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PRESSURE P
GEORGE AGNEW
CHAI IBERLAIN • *
COPYRIGHT* 6EOR6E AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN • • W.N.V. SERVICE
CHAPTER 111
Dirk Van Suttart, second secre
tary of embassy, would have
showed to greater advantage in any
other setting. The traditions of an
ancient name were behind him, he
had more than his share of good
looks, a reasonable amount of
money and a merry eye. Away from
his job he was as eiean-cut a young
American as ever drew breath, but
he was on the way to being spoiled,
poisoned by the bite of the diplo
matic bee.
He was engaged in testing the
spring of a polo mallet when the
reception clerk entered, laid Joyce’s
slip on the desk and lingered to
smoke a cigarette. Dirk read the
paper over his shoulder.
“What does she want?”
“Same old thing. She’d like to
walk in on the chief.”
Dirk finished testing the stick, put
it away in a clothes closet, went to
his padded chair and rummaged for
a dispatch. “All set. You can show
her in.” Presently Joyce stood be
fore him. He perused the dispatch
frowningly for a moment longer,
then motioned her to a chair be
side the desk.
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Sew
ell?”
Joyce hesitated. “You’re not the
ambassador, are you?”
“Hardly, I’m the second secre
tary.”
“I wanted to see the ambassa
dor.”
“Are you an American?”
“Yes; born of American parents
residing abroad. I arrived from the
States last night. Do you wish to
see my passport?”
“That’s not necessary at present.
I suggest you state your business.
If it’s something I can’t handle—or
if it’s important enough—an ap
pointment will be made for you
with his excellency.”
Joyce sat down without taking her
eyes off him. She was puzzled. Here
was a young man, the very anti
thesis of Mike Kirkpatrick in looks,
manner and breeding, yet all she
Jfelt was bitter disappointment.
Why? Suddenly the answer swept
over her. She was face to face
with the mask that had defeated
her father —immature, perhaps, its
not yet solidified, but the
same unfeeling mask.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Dirk Van Suttart,” he replied,
betrayed by the suddenness of the
question. A glint lit in his eye and
color rose to his cheeks, but he
quickly controlled his anger and
raised one eyebrow. “Really, Miss
Sewell, while you requested a per
sonal interview I didn’t realize you
were contemplating an exchange of
confidences.”
“I like to know to whom I am
talking,” said Joyce coolly. “I think
you’ll find my business is quite per
sonal. I’m the daughter and sole
heir of the late Cutler Sewell and
there’s a file in this office under
his name. I wish to know my rights.
Am I entitled to have copies of the
dispatches, or to examine them, or
to be given a resume, or—if all that
is impossible—can I be informed of
the last step in the negotiation?”
By this time both Van Suttart’s
eyebrows were raised to the limit.
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“No copy of any dispatch can De
given to anybody,” he declared,
“except by specific direction of the
Department of State, and the same
restriction applies to the balance of
your question. May I ask to what
this file refers?”
“To my father’s property in this
country.”
“I thought so. Miss Sewell, Amer
icans abroad suffer from an unfor
tunate delusion which you seem to
share that the foreign service is
maintained for their individual con
venience. It isn’t. It was created
for the benefit of the United States
as a whole and of the taxpayers at
home who foot the bills. Haven’t you
heard of the Mexican claims com
mission in Washington?”
“I have.”
“That, my dear young lady, is
where you should file your petition.”
“I did, through my father, when
I was eight years old. I’m not eight
now, Mr. Van Suttart, though you
seem to think so. The Mexican
claims commission has been sitting
for a great many years considering
claims amounting to $250,000,000.
Has it settled a single case?”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“You mean you don’t know? I’ll
tell you, it hasn’t—not one.”
“Miss Sewell, this conversation is
getting us nowhere. May I say in
conclusion that I’ve given you all
the advice—the only advice—to
which you are entitled? The embas
sy can do nothing to help you—noth
ing whatever.”
“Help!” exclaimed Joyce. “I
didn’t come here for help; I asked
for certain information. Are you
sure you have the authority to re
fuse it?”
“Quite sure.”
Joyce stood up to find her knees
were trembling. She had been dis
missed, told to leave! Anger surged
in her veins—anger against some
implacable force outside herself and
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Anger Surged in Her Veins.
Van Suttart. She became a flame
and suddenly its beauty cut through
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
to his inner consciousness. In a
half daze he was telling himself that
if he had met this girl at a cocktail
party instead of in the course of offi
cial business he would have crashed
through to her side and stayed
there. But he was too late, the pol
ished shell he wore had held out too
long.
“Mr. Van Suttart,” said Joyce,
“your imagining I came to you for
help has its funny side. Aren’t you
ever puzzled as to why you’re alive
—why you draw down pay? A ca
nary in his gilded cage earns his
keep with song, but a popinjay can’t
even sing.”
She was gone before he could
wipe the look of amazement from
his face, much less answer.
She hurried to the hotel where
she was living, paid her bill and
asked that her baggage be brought
down. At sight of the petaca there
were supercilious glances from the
tourists, the clerk and even the por
ter, but not from the taxi driver;
again the little native trunk served
her well. He did not bother to lie
about the fare and even understood
her quest for the best hotel unfre
quented by foreigners. Unhesitat
ingly he drove her to an establish
ment in a back street but near the
center of town. The proprietor
greeted her in soft Castilian and
took the trouble to accompany her
himself to a top-floor room.
“Can you recommend a woman
lawyer?” she asked.
“I know of one, but she’s a Mexi
can.”
“I prefer a Mexican,” said Joyce.
“Will you give me her name and
address?”
He took out his card, scribbled on
it, and handed it to her. “She’s a
difficult person,” he remarked, “but
an excellent lawyer.”
Joyce decided to waste no time
in telephoning for an appointment,
but she did stop long enough to un
pack her bag and hang up her
clothes. As her rage at Van Sut
tart began to cool she wondered at
it and felt a little ashamed. Prob
ably that manner of his had got him
his job, perhaps he was paid to
make people feel exactly as she had
felt. She opened the petaca, sorted
out the documents she thought she
would need and made her way on
foot to the lawyer’s address. It
was a strange, old-fashioned build
ing with a long dark narrow hall
which opened suddenly upon a big
square well surrounded by balconies
and roofed by the sky. There was
an elevator but no attendant. Rath
er than attempt to work the mech
anism herself she walked up two
flights and located a door upon
which was inscribed: Lie. Marga
rida Fonseca.
She knocked; there was no an
swer. She opened the door, stepped
into an empty anteroom and
coughed. The door into a room be
yond was open. She passed through
it and stopped short. On the farther
side of a littered desk, leaning back
and apparently absorbed in staring
through the thick wall at some vi
sion far away, sat a woman whose
appearance could be described only
as leonine. One glance was enough
to make her speak in English.
“What do you want?”
“A lawyer,” said Joyce.
“What for? What about?”
“May I sit down?”
“No! What about?”
“An estate.” :
“Whose?”
“Mine. I have the documents
here proving absolute title if you’ll
only take the trouble to look at
them.”
“No use. You’re wasting my
time. Don’t waste yours or your
money by going to any other law
yer. I give you that advice for noth
ing.”
“What is your time worth?” asked
Joyce, switching into Spanish. “I
like you. How much would you
charge to let me sit and look at
you for half an hour?”
Margarida Fonseca swung around
in her swivel chair, planted her el
bows on the desk, her fists in her
cheeks, and stared. “Cara'o! Hab
las Castillano, gringuita! So, we talk
Spanish! Who are you?”
“My name is Joyce Sewell. I’m
the daughter of Cutler Sewell who
owned —”
“Tst! Tst! Nobody owns anything.
You possess, you don’t own.”
“Oh, but I do,” protested Joyce,
"I can prove it.” She advanced, sat
down on the edge of a chair and
laid her documents on the desk.
“Please let me show you.”
“It’s no use, my child. I’ve told
you the truth and the whole truth.
Incidentally I don’t like Americans,
but let me give you something else
for nothing. Get out. Go back to
your own country before somebody
makes one bite of your pretty
head.”
Joyce stood up and buried her
grave blue eyes in Margarida’s
black ones. “I’ll get out, but I
won’t go back. I was wrong about
you. I may not find a lawyer with
more brains, but I’ll get one who
isn’t a cow’ard.” She snatched up
her precious documents, turned
quickly and started toward the door.
“Stop!” yelled Margarida. “No
body can say that to me! Come
back and sit down. Give me the
papers.” She took them, spread
them out but kept her puzzled eyes
fixed on Joyce. Abruptly she smiled.
“I thought you were out to make a
play on the tender female heart but
I’ve changed my mind. Have you
any money?”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Really! You’re loose in Mexico
at your age with S 10.000! We’ll see
the papers? 1
She glanced over them swiftly
with odd jerks of her nose as if
she were a parrot tearing the meat
out of one nut after another.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was La
Barranca?” she asked <Jf the blue
sky.
“You didn’t give me a chance,”
said Joyce.
Margarida turned. “I think I’ve
found away. It has nothing what
ever to do with the courts. Come
back in a week.”
“That won’t do,” said Joyce, “it
won’t do at all!”
“Why not?”
“Because a week is too long!”
“You have courage, little one.
Since you don’t do your fighting with
tears we’ll go hunting together.
Fortunately I care nothing what
happens to you—nothing at all. Is
that clearly understood?”
“Don’t worry,” said Joyce. “Show
me the road and I’ll look out for
myself.”
Margarida scooped up the papers,
crammed a hat on her head, showed
the way out and slammed the door
behind them. A moment later they
were in a taxi which scurried along
interminable back streets to draw
up in exactly 15 minutes at the resi
dence of Gen. Zacharias Onelia,
right-hand man to the minister of
war.
“General, it is very good of you
to receive us,” said Margarida.
“Do you mind taking a look at this
young lady before she goes out to
walk around the patio while you and
I have a talk? She has a peculiar
value, General.”
“To me?”
“Especially to you,” said Marga
rida and turned to Joyce. “Sup
pose you go out, chica, and stay
out till you’re called!” As soon as
Joyce had gone Margarida leaned
toward Onelia and continued in a
low voice. “General, this is a mo
mentous business, far deeper than
may appear at first glance. The
young lady, Miss Joyce Sewell, is
undoubtedly the lawful owner of ha
cienda La Barranca.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“Exercise your memory, Gen
eral,” said Margarida. “Who con
fiscated La Barranca? Who holds it
now?”
“Dorado!” he cried.
“Exactly.”
“What do you suggest?”
“General Dorado says he merely
seized abandoned property. His ten
ure is based on salvage. My sug
gestion is that you arrange to have
him abandon the hacienda in his
turn.”
‘ . ;-r. I’ll have him
shot tl p ■ '. t t : me lie shows his
face in town. I’ve been wanting to
do it for years.”
“I’m afraid I’ve come at your
siesta hour. Naturally General
Dorado must not be killed before
the abandoned hacienda is definitely
in possession of the rightful owner.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Onelia.
“If General Dorado, who now
holds La Barranca, should be killed
—even if he should die a natural
death—his heirs would inherit. They
would have as good a case as he
has now and our work would be all
to do over again.”
“Who wants the place? Not I.”
Margarida looked at him stead
fastly. “I wonder if you can see a
picture if I hold it up before your
eyes?” she inquired.
“Try me,” said Onelia testily.
“Here’s the picture, General, and
that you’re not to appear in it at
all goes without saying. Suppose
some of your trustiest men attend
to the eviction of Dorado without
killing him—simply drive him and
his following out and chase them
into the hills. Simultaneously your
men plant the girl and leave her.
The incident gets in the papers, here
and across the border. The girl is
young, beautiful, has perfect title
as titles go and the courage of a
bobcat to back it with. Do you be
gin to see anything?”
“Os course I see her getting her
self killed, and so do you.”
“Probably; but that’s a mere inci
dent—perhaps a necessary incident.
It doesn’t occur to you you might
also see the ambassador from a
country we both heartily detest up
to his neck in boiling water and one
or two of our own cabinet officers
hanging to their toppling perches
with nails and teeth? I used to
think you had the brains of a great
minister of war, but I’m beginning
to doubt it.”
During her long speech Onelia
had been advancing toward her with
a catlike tread. Now he placed a
blunt finger under her chin, tipped
back her head and stood looking
down into her unflinching eyes.
“You’ve started something,” he
rumbled, “and we two are going to
finish it. If I betray you, you can
always get me shot at the market
price, but if you betray me I’ll have
you dragged by a frightened horse.”
He stepped back, shrugged his
shoulders and sat down. “Call in
the girl.”
When Joyce entered nothing could
have exceeded Margarida’s compla
cent air of accomplishment unless
it was the General’s urbanity.
“All you ask is to be put in pos
session of La Barranca. Is that
correct?”
“Yes, General. I was happy
there. I’ve never been happy since
I left. The years of my childhood—”
“One moment, senorita. Our plan
contemplates presenting you with
the hacienda and nothing more. It
is a dangerous plan—extremely dan
gerous to you, I mean. I don’t ex
aggerate when I say the chances are
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te.i to one you’ll meet your moth
er’s fate. The scheme is to filter a
sufficient number of men within the
walls of La Barranca, pick a quar
rel at a given signal and then drive
out General Dorado who now holds
the property. It is essential that you
be on the spot to take immediate
possession—on the spot, mind you.
Do you agree?”
“I do,” said Joyce. “But this
General Dorado—he won’t be killed,
will he?”
“No, child, certainly not; I’m glad
to reassure you on that point,” said
Onelia unctuously. “The question
now arises as to who shall be your
personal escort.”
He touched a bell and the door
opened almost instantly. “Send Ser
geant Buenaventura.”
The soldier who presently entered
the room immediately inspired
Joyce with confidence. Loyalty was
written in every line of his face.
“Sit down, Pancho,” said Onelia;
“this is a social gathering. Besides,
you are now commencing a month’s
furlough on full pay, accompanied
by a detail of eighteen men. Never
by any chance are you to report to
me what happens during your ab
sence. It won’t be necessary since
I am about to tell you what you will
do with every minute of your time.”
He proceeded to give instructions so
broad yet so complete to the last
detail that Joyce was moved to ad
miration. “Understand, Pancho,”
he concluded, “the shot that kills
General Dorado will surely kill you.
Maim him if you like, but don’t kill
him.”
“It is understood, mi General.
When do we start?”
“Today, if you like,” said Joyce.
“If that’s impossible, then tomor
row.”
“It will take three days at least
to place my men,” he stated. “They
must be sent singly and in ad
vance.”
“Attend to it at once,” ordered
Onelia. “As for you, hold your
self in readiness and see you have
the sort of car which will attract
least attention. You may go.” As
Sergeant Buenaventura left the
room the general turned to Mar
garida.
“We have overlooked an impor
tant point,” she said. “It is vital
Dorado should be in residence; oth
erwise we would be committing a
mere trespass.”
“Couldn’t I instruct Pancho to
wait, in that case, until Dorado re
turned?”
“No; we’ve got to find out about
Dorado and there’s only one sure
■ource of information.”
“Where? Who?”
“Adan Arnaldo of El Tenebroso.”
“<’'>ll thpt a source?” exploded
Onelia. “Try to make it flow!”
“That’s the trouble,” said Mar
garida; “I couldn’t do it alone, nei
ther could you. But the two of us—
in casual conversation?”
“What’s El Tenebroso?” asked
Joyce, intrigued by their manner.
“A resort, my dear,” said Marga
rida. “A boite, what you would call
a night club.”
“Oh, please let me go too,”
begged Joyce.
It was odd the way their heads
turned toward her as though moved
by identical springs and equally
strange that both faces should go
through the same changes of ex
pression. Their Latin eyes were
seeing her at El Tenebroso. No girl
of breeding could crash that door
and keep her social standing, and
whether anything happened to her
or not had nothing to do with it.
Os course Joyce was unaware of
any such deadline, which only made
it more amusing.
“It might not be a bad idea,” re
marked Margarida at last.
“Not at all a bad idea,” agreed
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I wouldn’t consider for a moment
going myself. I’ll send my car to
pick you up. Shall we say at mid
night?”
“Too early by at least an hour,”
said Margarida. “Make it one
o’clock.”
(To be continued next week)
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