature of my errand.
I dropped in at a corner bar for a drink. A young chap who was there with two attractive young women started talking to me. In no time at all, we were a foursome. And, despite my intentions, it was after three o’clock in the morning before I finally re-entered the hotel and asked for my key.
A swarthy gentleman seated over near the cigar stand casually arose and approached me. “Mr. Sabin?” he said.
I didn’t need to simulate surprise. My emotion was genuine.
“I know that it’s very late, and yet here in New Orleans we so frequently take advantage of the cool of the night. If I could talk with you for five minutes — perhaps ten?”
I glanced at the clock. “About what?”
“About chemicals.”
“What about them?”
“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Señor Ramon Vasquo Gomez. I am what you would call a citizen of the world, but I am exceptionally familiar with the South American countries and the problems confronting one who would engage in business there.”
I gave him my hand, bowed low, with a politeness that matched his own. At the moment, my first thought was to determine whether he was the Ramon referred to in Betty Crofath’s diary.
“As you say,” I observed, “where the days are hot, the cool nights seem to hold back the hands of the clock.”
“Exactly.”
He was olive-skinned, unusually dark of eye, and it was hard to place his exact age. I put him somewhere in the late thirties, a well-knit, wiry little chap who had just that selfish veneer of suave polish which would enable him to send a girl orchids one night and stab her in the heart the next.
“You intend to establish a business in South America?” he asked.
I was cautious. “At present,” I told him, “I am merely traveling.”
“In certain South American countries,” he said, “business is done upon a more intimate — more personal basis than here in North America. A person’s contacts can do him much good, or...”
“So I understand. I have certain South American contacts.”
“Are they tentative, or shall we consider that they are absolutely permanent and irreplaceable?” he wanted to know.
“It might be better to call them tentative,” I told him.
“Ah!” he said, and his exclamation was velvet-smooth in satisfaction. “It is quite possible that I can be of assistance. I have heard very indirectly, Señor Sabin, that you are looking for certain commercial chemicals. Here in this country, where you have tariffs and trade restrictions, it is unusual to consider Oriental products. But in South America, I can assure you it is not. The Bak Shui Wong Company, as I happen to know, is in a position to furnish any quantities of commercial chemicals at the right prices.”
“Indeed,” I said. “That is most interesting.” I started to say something else, then suddenly caught myself and snapped my fingers. “Now I’ve got it.”
“What?” he asked.
“I have seen you before,” I said. “Let me think. Buenos Aires... January first, nineteen hundred and forty-three. There was someone with you — an attractive young woman. It was shortly after daylight. You were talking in front of a hotel... an argument.”
“It is,” he announced, “quite possible. I was in Buenos Aires on January first, nineteen forty-three — and surely, Señor Sabin will realize that any South American gentleman would be accompanied on New Year’s morning by an attractive companion.” And Señor Gomez preened a little smile in my direction.
I nodded. “Quite so. But it has been worrying me ever since I met you, where I had seen you before. I’m quite certain now that I place you.”
“That,” he said, “is fortunate, because it is not well that those little haunting thoughts should mar a potential friendship. It is much better when one is able to dismiss those haunting memories so as to relax and drift along on the stream of mutual liking.”
His dark eyes twinkled a friendly message into mine.
I glanced at the clock. It was three forty-five. I had a reservation back to San Francisco on the six-o’clock plane.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you would care to have breakfast with me. We might talk about chemicals. Unfortunately, I have a very early appointment with another gentleman — an appointment for ten o’clock.”
“But any time suits me!” Señor Gomez exclaimed.
“Would eight-thirty be too early?”
“Not at all. I might even suggest eight o’clock because there might be certain details to be discussed before your ten-o’clock appointment.”
“Eight o’clock,” I said, “will be quite all right. Here at the hotel?”
He bowed and extended his hand.
I felt the long, sinewy fingers grip mine, and there was something in the grip that made me want to jerk my hand away. It was as though the tentacles of an octopus had twined themselves about my wrists. But his eyes were smiling and very friendly.
Quite ostentatiously, I wished the clerk good-morning, left a call for six o’clock, and took the elevator up to the floor where my room was located. But I didn’t go to the room. Instead, I walked down the corridor to the stairs, walked down the stairs, waited until the clerk’s back was turned, then moved casually across the lobby and out the side door to the street.
The office and factory of the Crescent City Chemical Manufacturing & Supply Company was down near the waterfront in an old part of the French Quarter where dilapidated commercial buildings filled with musty atmosphere and haunted with hoary antiquity offered plenty of space and cheap rents.
Under the circumstances, effecting an entrance to the building was mere child’s play for a man who had at one time in his checkered career specialized in locks and combinations; nor did the door of the big vault offer any difficulties other than the necessity for locating and disconnecting the burglar-alarm system and brushing up a bit on some of the technique that was a carry-over from the old days.
Once inside the vault, I had no difficulty in locating what I wanted.
Quite apparently, auditors were going through the books to determine the exact extent of the shortage, and their progress through the various ledgers was denoted by a series of orderly check marks against the numerous items which had been gone over.
I moved on ahead of the audit, locating figures which denoted liquid assets, wherever possible moving a decimal point or skillfully changing a figure. Then, with a pencil, I made little checks just as the auditors had done, so that it appeared the work had progressed farther than was actually the case, and that the figures I had changed and manipulated had been approved by the auditors.