there and you were there and a thing passed from one to the other.
‘There are no Union agents among us,’ Gil went on. ‘But remember that not all of us like poking with a hoe and Don Mateo must know it.’
‘I do not understand him,’ Rafael said. ‘He seems half on our side.’
He expected to be laughed at, but Gil replied impatiently :
‘Of course he is! He still hopes that we will return to work without damage or bloodshed.’
Well, they would not, and let him hope! Rafael was irritated by all the subtle contradictions of this man who sat back and almost encouraged the development of a Cabo Desierto without oil.
Gil was right on one point. The Union had no active agents among the workers. There might be sympathisers, but not one of them would agree to blowing up the Charca or had the knowledge to do it.
The man who, unknown to himself, had given Chepe a ride in his truck came from outside. If he had any collaborator in Cabo Desierto it must be Lorenzo or some other trusted servant of the
management.
Rafael slipped away to the empty beach beyond the tank farm where he strolled up and down among the refuse, stopping from time to time to allow for the instinctive gesture of scratching his
head. That the stranger had come overland was most improbable. He had brought a small truckload of boxes as well as himself. Then he must have come in one of the company launches with the
connivance of González. During the boycott all passengers had to show their identity cards and explain their business to the police on the quay. God alone knew what González did, all
dressed up in his office, but one could always hear two typewriters clacking.
The arrangements had obviously been made before the new General Manager’s arrival, but whatever González knew, Don Mateo would. So Gil might be partly right. Yet Don Mateo was to be
trusted. That was the only certain fact: a man. Then if the Company and its launches were not involved, the explosives could only have arrived by fishing boat.
Next day Rafael began enquiries. The operation got on his nerves. He had no faith in his ability to ask questions and conceal his motive, for no sort of intrigue had ever disturbed the plain
honesty of a life spent between Catalina and the carpenter’s bench. The fish buyers in the market talked freely, finding it natural that he should show curiosity about supplies. Not so many
boats put in, they said, as before the boycott, and only when they had a lot of coarse fish which Cabo Desierto could afford. Captains and crews were all well known. Rafael asked whether individual
fishermen ever did any private business in the town. Yes, they might if they had got their fingers on something saleable, but nothing larger than a bottle or a box of cigars.
A dead end. He was no use as a detective. Well, but he was accepted as a leader and his orders were always eagerly obeyed. He could not help it, but it was so. Then shouldn’t it be as easy
to find a man who could smell out truth without being suspected as a man who would charge down on the police?
He chose for his agent Antón, the little fiery mulatto who had appointed himself bodyguard. He was always a source of news in the peaceful days before the boycott, more often behind a bar
counter than in front of it—not serving or cadging a drink, but slipping in for a quick word or helping with the washing-up or reporting on business next door. He was one of those labourers,
unskilled but versatile as a gipsy, who had returned from the Capital to his shack to find wife and children dead.
Antón almost at once discovered a bit of information which Rafael’s diffident questions about fish marketing had not brought to light. The
Rosita
, a boat previously
unknown, had called at Cabo Desierto on the same day that the new General Manager arrived. It had sold cheap on the quayside and had remained overnight. The fish was not fresh, and the skipper was
suspected of having bought a job lot out
‘There are no Union agents among us,’ Gil went on. ‘But remember that not all of us like poking with a hoe and Don Mateo must know it.’
‘I do not understand him,’ Rafael said. ‘He seems half on our side.’
He expected to be laughed at, but Gil replied impatiently :
‘Of course he is! He still hopes that we will return to work without damage or bloodshed.’
Well, they would not, and let him hope! Rafael was irritated by all the subtle contradictions of this man who sat back and almost encouraged the development of a Cabo Desierto without oil.
Gil was right on one point. The Union had no active agents among the workers. There might be sympathisers, but not one of them would agree to blowing up the Charca or had the knowledge to do it.
The man who, unknown to himself, had given Chepe a ride in his truck came from outside. If he had any collaborator in Cabo Desierto it must be Lorenzo or some other trusted servant of the
management.
Rafael slipped away to the empty beach beyond the tank farm where he strolled up and down among the refuse, stopping from time to time to allow for the instinctive gesture of scratching his
head. That the stranger had come overland was most improbable. He had brought a small truckload of boxes as well as himself. Then he must have come in one of the company launches with the
connivance of González. During the boycott all passengers had to show their identity cards and explain their business to the police on the quay. God alone knew what González did, all
dressed up in his office, but one could always hear two typewriters clacking.
The arrangements had obviously been made before the new General Manager’s arrival, but whatever González knew, Don Mateo would. So Gil might be partly right. Yet Don Mateo was to be
trusted. That was the only certain fact: a man. Then if the Company and its launches were not involved, the explosives could only have arrived by fishing boat.
Next day Rafael began enquiries. The operation got on his nerves. He had no faith in his ability to ask questions and conceal his motive, for no sort of intrigue had ever disturbed the plain
honesty of a life spent between Catalina and the carpenter’s bench. The fish buyers in the market talked freely, finding it natural that he should show curiosity about supplies. Not so many
boats put in, they said, as before the boycott, and only when they had a lot of coarse fish which Cabo Desierto could afford. Captains and crews were all well known. Rafael asked whether individual
fishermen ever did any private business in the town. Yes, they might if they had got their fingers on something saleable, but nothing larger than a bottle or a box of cigars.
A dead end. He was no use as a detective. Well, but he was accepted as a leader and his orders were always eagerly obeyed. He could not help it, but it was so. Then shouldn’t it be as easy
to find a man who could smell out truth without being suspected as a man who would charge down on the police?
He chose for his agent Antón, the little fiery mulatto who had appointed himself bodyguard. He was always a source of news in the peaceful days before the boycott, more often behind a bar
counter than in front of it—not serving or cadging a drink, but slipping in for a quick word or helping with the washing-up or reporting on business next door. He was one of those labourers,
unskilled but versatile as a gipsy, who had returned from the Capital to his shack to find wife and children dead.
Antón almost at once discovered a bit of information which Rafael’s diffident questions about fish marketing had not brought to light. The
Rosita
, a boat previously
unknown, had called at Cabo Desierto on the same day that the new General Manager arrived. It had sold cheap on the quayside and had remained overnight. The fish was not fresh, and the skipper was
suspected of having bought a job lot out
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