Part 9

Hall accepted a cigar from Jose Fernandez, took his time about lighting it before answering Vardieno. "Oh, I don't know," he said, casually. "Perhaps you might know that earlier in this war, I was on board a British warship which the Nazis sunk with aerial torpedoes. I not only survived, but I came through without a scratch. Since then I just can't get too excited about a threat." He looked at the three men to see if his braggart's act succeeded. Fernandez was obviously the most impressed of the three.

"_Bueno! Muy caballero!_" Fernandez said. "But you had better be careful. The Reds in San Hermano have none of the sporting codes of the Nazi airman."

"Well, now that you mention it," Hall said, "I did catch some bastard following me the other day."

In a small voice, Davila asked, "Did you get a good look at him?"

"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.

Pepe wrote: "The Englishman Fielding was killed three hours ago."

"How?" Hall asked.

The driver vigorously pointed to the street. "You will miss your train, Senor," he said.

"I'll hurry." Hall dressed quickly, shaved, and went downstairs with Pepe. They got into the car and Pepe headed in the direction of the railroad terminal.

"Fielding was run down by an automobile near his house," Pepe said.

"Was it a Rolls-Royce?"

"I don't know. There was only one witness. An old woman. She said that he was walking across the street and the automobile just hit him and kept on going. She said it looked as if he walked into the car."

"Who is the old woman?"

"A farmer's wife. She was on her way to the market with a wagon of meal."

"Didn't she describe the car?"

"I don't think so, Mateo. The Englishman died instantly. He had a gun in his pocket when they found him. Didn't have a chance to use it against his murderers."

"Where are we going now?"

"No place. I just pointed our noses toward the railroad for the benefit of anyone watching us from the hotel."

"Oh. I have an appointment at the beach at eight o'clock. Let's have some coffee until we're ready to go."

Pepe drove to a cafe near the Transport Union building. They found a table in the back of the place. "Do you know any of the Englishman's friends?" Hall asked.

"Not many."

"Did you know his friend Harrington?"

The name left Pepe cold. He was certain that he had never met Harrington or heard the name mentioned. Nor did he know anything about Fielding's employees. "His secretary is a middle-aged Hermanita. She lives alone with a parrot and minds her own business. I knew a man who was her lover once, but that was fifteen years ago."

"Do you know much about Felipe Duarte?" Hall asked.

"Sure. But why?"

"I'm to meet him at eight this morning."

Pepe looked at the clock. "Then let's go," he said. "Sometimes Duarte is like a crazy man, but he is a good friend."

"Does he know you?"

"We have met many times. Did you know him in Spain?"

They went to the car, and Hall told Pepe about some of Duarte's legendary feats in the war against the fascists. He was in the midst of a story about the Ebro retreat when they reached Duarte's cottage.

Duarte came to the door wearing a towel around his middle. "So you got up?" he laughed. "And you got Pepe up, too! Come in and fill your guts." He led them through the small living room, put on a pair of shorts and mismated huaraches.

"We'll all eat in the kitchen," he said. "I'll bet you forgot that I'm a wonderful cook, Mateo." He served a twelve-egg omelet whose pungent fires brought tears to Hall's eyes.

"This is really going to kill me," Hall said.

"The lousy gringo," Duarte said to Pepe. "He's got a gringo stomach."

Pepe defended Hall loyally. After he had his coffee, he rubbed his bristling beard and asked Duarte if he had a razor that could cut through steel wire. Duarte took him to the bathroom.

"Shave and bathe while I talk to Mateo," he said.

When they were alone, Hall asked him if he knew Fielding. "Sure, I do. He's the one English planter in South America who knows that the world is round."

"He's dead." Hall told Duarte all that he knew about Fielding's death, and what little he knew about Fielding himself. Duarte listened in stunned silence.

"And you still think that attempt on you last night was a bluff?" he asked when Hall was done.

"I'm more convinced than ever that it was a bluff. But whoever drove that car knew that an hour later Fielding was going to be killed by a car. And I'll bet that it was not the same car that made a pass at us last night."

"Then you're hiding something from me, Mateo."

"The hell I am. I'm going to tell you everything I know. Just give me a chance. Do you know Juan Antonio Martinez?"

"The young teacher?"

Hall told Duarte about Juan Antonio's phone call to _Mundo Obrero_ and how it reached the Cross and the Sword in a matter of minutes. "Fernandez and his boy friends told me about the phone call at the Embassy last night. They warned me that it meant the Reds were going to prepare an attempt on my life. Now my cue is to run to them for help because of the Rolls-Royce in the Plaza."

"Will you go through with it?"

"Tomorrow. But I don't like the idea. They don't act as if they knew about my record in Spain. But it's crazy to think they're going to remain in the dark."

"What are you doing today?"

"I'm catching the eleven o'clock train to Juarez. I have an idea I'll come back with a pretty good line on the Cross and Sword camarilla."

Duarte laughed. "I have an idea you'll come back from Juarez with something else," he said.

"Not today, Felipe. I'd like to, but not today."

"She's a good piece."

"Forget it. I'm after stronger meat today."

"Like that nurse with the red hair?"

"I'm serious, Felipe. And we haven't got much time. Listen, did you ever hear of a guy named Harrington? Fielding said he was his associate, and that he knew a lot about the Falange at the waterfront."

The name meant nothing to Duarte. "But then, I didn't know Fielding too well. I've only talked to him once; he wanted to find out if I had known his son."

"Well, you've got to find Harrington, if he exists," Hall said. "And one other thing: Fielding had dinner with the new British Naval Intelligence officer for this port the night before last."

"Commander New?"

"That's the guy. You've got to see New this morning. Better send a messenger to the British Embassy with a sealed note. Don't use the phone."

"What do I say in the note?"

"Anything. The idea is that you've got to stop the British Embassy from raising a stink about Fielding for at least a week. Let the Falange think the British Embassy accepts the police verdict on Fielding's death. In the paper this morning the police described it as an unfortunate accident."

"Some accident!"

"Act as if you know plenty when you see New. You'd better have him visit you, Felipe. Tell him that in a week you'll have the true facts."

"Will I?"

"I don't know. Well, tell him you think you'll have the full facts. And find out all you can about Harrington, if New knows anything. See if you can arrange for me to meet Harrington."

"I understand." Duarte looked at his watch and shouted to Pepe to get out of the bathroom. "We've got to get started," he said to Hall. "If I'm to stop Commander New, I'd better not lose any more time."

"Good. Where will you be tonight at about nine? That's when the return train gets in."

"Call me right here. What name will you use? Pedro?"

"Pedro is O.K."

"If we have to meet tonight, I'll tell Pepe where we can do it. I'd better tell him now. Have some more coffee while I dress, _chico_. And don't worry." Duarte went upstairs.

Hall endorsed a hundred-dollar money order and ran after Duarte. "One other favor, Felipe. Ride to town with Pepe and me, and after I get out at the railroad station, please force that Asturian mule to accept this check. He's refused to take a cent from me since I'm in town--and I found out how much gasoline is selling for in San Hermano."

* * * * *

The train to Juarez was on the line to the north which had been built in Segura's time. The graft which had gone in to the building of the road was now scattered over the far corners of the earth. Somewhere in Paris, one of the chief contractors still lived on his share of the booty, paying varying fees to the Nazis for butter and woolens. In New York, one of Segura's army of illegitimate sons was studying medicine on the proceeds of some shares in the line which had belonged to his mother. Estates whose rolling lands touched the rails on either side belonged to old Seguristas who had bought the lands with the money they had managed to steal from the project. The money was gone, but the steel cars the builders had bought in Indiana and Pennsylvania remained. It was still a good railroad, and even though it now belonged to the government, the trains not only ran on time but were much cleaner and charged lower fares than before.

Hall watched the green countryside until the rolling landscape and the rhythm of the wheels made him drowsy. He turned away from the window, opened his newspaper to stay awake. The news was vague. The bulletin from the Presidencia stated simply that Ansaldo had spent four hours with Tabio but had issued no verdict. Those were exactly the words, "no verdict," and reading them again Hall grew angry. He tried to figure out some foolproof way of cabling to Havana, but the censorship hazards were too great.