He sat down in the customer's chair and crossed his knees. "You wish certain information about Se.or Lennox, I am told." "The last scene only." "I was there at the time, se.or. I had a position in the hotel." He shrugged. "Unimportant and of course ternporary. I was the day derk." He spoke perfect English but with a Spanish rhythm. Spanish — American Spanish that is — has a definite rise and fall which to an American ear seems to have nothing to do with the meaning. It's like the swell of the ocean. "You don't look the type," I said. "One has difficulties." "Who mailed the letter to me?" He held out a box of cigarettes. "Try one of these." I shook my head. "Too strong for me. Colombian cigarettes I like. Cuban cigarettes are murder." He smiled faintly, lit another pill himself, and blew smoke. The guy was so goddam elegant he was beginning to annoy me. "I know about the letter, se.or. The mozo was afraid to go up to the room of this Se.or Lennox after the guarda was posted. The cop or dick, as you say. So I myself took the letter to the correo. After the shooting, you understand." "You ought to have looked inside. It had a large piece of money in it." "The letter was sealed," he said coldly. "El honor no se mueve de lado como los congrejos. That is, honor does not move sidewise like a crab, se.or." "My apologies. Please continue." "Se.or Lennox had a hundred-peso note in his left hand when I went into the room and shut the door in the face of the guarda. In his right hand was a pistol. On the table before him was the letter. Also another paper which I did not read. I refused the note." "Too much money," I said, but he didn't react to the sarcasm. "He insisted. So I took the note finally and gave it to the mozo later. I took the letter out under the napkin on the tray from the previous service of coffee. The dick looked hard at me. But he said nothing. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the shot. Very quickly I hid the letter and ran back upstairs. The dick was trying to kick the door open. I used my key. Se.or Lennox was dead." He moved his fingertips gently along the edge of the desk and sighed. "The rest no doubt you know." "Was the hotel full?" "Not full, no. There were half a dozen guests." "Americans?" "Two Americanos del Norte. Hunters." "Real Gringos or just transplanted Mexicans?" He drew a fingertip slowly along the fawn-colored cloth above his knee. "I think one of them could well have been of Spanish origin. He spoke border Spanish. Very inelegant." "They go near Lennox's room at all?" He lifted his head sharply but the green cheaters didn't do a thing for me. "Why should they, sefior?" I nodded. "Well, it was damn nice of you to come in here and tell me about it, Se.or Maioranos. Tell Randy I'm ever so grateful, will you?" "No hay de que, se.or. It is nothing." "And later on, if he has time, he could send me somebody who knows what he is talking about." "Se.or?" His voice was soft, but icy. "You doubt my word?" "You guys are always talking about honor. Honor is the cloak of thieves—sometimes. Don't get mad. Sit quiet and let me tell it another way." He leaned back superciliously. "I'm only guessing, mind. I could be wrong. But I could be right too. These two Americanos were there for a purpose. T............