But there is another fascination about South Street.
Perhaps there has never been a revolution in Latin America which
has not in some way or other been connected with this street,
whence hundreds of filibustering expeditions have started.
Whenever a dictator is to be overthrown, or half a dozen
chocolate-skinned generals in the Caribbean become dissatisfied
with their portions of gold lace, the arms- and ammunition-dealers
of South Street can give, if they choose, an advance scenario of
the whole tragedy or comic opera, as the case may be. Real war or
opera-bouffe, it is all grist for the mills of these
close-mouthed individuals.
Our quest took us to a ramshackle building reminiscent of the
days when the street bristled with bowsprits of ships from all
over the world, an age when the American merchantman flew our
flag on the uttermost of the seven-seas. On the ground floor was
an apparently innocent junk dealer's shop, in reality the
meeting-place of the junta. By an outside stairway the lofts
above were reached, hiding their secrets behind windows opaque
with decades of dust.
At the door we were met by Torreon and the policeman. Both
appeared to be shocked beyond measure. Torreon was profuse in
explanations which did not explain. Out of the tangled mass of
verbiage I did manage to extract, however, the impression that,
come what might to the other members of the junta, Torreon was
determined to clear his own name at any cost.
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