The Man Inside by Chaber M. E. & Crossen Kendell Foster

Author:Chaber, M. E. & Crossen, Kendell Foster [Chaber, M. E. & Crossen, Kendell Foster]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Jarrold & Sons Ltd.
Published: 1955-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

The following morning I had breakfast in the hotel and | then walked down Carrera de San Jeronimo until I came to the Puerto del Sol. I had no trouble finding the police headquarters – the Dirección General de Seguridad. It was a huge building, complete with its own prisons, right on the Puerto del Sol. On top of the building there was a large clock which was supposed to show the correct time.

Inside, I cooled my heels for a while and finally some official decided to see me. He examined my passport as if he expected to find a Spanish Republican under the seal. Finally he grunted and made out a resident visa for me. It gave me the right to stay in Spain for three months. That ought to be long enough. Anyway, they’d ask too many questions if I applied for the Autorizacion de Residencia para Extranjeros.

It was still early, so I got busy on one of my chores. I checked the banks that were near the hotel. For the time being I skipped the little banks and concentrated on the branches of the Banco Hispano Americano, the Banco Central, and the Banco Español de Crédito. I found out there was a new account at the Banco Central in the name of Sansón Carrasco, but no safe-deposit box. It was the latter I was interested in.

On the way back I stopped in a shop on the Calle de Alcala and bought a box about the size of one you’d keep jewels in. I had it wrapped in plain paper. Then I went on to the hotel.

I told the clerk I wanted to see the assistant manager. After a moment he came bouncing out. The same guy who’d showed. up the day before. I guess he’d finally decided it wasn’t my fault that the German shot a hole in the rug, for he gave me a big grin.

“Ah, Señor March,” he said. “A pleasure! I know, of course, that you are an American, but March is a famous name in Spain. Are you related to our Don Juan March?”

“Juan March Ordinas?” I said. “I’m afraid not. Our ancestral blood lines are several million dollars apart.”

“Ay qué risa,” he said, but he didn’t laugh as though it were funny. “What can I do for you, Señor March?”

“I wondered if you’d put this in the hotel safe for me,” I said, extending the box.

“Claro que sí,’ he said. He hefted the box and was impressed by its lightness. “Valuables?” he said.

“In a way,” I answered, truthfully enough. I hesitated long enough to make it casual. “I suppose after the incident of yesterday that Señor Carrasco has also put all of his valuables in your safe, too.”

“No,” he said. He struggled with discretion and it lost. “Señor Carrasco consulted us and upon our advice made arrangements with a bank.”

“His diamonds, too?” I asked casually.

“IT do not know, Señor. He asked us for the name of a good diamond house and we recommended La Onza de Oro.

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