He rose to his feet. “I will inform el Jefe of what you have said. Good evening, Señor Hakluyt.”

I didn’t reply. I had a curious sensation, as though I had stepped on what seemed to be firm ground, and instead found myself floundering up to my neck in a river. A river that threatened at every moment to sweep me off my feet.

The Sigueiras case made practically no progress the following day. With incredible persistence Brown hammered at Dr. Ruiz; with corresponding doggedness Ruiz stuck to his guns. Brown got more and more bad-tempered, though the directness and subtlety of his questioning endured; Ruiz got more and more vehement, and it was a considerable relief when the judge adjourned the case until Monday.

Most of all, it was a relief to me. During the course of the week, the city had quieted down. I felt things were near enough back to normal for me to go out and assemble the supplementary data I needed to clarify my tentative conclusions. For one thing, Lucas was deputy chairman of the Citizens’ Party, and seeing how busy he was, I hoped the political front might remain quiet for a while — at least until this Sigueiras case was over.

Accordingly, I went down on Saturday to the market area. The first time I passed the little wall shrine where I had seen the candle burning in memory of Guerrero, I looked for it, but it had gone, and there was no sign of the notice attached to it. I felt a curious sense of relief — as though somehow the influence of symbol-Guerrero was to be measured by that candle.

The relief didn’t last. Sunday morning saw the whole thing flare up again.

The immediate excuse for the disturbance was an article in the Sunday edition of Tiempo regarding the Sigueiras case. It said a number of pointed things about Ruiz, about his close association with the president, and about how this association dated back to the death of the first Señora Vados.

I couldn’t judge how the article would strike someone who had no additional information. To me, though, in view of what Mendoza had said about Ruiz, the implications were unmistakable. I could only assume that Cristoforo Mendoza was hoping to provoke a suit for libel and bring the whole thing into the open — against the advice, presumably, of Maria Posador.

Suppose the evidence existed to show Ruiz a murderer; the consequences would be appalling. If the case was ever allowed to come to trial, the attack on Ruiz would become an attack on Vados himself, for sheltering a murderer and conniving at his crime; Vados would probably liquidate his accusers, the opponents of his regime would rise in arms — and, as predicted by Maria Posador, civil war would tear Aguazul apart.

Or maybe it wouldn’t even be such a roundabout route as that which led to civil war. Someone at least must have understood the message the article contained, or the message had been following it on the grapevine, for Sunday afternoon was the first time for many days I saw National Party supporters standing up boldly to followers of the Citizens of Vados. I saw, in fact, a knife fight developing — I didn’t stay to see the finish — between a tall young man with a huge sombrero who had openly declared his belief that Ruiz was a murderer, and a couple of well-dressed teen-age youths who were slumming in the market quarter.

The fight began in a bar where I’d gone to quench a thirst founded mainly on boredom. The job was now at the stage where it threatened to become pure routine — indeed, I could have earned myself a free weekend by detailing a couple of Angers’ staff to get me my information. But then again, I’d have lost the immediacy of the data. It wasn’t only a question of how many vehicles of what types where and when; it was also knowing from experience what their drivers were — telling from the way a driver approached a stoplight whether he was a resident, a regular visitor, or a complete stranger in Vados; whether he was in a hurry or at leisure; whether he knew where he was going or was stuck in the wrong lane.

But I had to break for a drink and a rest occasionally. I could do it with a good conscience; the standard of driving in Vados was extremely high, bearing out a cherished theory of mine — that bad roads make bad drivers. In Vados, with its elaborately planned street system, one seldom grew impatient, rarely had to sit fuming in a traffic jam, wasted little time hunting elusive parking spaces, never had to pick one’s way gingerly between twin rows of stationary cars in a narrow street. Consequently people didn’t try to hurry so much, didn’t try to cut corners and take risks to make up lost time, didn’t lose their tempers and try to teach other drivers a lesson.

I only wished everything in Vados went as smoothly as its traffic.

It was getting late when I stopped off in another bar, hoping I wouldn’t find a knife fight in this one also. Television was on, but the screen was turned away from half the room, and the sound was directionalized. I had just placed my order at the bar when a voice bellowed behind me.

“It’s Hakluyt, goddam it! The li’l Boydie himself!”

I glanced in the mirror before turning around. It was Fats Brown, sitting at one of the tables between a long-faced Indian and a woman with a tired, middle-aged face who was just looking at him, infinite sadness in her eyes. There was a nearly empty bottle of rum on the table. He had spilled quite a lot from his glass. His was the only glass.

“C’mon and join us!” he invited, raising his arms. He had lost his jacket somewhere, and he had sweated his shirt into crumpled limpness. “C’mon here, Boydie, an’ have a cigar!” He moved his hands as if feeling for the breast pocket of his jacket and naturally didn’t find it.

I could hardly refuse; besides, he’d probably have changed his tune and insulted me if I had. I went reluctantly over to the table.

“Can’t stay long,” I warned him, praying he was sober enough to register the words. “I’m on the job.”

“Job, hell!” he said. “Can’t be working on Sunday night! Nobody oughta be working — oughta be celebrating with me.” He burped.

I looked at his companions; the woman caught my gaze and gave a sad slow shake of her head. Brown went on loudly.

“Meet my wife — won’erful woman! Doesn’t speak English. Ol’ fiddle-face is my bro’er-in-law. He doesn’t speak English. Mis’able bastard, isn’ he? Won’ celebrate! Won’ help me celebrate!”

A bitter, writhing grievance underlay his words. I said, “What are you celebrating, Fats?”

He looked at me owlishly, clasping his hands around the glass and leaning forward on the table. “Confidentially,” he said in a thicker, lower tone, “I’m gonna be a father. Whatya think of that — huh?”

I didn’t connect, and he read my reaction in my face. He grimaced. “Yeah, so she tells me. Well, she says I’m gonna be a father. An’ I never met her before in my goddam’ life. Ain’ that hell? Gettin’ to be a father an’ not gettin’ any nookie outa it? Whadda you think, Boydie — ain’ it hell?” I said, “Who’s this ‘she’?”

“A li’l bitch called Estrelita. Estrelita Jaliscos.” He closed his eyes. “A tart, pal, if ever I saw one. Painted, dressed like crazy — might be pretty, I guess, ’f you could see her through the crap smeared on her face. Comes to me today an’ says, ‘I’m gonna have a baby.’ Tells me if I don’ give her ten thousand dolaros, she’s gonna tell Ruiz it’s my kid. Hell, with ten thousand dolaros she could pay Ruiz his fee — ’s a kinda job he does pretty well, I hear. Should be — he’s had plenny practice.” He opened his eyes again, reached unsteadily for the bottle, and slopped some more into his glass. He offered me a shot; I shook my head.

“Pal,” he said pleadingly when he had gulped a mouthful, “I’m a happy married man, know that? Tha’s my wife there — not much to look at, but the goddam’, finest woman I ever met!” He almost shouted the last phrase. “What would I wanna lay a teen-age tart for, hey? I’m too old, so help me — y’know I’m nearly sixty? Know that? I got a boy practicin’ law in Milwaukee an’ a daughter married in New York. I’m a grandfather, pal! An’ this stinkin’ Estrelita bitch says — ah, hell, I tol’ you a’ready.”