Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

“I know,” Vivian cut him short. “Now, one other thing. I wish a large scale map of the prison and the surrounding streets, particularly with reference to the execution courtyard.”

“That will not be difficult,” the Arab said thoughtfully. “But...”

He was cut short by a knock on the door. Vivian opened it. It was the hotel porter.

“Don José Obarrio is below, señorita,” he said.

Vivian nodded and closed the door. The Arab’s eyes were wide. He had recognized the name.

“The Comandante of the prison,” he breathed.

“The Comandante,” Vivian agreed, drawing on her smart gloves. “I am making a tour of inspection of the prison with him.” She pulled on the chic little hat and then, picking up a little cluster of flowers on the table, pinned them on her shoulder.

Wylie smiled grimly at the flowers. There was more to those flowers than met the eye. Vivian directed a long hard look at the Arab. “In the event,” she said, “that you should surmise my reasons for asking these things and be tempted to betray me for a reward... there is a letter in the hotel office concerning you that the police would undoubtedly find if I should be arrested.”

She turned and swept out of the door, leaving Wylie to complete arrangements with the Arab.

Comandante Don José Obarrio might not have twirled the thin waxed spikes of his mustache as he waited in the hotel lobby if he had realized that he was being skillfully played by the Lady from Hell, as an expert angler plays a fish. Neither would it have been soothing to his vanity if he had known that the interest the woman with the flaming red hair and slanting green eyes was bestowing upon him was simply the interest bestowed upon an important pawn in a game.

It hadn’t been difficult for the Lady from Hell to make the acquaintance of Don José. The gentleman had a roving eye for the ladies, and she had employed the same means on the Comandante as she had on the prison guard. She had made discreet inquiries as to the Comandante’s favorite café. A tip to the waiter had secured her a table next to him. It had not been difficult to persuade him to speak to her... and her interest at subsequent meetings, at what went on behind the scenes in a prison had brought forth today’s invitation to make a tour of the prison over which Don José ruled.

The Comandante rose and tossed away his cigarette as Vivian came down the hotel stairs.

“I am sorry to be so late,” she said, “but a business matter detained me.”

It would not have added to the Comandante’s peace of mind, as they walked toward his official car parked outside the hotel, to have known that the “business” was a scheme to release his most prized prisoner.

There is only one building in Cadiz with thicker, more massive walls than the prison. That is the Capuchin convent which guards the Virgin of Cadiz, and the reason for those thick walls is the fact that the prison was once a church prison, used by the inquisition for heretics awaiting trail.

With a great deal of pride Don José showed the Lady from Hell his domain, and it was while passing the entrance to the quarters of the guards that catastrophe almost struck.

A guard, his uniform coat off, was lounging at the entrance. He looked up and a look of astonishment flashed over his sallow face as he saw Vivian. He started to speak, would have spoken, if the look of warning on her own face, the gesture with which she halted him, had not been unmistakable.

It was only for a moment that danger threatened. The realization came to the guard that it would not help him with the Comandante if that official knew that the woman he escorted through the prison with such ceremony was the woman of whom this guard had such high hopes.

Vivian breathed a sigh of relief and the tension was unlocked from her muscles as they moved on and Manuel, the guard, did not speak. A moment or two later the Lady from Hell and her companion halted at the end of a gloomy corridor.

“And now, Señorita Legrand,” the Comandante said, “that you have seen my prison, what do you think of it?”

“But I am disappointed,” Vivian cried. “You have shown me nothing but iron bars and stone walls. Where are the dark dungeons, the mysterious passages, the prisoners in chains?” She threw a world of scorn into her voice. “Is your prison then merely a jail for petty thieves and such people?”

“There are dungeons,” the Comandante admitted, “but you would not want to descend to them. They are dark and dirty.”

“Oh, but I do,” she insisted, catching his arm. “You must show them to me. Have you important prisoners there?”

“One very important one,” the Comandante said. “Cruz Delgado, the bandit.”

“A bandit! Oh, how romantic,” Vivian gushed, but in her eyes glinted that spearhead of fire, a danger signal that even the most formidable of her associates had come to know and respect. “I must see him.”

The Comandante stopped before the iron bars of a cell.

“He is there,” he said.