La Fea and La Salvadora—Ortiz—Old Friends The two men strolled through the Calle del Barquillo into the Calle de Alcalá.
“They’re not going to catch me again,” thought Manuel. But at once it occurred to him that the texture of the law was so stout and close-woven that it was exceedingly difficult not to be enmeshed in it, no matter how careful a fellow might be.
“You haven’t yet told me to whom I owe my freedom,” exclaimed Manuel.
“To whom you owe your freedom? To me,” answered El Garro.
Manuel made no comment.
“And now, where are we bound to?” he asked.
“The Campillo del Mundo Nuevo.”
“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, then.”
“At the Puerta del Sol we’ll take the tram for La Fuentecilla.”
Which they did. They got off at the end of the line and proceeded along the Calle de Arganzuela. At the end of this street, to their right, having reached the Plaza that constitutes El Campillo del Mundo Nuevo, they stopped. They passed through[320] a long corridor into a wide patio ringed by galleries.
El Garro walked into the first open door and asked in a voice of authority:
“Does a police officer by the name of Ortiz live here?”
Out of the depths of a gloomy corner where two men were toiling near a furnace, came the answer from one of them:
“What are you bothering me about? Ask the janitor.”
The two men were making rolled wafers. Out of a caldron that was filled with a white pasty mass, they were extracting ladlefuls and throwing them on to a pair of boards that closed like nippers. Once these nippers were closed they placed them in the fire, heated them on one side, then on the other, withdrew them, opened them, and on one of the boards appeared the wafer as round as a seal. Rapidly the man would roll it up with his finger and place it in a box.
“So you don’t know whether Ortiz lives here or not?” asked El Garro again.
“Ortiz?” came a voice out of the black depths, where nothing was visible. “Yes. He lives here. He’s the manager of these houses.”
Through the black hole Manuel glimpsed two men lying on the floor.
“Well, if he’s the manager, he was in the patio a moment ago.”
El Garro and Manuel went into the courtyard and the agent caught sight of the captain on the gallery of the first floor.
[321]
“Hey, Ortiz!” he shouted.
“What do you want? Who’s calling me?”
“It’s me, Garro.”
The officer hurried down into the patio.
“Hello, there, Se?or Garro! What brings you here?”
“This youngster is a cousin of the fellow that was killed near the Sotillo Bridge. He knows the murderer, who’s a cutpurse nicknamed El Bizco. Do you want to take charge of his capture?”
“Why, man.... If those are the orders....”
“No, the question is, whether you have the time and want to do it. I have a letter here from the judge to your colonel, asking that you take charge of the capture. If you haven’t the time, speak up.”
“There’s time, and to spare.”
“Then I’ll leave the letter with your colonel this very day.”
“Certainly. I suppose there’ll be a reward in the case, eh?”
“Don’t let that trouble you. Here’s the boy; don’t let him out of your sight and have him go with you wherever you go.”
“Very well.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“Good-bye, then, and good luck.”
“Good-bye.”
El Garro left the house; Manuel and Ortiz were left face to face.
“You’re not to leave my side until we capture El Bizco. Understand?” said the captain to Manuel.
[322]
This Ortiz, noted as a pursuer of gamins and bandits, was a typical specimen of the criminal. He had black, clipped moustaches; beetling eyebrows that met over his flat nose; an upper lip that drew inwards, revealing his teeth to the very roots; a narrow forehead with a deep scar in the middle.
He dressed in country fashion, with dark clothes and a cap. There was something aggressive about him that recalled a bull dog,—something ferocious that suggested a wild boar.
“Aren’t you going to let me out?” asked Manuel.
“No.”
“There were some lady friends I had to see.”
“Lady friends don’t count hereabouts. Who are they? Some street walkers, I’ll bet....”
“No. They’re the sisters of a certain typesetter, a friend of mine. They were neighbours of mine in the Santa Casilda hostelry.”
“Ah! So you lived there?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must know them, too.”
“I don’t know. They’re the sisters of a compositor, Jesú............