ce to release them.

The arrests, however, scared the wits out of the ministers, and their
horror was not lessened when they discovered that the letters from the
fascist organizations had vanished from their files. They wouldn't
even answer the telephone when one of the released fascist leaders
called. It was then that the Mexican fascists decided to send a
special messenger to Francisco Franco in Spain (November 30, 1937)
with the request that Franco intercede to get money from Hitler to
help overthrow Cardenas, since the Nazi minister was too scared to
cooperate. The special messenger was Fernando Ostos Mora. He never got
there.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] In May, 1938, Cedillo launched an abortive rebellion and is now
being hunted by the Mexican government.

[5] After Cedillo's defeat von Merck fled to New York and went to
Germany.

V

_Surrounding the Panama Canal_

There is a little shirt shop in Colon, Panama, on Calle 10a between
Avenida Herrera and Avenida Amador Guerrero, whose red and black
painted shingle announces that Lola Osawa is the proprietor.

Across the street from her shirt shop, where the red light district
begins, is a bar frequented by natives, soldiers and sailors. Tourists
seldom go there, for it is a bit off the beaten track. In front of the
bar is a West Indian boy with a tripod and camera with a telescopic
lens. He never photographs natives, and wandering tourists pass him
by, but he is there every day from eight in the morning until dark.
His job is to photograph everyone who shows an undue interest in the
little shirt shop and particularly anyone who enters or leaves it.
Usually he snaps your picture from across the street, but if he misses
you he darts across and waits to take another shot when you come out.

I saw him take my picture when I entered the store. It was almost high
noon and Lola was not yet up. The business upon which she and her
husband are supposed to depend for a living was in the hands of two
giggling young Panamanian girls who sat idly at two ancient Singer
sewing machines.

"You got shirts?" I asked.

Without troubling to rise and wait on me, they pointed to a glass case
stretched across the room and barring quick entrance to the shop
proper. I examined the assortment in the case, counting a total of
twenty-eight shirts.

"I don't especially like these," I said. "Got any others?"

"No more," one of them giggled.

"Where's Lola?"

"Upstairs," the other