Rivas, accompanied by Guardias Flores and Girón, ignored the portal of the venerable club, as solidly closed to them as the thick-walled gardens in the neighborhood of the Casa Ordoñez. The three guardias were met at the gates by Guardia Medina, whom the sergeant had sent to search the house an hour earlier, along with his partner. “Nothing yet, sir,” Medina reported. “I’ve asked the servants a few questions, but they clammed up. If you ask me, there’s something suspicious about that. Might be worth pulling in a few just to put the fear of God in them.” Rivas was somewhat annoyed at his subordinate’s casual advice. Medina had, the sergeant thought, a habit of acting as if he was a child of the corps who had grown up in barracks, instead of the shoeless farmworker he had been. “Your orders were to search, not question the servants,” Rivas reminded him. “What have you found so far?” “All foodstuffs are kept in a pantry in the cellar. They look clean but the cook admitted that icemen come in from the mountains every day, so any evidence could have been smuggled out,”
