"I most certainly did. He was a big, clumsy brute in the white linen
suit of a respectable business man and a panama hat. But I'll bet a good
box of Havana cigars that he was a longshoreman or a miner. I know the
type."
Davila looked at Vardieno and Fernandez. A slow grin crept over the
lawyer's face, and then the other two Hermanitos were grinning too. "So
they started, eh?" he said. "Well, don't let that big one worry you too
much. Should he, Don Jose?"
The publisher grunted. "No. Don't worry about that one." Hall could
sense that Fernandez was picking up his cue from the lawyer.
"As a matter of fact," Davila said, "I'll wager that you can find the
picture of the man in the white suit in Don Jose's confidential file on
the Reds. He keeps it in his office in the _Imparcial_ building."
"I would be honored if you visited me in my office," Jose Fernandez said
to Hall.
"Perhaps I can make it this week," Hall said.
"Sst," Davila warned. "Miss Prescott is coming back. Let's change the
subject."
"Of course," Vardieno said. "There is no sense in involving her in
this."
"This is quite a turnout," Hall was saying when Giselle Prescott and
Quinones rejoined the group. "I think that every nation is represented
by its Ambassador here."
"Every nation but Spain," Quinones said. "El Tovarich took care of that
by insulting the Ambassador and the Chief of the Spanish State."
"It's true," Vardieno said. "Spain is a good customer for our nation,
but El Tovarich is so angry at Generalissimo Franco for destroying
communism in the Motherland that he is deliberately trying to destroy
this trade in order to get even with Franco."
"He not only insulted Spain," Quinones said. "In his speech to the
University, El Tovarich said that only the so-called fascists in San
Hermano supported Franco."
"Sounds like our pinkos back home," Giselle Prescott said to Hall.
Fernandez exploded. "I am a good Catholic," he snapped. "I am pious.
During the Civil War I supported Franco. I was proud to support him. I
not only supported Franco, but I was delighted to hail Hitler and
Mussolini as noble allies in the struggle against Jewish Bolshevism. But
am I a fascist? I defy any man to call me a fascist or a Falangist to my
face!"
Davila turned to both Hall and Giselle Prescott. "Now don't jump to any
false conclusions about Don Jose," he smiled. "After all, you Americans
are not Reds because you welcome the godless Russian armies of Stalin as
your allies in this present war, are you?"
"Bull's-eye!" Giselle Prescott laughed. "I'm delighted to hear you both
talk like this. Back home only the Reds and the pinkos were for the
so-called Spanish Loyalists during the war." She opened her tiny purse
and found a leather address book. "Gimme a pencil or a pen, will you,
Hall?"
"Sure. What for?"
"I want to put down what Senor Fernandez and Senor Davila just said
before I forget. I'm doing a piece for a mag and these quotes would just
fit in. May I quote you, gentlemen?"
"I have nothing to conceal," Fernandez said proudly.
Davila was very gracious. "Of course you may use these remarks. But
please don't use Don Jose's name in your article. It might be
misunderstood. You see, Don Jose has many enemies in the Jewish and
radical press in your country."
"On my honor as a Girl Scout," she said, "I'll use the quotes but not
the names."
"You've got quite a story there," Hall said. He was looking into the mob
on the dance floor for a sign of Jerry. Her red hair was not to be
found, but Margaret Skidmore, dancing with a bemedaled diplomat, caught
his eye and gestured that she would join him at the end of that dance.
She took him away from the group in a few minutes and led him toward the
American bar she had rigged up for the party.
"They sure were talking at you for a while," she said. "I could see them
giving it to you with both barrels."
"That they were. What is the lowdown, anyway? Are those boys completely
right about Tabio?"
Margaret was amused. "Oh, they're a gang of hotheads, I warn you. But
nice. I suspect that our friend Giselle is going to find Don Jose
particularly nice."
"Meow!"
"I'm not a cat. I just know Giselle."
"Let's talk about San Hermano politics. I think you know plenty in that
little head of yours."
"Oh, I do. But tonight's a party. I've got to be Daddy's good little
Hostess."
"Like it?"
"Bores me silly," Margaret said.
"Perhaps we can talk some other time?"
"Tomorrow would be swell. I have to go to my place in Juarez early in
the morning. Why don't you come out for lunch? It's a two-hour ride by
train from San Hermano. I think you can make a train at eleven."
"Tomorrow?" Hall hesitated.
"I wish you'd make it," the girl said with a sudden intensity.
"It's a date."
"I'll meet you at the station."
They joined her father and one of the Embassy secretaries at the bar.
Hall had a Cuba Libre, and was introduced to a South American painter.
He listened to the painter talk to the Ambassador about the beauties of
Arizona, watched J. Burton Skidmore gravely shake hands with the painter
and mutter, "_Con mucho gusto_." Then the painter asked Margaret to
dance and, when she left, Hall wandered off to look for Jerry.
He found her at the punch bowl with Ansaldo. "May I ask Miss Olmstead
for this dance?" he asked the doctor.
"Just this one dance," Jerry said, "I'll be right back."
She put her cheek against his, softly hummed the tune the band was
playing.
"It's nice to have you in my arms," he said.
"It's nice to be in your arms."
He held her closer. They danced well together. So well that when Jerry
said it would be better if they did not dance again that night, Hall
made up his mind to leave at once. "I can't hang around and watch you
dancing with Ansaldo all night," he said.
"Why, Massa Hall," she said, "Ah swain Ah do believe you-all are
jealous!"
"Did Duarte give you English lessons in one rumba, too?"
"You're a goof," she laughed.
He took her back to Ansaldo, paid his respects to the Ambassador, and
looked for Duarte. The Mexican was talking to the tall young wife of the
Vichy Ambassador.
"Felipe," Hall tugged at Duarte's sleeve, "I am afraid that I must go
now."
"I'll go with you, if you're alone. Madame, _enchante_ ..." He winked at
Hall as he kissed Madame la Comtesse's hand. "Now we must pay our
respects to our host."
"I already have."
"Come with me while I do. I never miss it. He has kept me from
squandering my money. I bet with myself on him, and I always lose. So
Felipe pays Duarte, and Duarte supports Felipe."
"What the hell are you babbling about now?"
"Your Ambassador. He is an original, Mateo. For three years he draws me
to his parties as a lodestone draws baser metals. In three years, he has
learned exactly three words of Spanish: _'Con mucho gusto_.' Of course
he still says them with a gringo accent, but anyone can recognize what
he means.
"For three years I am waiting for him to learn a new word, any word.
_Si. No. Pan. Mantequilla._ Right now, I'd settle for just one new
word.
"In the beginning, when I was green in the business of diplomacy, I was
younger and more optimistic. Then I would not have settled for a word. I
wanted a whole new phrase. Nothing complicated, you understand. Any
simple phrase would have satisfied me. _Tiene usted un fosforo?_ Or
even--_Donde esta la sala de caballeros?_ But no. Tennyson's brook
burbles forever, and unto eternity J. Burton Skidmore will not learn
more than his three words, and damn it, he won't even learn how to speak
them correctly."
"And you're still betting on him?" Hall asked.
"What can I do?" Duarte said. "We stupid Mexican peons have such a deep
faith in mankind that we are always betrayed."
"Here comes the Ambassador now."
"_Oiga!_" Duarte stopped Skidmore, took his hand, and let loose a stream
of Mexican obscenities, spoken in dulcet, smiling tones. When he paused
for breath, Skidmore smiled genially, bowed slightly from the hips, and
said, "_Con mucho gusto_."
Hall nearly collapsed with laughter when he and Duarte reached the
street. "You bastard," he said, "you'll kill me before my time."
"Let's have a drink before you die."
"Sure. But let's run over to the Bolivar first. I want to see if there's
a message. Besides, we could stand some fresh air."
Duarte agreed. "I saw Fernandez and Vardieno trying to gas you," he
said. "You could use some air."
"You're not kidding, Felipe."
"How do you like the Falange in San Hermano?"
"You mean Fernandez and his friends?"
"Of course. That Pepito Fernandez, there is an _hijo de la chingada_ for
you, Mateo. Once, when he was keeping a woman in Paris ..." and Duarte
was off on a long hilarious story about the publisher and his lady of
the hour. He was still telling the story when they reached the darkened
Plaza de la Republica and Hall suggested that they cut across the
cobbles rather than walk two-thirds of the way around the square.
Hall stepped off the sidewalk and took three steps before he noticed the
large Rolls-Royce bearing down on them with her throttle wide open and
her lights off. "Jump!" he shouted, but Duarte, who saw it first, had
already yanked Hall back to the sidewalk.
"Get behind this pillar, quick!" Duarte had a small pistol in his hand.
He stood watching the Rolls roar across the Plaza and disappear into the
alley leading to the Avenida de la Liberacion.
"It's almost like old times," Hall said.
"He tried to kill you, Mateo."
"Better put your gun away. And we'll have that drink first, I think."
"I'm going to phone for a car from the Mexican Embassy from the next
phone, _chico_. Those bastards weren't playing."
"Put the gun away. It was a bluff."
"You mean you expected it?"
"Hell, no! I didn't think it would take so soon. But they had no
intention of killing me tonight."
"The Arrows?"
"I think so."
Duarte put the gun in his pocket. "I don't understand. It seems a little
too subtle for the Falange. Are you working for your government now?"
"No. They turned me down. They said I was pro-Loyalist during the war.
Right now that makes you a Red in Washington. I'm traveling on my own."
"On your own?"
"I'm well-heeled. My last book sold like hell. So now I'm young Don
Quixote."
"And your Sancho Panza?"
"I have none. Or rather, I have thousands of them. Exiles. Taxi drivers.
Union leaders. Communists. First Secretaries of Mexican Embassies."
"What are you after?"
"The Falange."
"Good. I can help you, _chico_."
"You'll have to. Wait, I'm going into the hotel for a minute. Come on
along. I'll only be a second."
Duarte took a seat in the lobby while Hall talked to Souza. There was
still no letter from Havana, but Souza had some information about the
Renault Androtten had used. "It is a for-hire car owned by the Phoenix
Garage on Reyes Street."
"Can you find out who hired it the other night?"
"That will not be so easy, _Companero_ Hall. The mechanics in the
Phoenix are not union members. But we are trying to reach someone there.
Perhaps by tomorrow we will know."
"There's something else you can find out. Perhaps from the Mechanics
Union. Find out how many Rolls-Royce roadsters there are in San Hermano.
I know it will be hard, but it's important."
"I will try. Must you know soon?"
"Very soon, Fernando. A Rolls-Royce roadster, it was painted black or
dark blue, I think, and just tried to run down Duarte and me in the
Plaza."
Souza made some notes on a slip of paper. "Maybe we can find out
tonight," he said.
"Good. I'll be back in an hour. Is Androtten in his room?"
"No. He's been out all evening."
Duarte knew a quiet little bar a few blocks from the Bolivar. "They call
it a lover's retreat," he said when they got there. "You can see why."
Most of the tables were surrounded with lattice walls, and those tables
which were occupied were monopolized by couples who looked into one
another's eyes and said little.
"There's Ansaldo's _maricon_," Duarte laughed. "In the table at the
back. I know the boy who's with him, too. He's a blue blood from the
Vichy Embassy."
Hall watched Marina and the French boy. They had pink drinks made with
gin and grenadine and raw eggs. The French boy was giggling. "The
bastards," Hall said.
"Sit here and order a Cuba Libre for me," Duarte said. "I'm going to
phone for a car."
Now that the action had begun, Hall felt better. The tension had been
broken. Hands were starting to be shown. Now the moves would come more
quickly, he thought, and they would be more definite in form. Diverse
facts would synthesize, and when the letter came from Havana, perhaps
the whole thing would start to form one pattern.
"We can't talk here," Duarte said. "Let's have a drink and then, when my
car comes, we'll go to my house. I rented a place on the beach."
"Sorry, boy. That's out tonight. Have to stick around the hotel."
"But we should talk, Mateo."
"I'll have breakfast with you at your house. Do you eat in?"
"Sometimes. We'll eat in tomorrow morning."
"Eight o'clock too early?"
"No. I'll get you out of bed, Felipe. Well, here's to Mexico!"
_Chapter seven_
It was not quite six when the phone next to Hall's bed rang and a tired
Souza said, "Your driver is on the way up to your room, Senor."
Hall admitted Pepe a moment later. "What is it?" he asked. Unshaven,
heavy-eyed, the big Asturiano seemed thoroughly upset.
"_Nada_," he said. "It is just time." He went to the window, locked the
shutters, and held his finger to his lips. With his other hand, he first
pointed to Ansaldo's room and then to his ear.
"Oh," Hall said, raising his voice. "Thank you for waking me. Sit down
and have a smoke while I dress." He gave Pepe a pencil and a sheet of
paper.