"About one."
"Good. I'd like to join you. But I'll still have time to stop off at the
Bolivar to change and pick up my mail. I'm expecting a letter from my
sweetheart."
* * * * *
Pepe was waiting in his cab in front of the Bolivar. He was contrite and
subdued. "I nearly killed you with my stupidity, Mateo," he said. "I
should have known that cafe was owned by Falangistas."
"It's nothing, Pepe. I had it coming to me. I'm all over it now, anyway.
What's new?"
"I have the complete list of where the passengers from the _Marques de
Avillar_ are staying. Their names, too. Except the names of the two men
who are at the Gamburdo ranch. But they are still there."
"Did you recognize any of the names?"
"My friends are examining the lists now. I'll have them back for you in
the evening."
"Have you seen Duarte?"
"I told him about you. He wants you to call him at the Mexican Embassy."
"I will, later. I have to go to my room for a minute, and then I want
you to take me to the American Embassy. I'm having lunch there." He
entered the hotel and asked for his mail at the desk. There was a
message from Jerry, a short gossipy note from his publisher, and another
love letter from Havana.
The note from Jerry was very short. "I missed you, you dog," it said.
"Phone me when you return to town. Jerry."
The letter from Havana, mailed the day after the first letter, was
almost a duplicate of the first. Again it protested its love, but this
time it said, "How many times must I tell you that the man you think is
your rival is unworthy of all human decencies? Far from being a rival in
my eyes, I look upon him as a creature worse than an assassin. You must
believe me; I detest the man." Hall put the letter in his wallet.
He examined his room carefully. It had not been searched, the
stethoscope was still in its hiding place, his clothes were just as he
had left them. Everything was as it had been. Hall took out his portable
typewriter, copied the _El Imparcial_ story which had been killed, and
sealed the copy in an envelope. He went downstairs, got into the cab,
and slipped the envelope into Pepe's pocket.
"Give the envelope to Dr. Gonzales," he said. "And tell him to get the
information to Major Segador right away."
"I'll drive right out to the doctor as soon as I leave you. Shall I wait
for you outside of the American Embassy after I see the doctor?"
"I think you'd better."
Ambassador Skidmore seemed pleased to see Hall. "You gave us quite a
scare, young fellow," he said, his ruddy face beaming, white hair
bobbing as Skidmore shook his head from side to side in mock anxiety.
"Ah, you newspaper boys," he laughed. "Always going off on a tear when
you are least expected to! And here poor Joe Fernandez was so sure that
the Reds had made hamburger out of you, Hall."
"I'm sorry I spoiled a good story," Hall said. "I'd better call
Fernandez on the phone before he sends out another alarm."
"No need to, my boy," the Ambassador said. "Joe Fernandez is joining us
at lunch."
Fernandez showed up with a former Senator, a dignified old dandy named
Rios, who sported a silver-headed cane, a waxed, dyed mustache, and a
Cross and Sword emblem in his lapel. They shared the table in the
Ambassador's small private dining room with Hall, Orville Smith and the
Ambassador.
The publisher fawned over Hall like a long-lost brother. "You are safe,"
he exclaimed. "Thanks be to the Virgin Mother! What happened? Was it
very bad?"
"I got drunk," Hall said. "That's all that happened."
"Ridiculous, Senor Hall! You are a man who can take his drink. You were
drugged. Mark my words, senor, you were drugged. You don't know these
Reds."
Orville Smith winked broadly at Hall. "The main thing is," he said to
Fernandez, "that Hall is safe now. I'm sure he appreciates your concern,
Don Jose." In deference to the Ambassador's three-word Spanish
vocabulary, Smith and the others spoke English. Rios, who spoke only
Spanish, sat between Skidmore and Smith, who acted as their interpreter.
"What province did you represent in the Senate?" Hall asked the former
Senator.
"San Martin, in the north."
"Don Joaquin is a great statesman," Fernandez interrupted. "But when El
Tovarich prepared his gangsters for the elections two years ago, he
armed the Red miners and they held their guns in the ribs of Don
Joaquin's majority."
Hall listened to Smith translate this account of Rios' defeat at the
polls before he spoke. "And do you plan to run again, Senor Rios?" he
asked.
Fernandez answered for the dandy. "He will run again," he shouted, "and
he will be elected. Fire can fight fire. Guns can fight guns."
"I have _pantalones_," Rios said. "I am a man of honor."
"Don Joaquin's constituents demand that he runs again," Fernandez said.
He turned to the Ambassador, became his own translator. The ex-Senator
nodded happily at every word Fernandez addressed to the Ambassador, as
if by nodding he could bolster the words whose meaning he had to guess.
"How do you think things will go in Congress today?" Hall asked
Fernandez.
"The same as every year, Senor Hall. Ceremonials, the speech, and
then--_quien sabe_?"
Rumors rose from the table. Everyone had a choice rumor to air. Rios had
it on good authority that Tabio's illness was merely a pretext; the
President was afraid to face the Congress lest they force him to justify
his wild socialistic measures which had put the national budget in such
dire peril. Orville Smith informed the men at the table that Tabio's
illness had taken a more serious turn. "In fact, I understand that Dr.
Ansaldo has informed the government that he will refuse to operate on
Tabio without the written permission of the Cabinet." Fernandez spoke of
Ansaldo's skill as a surgeon.
"How about Gamburdo's speech, Joe?" the Ambassador said. "You promised
to bring me an advance copy."
"I told my secretary to bring it to you as soon as it arrived,"
Fernandez answered. "It is very late in arriving today."
"Have you any idea of what he is going to say, Joe?"
"He is a very sound man," Fernandez said. "I am sure that the speech
will be satisfactory."
"It won't call for the nationalization of the mines, at any rate," Smith
added.
He made the mistake of translating his remark for Joaquin Rios. He might
just as well have dropped a match into a keg of gunpowder. The wax
mustaches under the purpling nose of ex-Senator Rios began quivering
even before he unleashed an avalanche of ringing livid paragraphs on the
subject. His eyes blind to the cold stares of Jose Fernandez, he
unlimbered his heaviest verbal artillery, pounded the table until the
glasses rattled, pointed accusing fingers at every corner of the room,
and otherwise managed rather effectively to end the luncheon. Fernandez
fairly had to drag him out of the Embassy to cool him down.
"Fine fellows," Skidmore said to Hall when they were gone. "Best of the
lot down here."
"Sure," Hall said. "I've known all about Fernandez for years."
"He's a great guy, Hall. Publishes one of the best newspapers on the
continent. As a matter of cold fact, old man, I wouldn't be at all
surprised if he won the--well, he might be in for a rather high honor."
"I know. The Cabot Prize."
"Who told you?"
Hall looked at Smith, who was growing uncomfortable. "I can't remember,"
he said. "But it's hard to keep such a secret in San Hermano."
"Well, I'll be damned," the Ambassador laughed. "It was nice to see you
again, old man. Drop in any time when you have a problem."
"Problems in San Hermano? Things seem to be pretty much under control,
I'd say."
"Yes," the Ambassador admitted. "Things are pretty quiet."
"Will it be as quiet when Tabio dies? I heard talk that the Gamburdo
crowd is pretty close to the fascists."
"Gamburdo?" Skidmore grew both amused and indignant. "What kind of
communistic nonsense have you been hearing? I know Eduardo Gamburdo
intimately. I've entertained him at the Embassy, and I've week-ended at
his estate. He's a fine conservative influence on this government and,
damn it all, young man, Gamburdo is a thorough gentleman."
"Yeah," Hall said. "Thorough." For a few seconds, during the luncheon,
he had toyed with the idea of telling the Ambassador all that he knew
about Gamburdo and Ansaldo and the role of the Falange. Now he cursed
himself for a fool. Skidmore, he saw, was Orville Smith at sixty, but
with the power to make trouble for any visiting American who rubbed
against his deep-set prejudices. "Well, thanks for everything," he said.
"I guess you're pretty busy today."
Hall rushed out of the Embassy, his face twitching crazily as he charged
down the marble walk to the curb. He had broken into a heavy sweat which
drenched him from head to toe. "Get me out of here," he roared at Pepe.
"Get going before I kill someone."
"What happened?" Pepe asked.
"Nothing. Where are we going?"
"Nowhere. What's the matter with your face?"
"Nothing." He put his hand against his right cheek. "Nothing. Did you
see Gonzales?"
"I gave him the letter. He said you should go to the opening of Congress
today. He says you might be surprised."
"Thanks. I had my surprise for the day already."
"Gonzales was serious. He says you should go. It starts at four
o'clock."
"All right. I'll go. Better take me to Gobernacion. I'll need a pass
from the Press Bureau. No, wait, let's go to Duarte's place. He takes
his siesta at this time. I'll call that Vardieno bitch from his place."
Hall opened his tie. "Have we time to stop for a beer?" he asked. "I'm
dying for a drink."
"No. We might miss Duarte. He'll have beer for you."
Pepe was right. Duarte did have beer, and had they stopped on the way,
they would have missed him. He was about to leave the house when they
arrived. Duarte was wearing the green dress uniform of a Mexican
lieutenant-colonel, to which he had pinned his Spanish medals and
insignia.
"Going to war?" Hall asked.
"No. To the opening of Congress."
"You've got time."
"Hall is dying," Pepe said. "He needs cold beer."
The Mexican brought out five bottles of beer. "I've got more in the ice
box," he said. "What's the matter?"
"He wants to kill someone," Pepe said.
"Me too. What of it?"
Hall put the mouth of the opened bottle to his lips, tilted his head
back. "God," he said, "Pepe is right. Let me make one phone call, and
then I'll spill it. I've got to get it off my chest before I blow the
top."
He reached the Vardieno girl on the phone. She was so sorry. The lists
had all gone down to the Hall of Congress. Anyway, all requests for
foreign writers had to come through their embassies. That was the Press
Chief's new ruling.
"That's fine. That settles it," Hall said when he put the phone away.
"Now I must ask the Ambassador to approve me for the press gallery."
"Sit down, Mateo," Duarte said. "I can wait a full hour if necessary."
He put a bottle of cold beer into Hall's hand. "Tell us about it."
"I'll wait outside," Pepe said.
"No. Stay with us, Pepe. I want you to know the facts. Do you both
remember that I was waiting for a letter from Havana? Well, I got it.
Two letters, in fact. They told me what I wanted to know about Ansaldo."
He drained the second bottle and then told them what had happened to him
at the Embassy.
"Don't bother with him," Duarte said. "You don't need his permission.
I'll give you my diplomatic invitation and my carnet. The uniform is all
I need to get through the gates. You'll sit in the diplomatic gallery
with me."
"Great."
"You can even act as Skidmore's interpreter."
"_Con mucho gusto!_"
* * * * *
Riding to the Hall of Congress, Duarte drew Hall's attention to the loud
speakers fastened to the poles in every plaza. "The government has
bought over a hundred speakers in the past two weeks," he said. "I know,
because most of them were bought in California and I had to O.K. their
transit duty-free through Mexico. I think our friend Gamburdo is up to
something today."
Hall looked at a knot of grim-faced _Hermanitos_ standing under one of
the speakers. "I think the people suspect it too."
"We couldn't get an advance copy of the speech at the Embassy, Mateo.
Usually, Tabio releases advance copies to the press and the diplomatic
corps on the morning of the speech."
"I wonder why?"
"I can only suspect the worst. After the speech, can you come back to
the house with me? I want to hear what happened to you. Commander New
called me this morning and told me that he had asked the police to
investigate Fielding's death."
"What? On the phone?"
"Yes."
"Oh, the damned idiot! Now even if the police are not fixed every damned
fascist in South America knows that the Fielding thing went wrong!"
"It's too late for cursing now. Let's talk about the whole picture after
the speech."
The plaza facing the Hall of Congress was filling up with citizens who
had come to hear the speech over the public-address system. Scattered
through the crowds were men carrying signs reading "_Viva_ Eduardo
Gamburdo." Duarte pointed them out.
"Every one a Cross-and-Sword ruffian," he said. "I used to see the same
faces while the Falange was legal. They then wore the blue shirt."
"I can't see their faces," Hall said.
"I've seen their faces. Three months ago Lombardo came to San Hermano to
address the C.T.A.L. convention. The same gang showed up with their
filthy signs, only this time the signs read: '_Viva_ Christ the King'
and 'Go back to Bolshevik Mexico, you Dirty Jew' and 'Down with the
Commune of the anti-Christ' and other lovely things. I know them."
"Something is happening," Duarte said when they were in the building.
"Everyone is too quiet." They followed a military escort to the Mexican
box.
The Mexican Ambassador was tense. "I don't like it," he said to Hall and
Duarte. "Why is everyone so quiet on the rostrum?"
"They look as if they've seen a ghost," Hall said.
Duarte studied the faces of the officials on the flag-decked rostrum.
"Where's Gamburdo?" he said. "Has anyone seen him?"
"I saw his car parked outside when I came in," the Ambassador said.
"What's that? Do you hear it, Mateo?"
"Sounds like distant thunder, Felipe."
"It's not thunder. It's the crowd. What have they got to cheer about?"
"Gamburdo's cheer leaders must have gone to work."
"I don't like it," the Mexican Ambassador said. "I don't like it."
A gavel fell on a block. At a signal from the President of the Senate, a
military band hidden in one of the caucus rooms began to play the
national anthem. The music was piped in to the great hall over the
public-address system.
The gavel called the Congress to order. A clerk called the roll, the
Senate head started the parliamentary ritual. Then the band started to
play the national anthem again, this time without a signal. A door
behind the rostrum opened.
In the doorway, flanked by his two young sons, Anibal Tabio sat in a
wheel chair. His closest friend, Esteban Lavandero, the Minister of
Education, stood behind him. Slowly, the chair was wheeled to the
rostrum.
"Members of the Congress," the Senate Chief shouted, "The President of
the nation has come to deliver his annual address."
_Chapter ten_
There were two shouts. On the floor, one of the Senators screamed "_Viva
La Republica!_" At the same moment a young voice in the press gallery
yelled, "_Viva_ Don Anibal Tabio!" and in the great hall every man
sprang to his feet. The low distant thunder of the crowds in the Plaza
had now swelled to a roar whose joyous overtones poured into the Hall of
Congress through the doors, the windows, the steel and marble walls
themselves. Senators and Deputies of the Popular Front Parties were the
first in the hall to find their voices. "_Viva_ Don Anibal!" they
shouted, applauding wildly, laughing, yelling, embracing one another,
wondering if the tears in their eyes could be seen by their colleagues.
The anti-Tabio Congressmen remained on their feet, their hands moving in
the motions of applause, their hearts cold and sick. Somehow, Eduardo
Gamburdo had found his former place on the rostrum, was now standing and
applauding with the other people in the hall. The signals had been
crossed. The dead President had come to life. Anibal Tabio was sitting
before the chromium microphone, serene and unmoving, his paralyzed legs
neatly covered with a light Indian blanket.
Outside, the crowd had begun to sing the national anthem. The
legislators, the reporters, many of the Latin American diplomats in the
visitors' gallery took up the words. Hall glanced at his neighbors.
Tears flowed down the cheeks of Duarte and his chief. A few rows away,
Skidmore and Orville Smith, correctly dressed in formal afternoon wear,
stood stiffly at attention, their eyes firmly riveted to the strange
tableau of Tabio and his entourage.
Someone thrust a huge bouquet of orange and blue mountain flowers at the
invalid in the wheel chair. His son Diego accepted the flowers, laid
them tenderly on an empty chair. Diego at fifteen was heavier than his
father had ever been, darker, more like an Indian peasant than the son
of Anibal Tabio. His brother Simon, who now accepted the second bouquet,
was an eighteen-year-old replica of Don Anibal himself. Tall, lithe, he
had the same fair brown hair, the same thin spiritual face as the
father. Lavandero, standing behind Tabio's chair, had the dark, brooding
face of a Moor. His shock of black hair started at the peak of a high,
broad forehead; his large black mustache failed to dominate his thick,
strong lips. He was rubbing a hairy fist in his eyes and talking softly
to Tabio.
The President, at fifty-three, seemed to have aged ten years since Hall
had last seen him. His hair had turned gray, and everything about him
was thinner than ever before in his life. In Geneva, Hall had always
wondered what would have happened to the thin, delicate frame of Anibal
Tabio in a tropical hurricane. Now, even from the gallery, Hall could
see that Tabio had grown so thin that the high cheek bones which had
always marked his slender face now stuck out like two sharp points,
almost burying the deep-set gray eyes. Tabio sat quietly in his wheel
chair, smiling at friends on the floor, looking first to Diego then to
Simon, gently patting the hand of his older son when the boy put his
hand on the father's fragile shoulder.
The ovation continued when the singing of the national anthem was
completed. Tabio turned to Lavandero, whispered a few words. The
Minister of Education held his hands, palms out, toward the assemblage.
"Please," he said. "Please."
Guests and legislators took their seats. In another room, a drummer
dropped his cymbal on the floor. It rent the sudden silence of the great
hall, and then its echoes were stilled.
Anibal Tabio squeezed the hands of his sons, drew a deep breath, and
faced the microphone before him.
"My countrymen," he said, "this is the third year in which I have had
the honor of addressing you at this solemn hour. A week ago, I would
have said that my chances of preaching my own funeral sermon were better
than my chances of opening this, the fifteenth free Congress of our
beloved Republic.
"But since then ..." he leaned forward, his long chin jutting
pugnaciously forward as he gasped for breath, "since then many things
have come to my ears. I have heard rumors. Strange and disturbing rumors
about what was going to happen today. I need not repeat these rumors to
you. You have all heard them."
Hall looked at Skidmore's face as Smith translated Tabio's words.
"Yes, you have heard them. When they came to my ears," Tabio said, "I
thought: What is happening? Who dares to challenge the mandate of the
people? Who dares to speak of perverting the will of the people? It was
then that I knew, as never before, that a President's place is with the
people. If I could sit up in my bed and talk this way to my sons, to my
dear friend Esteban Lavandero, then I could sit up in this chair before
you, the chosen representatives of the people.
"My good friends, this may be the last time I will ever speak to
you ..."
Shouts of "No!" rang all over the hall.
"Hear me, friends. Hear me and mark well what I say. Once this nation
honored me with the post of Minister of Foreign Affairs. As your
Minister, I crossed the ocean. I went to Geneva. I went to Spain, from
where we have derived so much of our culture, our language, so much of
our personality as a people.
"We are today a free people, not the colonial vassals we were in the
days of Imperial Spain. But Spain, too, had become a free nation in
1931. I saw the free Spain at the hour of her birth, when the hated
Bourbon heard the voice of Spain's millions at the ballot and fled to
the empty pleasures of a decaying society abroad. I also saw the free
Spain in the hours of her agony. It was at that hour that I beheld for
the first time the ugly bloodless face of fascism.
"It is a cold, metallic, impersonal face, my countrymen, the face of an
Agusto Segura grown to superhuman power, the maniacal face of a mad
killer who suddenly finds all the world's horrible instruments of
destruction in his idiot hands. I saw this beast grow strong on the
blood of free men, and I wept for a gallant people who, for a few brief
moments, had presumed to control their own destinies.
"Yes," Tabio said, his hand pointing across an ocean, "yes, I wept for
Spain, but through my tears I began to see my own native land, saw my
own people enjoying this precious freedom. And at that moment I knew
that I must dedicate whatever remained of my life to doing all that was
in my power as a man and as a citizen to keep the beast of fascism from
gorging on our young Republic.
"I have fought that fight to this very moment. But more important than
anything I have done has been the magnificent unity of our peoples in
their determination to struggle against fascism in all of its black
forms. It has not been the President who has led the people in this
great crusade. No, my countrymen. It has been the people who have
created and given their mandate to the President, to the Congress."
Tabio had never learned a single orator's trick. As a statesman, he
retained all the speaking habits he had originally formed during his
early years as a young professor of history at the university. Teaching,
he once explained, was the process of thinking aloud. And at this
moment, in what he guessed would be his last speech to the nation,
Anibal Tabio returned to the concepts which had gone into his great book
on the relationships of people to government in modern democracy. For
the better part of thirty minutes, he explored these relationships
again. After all these years, the professor was back in class, patiently
expounding his ideas to a new set of faces.
"Well, that is the state and the people. I have not told you anything
new. You have heard this all before from me." Tabio was laughing softly,
and at himself. "But that is what happens when the people elect a
pedantic professor as their President. Instead of a speech, they get a
long, dry lecture."
Tabio paused, frowned at the people who sat hushed in the hall. "Have
you forgotten how to laugh?" he asked. A few loyal followers tried to
laugh. "Good," Tabio said.
"But I am not finished, my countrymen. I have spoken of the ideal
democratic state. Many of us like to feel that we have achieved this
state. That perfection is ours. This is dangerous thinking. Of course,
we are not as imperfect as a certain newspaper in San Hermano and a
certain organization which has usurped the symbol of brotherly love as
its emblem"--this time he drew some real laughter--"we are not as
imperfect as they would have you believe.
"But even if we were the most perfect state in the world, today this
would mean very little. Our chances of surviving, of progressing until
the Republic of Man became even more attractive than the Kingdom of God,
our chances of surviving at all would still be obscured. If our nation
were some remote island in the skies, whirling on its own axis, remote
from all other lands, perhaps then I would have no fears for our future.
"We are not this remote planet unto ourselves. We share a world with a
hundred nations, a thousand races. I do not regret that we are part of
this world. I think we should rejoice in our membership in the world's
family of races. But we must not lose sight of the fact that our nation,
no less than any other nation, be it free or fascist, is part of this
strange family.
"We must never forget that the great war which started in unhappy Spain
in July, 1936, was not a war between good and evil in Spain alone. It
was a war not of two Spanish ideas but of two fundamental world ideas.
It was the start of the universal death struggle between the slave-world
ideas of fascism and the free-world ideas of political and economic
democracy. It was the start of the fascist war against freedom that has
now spread all over the world."
Tabio glanced at his two sons. He accepted a glass of water, smiling at
the legislators in the front rows as he drank. "Freedom," he said, "is
there a man who does not know the meaning of the word?" Before he
returned to the theme of the world war which had started in Spain, he
explored the full meaning of freedom in modern times. It was only after
he had delivered a profound essay on freedom which shook Matthew Hall
until the American felt a lump rising in his throat that Tabio picked up
the earlier threads.
"In Spain, then, the forces of freedom suffered a heavy loss. But what
of those small men with narrow little minds who held the reins of so
much of the world's power while Spain bled? What of these tiny
statesmen, these sleek somnambulists who held lace handkerchiefs before
their narrow mouths and laughed while fascism marched in Spain? What of
these wretches who, through the immoral instrument called
non-intervention, sought to end freedom in Spain in the criminal
conviction that the blood of Spain alone would satisfy the fascist
beast?
"History was not long in giving the lie to these gentry. The beast who
had whetted his insatiable appetite in Spain now started almost
immediately to claw at the world. It was in April of 1939 that Madrid
fell. By September the beast belched and turned on the very creatures
who had covertly and overtly helped him subdue Spain."
That Tabio had not raised his voice at this point, that he in fact spoke
more softly, accentuated all the more the scorn and the anger in his
heart.
"Nations have fallen to the beast," he continued. "Nations of meager
freedom, like Poland. Nations of great and traditional freedom, like
France. The war has spread over the world like a Biblical plague. Russia
could not escape it. Nor could our great sister Republic, the United
States.
"Yes, North Americans now have felt the pain, the anguish, the power of
Axis treachery. No nation can escape this war.
"My countrymen, we are not an island in the skies. We are a sovereign
nation in the same world, on the same earth, in the same waters, sharing
the same era as the United States, England, Russia and China. It is not
for us to choose whether or not we can stay out of this war. That choice
the world does not permit us. Our only choice is the determination of
what our role must be in this war.
"There has been strange talk in our land lately. There has been strange
and deceitful talk of neutrality. Has it not occurred to any of you that
those in our midst who howl the loudest for neutrality, who show such a
sudden concern for the lives and safety of the humblest Indian peasant,
that these pious seekers after neutrality have never before worn the
white dove on their family escutcheons? Who are these peaceful gentlemen
who grow pale in the presence of bloodshed? Are they not the same
persons who as young men were proud to be officers in the armies of
Segura, who laughed and drank as they ruthlessly shot down defenseless
miners in the northern provinces?
"Who are these sudden pacifists in our Republic? Are they not the very
devout gentlemen who sent money and rum and cigars to the fascists in
Spain during the Spanish phase of this war? Are they not the very men
who sent cables of homage to Hitler and Mussolini after the shame of
Munich? Are they not the very men who even now wear the medals of Nazi
Germany, of Blackshirt Italy, of Falangist Spain--who wear these medals
proudly while they chortle over the blood of dying Russians on the
Eastern Front, of dying Americans on the Bataan peninsula?"
Tabio stopped. His eyes searched the press gallery, then fixed on Jose
Fernandez. He pointed a graceful hand at the publisher of _El
Imparcial_.
"I ask you," he said, "are they not the very men who write in their
papers that Adolf Hitler, whatever be his alleged faults, is waging a
holy crusade on behalf of Christian civilization against Marxist
atheism?"
Tabio continued looking at Fernandez, but Lavandero shot a fierce scowl
at Ambassador Skidmore, who seemed bewildered and unhappy as Smith
translated Tabio's questions. The Ambassador, too, had seen the object
of Tabio's shaft. Angry, uneasy laughter broke out on the floor. A cry
of "Long live the United Nations!" from one of the Popular Front
deputies was immediately answered with the shout "Long live Christ the
King" from the public gallery.
The President, who had heard both shouts, turned to the gallery. "Who
are these neutrals?" he asked. "Are they not the same fascists who hope
to fool God by casting their fascist swords in the image of the Cross of
Jesus? Are they not the fanatics who, rather than see the Axis beast
destroyed, would first destroy the freedom and the dignity of their own
land?
"They lie. There can be no neutrals in this world war. He who calls
himself a neutral is either a fool or a fascist. And the fine gentlemen
who prate of neutrality are very clever men."
The Popular Front Congressmen rose to their feet, applauding and adding
to the din with their shouts of agreement. They were joined by a few of
the independents. The delegates of the rightist coalition remained in
their seats, their arms folded across their chests. But they were not
quiet. As the ovation for Tabio continued, loud cries came from the
ranks of the men who kept their seats. "Down with atheism!" shouted one
rightist Senator. "We have no quarrel with any other nation!" another
yelled. "We will not die for Godless Russia!"
"Long live democracy!" a Popular Front deputy answered. "Long live the
anti-fascist United Nations!"
Esteban Lavandero pleaded with the Congress for silence.
"My countrymen," Tabio said, "there can be no neutrality in this war.
There is one official neutral in Europe. His name is Francisco Franco.
We all know what this hypocritical neutrality really is; how it shields
the vile aid that fascist Spain is lending to the Axis. But this is as
it should be. Franco is a fascist, and today fascism must triumph all
over the world or be crushed forever.
"But what of our own nation, what of the twenty nations of Hispanic
America in this war? What is our stake in this world struggle?
"If the Axis wins this war, we, like all other nations, must of
necessity lose our political freedom. And if we once lose our political
democracy, we must begin again the long, bitter struggle to win it once
more before we can even begin to dream of creating an era of economic
democracy.
"If the United Nations win, if world fascism is crushed forever, a new
world era of economic democracy must begin at once. It will not come
easily. The defeat of the Axis will not immediately bring in its wake
the millennium. It will, however, give the common people of the world
the final realization of their great power. In this lies the inherent
strength of political democracy. For democracy is not a static thing. It
can grow and bring in the era of economic democracy, or it can falter
and give way to fascism.
"The common people of the world, today fighting and dying behind the
banners of the United Nations, have served notice on history that they
will not rest until fascism has been swept from the face of this earth."
Tabio was now speaking with both arms raised, his hands reaching out to
everyone. "My countrymen, I have said enough. I know that I have spoken
the thoughts that are uppermost in the minds of that great majority of
our citizens who have given their mandate to you and to me. In a week,
you will have to frame the mandate for the delegation which will speak
for our Republic at the forthcoming conference of the nations of the
Americas. Speak out! Speak out honestly, speak out openly. Speak as the
spokesmen of a democracy. Speak as the citizens of the embattled united
democracies of the entire world must speak at this hour. Speak for the
free men of the free world. Speak firmly, for you will be speaking not
only for the future of our own Republic but for the future of all
mankind."
The Cuban Ambassador, whose seat was nearest the podium, crossed the
plush rail and rushed to Tabio's wheel chair. He fell to his knees,
embraced the President. In a flash, Eduardo Gamburdo left his own place
and copied the Cuban's gesture. The rostrum became crowded with
dignitaries bent on paying the same homage to Anibal Tabio. The envoys
of the Latin American democracies, the delegates of the Free French and
the Spanish Republican juntas, the leaders of the trade unions and the
chiefs of the Popular Front parties milled around the wheel chair as the
pro-democrats in the hall added their voices to the cheers of the crowds
in the Plaza. Duarte, his soft raspy words choked and unintelligible,
embraced Hall.
Lavandero was pulling the wheel chair back toward the door of the
Speaker's Chamber. The well-wishers of the President followed him into
the room. For a moment, the people in the auditorium applauded the blank
door through which Tabio had vanished. Then young Simon Tabio returned
to pick up the flowers on the chair, and his father's supporters cheered
louder, punctuating their cheers with cries of "Long live Don Anibal!"
The youth streaked into the room behind the platform.
"Let's get out of here," Hall said.
"I've got to go to my office," Duarte said. "I have to prepare a report
on the speech. Join me, and then we can talk."
"Pepe can drive us over."
"No one drives today," Duarte said when they reached the visitors'
doorway.
The streets were jammed thick with people. Hall had never seen so many
people in San Hermano before. It was as if every house, every building
in the university, every shop, every wharf, every school had been turned
inside out and its people poured out into the streets. Whole families in
their best clothes, trolley drivers in their work uniforms, longshoremen
in their dungarees, even peasants from the other side of Monte Azul in
their brown-cotton trousers and their broad-brimmed straw hats milled
along the sidewalks, the pavements, the Plaza, the trolley tracks. Cars,
taxis, trucks, wagons, trolleys were parked crazily all over the place.
Pepe, like a hundred other drivers within a block of the Hall of
Congress, was standing on top of his car, waving the flag of the
Republic, shouting, "Long live the United Nations! Long live Don Anibal!
Long live the Republic!"
Crowds formed around each parked vehicle, joined the cries of the
drivers. The roofs of the trolleys were jammed with groups of students
and motormen waving flags or the banners of their student societies and
their unions. Thousands of Hermanitos, kids in overalls, housewives,
lawyers, shopkeepers wandered through the crowds with framed portraits
of Anibal Tabio which an hour ago had hung from the walls of their
homes, their offices, their shops. The pictures of Tabio ranged from
formal photographs and oil paintings to crude charcoal drawings and
pictures torn from the daily press.
Hall and Duarte made their way to Pepe's sedan. When he saw them, he put
the flag in his left hand and with his right hand he pointed to
something on the ground on the opposite side of the car. "Look!" Pepe
shouted. "Down here!"
A pile of torn Cross-and-Sword placards lay on the cobbles inside a ring
of laughing young Hermanitos who were urinating on the signs. Some of
the boys in this ring showed signs of having been in a fight.
"The fascists ran away," Pepe laughed. "Don Anibal's speech split their
filthy ears."
"I'll see you later," Hall told Pepe.
"Wait!" Pepe shouted. He leaned over the side of his cab. "Boy," he
said, "boy, where is that flag for the American _companero_? That's the
one. Thank you, boy." He lay down on his belly, stretched a huge paw
into the crowd around the remains of the Cross-and-Sword banners. When
he stood up, he had a small American flag in his hand.
"Wonderful," Hall said, taking the flag. "I guess it's also the Yankee
day to howl."
A crowd formed around Hall and Duarte. They saluted the American flag,
saluted the Mexican uniform.
"Long live the United States! Long live Mexico!" the crowd shouted, and
the two men answered, as one, "Long live Don Anibal!"
The crowd separated, let them through. They walked a few steps, and then
another crowd formed around them. Again they listened to cheers for the
United States and Mexico, again they responded with their cheer for
Tabio.
"Jesus H. Christ," Hall said. "This is the first time I've carried an
American flag in the streets since I was a Boy Scout in Ohio."
"It will do you good, Mateo."
"I like it. But try to make anyone believe it back home!"
At the fourth block Hall and Duarte started to detour around a trolley
car which had stopped in the middle of a crossing. A dozen hands reached
down from the crowded roof. "_Companeros!_ Take our hands! Climb up!
Take our hands! We want a speech!"
"Long live Mexico! Homage to Colonel Felipe Duarte, Counselor of the
Mexican Embassy and hero of the war against the fascists in Spain!"
Duarte had to join the crowd on the roof of the stalled train. He made a
short speech about Mexico, Republican Spain, and the greatness of Anibal
Tabio.
Two more blocks of happy, cheering Hermanitos. Vivas, salutes for the
American flag and the Mexican uniform. Men in dungarees and heavy shoes
saluting the flag and the uniform with clenched fists. Young women and
old men who embraced Hall and Duarte. Even an ancient with a
nicotine-yellowed white beard, who wiggled out of one crowd, tore the
flag out of Hall's hand, kissed it, and then handed it back to the
American with an embrace and a viva for Voodro Veelson.
* * * * *
They were relaxing over a beer in Duarte's office when the explosion
came.
"What the hell...?" Hall cried.
There were two explosions. A little one, like the crack of a distant
artillery piece in the mountains and then a louder, deep-toned whoosh of
a noise. They had both heard such noises before.
"Remember that noise, Mateo?"
Hall was on his feet. "Do I! Only one thing makes a noise like that," he
said. "Direct hit on a gasoline tank."
"Exactly."
While they were washing, the sun had begun to set. Now a new sun had
risen in the skies of San Hermano, risen at a point about a mile north
of the Embassy. A great sheet of flame had shot from the ground,
stabbing at the purpling skies, straining to leap clear of the round
heavy blobs of black smoke which rose from the same place and surged
over and around the fires.
The streets were more crowded than they had been when Hall and Tabio
left the Congress. New signs had been added to the placards and
portraits of Tabio which the people carried. Tremendous sketches and
blown-up photos of Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin and Chiang Kai-shek,
nailed to frames with handles for two men, bobbed over the heads of the
crowds. Duarte, from the balcony, asked the people on the street what
had happened. They thought it was a victory bonfire.
"The hell it is, Felipe. Let's see for ourselves."
"I must stay and write my cable. You go and then come back here."
"Can you lend me a car and a chauffeur?"
"You couldn't drive a car through these crowds. You'll have to walk.
Leave through the back way. It opens on a narrow street leading to the
Avenida de la Liberacion. You'll save time."
Hall found the narrow street deserted. He set out at a fast pace, his
eyes on the flames and the increasingly heavy puffs of smoke. The shouts
of the crowds on the broad avenues and the plazas followed him up the
small street. Over the cries of the Hermanitos came the wail of the
sirens, the clamor of the bells on the American fire engines the city
had purchased a few years back.
The crowd half-pushed, half-guided Hall to the entrance of the Ritz. He
ducked into the lobby to catch his breath, bought some cigars at the
stand, lit one, and then decided to have a quick drink.
Margaret Skidmore was at the bar with Giselle Prescott and a young man
Hall had met at the Embassy ball. The Prescott woman was wearing an
immense wheel of a white hat. She was very drunk.
"What's up?" Hall asked.
"The Reds blew up a church," Margaret said. "How are you, Matt? I heard
that you were out on a monumental bender. Too many women?"
"Too much alcohol." Then, to the man with the girls, "Didn't we meet at
the Embassy party? My name is Hall."
"I'm the Marques de Runa."
"Spanish?"
Margaret answered for him. "No. Not exactly. The family had the title
revalidated in 1930."
Giselle Prescott shuddered over an emptied glass. She whispered
something about rum, romanism and rebellion.
"What's eating her?" Hall asked Margaret.
"Gin and communism. She's allergic to burning churches."
"My father phoned the governor of our province and demanded soldiers to
protect the family estates," the young Marques said. "It is scandalous.
We hear that they've already raped a nun and killed two priests. My
father says that if El Tovarich ..."
"Who saw the church burning?" Hall interrupted.
"Everyone, senor."
"Any of you?"
Silence. "Any of you?" he repeated.
"It was anarchy," the Marques said. "When El Tovarich started to rant in
Congress today the Reds swarmed into the city from the wharves. They
tore a religious poster from my cousin's arms and beat him within an
inch of his life."
"Is that a fact?" Hall was staring at the gold emblem of the Cross and
Sword in the Marques' lapel. "That's too bad."
"You see what I meant," Margaret said. "Now you understand me, Matt."
"Sure. Now I understand. How about you, Giselle?"
"What about me? I'm filing for the WP today."
"Then you'd better come with me. I'm going to have a look at this
burning church. Might be good color stuff."
"I don' wanna look," she said. "Gives me hives. Besides, I know all
about it anyway."
Hall put his arm through Margaret's. "Let's you and me look, then," he
said.
"Don't go!" the Marques cried. "You're both dressed too well. They'll
kill you."
"I'd better not go with you, Matt."
"But I insist. I'm going and you're coming with me."
They watched de Runa stiffen. "Now don't be a child," she said. "Hall
will bring me back intact."
"Don't go," the Marques said.
Hall freed his hands. For a moment he thought he would have to use them
on the Marques. Then Margaret tugged his arm. "Let's go if we're going,"
she said. "You wait right here for me with Giselle, Freddie. I'll meet
you here in half an hour."
The fire was five blocks from the Ritz. There was a half block heap of
glowing brick and rubble. Behind the rubble stood an old church, one
wall partially blown out. The firemen were playing streams of water into
and around this hole.
"God!" Margaret said. "The stench!"
"Oil. My guess is that a thousand gallons of oil went up in smoke."
In the crowd standing at the rim of the fire lines, a taxi driver turned
around and glanced at Hall. "Some fire," he said.
"What happened?"
"Garage. The Phoenix Garage went up in smoke. Blew a hole in the
Cathedral when it exploded."
"The Phoenix Garage?"
"That's what it is, senor." The driver moved closer to the gutted
rubble.
"You wait here, Margaret. I'm going to talk to the firemen." He crossed
the fire lines, found his way to the engine captain near the main
hydrant. When he returned to Margaret, he gave her a complete report.
"The fire chiefs say that the Reds didn't blow up the church at all," he
said. "Seems as if the gasoline tanks in the garage caught fire by
themselves."
Margaret laughed. "Don't tell Gis," she said. "She's already cabled a
story to the States that the Reds burned the church."
_Chapter eleven_
Duarte knew about the Phoenix Garage before Hall returned to the Mexican
Embassy. "Commander New dropped in while you were at the fire," he
explained. "He told me."
"Does he know anything else about it?"
"Not about the fire. But he does know a little more about Fielding. He
says that Fielding's files have been cleaned out. There wasn't a single
copy of any of Fielding's reports when the British officials opened the
files."
"But the British have all the dope, Felipe. Fielding's reports--at least
the ones he showed me--were all carbons of the reports he made to his
Embassy."
"I know that. But if his reports are now in the hands of the Falange,
the Axis knows it too. It will give them time to cover their traces. It
will also put the finger on you. One of the things they did find in the
office was a note Fielding had made reminding himself to prepare copies
of certain reports for you, Mateo. That might explain what happened to
you in that Falangist cafe on the waterfront the other day. Fielding had
already been killed when you were drugged."
Hall lay down on the couch in Duarte's office, took his shoes off. "I'll
be all right in a few minutes," he said. "I just need about ten minutes
of this."
"I'll get some cold beer."
"No. I don't need it. Listen, Felipe, do the British know that I was
drugged?"
"I don't think so. I didn't tell them, anyway. I wouldn't, without your
permission."
"Maybe you should tell them. It might do some good. But what are we
going to do now that we know about the fire? I still feel like a drunk
on a merry-go-round."
Duarte laughed. "You can always get off and go home," he said.
"No. It feels worse when I get off."
"I did something this morning, Mateo. I sent word to General Mogrado
through one of our diplomatic couriers."
"Mogrado? Of the Spanish air force?"
"He's living in Mexico City now. I asked him to rush everything he could
get on Ansaldo. The largest Spanish Republican colony in the hemisphere
is in Mexico, you know. I figured that surely there must be one man
among the exiles--a doctor, a former Army officer, someone--who could
give us the dope on Ansaldo."
"Sounds like a possibility."
"We'll see."
"Don't let me fall asleep here. I've got things to do."
"Then get some rest. I've got to complete my report." Duarte turned to
his typewriter, glanced at what he had written on the sheet in the
machine. "Mateo," he said, "I'm meeting Dr. Gonzales in an hour. We're
going to try to reach Lavandero with your Havana information on Ansaldo.
Will you join me?"
"No. I have some unfinished business myself. I think that before the
night is over we'll know a lot more about Ansaldo."
"What are you going to do?"
Hall stifled a yawn. "I'm going to take a chance and shoot the works on
someone who can talk. It might work."
"Be careful, Mateo. You look very tired."
"I'll turn in early. Let's have breakfast at your place tomorrow, eh?"
Hall found a phone booth in a tobacco shop near the Embassy. He called
Jerry.
"I knew it would be you," she said. "I was waiting for you to call, you
dog."
"I hope you're hungry," he said. "I'm taking you to dinner."
"I'm famished. Where are you?"
"I can be at the Bolivar in about fifteen minutes. Meet me in the
lobby?"
"All right. But hurry. And just in case you've forgotten what I look
like, I'll be wearing a red carnation."
He became part of the growing multi-directional parade in the streets.
Nightfall had brought colored torches to the hands of many of the
Hermanitos, and hundreds of new huge portraits of the four leaders of
the United Nations. There was a new pattern to the street festivities.
Now whole groups of Hermanitos, each marching behind a picture of one of
the four statesmen, made their way through the crowds to the embassies
of the United Nations and then to the Plaza de la Republica, where they
paraded their signs and their sentiments in front of all the government
buildings and the Presidencia. After that, the marchers joined the
milling groups of celebrators who just seemed to move around in slow
circles, singing, cheering, loudly wishing a long life to Anibal Tabio
and the United Nations.
The darkened Plaza was packed, torches in the hands of hundreds of the
crowd bringing more light to the ancient square than had been seen there
since the nation had been forced to begin conserving its fuel. Hall cut
through the crowds toward the Bolivar, too excited to sense his fatigue.
This is a night I shall long remember, he thought, this is the night I
will tell my children about if I ever have any children. This is the
night that I saw the power of the common people, the night I saw
democracy take to the streets of a nation's capital and tell the world
that fascism's day of cheap triumphs is done. This is the night of the
meek who shall yet inherit the earth.
Through the shoulders of the crowd, he could see Jerry's red hair. As he
drew closer, he saw that she had two little girls in her arms. The
children were crying wildly, the tears choking in their throats and
coursing down their contorted faces.
"There, there," Jerry was saying to them, "everything will be all right.
You're only lost. We'll find out where you belong." But the strange
foreign words only added to the terror in the frightened hearts of the
girls.
"What happened?" Hall asked Jerry.
"They're lost. I was afraid they'd get trampled or something, Matt."
He spoke to the kids in their own language, soothing, silly words. Then
he took them in his arms while Jerry dried their tears with a perfumed
handkerchief. Between sobs, the little girls told Hall that they had
slipped out of the house to see the fiesta and had been having a swell
time until the crazy lady swooped them up, talking crazy words and
keeping them from going on their way.
"Do you know where you live?" he asked them. They pointed toward their
own house. "We will take you there. And don't call the senorita a crazy
lady, little ones. She is your friend."
"Are they lost?" Jerry asked.
"Hell, no. Just tourists. Let's get them home, first."
The girls lived nearly a mile from the Bolivar. They watched the
paraders in silence while Hall carried them to their house, but when he
reached their block the girls insisted that they could walk the rest of
the way. "No," he laughed, "I'm taking you right to your door. And I'm
waiting in the street until you come to your window and throw me a
kiss."
The girls, who had less than a dozen years between them, giggled and hid
their heads in his shoulders. "We won't throw you a kiss," the older of
the sisters said, shyly. "You aren't our _novio_."
"These little devils!" he laughed to Jerry. The girls began to squirm in
his arms. "No, little ones," he told them, "I won't make any more crazy
talk like the senorita."
"This is our house."
He put them down on the first steps. "Now hurry," he said. "Upstairs
with you, and be quick!"
They scrambled up the stairs. "They're sweet," Jerry said. For a brief
moment, the faces of the two little girls appeared at the open window on
the first floor. Then the ample figure of a woman in a white cotton
dress loomed behind them.
"Let's scram before they catch it," Hall said, but he was too late. The
shrill cries of the girls, as their mother flailed their behinds with a
righteous hand, followed Hall and Jerry down the street.
"Me and my Good-Neighbor policy," Jerry said. "It's all my fault."
"They deserve it. What would you do to your kids if they joined a
stampede?"
Jerry had to laugh. "The same thing, I guess. But what's all the
celebrating about? Is it the local Fourth of July?"
"No. But I have a funny feeling that in years to come it might be. Your
patient started it."
"Tabio?"
"President Anibal Tabio. He decided not to die today. He got out of bed
and addressed the opening session of the Congress and called for war on
the Axis."
"You're kidding me again, Matt."
"The hell I am. I was there. I saw him myself."
"But he's paralyzed, Matt."
"He spoke from a wheel chair." He told Jerry about the speech, and as
they walked through the dense crowds toward a restaurant, he translated
some of the signs carried by the people who swarmed on all sides of her.
"_Abajo el Eje_--that's down with the Axis. And that one says Long live
the United Nations. _Mueran los Falangistas_--death to the Falangists."
"What are they, Matt?"
"The Spanish fascists. Hadn't you heard of them before?"
Jerry shook her head. "I still don't see how he got out of bed. He must
have done it on nerves alone. I was at the lab all day with Marina and
Tabio's X-rays."
"He delivered a great speech, Jerry."
"I'll bet he did. I guess nothing can stop this country from joining the
democracies now, Matt."
"No," he said. "Nothing but Gamburdo--if Tabio dies."
They had to wait on a street corner while a line of students carrying
red torches snake-danced across their path.
"Where are we eating?" she asked.
"I know a wonderful place facing the sea wall. It's very plain, but the
food is stupendous. We'll have to walk, though."
"I'm game. It's fun walking in these crowds tonight. It's almost like
New Year's Eve in New York."
The restaurant was packed. The waiter had to put an extra table on the
sidewalk for Hall and Jerry. "It's better from here anyway," Hall told
her. "We can see the ocean and get away from the din inside."
A hundred happy men and women jammed the interior of the restaurant,
singing to the music of the small orchestra, toasting the slogans which
were all over San Hermano this night. Hall invited the waiter to drink a
toast in sherry to Don Anibal, and then he ordered lobster salads and
steaks for Jerry and himself.
"I missed you," he told Jerry and, hearing his words, he was startled to
realize that he meant them.
"You're just lonely. But I like to hear you say it."
"No. I really missed you."
"What's wrong, Matt? You look all in."
"Nothing," he said. "I've had a long day. What do you think of this
lobster salad?"
Small talk. Make small, polite talk about lobsters and cabbages, talk
about the weather and your neighbor's garden, talk about anything before
you start talking love talk and then you'll forget why you have to talk
to her at all. "You're beautiful tonight," he said, softly.
"I'm ignoring you, Hall."
Good. Banter. Nice cheap cafe-society banter. Have to play the game as
she is played; silly brittle talk about nothing. Break her down, keep
her off guard, keep your own guard up. Talk about the lobster. Talk
about the steak. Make vacuous wise-cracks over the coffee. Now she's
pleased with the guava pastry. Be the man of the world. Talk about
guava.
"You're talking down at me, Matt. I told you once before. I'm not really
stupid."
"God, I'm sorry," he said. "I must have been groggy all through dinner."
"You sounded it."
"Can you walk?"
"I'm too full."
"Let's sit on the sea wall. It's the pleasantest spot in town."
Hall bought a paper from a passing newsboy. They walked along the sea
wall for a block, and then he spread the paper out on top of the wall
and lifted Jerry to the broad ledge. They sat facing the sea, not saying
much of anything.
"The beach looks so clean," she said. "Do you think ..."
He leaped to the sand. "Take my hand," he said, "and bring the paper
with you." He spread the papers on the sand, laid his jacket over the
papers, and sprawled on the makeshift pallet. Jerry sat near him, took
his head in her lap.
"Poor Matt! You're so tired. Want to tell me about it?"
"About what?"
She stroked his face with soft, gentle hands. "About what's bothering
you, darling. Something terrible is happening to you."
"There's nothing wrong."
"You're such a bad liar, darling. I can see it in your face."
"Only that?"
"It's enough. That is, when you care for a guy."
"You're sticking your chin out, baby."
"No, I'm not. You're really a very gentle person. But you want to be
hard as nails, don't you, Matt?"
"I don't know what I want to be, baby. I'd like to see the world a good
place for little guys who like republics. I'd like to kill the bastards
who are fouling up such a world. It sounds very big, I know. But I'm not
big. I'm a little guy and I like the world of little people. Or don't I
make sense?"
"I think I understand you, Matt."
"Later I'll read you Tabio's speech. Or at least the high lights, in
English. You'll get a pretty good idea of the things I believe in."
"What was it like on the other side, Matt? In the war, I mean. Or don't
you want to talk about the war?"
It's now or never, he thought. Tell her about the war, tell it to her
straight. If she's ever going to see it, she's got to see it now. "I
don't like to talk about it," he said, "but I will. I guess I owe it to
you to talk about it. I was there when it started, and I kept hollering
that it had started, but no one would believe me."
"In Poland?"
"Hell, no! In Madrid. The summer of '36. I reached Madrid in the fourth
week of July, and by September I'd seen enough of the Nazis and the
Italians to know it was World War Two." The words came easily, the whole
fabric. Tabio had told the story as a historian. This was the other way
it could be told, the way of the eyewitness, of the partisan. He told
her everything, about the fighting in Spain and about the slaughter of
the innocents; about the grotesque ballets of death and disintegration
on the green tables of Geneva; about the arrows of Falange, reaching out
from the festers of Spain to the New World. Everything but the role of
Ansaldo.
"Now," he said, "I think you can guess why I'm so bothered about this
war, why I sometimes act as if I have a very personal stake in it.
Please try to understand what I mean, Jerry."
She was silent for a long moment. "I think I do," she said. "For the
past few days I've been thinking about the war. Ever since--oh, you know
since when. I've been thinking that if I don't do anything else, maybe
I'll join the Army as a nurse when we leave here."
"You've got it bad, haven't you?"
"I don't know what I've got, darling. All I know is that I don't have
the right to be a Me Firster any more. Do you think I'm right about
that?"
"Baby, listen to me. You don't have to go to Bataan to get into the war.
It's spread everywhere. The front stretches from Murmansk to Manila to
San Hermano. And it's the same front."
"But what can I do here?"
Hall drew a deep breath. "Let's both have a cigarette," he said. "This
is going to take some telling." He sat up, faced the girl, took her
hands and held them firmly. "Now, what I'm going to say might sound
harsh, Jerry. But you'll simply have to believe me."
"What is it, Matt?"
"How much do you know about Dr. Ansaldo?"
"Only that he's a nice guy. He's never made a pass at me, he behaves
like a gentleman, and he's one crack surgeon. Don't tell me he's no
good, Matt. I just won't believe it."
"You'll have to believe me," Hall insisted. "What do you know about
Ansaldo's past? Do you know where he was during the Spanish War?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Do you know?"
"Sure, I do. I saw him." Hall described his first meeting with Ansaldo.
As he spoke, Jerry abruptly withdrew her hands. Trembling, she backed
away from him, started to get up.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I wish you hadn't made love to me," she said, simply. "Now I feel
cheap--and used."
"Don't say that. I ..."
"You know it's true. You're not just another newspaperman. And you don't
give a damn about me. It was Ansaldo you were interested in from the
beginning. That's why you were on the same plane with us on the way
here. And that's why you ..."
"You mean I'm a G-man? Don't be absurd."
"Don't make it worse by calling me a fool. I liked you. I liked you a
lot. Don't make it worse now, Matt."
"But you're dead wrong." He tried to put his arms around her. She shook
him off. "Believe me," he said, "I'm not government. You were right--but
only partially--about my original interest in your party. But tonight I
wish to hell it were only Ansaldo who interests me. It would make things
a lot easier all around. The other morning I was watching Marina when a
Spanish ship came in. Someone didn't want me to watch. I was drugged.
That's why I disappeared for a few days. It damn near finished me. I've
got something on Ansaldo--before I'm through I hope to have enough to
hang him. I mean it literally. I'm trying to have him fitted for the
same grave he thought I'd have. And it's going to be simple. What won't
be simple is convincing the authorities here that you were an innocent
bystander in the whole affair. Do you think I would talk to you this way
if things were as you suspect they are with me?"
"I don't know what to think, Matt."
"Don't stop liking me," he said.
"Take me back to the hotel, please. I'm all confused. I want to believe
you. Honestly I do. But what am I supposed to do? You give me the choice
of matching one line against the other, and all the time I'll be
wondering if both lines aren't fakes."
"Listen to me, baby ..."
"Don't 'baby' me. You've got sand on your jacket. No, don't, Hall. Just
take me back to the hotel, please."
They walked to the sea wall in silence. Hall made a step for Jerry with
his hands, boosted her to the top of the wall. "I'll try to find you a
cab," he said. "But before we turn in, I'm telling you again that I'm
not government. I'm exactly what I said I am. Believe me, Jerry. Please
believe me."
"I don't know what to believe any more."
"But you do believe what I said about Ansaldo, don't you?"
"I don't know," she said, miserably. "Haven't you asked enough questions
for one night? Show me your badge and subpoena me or something to the
American Embassy and I'll tell you all I know. Which is nothing. I don't
know any more than I've already told you."
Hall was flagging every passing car. "They're all private," he muttered.
"We'll never get a cab tonight. And for God's sake, stop sniffling. Even
if I am a G-man I won't bite you."
"You shouldn't have played me for a sucker, Hall."
"I didn't play you for anything."
"Don't say any more, Hall. Please don't."
Her attitude infuriated him. Furiously, he flagged a passing car, biting
his lips in anger and frustration. He fought against yielding to his
anger. "Jerry," he said, "there's one thing I'll have to ask you to do.
I'm asking as a private citizen. But whatever you think I am, you'll
have to do this one thing. I must insist that you don't tell Ansaldo
anything about our conversation or about my having been in Spain."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes," he roared. "Yes, damn you, it's an order!"
One of the cars he had flagged slowed down, pulled over to where he
stood with Jerry. But it was not a taxi. It was a small chauffeur-driven
town car. The young Marques de Runa sat alone in the back seat.
"Good evening," he smiled. "Can I give you and your young lady a lift?
You'll never be able to get a public car tonight."
"Thanks." Hall took Jerry's elbow, pulled her toward the door. He made
the introductions, then climbed in after Jerry and shut the door. "We
were just going to the Bolivar," he said.
"Were you trying to escape from the mobs?" the Marques asked.
"No. The lady has a bad cold. We thought the sea air might do it some
good."
"You should try the mountain air," the Marques said. "I always take to
the mountain air when I have a cold, Senor Hall. Don't you think the
mountain air is better?"
Hall let the question go unanswered. He was looking into the mirror over
the driver's seat, studying what he could see in the small glass of the
chauffeur's face.
"The mountain air, Senor Hall."
"Oh, yes. Very dry. Perhaps the lady will try the mountain air. What do
you think, Jerry?"
"No, thank you," she said, sharply. "I have hallucinations on mountain
tops."
The Marques thought this was very funny. But not too unusual, he
hastened to add. "For example," he said, "once when I was on a skiing
week-end in Austria, three members of our party saw an apparition." He
chattered amiably about the experiences on that and other skiing trips,
directing his words solely to Jerry. Hall ignored them both. He was
still staring at the mirror, and, after catching the chauffeur's eyes
for the second time, he knew definitely that the man at the wheel was
the little dog who had trailed him to the Ritz and then driven off after
Ansaldo's limousine with Androtten as his passenger.
It was only when the car was less than a block from the Bolivar that
Hall spoke again. "It's too bad," he said, his eyes trying to focus both
on the mirror and on de Runa, "it's too bad about the Phoenix Garage
blowing up today."
The chauffeur and the Marques started.
"But--why?" the Marques asked.
"Oh, I don't know. It's just that an officer in the British Embassy was
telling me just the other day that the Phoenix Garage was one of the
most fascinating establishments in San Hermano. I was planning to visit
the garage myself tomorrow. I'm interested in garages, you know."
The chauffeur stopped the car in front of the Bolivar with an abrupt
slamming of his brakes.