"All my junk is up in Empire yet," I remarked.
"All right, tell the desk-man down there to make you out a pass.
Or--hold the wire! As long as you're going out, there's a prisoner
over in Panama that belongs up in Empire. Go over and tell the
Chief you want Tal Fulano."
I wormed my way through the fawning, neck-craning, many-shaded mob
of political henchmen and obsequious petitioners into the sacred
hushed precincts of Panama police headquarters. A paunched
"Spigoty" with a shifty eye behind large bowed glasses, vainly
striving to exude dignity and wisdom, received me with the oily
smirk of the Panamanian office-holder who feels the painful
necessity of keeping on outwardly good terms with all Americans. I
flashed my badge and mentioned a name. A few moments later there
was presented to me a sturdy, if somewhat flabby, young Spaniard
carefully dressed and perfumed. We bowed like life-long
acquaintances and, stepping down to the street, entered a cab. The
prisoner, which he was now only in name, was a muscular fellow
with whom I should have fared badly in personal combat. I was
wholly unarmed, and in a foreign land. All those sundry little
unexplained points of a policeman's duty were bubbling up within
me. When the prisoner turned to remark it was a warm day should I
warn him that anything he said would be used against him? When he
ordered the driver to halt before the "Panazone" that he might
speak to some friends should I fiercely countermand the order?
What was my duty when the friends handed him some money and a
package of cigars? Suppose he should start to follow his friends
inside to have a drink--but he didn't.
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