Free Flames Coming out of the Top by Norman Collins

able to shift it.”
    Dunnett crossed over and began examining a crate entitled
Tinned fruits assorted 2 cwt
. It was not yet unpacked, and the whole crate was still roped up. One corner of the case, however, was damaged, as though someone had diligently and maliciously attempted to prise it open. He had just bent down to examine it, when he was aware of a looming bulk of flesh just behind him.
    â€œDo our things usually arrive in that condition?” Dunnett asked.
    â€œSometimes,” Señor Muras answered. “For months we have no trouble and then, for no reason, they damage the boxes in unshipping them. Of course we complain. We make protests. But there is nothing really that can be done about it. It is the native stevedores. They are savages.”
    Dunnett was about to walk to the far end of the warehouse when Señor Muras stopped him.
    â€œAnd now, if you will permit me,” he said, “we’ll go back to the office. I wish to introduce you to the staff.”
    Señor Muras led the way across the courtyard. For a man of his weight he moved astonishingly fast: he swayed from side to side on his little feet like a seal. Dunnett followed in his shadow. There was certainly no appearance of a trade depression at the Compañia Muras. At the gates, a large lorry was unloading large square cases of something heavy, the toothless negro making futile, passionate efforts to assist; and between the various buildings there were constant comings and goings. Altogether a note of activity and business hung in the air. From one of the outer depots there came the steady sound of sawing and hammering as though a labour corps were building crates and packing them against time; and from anearby window came the fierce clatter of typewriters. Señor Muras opened the door in the main building and stood inside for Dunnett to precede him: they were back in his private office again.
    Whilst they had been away someone had served drinks. On a small table in front of the divan now stood a vacuum jug of iced water, a dish of limes, a couple of siphons. A large bottle of gin stood beside them. Señor Muras’s eye brightened at the sight.
    â€œYou’ll drink a gin-fizz with me,” he said. “It’s the best thing there is in this climate. In Spain, sherry; in England, whisky-and-soda; in France, champagne; in Germany lager beer. But, in South America, gin-fizz.” He spoke reverently, as though he had just uttered some quintessential philosophy, something which summed up in a few simple words the inner secrets of nations.
    â€œNo, really, thank you. Not if I’m going to work afterwards.” Dunnett ran his hand across his forehead. Small beads of moisture made a line from temple to temple. The gin-fizz looked cool and tempting, but he resisted it.
    Señor Muras, however, ignored him. He bent over the table for a moment, breathing heavily from the exertion of stooping, and then straightened himself slowly and laboriously. He had two glasses in his hand and gave one of them to Dunnett. “No gin to speak of in that,” he said reassuringly. “Just a little lime and soda to wet the throat.” He passed the glass to Dunnett and allowed himself to collapse gradually onto a chair. He took a slow, appreciative drink and turned once more to Dunnett.
    â€œYou’re not smoking your cigar,” he said. “Is it not to your liking?”
    Dunnett twisted the thing in his fingers and looked at it. “It’s all right,” he said at length. “It’s only that I don’t happen to feel much like smoking.”
    â€œYou have a strong head for cigars,” Señor Muras remarked. “I smoke only the mildest myself. Perpetually a cigar, but only of the lightest.”
    â€œI suppose this is rather a heavy one,” Dunnett admitted.
    â€œIt is an evening cigar,” Señor Muras remarked reprovingly. “To smoke it in the morning is like drinking