Dillinger started to separate the trunk key from the ignition key on the ring.
“Both keys, Senor Jordan,” Hernandez said. “If you please.”
Dillinger decided not to make a fuss about the trunk key. Considering what was in the trunk, he’d just as soon not call attention to it.
Inside, Dillinger was told to sit down on a tough wooden bench in the whitewashed corridor, watched over by Hernandez’s Indian.
Through the open window, he could hear the shouted commands to the cavalry. If he had to shake loose of this place, he wasn’t going to leave the convertible behind, which meant he’d have to be able to get it out of the courtyard. He’d get his keys back, or he’d wire the ignition. Getting into the trunk would be a bitch. He was beginning to be sorry he hadn’t left the car in the street and got a second set of keys made to keep under the bumper as he used to do back home.
He stood up to make sure nobody was bothering the car, but the Indian put a heavy hand on his shoulder and made him sit back down.
“Nobody does that to me,” Dillinger said, uselessly. The Indian didn’t understand him. “You’re going to be sorry you were born.”
Finally he heard a murmur of voices from down the hall, and Hernandez beckoned to him. They passed many doors, Hernandez leading, the Indian behind, until they came to a door that was open, as if they were expected. Hernandez gestured, and Dillinger went in.
The office was sparsely furnished with two chairs and a desk. There was a rush mat on the floor. The one luxury was the ancient fan which revolved listlessly in the ceiling.
The man behind the desk wore a rumpled khaki uniform. He was middle-aged and balding, a small black mustache brushing his upper lip. He smiled, and Dillinger saw that most of his teeth had been capped in gold.
“I am Fidel Santos, Chief of Police,” he said in English. “Please sit down, Senor Jordan.”
On the desk before him he had Dillinger’s wallet and the false passport.
“What’s all this about?” Dillinger asked.
“As with most things in life it is a question of money, senor.” Santos nodded. Hernandez placed a small black suitcase on the desk and flipped it open, revealing the neat rows of bank notes. “Just over fourteen thousand American dollars to be precise. We found it in the trunk of your car.”
Bastards, Dillinger thought.
“How have you earned this money, senor?”
“My father died three months ago and left me a small farm in Kansas, which I sold.”
Hernandez stood by the window cleaning his nails with a knife. He paused and looked across. Dillinger was aware of the Indian behind his chair, of the faint creaking of the fan in the silence.
Santos said, “You know that there is a government tax on foreign currency brought into this country?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Strange. According to your passport, you crossed our border at Solernas. One would have thought the customs officials there would have made this plain to you when you declared the money.”
There was another slight silence. Hernandez finished cleaning his nails, snapped the blade shut, and slipped the knife into his pocket. Outside, a bugle sounded, and the cavalry clattered across the cobbles into the plaza.
They seemed to be waiting for him to make the next move. Dillinger said, “No one is sorry about this little misunderstanding more than I am. I’ll be glad to pay the necessary tax to the proper authorities.”
“Unfortunately there is the question of the fine,” Santos said.
“All right, I’ll pay the fine and put it down to experience.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, senor,” Santos said patiently. “In such cases it is usual for the entire sum involved to be forfeited and then, of course, there is the question of a fine.”
Dillinger thought, these guys are thieves in uniform. He could feel the blood rising to his face. He had to keep his control.
“And how much would the fine be?” Dillinger asked.
“A difficult question in your case, senor. You see, there is also the matter of certain firearms discovered under the rear seat of your automobile. Another serious infringement of our laws, almost certainly leading to their confiscation and also of the vehicle itself.”