It was several minutes before I could catch the news. At last it
was shouted at me over a telephone. Murder! A white Greek--who
ever heard of a colored Greek?--with a white shirt on had shot a
man at Pedro Miguel at 6:35. Every road and bypath of escape to
Panama was already blocked, armed men would meet the assassin
whatever way he might take. I went down to meet the evening train,
resolved after that to strike out into the night in the random
hope of having my share in the chase. It had begun to rain again,
but only moderately, as if it realized it could never again equal
the afternoon record.
Then suddenly the excitement exploded. It was only a near-murder.
Two Colombians had been shot, but would in all probability
recover. The news reached me as I stood at the second-class gate
scanning the faces of the great multicolored river of passengers
that poured out into the city. For two hours, one by one with
crestfallen mien, the manhunters leaked back into Ancon station
and, the case having dwindled to one of regular daily routine, by
eleven we were all abed.
In the morning the "Greek chase" fell to me. More detailed
description of the culprit had come in during the night, including
the bit of information that he was a bad man from the Isle of
Crete. The belt-straining No. 38 oiled and loaded, I set off on an
assignment that was at least a relief after pursuing stolen
necklaces for negro women, or crowbars lost by the I.
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