They brought them in around mid-night and then, all night long, everyone along the corridor heard the Russian.
“Where is he shot?” Mr. Frazer asked the night nurse.
“In the thigh, I think.”
“What about the other one?”
“Oh, he’s going to die, I’m afraid.”
“Where is he shot?”
“Twice in the abdomen. They only found one of the bullets.”
They were both beet workers, a Mexican and a Russian, and they were sitting drinking coffee in an all-night restaurant when someone came in the door and started shooting at the Mexican. The Russian crawled under a table and was hit, finally, by a stray shot fired at the Mexican as he lay on the floor with two bullets in his abdomen. That was what the paper said.
The Mexican told the police he had no idea who shot him. He believed it to be an accident.
“An accident that he fired eight shots at you and hit you twice, there?”
“Sí, se?or,” said the Mexican, who was named Cayetano Ruiz.
“An accident that he hit me at all, the cabrón,” he said to the interpreter.
“What does he say?” asked the detective sergeant, looking across the bed at the interpreter.
“He says it was an accident.”
“Tell him to tell the truth, that he is going to die,” the detective said.
“Na,” said Cayetano. “But tell him that I feel very sick and would prefer not to talk so much.”
“He says that he is telling the truth,” the interpreter said. Then, speaking confidently, to the detective, “He don’t know who shot him. They shot him in the back.”
“Yes,” said the detective. “I understand that, but why did the bullets all go in the front?”
“Maybe he is spinning around,” said the interpreter.
“Listen,” said the detective, shaking his finger almost at Cayetano’s nose, which projected, waxen yellow, from his dead-man’s face in which his eyes were alive as a hawk’s, “I don’t give a damn who shot you, but I’ve got to clear this thing up. Don’t you want the man who shot you to be punished? Tell him that,” he said to the interpreter.
“He says to tell who shot you.”
“Mandarlo al carajo,” said Cayetano, who was very tired.
“He says he never saw the fellow at all,” the interpreter said. “I tell you straight they shot him in the back.”
“Ask him who shot the Russian.”
“Poor Russian,” said Cayetano. “He was on the floor with his head enveloped in his arms. He started to give cries when they shoot him and he is giving cries ever since. Poor Russian.”
“He says some fellow that he doesn’t know. Maybe the same fellow that shot him.”
“Listen,” the detective said. “This isn’t Chicago. You’re not a gangster. You don’t have to act like a moving picture. It’s all right to tell who shot you. Anybody would tell who shot them. That’s all right to do. Suppose you don’t tell who he is and he shoots somebody else. Suppose he shoots a woman or a child. You can’t let him get away with that. You tell him,” he said to Mr. Frazer. “I don’t trust that damn interpreter.”
“I am very reliable,” the interpreter said. Cayetano looked at Mr. Frazer.
“Listen, amigo,” said Mr. Frazer. “The policeman says that we are not in Chicago but in Hailey, Montana. You are not a bandit and this has nothing to do with the cinema.”
“I believe him,” said Cayetano softly. “Ya lo creo.”
“One can, with honour, denounce one’s assailant. Every one does it here, he says. He says what happens if after shooting you, this man shoots a woman or a child?”
“I am not married,” Cayetano said.
“He says any woman, any child.”
“The man is not crazy,” Cayetano said.
“He says you should denounce him,” Mr. Frazer finished.
“Thank you,” Cayetano said. “You are of the great translators. I speak English, but badly. I understand it all right. How did you break your leg?”
“A fall off a horse.”
“What bad luck. I am very sorry. Does it hurt much?”
“Not now. At first, yes.”
“Listen, amigo,” Cayetano began, “I am very weak. You will pardon me. Also I have much pain; enough pain. It is very possible that I die. Please get this policeman out of here because I am very tired.” He made as though to roll to one side; then held himself still.
“I told him everything exactly as you said and he said to tell you, truly, that he doesn’t know who shot him and that he is very weak and wishes you would question him later on,” Mr. Frazer said.
“He’ll probably be dead later on.”
“That’s quite possible.”
“That’s why I want to question him now.”
“Somebody shot him in the back, I tell you,” the interpreter said.
“Oh, for Chrisake,” the detective sergeant said, and put his notebook in his pocket.
Outside in the corridor the detective sergeant stood with the interpreter beside Mr. Frazer’s wheeled chair.
“I suppose you think somebody shot him in the back too?”
“Yes,” Frazer said. “Somebody shot him in the back. What’s it to you?”
“Don’t get sore,” the sergeant said. “I wish I could talk spick.”
“Why don’t you learn?”
“You don’t have to get sore. I don’t get any fun out of asking that spick question. If I could talk spick it would be different.”
“You don’t need to talk Spanish,” the interpreter said. “I’m a very reliable interpreter.”
“Oh, for Chrisake,” the sergeant said. “Well, so long. I’ll come up and see you.”
“Thanks. I’m always in.”
“I guess you are all right. That was bad luck all right. Plenty bad luck.”