Part 4 (2/2)
He returned to the agent of the line and told him he now believed the freight had been left behind in New York and that he would remain in Willemstad until the arrival of the next steamer, which was due in three days.
At the hotel he found Peter anxiously awaiting him. Having locked themselves in the room the two conspirators sat down to talk things over. From what had escaped the Consul, Roddy pointed out certain facts that seemed evident: Alvarez had not paid the Forrester Construction Company, or, in a word, his father, for the work already completed in the last two years. His father, in order to obtain his money, was interested in some scheme to get rid of Alvarez and in his place put some one who would abide by the terms of the original concession. This some one might be Rojas, and then, again, might not.
As Peter suggested, the Construction Company might prefer to back a candidate for president, who, while he might not be so welcome to the Venezuelans, would be more amenable to the wishes of the F. C. C. It also would probably prefer to a.s.sist a man younger than Rojas, one more easily controlled, perhaps one less scrupulously honest. It also seemed likely that if, by revolution, the men of the Construction Company intended to put in the field a candidate of their own, they would choose one with whom they could consult daily, not one who, while he might once have been a popular idol, had for the last two years been buried from the sight of man, and with whom it now was impossible to communicate.
The longer they discussed the matter the more sure they became that Rojas could not be the man for whom the Construction Company was plotting.
”If Rojas isn't the choice of the F. C. C.,” argued Roddy, ”his being free, or in prison, does not interest them in the least. While, on the other hand, if Rojas _is_ the candidate father is backing, the sooner he is out of prison the better for everybody.
”Anyway,” added Roddy, with the airy fatalism of one who nails his banner to the mast, ”if my father is going to lose two millions because you and I set an old man free, then father is going to lose two millions.”
Having arrived at this dutiful conclusion Roddy proposed that, covertly, in the guise of innocent sight-seers, they should explore the town, and from a distance reconnoitre the home of Senora Rojas.
They accordingly hired one of the public landaus of Willemstad and told the driver to show them the places of interest.
But in Willemstad there are no particular places of interest. It is the place itself that is of interest. It is not like any other port in the world.
”It used to be,” Roddy pointed out, ”that every comic opera had one act on a tropical island. Then some fellow discovered Holland, and now all comic operas run to blonde girls in patched breeches and wooden shoes, and the back drops are 'Rotterdam, Amsterdam, any d.a.m.n place at all.' But this town combines both the ancient and modern schools. Its scene is from Miss Hook of Holland, and the girls are out of Bandanna Land.”
Willemstad is compact and tiny, with a miniature governor and palace.
It is painted with all the primary colors, and, though rain seldom falls on Curacao Island, it is as clean as though the minute before it had been washed by a spring shower and put out in the sun to dry.
Saint Ann Bay, which is the harbor of Willemstad, is less of a bay than a ca.n.a.l. On entering it a captain from his bridge can almost see what the people in the houses on either bank are eating for breakfast.
These houses are modeled like those that border the ca.n.a.ls of The Hague. They have the same peaked roofs, the front running in steps to a point, the flat facades, the many stories. But they are painted in the colors of tropical Spanish-America, in pink, yellow, cobalt blue, and behind the peaked points are scarlet tiles. Under the southern sun they are so brilliant, so theatrical, so unreal, that they look like the houses of a Noah's Ark fresh from the toy shop. There are two towns: Willemstad, and, joined to it by bridges, Otrabanda. It is on the Willemstad side that the s.h.i.+ps tie up, and where, from the deck to the steamer, one can converse quite easily with the Monsanto brothers in their drawing-room, or with the political exiles on the balconies of the Hotel Commercial. The streets are narrow and, like the streets of Holland, paved with round cobblestones as clean as a pan of rolls just ready for the oven. Willemstad is the cleanest port in the West Indies. It is the Spotless Town of the tropics. Beyond the town are the orange plantations, and the favorite drive is from Willemstad through these orange trees around the inner harbor, or the Schottegat, to Otrabanda, and so back across the drawbridge of Good Queen Emma into Willemstad. It is a drive of little over two hours, and Roddy and Peter found it altogether charming.
About three miles outside of Willemstad they came upon the former home of a rich Spanish planter, which had been turned into a restaurant, and which, once the Groot du Crot, was now the Cafe Ducrot. There is little shade on the Island of Curacao and the young men dived into the shadows of the Ducrot garden as into a cool bath.
Through orange trees and spreading palmettos, flowering bushes and a tangle of vines, they followed paths of pebbles, and wandered in a maze in which they lost themselves.
”It is the enchanted garden of the sleeping princess,” said Peter.
”And there are her sleeping attendants,” he added, pointing at two waiters who were slumbering peacefully, their arms stretched out upon the marble-top tables.
It seemed heartless to awaken them, and the young men explored further until they found a stately, rambling mansion where a theatrical landlord with much rubbing of his hands brought them gla.s.ses and wonderful Holland gin.
”We must remember the Cafe Ducrot,” said Roddy, as they drove on. ”It is so quiet and peaceful.”
Afterward they recalled his having said this, and the fact caused them much amus.e.m.e.nt.
From the Cafe Ducrot the road ran between high bushes and stunted trees that shaded it in on either side; but could not shade it completely. Then it turned toward Otrabanda along the cliff that overlooks the sea.
On the land side was a wall of dusky mesquite bushes, bound together by tangled vines, with here and there bending above them a wind-tortured cocoanut palm. On the east side of the road, at great distances apart, were villas surrounded by groves of such hardy trees and plants as could survive the sweep of the sea winds. ”If we ask the driver,” whispered Roddy, ”who lives in each house, he won't suspect we are looking for any one house in particular.” Accordingly, as they drew up even with a villa they rivaled each other in exclaiming over its beauty. And the driver, his local pride becoming more and more gratified, gave them the name of the owner of the house and his history.
As he approached a villa all of white stucco, with high, white pillars rising to the flat roof of the tropics, he needed no prompting, but, with the air of one sure of his effect, pulled his horses to a halt and pointed with his whip.
”That house, gentle-mans,” he said, ”belongs to Senora Rojas.” Though the house was one hundred yards from the road, as though fearful of being overheard, the negro spoke in an impressive whisper. ”She is the lady of General Rojas. He is a great General, gentle-mans, and now he be put in prison. President Alvarez, he put that General Rojas in prison, down in the water, an' he chain him to the rock, an' he put that lady in exile. President Alvarez he be very bad man.
”Every day at six o'clock that lady and the young ladies they stand on that cliff and pray for that General Rojas. You like me to drive you, gentle-mans, out here at six o'clock,” he inquired insinuatingly, ”an'
see those ladies pray?”
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