THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SEVEN:
THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They
sat and smoked, then, speaking infrequently, until the hour of six arrived and
the gray of the skies began to lighten perceptibly, though the snow continued
falling, piling up in drifts now four inches height in some places, six in
others. Answering Conard's rap, the detective
listened thoughtfully, then turned to his colleagues and said, simply, "Time!"
With two uniformed Canadian "mounties" and
another American in street clothes added to their entourage, they repaired to
the sixth floor... only just beneath the suites where the A-B-C delegations
snored... and gathered in the hallway before 421, the Doctor's room.
"Shall
I knock," Conard asked in a tremulous whisper.
"No
need of that. Here goes!" Detective Burns exclaimed, and he opened the
door with a passkey secured from the management, reached for the gaslamp and declared... "Police, Navarette. Put your
hands upon your head and rise carefully... any sudden movement and these
gentlemen shall cut you down!"
The
Mexican had been asleep, fully clothed, on the bed and... beyond
a moment's blinking... betrayed neither surprise nor outrage at the intrusion.
"Why... why... Doyle? Mr. Burns? What is it you are saying... and who are
these men?"
"Patriots,
Doctor... if that is what you are," replied Doyle roughly, "loyal to
the Crown and to President Wilson. We are apprised of your scheme with the
Kaiser's man, and will not allow it to succeed."
The
Jackal smirked, not even deigning to deny the charge lodged against him.
"If I have been making private business agreements, in violation of no
law, what is it to Canada, or to the United States? You conduct yourselves
as though we were already at war... is this simply another example of colonial
arrogance, sir, or has Mister Wilson issued an edict approving the apprehension
of all Mexicans, no matter our location or compliance with the laws of
Mexico or America?"
"Only
those who would do violence upon those who... effectively or not... are
attempting to resolve your country's problems in this place," William
Burns answered, with a devilish grin of his own. Reaching under the doctor's
bed, he yanked out a canvas bag of the sort carried by soldiers and placed it
on the bed. "Constable, I'll let you do the honors."
"Certainly,"
replied Jones. "Oh... what've we here?" he said, removing a sheaf of
explosives bound with gunpowder cord, another, and another. "Intended to
blow up just the Clifton?" he remarked, "or the Welland
Canal, too?"
And,
for one of the few times in his life, José Macias... also known as El Chacol, as Navarette and many others, stood completely
flummoxed. Finally, a sickly leer turned down the corner of his mouth.
"Congratulations, Doyle, now that I see your game. You and yours have outdeviled me... mocking up evidence during my absence from
my quarters as though you were in Ireland or India instead of a sovereign
nation. But," he nodded at the Mounties, "I guess Canada isn't quite
that, really."
The
author stiffened, summoning up his dignity. "I suspect you and Victoriano Huerta know a trick or two about falsifying
evidence."
But,
instead of looking away in shame, the Jackal snorted. "We do not have to,
sir, nor do we pretend anything otherwise. You are the ones who rob with a
pious face... you pale Christian bastards... stealing our land, our wealth, our
souls. Oh, I know of your books, Arthur Conan Doyle, your intrepid Saxons
spreading mischief o'er the globe. What would your readers think, knowing the
scoundrel that their hero was? All lies, damn lies... and that is why it is
called fiction!”
"And
you!" he charged Burns, "...bribing witnesses in the Leo Frank trial
and framing Clarence Darrow... oh, we Mexicans have plenty of ears in California...
I've heard it said you were a progressive once, an abolitionist in your youth.
Ending your days a thug in the employ of the Otis family... is it for lack of
money, sir?"
And as
the Mounties hustled their man away, Burns fumed in silence, and all that Doyle
could do was shout at the Mexican's retreating backside... "You know, the
Germans regard you with the same contempt as we do!"
And
because he and Burns detoured one flight down, to witness the arrest of the
German agent, Knieff (also known as "Dr.
Wilde"), they were not present when Navarette, being removed from the
hotel to an official motorcar, appeared to stumble on the steps. Reaching into
his boot, he drew a small automatic... the Browning that had not been
discovered... and shot Constable Jones in the chest. He turned and fired
another round into the face of one of the Mounties, killing him instantly, and
began to run, trusting in the snowfall to confound his pursuers. When their
motorcars would not navigate the treacherous streets and, in fact, slammed into
each other, the Mounties emerged... shaken and despairing... until Burns and
Doyle raced down the steps of the Lafayette.
"Bridge!"
was all that the mortally wounded Jones could say, pointing, and the American
and the English author took up the pursuit on foot, though the swirling,
whirling blizzard and sputum heaved up by the roaring, roiling Falls made the
fleeing Mexican seem not fifty meters distant, but three times that.
Burns
had withdrawn his revolver and fired, now, but his shots were lost in the great
screen of snow. "Bloody collaborator's
escaping!" Doyle swore, mortified that... with all his literary experience
describing famous captures and chases… the real McCoy had taken so ignominious
a turn.
"Not
quite yet!" vowed Burns, who stopped... still on the Canadian side of
Honeymoon Bridge, holstered his gun and removed a great, silver whistle whose
shrill resonance sliced through the tempest like a machete cleaving some
unfortunate's head from his shoulders. In answer, there came a great explosion
of light from the far, American end of the bridge, pinning the tiny figure of
the Mexican between great forces, amassed on either side.
Now, a
motorcar of Canadian constabulary drew up, followed by another and another.
From the American side of the ambush, a voice hurtled out above even the roar
of the Falls: "Give yourself up! There is no
escape! We have you covered on either end!"
"Navarette"
had actually turned to flee back towards Doyle and Burns, who steeled
themselves for confronting a foe who was clearly dangerous, experienced in the
wiles of war. The arrival of so many police caused him to slow, then stop...
and the detective writer squinted through the storm.
"He's
climbing the bridge!" Doyle called out. "Don't do it, man!" he
screamed at the figure mounting the rail of the International Bridge... "whatever the problem is, it's not worth your life!"
"The
hell it isn't! That man's a spy and a murderer and he'll get as much quarter
from I as his boss will from President Wilson and our
boys in Veracruz. Jump! Jump!... you Mexican
bastard..."
The
figure teetered on the rail, and... as Doyle
recalled... actually waved at them (or, more likely, gave a gesture whose
message was lost among the swirling snowflakes). There was a crack... one of
those rare, terrifying thunderclaps that accompany spring storms, a curtain of
snow and sleet welled up on the Honeymoon Bridge, and the man who had
represented himself as Navarette was...
Gone!
Doyle
rushed to the rail as Burns and a late-arriving, chastened Peter Jennings
welcomed the American agents streaming over the border. "No man could have
survived such a fall!"
"As
your Mr. Holmes has sadly proven," replied Burns as the Englishman turned
away. "Eh... what's that?" Above, the distinct cry of a predatory
bird could be heard through the roaring waters. "I'll be damned... is that
one of our American eagles? Providential that it should have arrived so early,
and at such a latitude."
"Maybe
it's one of those Mexican buzzards," suggested Jennings, with a smirk.
"Come to follow the remains of its own downriver and make a meal of him
when he beaches."
"Quite
so," Doyle responded, though soberly for, after all, Jones had been a
loyal man and was dead and Knieff/Wilde, furthermore,
denied all... even the evidence of his own, disembodied voice and both aliases,
showing them obviously forged documents alleging himself to be Gerhard Sammler, a candymaker of Leipzig,
en route to Chicago on a business trip. He had
demanded his right to contact the German legation. "Never will find the
body..."
"Beg
pardon?" inquired a puzzled William Burns.
"Holmes!
Nobody ever located his body... probably as you say, some fish made a meal of
him. Still..."
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