thought. He thought of the poor cat, crushed to death along with the rat, beneath a mountain of boxes and barrels. He was now in Corny Román’s sector. But of course Corny wasn’t anywhere around; Lituma knew very well that he was at the other end of his patrol area, in the Happy Land, or the Blue Star, or in one of the many other cheap bars and sailors’ brothels at the opposite end of the avenue, lining that little narrow street that the foul-mouthed residents of El Callao called Chancre Street. He’d be down there at one of the battered bar counters, downing a free beer he’d sponged off the proprietress. And as he walked down the avenue toward these dens of iniquity, Lituma imagined the frightened look on Román’s face if he were suddenly to appear behind him: “So you’re drinking on duty, are you, Corny? You’re through.”
He’d gone about two hundred yards when suddenly he stopped short. He turned and looked back: there, in the shadow, with one of its walls dimly lighted by the feeble glow of a streetlamp miraculously spared from the urchins’ slingshots, lay the warehouse, silent now. It wasn’t a cat, he thought, it wasn’t a rat. It was a thief. His heart began to pound and he could feel his forehead and the palms of his hands break out in a cold sweat. It was a thief, a thief. He stood there motionless for a few seconds, though he already knew he’d go back there. He was sure: he’d had presentiments like this before. He drew his pistol from its holster, released the safety catch, and gripped his flashlight in his left hand. He strode back in the direction of the warehouse, with his heart in his mouth. Yes, no doubt about it, it was a thief. On reaching the building, he stopped again, panting. What if it wasn’t just one thief, but several? Wouldn’t it be better to hunt up Shorty, Corny before he went inside? He shook his head: he didn’t need anybody, he could handle the situation by himself. If there were several of them, so much the worse for them and so much the better for him. He put his ear to the wall and listened: complete silence. The only sound to be heard, somewhere off in the distance, was the lapping of the waves and an occasional car going by. A thief, my ass, he thought. You’re imagining things, Lituma. It was a cat, a rat. He was no longer cold; he felt warm and tired. He walked around the outside of the warehouse, looking for the door. When he found it, he could see by the light of his flashlight that the lock hadn’t been broken open. He was about to leave, telling himself, What a fool you are, Lituma, your nose isn’t as sharp as it used to be, when, with a last mechanical sweep of his flashlight, he discovered in its yellow beam the hole in the wall a few yards from the door. They’d done a crude job of breaking in, simply chopping an opening in the wooden wall with an ax, or kicking a few planks in. The hole was just big enough for a man to crawl through on all fours.
He felt his heart pounding wildly, madly, now. He turned his flashlight off, made sure the safety catch of his pistol was off, looked round about him: nothing but pitch-black shadows and, in the distance, like match flames, the streetlights of the Avenida Huáscar. He took a deep breath and roared, in as loud a voice as he could muster: “Have your men surround this warehouse, corporal. If anybody tries to escape, fire at will. Get a move on, all of you!”
And to make the whole thing more believable, he began running back and forth, stamping his feet loudly. Then he glued his face to the wall of the warehouse and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Hey, you in there! The jig is up: you’ve had it. You’re surrounded. Come on out the way you came in, one at a time. We’ll give you just thirty seconds!”
He heard the echo of his shouts fade away in the darkness, and then nothing but the sound of the sea and a few dogs barking. He counted off the seconds: not thirty but sixty. He thought: You’re
He’d gone about two hundred yards when suddenly he stopped short. He turned and looked back: there, in the shadow, with one of its walls dimly lighted by the feeble glow of a streetlamp miraculously spared from the urchins’ slingshots, lay the warehouse, silent now. It wasn’t a cat, he thought, it wasn’t a rat. It was a thief. His heart began to pound and he could feel his forehead and the palms of his hands break out in a cold sweat. It was a thief, a thief. He stood there motionless for a few seconds, though he already knew he’d go back there. He was sure: he’d had presentiments like this before. He drew his pistol from its holster, released the safety catch, and gripped his flashlight in his left hand. He strode back in the direction of the warehouse, with his heart in his mouth. Yes, no doubt about it, it was a thief. On reaching the building, he stopped again, panting. What if it wasn’t just one thief, but several? Wouldn’t it be better to hunt up Shorty, Corny before he went inside? He shook his head: he didn’t need anybody, he could handle the situation by himself. If there were several of them, so much the worse for them and so much the better for him. He put his ear to the wall and listened: complete silence. The only sound to be heard, somewhere off in the distance, was the lapping of the waves and an occasional car going by. A thief, my ass, he thought. You’re imagining things, Lituma. It was a cat, a rat. He was no longer cold; he felt warm and tired. He walked around the outside of the warehouse, looking for the door. When he found it, he could see by the light of his flashlight that the lock hadn’t been broken open. He was about to leave, telling himself, What a fool you are, Lituma, your nose isn’t as sharp as it used to be, when, with a last mechanical sweep of his flashlight, he discovered in its yellow beam the hole in the wall a few yards from the door. They’d done a crude job of breaking in, simply chopping an opening in the wooden wall with an ax, or kicking a few planks in. The hole was just big enough for a man to crawl through on all fours.
He felt his heart pounding wildly, madly, now. He turned his flashlight off, made sure the safety catch of his pistol was off, looked round about him: nothing but pitch-black shadows and, in the distance, like match flames, the streetlights of the Avenida Huáscar. He took a deep breath and roared, in as loud a voice as he could muster: “Have your men surround this warehouse, corporal. If anybody tries to escape, fire at will. Get a move on, all of you!”
And to make the whole thing more believable, he began running back and forth, stamping his feet loudly. Then he glued his face to the wall of the warehouse and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Hey, you in there! The jig is up: you’ve had it. You’re surrounded. Come on out the way you came in, one at a time. We’ll give you just thirty seconds!”
He heard the echo of his shouts fade away in the darkness, and then nothing but the sound of the sea and a few dogs barking. He counted off the seconds: not thirty but sixty. He thought: You’re
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