"Then why should they have wanted me around?" Jerry asked.
There was a gentle rap on the door. "Time out for coffee," Hall smiled. "Entrada!"
The door was unlocked. The handle turned, and Wilhelm Androtten entered. He took off his small Panama hat, fanned his red, puffy face with it. "Ah," he sighed, "they told me at the desk that I would find you here, Mr. Hall. Hot as hell, isn't it?" He put a large coffee canister on the arm of a chair. "May I sit down?" he asked.
"Of course." Hall glanced at Jerry, whose fingers were clenched tightly on a large amber comb. "What can I do for you?"
Androtten put the canister on his lap. "Oh, my dear Mr. Hall," he sighed, his pudgy right hand resting on the lid of his tin. "I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving for Rio on an extended buying trip tomorrow. If you still are interested in my damn story, perhaps you could spare me some time this afternoon, eh?"
"I think it could be managed," Hall smiled. "Did you buy all the damn Monte Azul bean you wanted, sir?"
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed, Mr. Hall. Fine, rich, full-bodied bean, fragrant as hell. Please, I'll show you." Androtten opened the canister. There was no coffee under the lid. Instead, there was a small automatic pistol, equipped with a gleaming silencer.
"Please," Androtten sighed, "no noise, please. I should hate to be forced to shoot you both."
Jerry stifled a muted cry. "You wouldn't dare," Hall said.
"You are a fool, Hall. I hope you have already noticed that my gun is equipped with the only silencer in this jungle of Indians and blackamoors."
"The Gestapo—you Nazis think of everything, don't you?" Hall said in a rising voice.
"I must remind you again not to shout, Hall. Please, lock your hands on top of your head."
Hall obeyed the order.
"If the nurse co-operates, she will be spared."
"For God's sake, Jerry, do anything the Nazi orders," Hall cried. "He has a gun!"
The little man with the gun angrily raised a finger to his lips. "Not one word out of you," he whispered. He got out of the chair, started backing toward the door. "Now," he said, "listen carefully, both of you. For your information, Hall, I am not Gestapo. I am from the Ibero-American Institute in Berlin. And that, I am afraid, is the last information you will ever receive about anything, Hall."
The comb in Jerry's hand snapped with a dry little crack. The sudden noise startled Androtten. He raised the gun and fired just as Hall dove for his feet. Three times the cough of a silenced gun sounded in the room. The shots seemed to come all together. A split second after the third shot was fired Hall had kicked the gun from the limp hand of the Nazi and was sitting astride his chest with his hands locked on Androtten's throat. He was oblivious to the noise at the balcony, to Jerry, to everything but the man dying under him.
A gentle hand tugged at Hall's shoulder. "Enough, Mateo. Thecabrónis dead."
Emilio Vicente had climbed into the room from the balcony. He had a pistol in his hand. "The woman," he said. "She has fainted."
Jerry was lying in a heap on the floor near her chair. "Christ, she was hit!" Hall rushed to her side, examined her for bullet wounds.
"No, Mateo. His bullet sailed over my head. My bullets both hit him. I aimed for the heart. See, you are covered with his blood, no?"
"Water." Hall was sitting on the floor, Jerry's head in his lap, a hand clasped firmly over her mouth. He dipped a handkerchief into the glass Vicente gave him, ran it over her face. "Jerry," he whispered, "promise me you won't yell if I take my hand away? Everything is all right. His shot missed us both, and now he's under control."
She nodded. "I'm sorry I passed out," she said.
"You're O.K. now."
Vicente, standing over them, grinned at the girl. "Sí, youmagnífica," he said. "You make boom noise of comb. She"—he pointed to Androtten, who lay under a blanket Vicente had found while Hall was reviving Jerry—"she have much scare of boom, she shoot much badly. Me, Emilio, shoot much good. She no good no more."
"Is he dead?Muerto?"
"Much dead." Vicente showed them his pistol. He pointed to his own silencer. "I heard the son of a whore mother," he said to Hall, a sardonic smile on his grim face. "When he gets to hell he will learn that there were other silencers in this jungle."
"You heard everything?"
"But naturally,compañero. I followed him to the door and listened. When you shouted to the woman that the Nazi had a gun, I knew you were shouting for me. I have a gun, too. And a pass key. So I rushed into the next room and climbed over to the balcony. It was not difficult."
"You were very good. You saved our lives."
"It is nothing."
"I can get up, Matt," Jerry said. "I'd rather sit in the chair."
Hall helped her to the chair, told her what Vicente had done. Vicente laughed at Hall's account of his heroism. "It was nothing," he repeated. "The Nazi was too fat to miss."
"He's very messy," Hall said, looking at the blanket.
"What are you going to do with the body?" Hall asked Vicente.
"Feed it to the sharks."
"Better fingerprint him and make photos of the face, first," Hall advised. "And let Segador know immediately."
"Be tranquil,compañero. All in good time. When you and the woman leave, Pepe and I shall put the remains of this dog in a laundry basket and get it out of here." Vicente looked at Jerry. "And I think you had better get her out of this room. She is going to get sick if she stays here."
"You're right." Hall gave Jerry his hand. "Come on, nurse," he smiled. "We're going to my room. This is no place for a lady." He helped her to her feet.
She held her hand out to Vicente. "You are very sweet," she said. "Usted mucho dulce.Understand?"
"Understand," he laughed. He kissed her hand.
Hall had a bottle of brandy in his room. He poured two stiff drinks for Jerry and himself. "Feel any better?" he asked.
"It was awful for a few minutes. I was afraid he would kill you."
"So was I, baby. I was afraid he'd kill me before I ever got around to telling you how I felt. About you, I mean."
"How do you feel about me?"
He filled the glasses again. "Still think I'm a cop?"
"I don't care. I guess you aren't, though."
"Right."
"I'd have died if he killed you. I love you, Matt."
She was sitting on the edge of the bed. He stood over her, took the glass from her hand. "You know how I feel, then," he smiled.
"Darling," she said, raising her face, "didn't you think that I knew?"
"Wait," he laughed. "I'm filthy with his blood. I'd better change my clothes."
He found a fresh suit and a clean shirt in his closet. "I'll change in there," he said.
"Darling," she said, while he was changing, "I still can't figure out why Ansaldo wanted me at the ranch."
"I think I can, baby. It's not so hard. Figure it out for yourself. The beautiful American nurse is a complete political innocent. Sees all, knows nothing. A perfect set-up. The Falangist doctors take you along to San Hermano. You sit in the sickroom while Ansaldo examines Tabio. You yourself work on the smears and the slides in the laboratory. You are the clean, unbiased witness who can testify that scientifically all was on the up and up. Your existence is proof that Ansaldo's visit was legitimate. If anything was shady, he'd bring a Falangist nurse."
"But why was I brought to the ranch?"
"Same reasoning. Lavandero blocks Ansaldo's plans. Meanwhile, the Falange sends two agents from Spain with the latest orders for Ansaldo. He has to sneak out of town to confer with them. So does Androtten, the Nazi boss of the expedition. Again Ansaldo takes the unbiased, non-political nurse along. She is still the witness. She sees nothing wrong at the ranch, and, after Ansaldo puts Tabio in the grave, if anyone starts to suspect anything, they question the obviously innocent American nurse and she backs Ansaldo's story. She really hasn't seen a thing."
"That is," Jerry said, "until the dumb American nurse stood under the wrong window and heard Joe Nazi himself."
"Exactly."
"Then you think they know that I heard Androtten?"
"I can't say. But just to play safe, you're moving out of this hotel to where they can't find you. And right away. Not that they're not prepared. Remember, you didn'tseeAndrotten. They know that much. By now you can bet your bottom dollar that they have a coffee planter three hundred miles from the Gamburdo ranch who will swear on a stack of Bibles that Androtten was with him for the past three days, and a whole slew of witnesses to back him up."
"But won't it make them suspicious if I move?"
"The hell with them, baby. It's you that counts now."
"Then I'm staying. I won't spoil it for you by playing into their hands."
Hall took her in his arms. "You're wonderful," he said. "But ..."
The phone began to ring. It was Dr. Gonzales. "Can you come over to the Presidencia at once?" he asked. "Yes, very important. I am in Don Anibal's apartment. Please, hurry."
"I'll be right over."
"What is it, Matt?"
"Come on. We're going to the Presidencia. It sounds like the end."
The private elevator in the Presidencia was both carpeted and bullet-proof, as it had been in General Segura's day. But the magnificent bronze friezes of General Segura's capture of San Hermano had long since been melted down to make medals, and in place of the martial friezes there now hung a series of water colors painted by grade-school children in the small villages. Every year, Hall explained to Jerry as the car climbed to the fourth floor, a committee of the Republic's leading artists chose twenty water colors submitted by the schools for a place in this elevator. The students whose pictures were chosen received medals made from the bronze frieze which had originally hung in their places.
Gonzales was waiting for them at the fourth-floor landing. "Are you all right?" he asked Jerry, and without waiting for an answer he took Hall's arm and started to walk down the long gilded corridor toward the private library of the President.
The library was large, perhaps forty feet square, the four walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. In one corner was an immense mahogany writing table, clean now except for a drinking glass packed with sharpened pencils and a large yellow foolscap pad. When Tabio was well, this table was always piled high with books, most of them opened and kept in place by an inkwell, a heavy watch, or another book. Today there were no books on Don Anibal's table; instead, almost as if in explanation, a padded steel and aluminum wheel chair stood empty near the little corridor which led to the door of the President's bedroom.
"Please, sit down." Gonzales indicated two leather chairs.
"I'm in the way," Jerry said. "I don't belong here."
"I had to take her along," Hall said. "It was a matter of her life. Is there some place where she can rest while we—while we talk?"
"Excuse me. I will make the arrangement." Gonzales stepped out of the room.
"What's happening?" Jerry asked.
"I don't know. It looks bad. Whatever it is, don't cave in on me now. It won't do anyone any good."
"I'm all right now. But I'll probably have nightmares about today for the rest of my life."
Gonzales returned to the library with a middle-aged maid in a simple uniform. "Please, nurse," he said, "this lady will escort you to a quiet apartment. You will find brandy and a bed. I hope you will forgive us and find comfort." His blue lips tried to smile at Jerry as she followed the maid out of the library.
"You're not well," Hall said.
The blue lips tightened. "I'm a cardiac, you know. But it is not of importance. Simon Tabio will join us in a moment. It is very serious,compañero."
"Don Anibal?"
"Yes. Simon will tell you about the new development. He is young, but he is very strong. He knows that Gamburdo is a traitor."
"Has he told Don Anibal?"
"The mere telling might kill him. We must have the proof before we tell him."
"The proof?" Hall started to tell the ailing doctor about Androtten when Simon Tabio entered the library.
"Ah, Simon. This isCompañeroMateo Hall."
"How do you do?" the boy said, in English. "I regret that we must meet under such sad circumstances."
"El habla castellano, chico," Gonzales said.
"The sorrow weighs with equal weight in my own heart," Hall said.
"CompañeroHall was on the point of telling me some important news when you came in, Simon. I think you should hear it."
"I would like to hear it," Simon said.
"Do you know about Corbeta the Falange agent and Jimenez the C.T.E. radio operator being at the Gamburdo ranch with Ansaldo?"
"Yes. Segador has kept me informed."
"There was one other man at the ranch with them, a Nazi. An agent of the Ibero-American Institute named Androtten. At least that was the name he used. He reached San Hermano on the same plane which brought Ansaldo and me." Hall told them of Jerry's accidental discovery and of the events which followed and brought about the death of the Nazi. He told it in very few words, his eyes taking in the uncanny resemblance between Simon and his father.
"My father is very ill, señor. We must be able to prove your story for him."
"He is my friend," Hall said. "He will believe me."
"He is very ill. I believe you, of course. But what proof have we for my father that Androtten was a Nazi agent? If you know my father at all well, señor, you must surely know his passion for the truth. And we must remember that in his illness ..." The boy's voice trailed off to nothingness, and he turned away from his elders.
"I think," Gonzales said, gently, "I think that you had better tellCompañeroHall about what happened this morning."
Simon Bolivar Tabio dabbed at his reddened eyes with a white handkerchief. "They are killing him," he said, brokenly. He paused to swallow the painful lump in his throat, ashamed before the friends of his father for his weakness.
"There are many tears in San Hermano for Don Anibal," Hall said. "You should be proud of your own."
"This morning," Simon said, "Dr. Marina arrived here with a written message for my mother from Dr. Ansaldo. The surgeon refused to operate without the written permission of the entire Cabinet. He says in the note that he refuses to predict how long my father can live without an operation. He says that the operation must be performed immediately."
"It is murder," Gonzales said. "Every doctor in San Hermano who has examined Don Anibal swears that he is too weak to undergo an operation right now."
"He sent a copy of the note to each member of the Cabinet," Simon said. "They refuse to discuss the question without my father's permission."
"The dirty bastard," Hall said.
"We were discussing you this morning," Gonzales said. "Lavandero and Simon and myself. We think that if we get no further actual proof, we will have to place a great burden on your shoulders,CompañeroHall. Don Anibal trusts you."
"Do you want me to tell Don Anibal what I know?"
"Not immediately. It would be too great a shock. Don Anibal would demand proof even from you. But if he hears from you that you are here to investigate the Falange and then if, say tomorrow, you come back and tell him that you have run across some important information, perhaps ..."
"But have we time to break it to him in easy stages? Is his—health—adequate?"
"It is a chance we are forced to take," Simon said. "My father's health is not—adequate—for a sudden shock."
"You may be right. I have already notified Segador about Androtten. Perhaps by tomorrow he will have established Androtten's real identity."
"Then you will see my father now?"
"I will do anything you ask,compañero."
"Excuse me, then." Simon left the library.
"Don Anibal is not going to live," Gonzales said when the boy left. "Not even a miracle can save his life."
The doctor was tearing the stopper from a small vial of adrenalin. He held the open mouth of the vial to his nose and breathed deeply.
"Adrenalin?" Hall asked.
"It is nothing,compañero. Say nothing to Simon, please." A corner of his blue underlip was growing purple in tiny spots. "I hear him now, Mateo."
The boy carried his shoulders proudly when he returned to the library. "My father is sitting up in bed," he said. "He is preparing a radio speech to the entire Republic."
Dr. Gonzales was incredulous. "Are you sure,chico?"
Simon touched his right eye with his index finger. "I have seen it at this moment. My father is a great and a brave man. He says that we should bringCompañeroHall in at once."
The door leading to Tabio's room was opened by an armed army sergeant. "The President will see you now," he said.
Hall followed Simon and Gonzales through the small corridor which took them to the sick room. The shutters were opened, and the sun streamed into the chamber, bathing everyone and everything in its gentle light. Anibal Tabio was sitting up in bed, his hand raised in a familiar gesture as he dictated to a secretary who sat on a stool near his pillows.
"Neutrality," he was dictating, "neutrality is either abject surrender to Hitler or an open admission of complicity with the fascist Axis or a sinful combination of both..."
The swarthy Esteban Lavandero was, as always, at Tabio's side, his fierce Moorish face twisted with pain and love. He stood behind the girl secretary, one black hairy hand resting on the carved headboard of the ancient bed, his ears cocked for every word which came from Tabio's pale lips.
Tabio's wife and two doctors in white coats stood on the other side of the bed. The prim white collar of her dark dress matched the streaks of white in her long black hair. Her luminousmestiza'seyes, swollen from quiet weeping, were now bright and clear, and when Anibal Tabio looked to his wife after turning a particularly telling phrase in his speech her generous lips parted and she smiled at him the way she had smiled to reward his earliest writings three decades ago.
"The great North American martyr to freedom, Don Abraham Lincoln, a man of great dignity whose humor was the humor of the people from whose loins he sprang, was a man who many years ago described such neutrality. Lincoln was not a neutral in the struggle between slavery and freedom. And when some fool insisted that most Americans were neutral in this struggle, Lincoln replied with the anecdote of the American woman who went for a walk in the woods and found her husband fighting with a wild bear. Being a neutral, this woman stood by and shouted, 'Bravo, Husband. Bravo, Bear.'
"And then, Lincoln said ..."
"Don Anibal," one of the doctors said, gently, "I must implore you ..." The restraining hand of Tabio's wife made him stop.
"It is no use, doctor," Tabio smiled. "At a time like this, if a President can speak at all, he must speak to his people. Tonight you will type my speech, and tomorrow you can bring the microphone right into this room, and right from my bed I shall talk to the people. If I am to die in any event, it will not matter much. And if I am to live, doctor, the speech will not kill me."
Simon, who was standing next to Hall in the doorway, whispered that Tabio's eyes were too weak to distinguish them at that distance. They started to walk toward the bed on their toes, and Hall, glancing at Tabio sitting up in the old bed in a white hospital gown surrounded by the burly Lavandero and his wife and son, was suddenly struck by the similarity of the scene which was before him and the Doré engraving of the death of Don Quixote. It was all there, even to the faithful Sancho Panza figure of Lavandero, and at that moment Hall knew why Spanish savants had for hundreds of years written scores of books on the true significance of Cervantes' classic. Here were the two great impulses of the Hispanic world, the fragile, gentle, trusting dreamer of great new horizons and at his side the broad-backed practical man of earth who threw his strength into the effort of implementing the dreams and making them the new realities. Here was the visionary Juarez and the young soldier Porfirio Diaz, when the warrior was still a man untainted by his own betrayal of a people's dream. Here was the romantic poet José Marti and one of his durable guerrilla generals, Maximo Gomez or Antonio Maceo, whose white and black skins, blended, would have yielded a skin the color of Lavandero's. (Was it any wonder, then, Hall thought in those fleeting seconds before Tabio recognized him, that Tabio as a young exile went to Cuba to write a biography of Marti while his faithful fellow-exile spent the same months in Havana writing an equally good study of Maceo?)
At that moment Tabio saw Hall. "Viejo!" he said, happily. "Mateo Hall, a good friend and thank God never a neutral. Señorita, give him your stool. Come, sit down, Mateo."
Hall took his hand, tenderly, for fear of hurting him. It was a thin hand, bony and fleshless; cold, as though Death had already touched it.
"Viejo," Tabio said. He might have been genially scolding a favorite child. "Say something, old friend, and don't sit there staring at me as if I were already a corpse. Tell me about yourself, Mateo. We've come a long way since Geneva and Madrid and the day they fished you out of the ocean, eh?"
"It has been a long time," Hall said. "A very long time, Don Anibal. A century."
Tabio smiled. "Time is of no matter. It is the present and the future which counts, eh,viejo?"
"Of course,ilustre."
"My family and my good friends are afraid that I am dying," Tabio said, smiling as if at some secret joke he wanted to share with Hall. "I am an old dog. An old prison dog. Tell them,viejo, tell them that our breed doesn't die so easily, no?"
Hall could only nod and pat the sick man's hand.
"Do I sound like a dying man?"
Hall swallowed hard, managed to grin. "You? What nonsense, Don Anibal! I was at the Congress the other day. I watched you and listened to you speak. It was a great speech, Anibal."
"It was not a great speech. But it was good because I spoke the truth. And do you know, Mateo, that the truth is better than any great speech?" Tabio was breathing with increased difficulty. He slumped back against the pillows, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the doctors quicken, and he turned to them and winked. "Not yet," he smiled. Meekly, he allowed one of the doctors to hold a tumbler of colored liquid under his mouth. He sipped some of it through a bent glass tube, then turned to Hall again.
"Where were you sitting?" he asked.
"In the diplomatic box with Duarte and the Mexican Ambassador. Don't try to talk to me, Anibal. Save your strength. I'll be here for a long time, and when you're out of bed and on your feet again, perhaps we can have a real visit and sit up all night talking as we used to talk."
"Mateo! You talk like a child. I will never be on my feet again. But just the same," and he winked impishly at his wife, "I'm a long way from dying."
"Of course you are," Hall insisted.
"There, you see?" Tabio said to everyone in the room. "Mateo can tell you. He knows how tough our breed is. Tell me, Mateo, is it true that the American Ambassador considers me to be the most violent Bolshevik outside of Russia?"
Lavandero laughed, and Hall laughed, and when Tabio, laughing, turned to his wife and son, they laughed too.
"He is such a pompous fool, that Ambassador. Oh, I am being terribly undiplomatic,viejo, but to think of an old-fashioned bourgeois reformer like me being compared to Lenin and Stalin! It is the height of confusion. But if you ever meet him you can tell him that I admire Stalin and the Russian people. Your Ambassador and I were together at a State dinner the day the Nazis invaded Russia and he said that the Soviets would be crushed in a month and that he was glad. I told him then that the Red Army would destroy the Nazi war machine and I told him that before the war was over the United States would be fighting on the side of Russia and that therefore it was dangerous of him to say he was glad so many Red Army soldiers were being killed. And you can tell him that some day when I speak to Mr. Roosevelt again I will tell him what the American Ambassador to our country said openly in June of 1941."
"Please, Don Anibal," one of the doctors begged, "you must save your strength."
"For the speech," Lavandero added, quickly, motioning to Hall that it was time for everyone but the doctors to leave the room.
Hall stood up, again patted the blue-veined hand of the President. He watched Tabio, pausing to gain strength, mutely protesting with glazed eyes the obvious stage directions of the doctors who ended this visit.
"I must go now, Don Anibal," Hall said, softly. "If you wish, I will be back tomorrow or the next day."
"Matthew," Tabio said, and he began to address Hall in English, "you were in Spain. You saw. Tell them it does not matter if one man lives or dies. I have no fears for truth. I have come a long way on truth. Tell them,viejo, tell them what a miracle truth is in the hands of the people. You have but"—the words were coming with great difficulty—"you have but to make this truth known...."
Tabio's jaw sagged open. He fell forward against his knees. The doctors took him by the shoulders and moved him into a prone position. His eyes, still open, stared at everything and nothing, glass now.
"Cariño mío!" his wife sobbed, but at an unspoken order from one of the doctors Simon led his mother to a chair in the corner and kept her still. Lavandero, Gonzales and Hall left the chamber for the library.
"What happened to Anibal?" Lavandero asked Gonzales.
The doctor shook his head. "It is the end," he said. "Don Anibal will never speak again."
"You lie!"
"No, Esteban." He turned to Hall. "His last words were to you,compañero."
"Christ Almighty!"
"For God's sake, tell me what happened to Anibal!"
"He fell into a coma. I think it is a stroke." Gonzales sat heavily in one of the leather chairs, began to fumble in his pocket for another adrenalin vial. His fingers began to become frantic in their impotence. "I—I ..."
Hall caught his head as he started to collapse. He reached into the doctor's pocket, found the adrenalin and used it.
"It is a stupid way to live," Gonzales said. "To have your life depend always on your being a vegetable with a bottle. Thank you,compañero. Just let me rest here for a few minutes."
Throughout all of this, Lavandero stood over Tabio's table, staring down at the jar of pencils with a dark, ugly face. He clenched opened clenched opened clenched his fists, his fingers working to no definite rhythm, and then he looked at his fists opening and closing and for a few minutes it seemed as if he looked upon his own hands with loathing. Then, straightening up, he put his hands in the pockets of his blue jacket and turned to Hall and Gonzales. "This is no time to plan personal violence," he said. "It would be exactly what the fascists wanted."
"I am at your orders," Hall said. "I think you know that."
"I am counting on you."
"What do I do now?"
"Keep out of sight for a few hours. I think you should go to Gonzales' house. I'll get you an official car and a chauffeur."
"I'm not alone," Hall said. He told Lavandero about Jerry and the death of Androtten.
"Madre de Dios, take her with you! And keep her hidden." The sweat pouring down his face betrayed Lavandero's excitement; his voice was calm and steady. "I'll send an armed guard with you."
"I'll get the nurse," Gonzales said.
"No. Don't get up. Tell us where she is."
Lavandero had taken over. Later, Hall knew, the man would allow himself to fly into a wild rage, but he would do it alone, where no one could hear or see him. And Hall knew, also, that soon Lavandero would be engaged in a battle with Gamburdo and the fascists for control of the nation.
The black Packard roared out of the subterranean garage of the Presidencia, shot out to the Avenida de la Liberacion. Hall and Jerry, in the back seat, looked behind them at the second Packard which carried their convoy of guards. "They have enough tommy guns back there to blow up anyone who makes a pass at us," he said. "And the two boys in the front seat can throw plenty of lead."
"It's like a gangster movie," Jerry said.
"That shooting in your room this morning was no movie. I've never seen a deader Nazi than the late Wilhelm Androtten, alias X."
"What's going to happen to us now, Matt?"
"Don't worry."
"I am worried. I want to know."
The two cars pulled up at the doctor's house. Maria Luisa, Gonzales' fourteen-year-old daughter, met them at the door. "I am preparing some sandwiches," she said. "Father said you were famished."
They waited in the living room while the girl worked in the kitchen. "You're too hot in San Hermano," Hall said.
"Not yet. They don't know what happened to Androtten. I can just go on being Ansaldo's nurse until ..."
"Forget it," he snapped. "This isn't for amateurs any longer. And you're still an amateur, baby."
"Then what do you suggest I do?"
"You're going back to the States with a bodyguard on the next plane out of here. You're waiting for me in Miami. I'll give you a letter to one of the chiefs of Military Intelligence there. You'll be safe."
"How about you?"
"I'll meet you in two weeks. Three weeks at the outside."
"I won't do it, Matt. I'm staying here with you."
"But I won't be here all the time."
"Then I'll wait here for you."
"Baby, listen." He took out a package of American cigarettes, put one in her mouth, lit it. "Ladies don't smoke in San Hermano. You can smoke until you hear anyone coming. Then hand it to me. Now, sit down like a good girl, and for God's sake, listen carefully. There's a job I've got to do. It's my job alone. I've got to do it alone. I had an idea that before I was through here I'd have to do it. But Tabio's last words were spoken in English and they were to me, and baby, as soon as he stopped talking I knew what I had to do."
Hall quoted the President's words about the power of Truth. "And he was right," he said. "I remember what happened when I got out of the can in Spain. I went back to Paris to get some rest. Tabio was in Geneva, packing his things to go home. I found out he was still there and I went to see him before he left. He was going home to run for President so that this country shouldn't become a second Spain.
"I remember telling him that the thing which kept me alive in Franco's prison was my feeling that a miracle would happen—that the little guys in England and France would force the appeasers to sell guns to the Republic, or that Russia would be able to fly some heavy bombers across France for Madrid, or that Roosevelt would open his eyes and lift the damned embargo, or anything. Any good miracle like these, even a tiny one, would have saved the day. And I went to sleep every day sure that each morning I'd wake up closer to the day this miracle would happen, and that some morning I'd wake up and find that the people somewhere outside of Spain had performed this miracle.
"I remember the way Tabio listened to me speak, and how when I was done he said that the miracle I wanted all that time was that the truth should get to the people. It was that simple. And he was dead right. It's exactly what he did in his own country, and you know how the people love him for it."
Jerry looked puzzled. "But what do you propose to do?"
"Look," he said. "It's a matter of days at most before the whole nation will be mourning Tabio. The Constitution says that within thirty days after the President dies, there must be a general election. I have an idea that the race will be between Gamburdo and someone like Lavandero. Both will claim that they are Tabio's real choice as a successor. If I can get to Havana, I can dig up the truth about Gamburdo and Ansaldo in a matter of days. I'm sure of it. If it's anywhere at all, it's in Havana. Gamburdo is taking public credit for trying to save Tabio's life by bringing Ansaldo to San Hermano. The truth can make this boomerang in his face."
"Can't I help in any way?"
Hall stopped short. "Do you know what you're asking? That scrape in the hotel this morning was nothing compared to the things you're asking for if you stay. Even if Gamburdo is licked, it's only the beginning."
"But you're sticking it out, aren't you?"
"I have to. I've been in it since Madrid. There's no escaping it for me. I'll never know any peace until the crime of Spain is liquidated. Fascism isn't just an ideological enemy for me, baby. It's a cancer burning in my own, my very personal guts. I'd go off my conk if mine weren't two of the billion fists that are smashing and will go on smashing back at fascism until it's deader than Willie Androtten. I've never stopped to think of what my chances are of being alive at the finish. All I know is that if I stopped fighting it I'd die."
"Let me stay," Jerry pleaded. "I'd be a liar if I said that's the way I felt, too. But the war came to me this morning at the end of Androtten's gun, darling. I can't escape it any more than you can now."
They had an early dinner with Gonzales and his daughter, avoiding all serious discussion until Lavandero arrived. The Minister of Education brought grim news: Anibal Tabio had suffered a second stroke and was dying.
"Where is Ansaldo?" Hall asked.
"He is still on the ranch of Gamburdo's brother. He is waiting for an answer to his ultimatum. Don Anibal's condition is still a secret."
"But Esteban," Gonzales said, "we cannot keep it a secret. You will be accused of murdering Don Anibal if Gamburdo finds out."
"I know. I've asked Segador to come. I wanted to bring Simon Tabio, but he refuses to leave the room while his father still breathes. What do you think,CompañeroHall? What is the first thing we have to do? By the way, does the señorita speak Spanish?"
"No. I will tell her what she should know later."
"Is she reliable?"
"I hope to marry her—if I am alive in three weeks."
Jerry looked at Hall's face and blushed. "I'll bet you just told him about us," she said.
"My felicitations," Lavandero said, in English. He gave her his hand. "But with your permission, we must speak in Spanish."
Hall told Lavandero and Gonzales his plan about Havana. "I was going to do it in any event if Duarte didn't hear from his friends in Mexico."
"But why Havana?"
"Because Havana was the base headquarters in the Western Hemisphere for all Falangist work. The boys in the Casa de la Cultura and on the staff ofAhoraworked with the Batista government to break it up. They arrested the key leaders, but even though they had to let them go back to Spain, they took their confidential files away from them."
"And you think that Ansaldo will turn up in these files?"
"It is something we must not overlook."
"There is someone at the door," Gonzales said. "Wait." He slipped the safety of the automatic in his pocket, and went to the door with his hand on the gun.
"Be tranquil," Gonzales announced. "It is Diego."
The Major Diego Segador who walked into the room was quite a different creature from the mournful-visaged officer in the neat uniform Hall had met at the barracks. He wore a gray civilian suit, whose jacket was at least four sizes too small for his broad frame, yellow box-toe shoes and an incongruous striped silk shirt. The discolored flat straw hat he carried in his tremendous square hands completed the picture which immediately came to Hall's mind: a vision of Diego Segador as a tough steel-worker on a holiday in Youngstown, Ohio, during the twenties.
"You look," said Gonzales, "like a Gallego grocer on his way to High Mass."
"That's enough," Lavandero said sharply, "Don Anibal is dying."
The blood rose to Segador's head. "No!" he shouted.
"Sit down, Diego."
Gonzales opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He shouted to the kitchen for his daughter to bring glasses.
"Major," Hall said, "this is Miss Olmstead."
"Hello," Segador said, in English. "You have close shave, no?"
All the men had brandy. Jerry merely looked at the bottle with great longing.
"Well then, Diego," Lavandero said, "minutes count now. Hall has a plan. It is a good one." He described it for the Major. "If he comes back with pictures of Ansaldo in the uniform of the Falange, we will have to flood the country with them. They will not look nice next to the pictures of Ansaldo embracing Gamburdo, no?"
"They will look very nice—for us. But how is Hall going to get to Havana?"
"By plane. Why?"
"Why? Because you are a marked man, Hall."
"Get me to the border, then. I'll get to Havana from across the border."
"Not on your passport," Segador said. "It is too risky. Tomas, you have a passport, no? Never mind. All right, then, Hall. You go on a passport made out to Vicente, but with your picture on it. I'll drive you north by car. You board a plane in San Martin Province—there's one that meets the Clipper for Miami. The mining men use it. You travel to Havana as one of our nationals, one Emilio Vicente. Then the officials of your own government in San Juan won't ..." He stopped suddenly, filled his glass with brandy, and drank it in one short gulp.
"Out with it, Major," Hall said. "What are you hiding?"
"Hiding?"
"About me and my government?"
"Nothing. It's just that you are too well known as Matthew Hall. You are known by face in San Juan. Perhaps, when you land there to refuel, someone will recognize you. And then there will be trouble about your Vicente passport. Perhaps—one cannot be too careful."
Hall knew that the Major was concealing something from him, something that had to do with himself. He thought of his low standing at the American Embassy, and of some of the fascists in high places he had offended in San Juan. "Yes," he said, "I think you are right." This, he decided, was not the time to start new trouble.
"No," Lavandero said, "it is no good. We shall need another passport forCompañeroHall."
"How can we get it?" Segador asked. "There is no time."
"There is time," Lavandero said, evenly. "Duarte is preparing a passport and papers for Hall. Diplomatic. He will travel as Victor Ortiz Tinoco, official courier of the Mexican Government."
"When did he start on the papers?" Hall asked.
"A few hours ago. He thought you might want to make the trip."
"Why didn't you tell me before this?"
Lavandero's face softened. "My dear friend," he said, "what you are undertaking is no minor task. The complications are enormous. If you are caught, you face much legal trouble at the very least; death by violence, if the fascists catch you first. You are under no obligations to this Republic. I had to hear it from your lips first."
"When can I start?"
"In two hours. You will have to give me your passport, so that I may have the picture copied for the Ortiz Tinoco papers. Segador's idea is the right one. He will drive you to the San Martin airport tonight. The Mexican Embassy is ordering the tickets. I will leave you with Gonzales and Segador to work out the rest of the details."
"Good. Here is my passport."
"The Republic will always be grateful to you,CompañeroHall." Lavandero stood up and started for the door. Hall accompanied him.
"Well," Hall said, "I'll try to get back within the week—if I'm lucky." He held out his hand to the Minister.
"Thank you,compañero." Lavandero raised his arms to Hall's shoulders and embraced him. "You were worthy of his trust."
"And you of his love," Hall answered. He was sorry for Lavandero, sorry for him as a friend, as a man, as a leader so intent on answering his responsibilities to his moment in history that he had to allow his own personal rages to simmer unattended within him until there again came a time when a man could walk off alone and be his own master.
"I will see you in a week,compañero."
Hall walked back to the living room. Segador was trying to convey to Jerry his impressions of Atlantic City in 1919. "Womansbonitas," he was shouting, "whisky bad. Much bad. I have young years, much money. Well, well. So."
"We'll listen to your memoirs when I get back," Hall said.
"When we get back," Segador said.
"You're coming with me?"
"I'm meeting you on your way back. We'll meet in Caracas. Listen to me,compañero. The chief of our Air Force is loyal. He will give me one of our American bombers. From the San Martin airport, a bomber can make Caracas in fifteen hours. Give me ten hours' notice, and I will meet you in time. I already have a loyal flying crew standing by for my orders."
"Where can we meet in Caracas?"
"At the airport. I can meet your plane."
"Won't you be followed?"
"Of course. By three or four of my picked men. Don't worry about that."
Gonzales interrupted to say that there would be time for them to have dinner at the house before starting on the drive north.
"Oh, while we're at it," Hall said, "I am going to ask you to be good enough to keep mynoviahere until I return. That is, if Segador thinks it is safe."
"It is safe," the Major grunted. "We will make it safe."
"Then it is the privilege of my daughter and myself to make this house the señorita's for a century." Gonzales called his daughter in from the kitchen. "It will be very good for her,amigos. Maria Luisa is studying English in high school. It will help her greatly."
"Let her teach Jerry Spanish in a week," Hall said.
The girl seemed pleased when her father told her about Jerry. "Oh, nice," she said, trying out her English immediately. "You are very welcome, Aunt. The pleasure it is all of mine."
"You are very kind," Jerry said.
"Please. May I show you the room? There are five rooms upstairs in my father's house. Your room faces the ..." She paused, flustered, turned to Hall. "Cómo se dice, por favor, frente con vista al mar?"
"Tell her that her roomfaces the ocean front, Maria Luisa. And teach her two words of Spanish for every word you learn from her."
"Let's go," Jerry said to the girl. "Vamoosearriba, sí?"
"Under no circumstances," Segador said when the girls were gone, "must you attempt to come back by regular routes. If anything happens to me, wait at the border. Get to Santiago by plane, and wait in the big hotel for word from us."
"How bad is it for me?"
"Who knows? The fascists are mother-raping bastards, but they are no donkeys. Today they must be looking for you in San Hermano. In a few hours, they will begin to worry. Tomorrow they will become upset because you are gone, and by tomorrow night they will turn the whole Cross and Sword gang loose to look for you. But by tomorrow night, if all goes well, and if that madman of a Duarte doesn't try to drive the car himself but brings his driver along, you will be in Havana.
"Of course," Segador said, "we will do everything we can to end the hunt. But we can only do the usual things. Perhaps we will identify the body of some poor Hermanito who gets killed by a car as Matthew Hall. Give me some papers, by the way; we'll need them if we can get the right body."
"Lavandero has my American passport. And here's my wallet. That's good enough." Hall took the three photos out of the wallet. "The pictures are for her—if I don't come back."
"And the money?"
Hall flipped his fingers through the eight hundred-odd dollars worth of travelers' checks. "I'd better sign these, just in case," he said. "I want you to split it between Pepe Delgado and Emilio Vicente."
"I understand," Segador said. "Duarte is bringing some money for you to travel on."
"I'll repay him when I return. Is there anything else I should know? I have to write a letter. Have you any paper, doctor?"
"In a moment."
"Just a few things," Segador said. "A simple code for sending messages to us." He explained the code system in a few minutes. "And one other thing. I have the pictures we took of that Nazi Vicente shot; pictures of his face and his fingerprints. We will seal them in the pouch you are carrying. Perhaps you can identify it in Havana somehow."
"I will try. Ah, thanks for the paper. This will take me only a few minutes." Hall propped the writing pad on his lap and wrote a short note to his attorney in New York.
"Well, this is it," he wrote, "and I'll be more surprised than you are if you ever receive this letter. I'm about to leave this country on what might turn out to be a one-way trip to the grave. If I don't come back, this letter is to be sent to you. It's about my will. I still want the dough to go to the Spanish refugees and the veterans of the International Brigades, but I want to lop off about a quarter of the total in the bank and due me from Bird and leave it for Miss Geraldine Olmstead. She is an American citizen and, if you hadn't received this note, would by now be Mrs. H. When you meet her, introduce her to my friends and take her around to the Committee; she wants to help the Spanish Republicans. If I really thought this was my last trip, I guess I'd close this letter with some appropriate and high-sounding last lines—you know, the kind of crap a guy would write as the lead for his own obit. But we'll skip the farewell address. This letter is being witnessed by two good friends, one a doctor and the other a major in this country. I guess that makes it legal."
Hall signed the letter, told Gonzales and Segador what he wanted done with it, and handed them the pen. "How much time do we have?" he asked.
"You will have to leave in less than two hours," Segador said. "Duarte will be here long before then."
"Good." Hall looked at his watch. "I would like to see the girl alone in her room for a while. There is much that I must tell her before I go."
"I understand," Segador said.
"Are you making the trip to San Martin with me?"
"No. I will only ride the first twenty miles with you. I have a car waiting for me at Marao."
Hall waited for Gonzales to call his daughter, and then he went up to Jerry's room.
Hall had time to buy a paper at the Havana airport before the Panair bus started out for the city. In the half-light of evening, he could read only the headlines, and the front page carried nothing about Tabio's condition. It meant only one thing, that Don Anibal was still alive. His death would have rated a banner headline in every paper published south of the United States borders.
He folded the paper under his sealed attaché case, sat wearily back in his seat as the half-empty bus rolled through the flat table lands between the airport and Havana. It was a run of fifteen miles from Rancho Boyeros to the Prado, a stretch long enough to give Hall another opportunity to review in his mind the nature of the tasks that lay ahead of him.
Physically, there were few details which could trap him. Duarte had been very thorough, even to the point of bringing Mexican labels for Jerry to sew into every item of apparel on Hall's body and in his Mexican leather grip. The credentials in his worn Mexican wallet had carried him through the control stations of four governments, including the station in San Juan (although the night in Puerto Rico had been a jittery twelve hours of sulking in his room like a caged animal). He wore a hat and a pair of soft ankle boots which belonged to Duarte, and a pair of broad-framed tortoise-shell reading glasses he had borrowed from Dr. Gonzales. The attaché case, protected by the Mexican seal, contained the pictures of Androtten, a letter from Duarte to a man named Figueroa in the Mexican Embassy, and the automatic Segador had given him the day after he was drugged.
It was too late to report to the Mexican Embassy and deliver the letter to Figueroa. But the Casa de la Cultura would be open (there were lectures and meetings of some sort going on every night at the Spanish Republican society), the boys on the staff ofAhorawould be at their desks at the paper, and Colonel Lobo could always be reached within a few hours. The idea was to contact all three tonight; if the documentary bomb which would blow up Ansaldo was anywhere in Havana, it would be either at the Casa, the paper, or in the files of the Secret Police.
His heart quickened as the bus reached the narrow streets of Havana, honked its way to the Maceo, and then turned lazily down the Prado. He loved this city as he loved only two others, New York and Madrid. In the course of nearly four decades, Hall had spent a mere four months in Havana, but these were months in which he rarely got more than four hours' sleep a night. He had worked hard in this city, but for a hundred-odd nights he had also known the fantastic pleasures of merely walking the streets of the Cuban capital, talking to friends, stopping off to rest and have a tropical beer or a tall glass of mamey pulp, getting drunk only on the green softness of the Havana moon and the cool pleasures of the Gulf breeze. Here he had found old friends from Spain, and made new and life-long friendships with a host of Cubans. He knew, when he last left Havana, that the city had become one of his spiritual homes, that always he would think of it as a place to which he could return when he wanted the peace which comes to a man from being where he belongs.
As they approached the Panair office, Hall became apprehensive. He was afraid that he might be recognized by one of the clerks. He dug into his wallet for an American two-dollar bill and handed it to the driver. "Take me directly to the Jefferson Hotel,chico," he said. "It is only two streets out of your way."
"I won't get shot if I do,amigo."
He chose the Jefferson because it was a small, ancient and very unfashionable hotel, without a bar, and completely overlooked by the American colony. It was also very inexpensive, just the kind of a place a new courier, anxious to make a good record, would choose. It was on the Prado, it was clean, and the bills were modest enough to reflect to the credit of the government traveler who submitted them. Not the least of its charms for Hall was that the Jefferson was the one place where he stood not the slightest chance of being known by either the guests or the employees.
He signed the register with a modest flourish, insisted upon and obtained a reduced rate due to his standing as a courier, and then, spotting the large safe in the office behind the counter, he asked for the manager. "I am," he said, flourishing his identity papers, "a courier of the Mexican Government. Since I have arrived too late to present myself to my Embassy tonight, could I ask for the privilege of depositing my case in your safe for the night?"
The manager said he would be honored to oblige. He had, he said, traveled widely in Mexico, and admired the Mexican people, the Mexican Government, and most of all Señor Ortiz Tinoco's Department of Foreign Relations, and did the visitor expect to make frequent stops in Havana? The visitor assured the manager that he did.
The case was handed to the night clerk, who opened the safe, deposited it, and closed the heavy iron door. "It will be as safe," the manager said, "as the gold in the teeth of a Gallego."
"That," said Hall, "is security enough for me."
He got into the rickety elevator and went to his room. It was a large room overlooking the Prado. He opened the shutters, looked out at the star-drenched skies. He was home again. Outside, juke boxes in three different open cafés on one street were playing three records with maximum volume. A baby in the next room was lying alone and cooing at the ceiling. Near by, a light roused a rooster on some rooftop to let out a loud call.
Hall heard the sounds of the city as they blended into the tone pattern peculiarly Havana's own. He took a quick shower, changed into some fresh clothes, and went downstairs to the Prado. He stopped first at a cigar stand a few doors from the hotel, bought a handful of choice cigars, and lit a long and very dark Partagas, being careful to remember that only gringos removed the cigar band before lighting up.
He walked casually down the Prado, toward the Malecon, pausing in the course of the four blocks between the Casa de la Cultura and the Jefferson to study the stills in the lobby of a movie house showing an American film, to sip a leisurely pot of coffee, and to buy a box of wax matches and a lottery ticket from a street vendor. From the street, he could see that the windows of the Casa were well lighted. He walked another block, crossed the street, and then, very casually, he studied the signs on the street entrance to the organization's headquarters.Tonight: Lecture on History of Music by Professor A. Vasquez. Dance and ball for young people.And why shouldn't a bachelor courier on the loose in Havana attend a dance for the youngrefugiados? He went through the motions of a visiting blade debating with himself the propriety of attending such a ball.
Squaring his shoulders, the Mexican courier put the cigar in his mouth and started to climb the stairs to the headquarters of the Casa. He climbed slowly, afraid of receiving too enthusiastic a greeting when he reached the first-floor landing.
There was a light in the small meeting room at the end of the corridor. Hall stood near the door for a few minutes, listening for a familiar voice through the opened transom. Then, carefully, he knocked, and turned the handle of the door. It was open.
He stepped into a meeting of a small committee. Eight men were sitting around a long table. They were talking about the problems of getting help to the Spaniards in the French concentration camps in North Africa. All discussion stopped the moment the confreres saw Hall.
"I am looking," he said, "for Santiago Iglesias."
A tawny-haired Spaniard at the table looked up. "Viejo!" he shouted, springing from his chair and rushing over to confront Hall.
The right hand which rose to take the cigar from Hall's mouth also lingered long enough to hold an admonishing finger to his lips. "Hello, Rafael," he said. "I didn't know you were in Cuba."
Rafael was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Neither did Franco," he laughed. "Last week I found out for the first time that the fascists had jailed you and that you got out after the war. I thought you were dead, M..."
The look in Hall's eyes stopped him from pronouncing the rest of the American's name.
"Let's go outside," Hall said, softly. "I do not have much time."
They stepped into the corridor. "Where can we talk?" Hall asked. "Is anyone using Santiago's office?"
"No. We can sit there."
They found the office unoccupied. "Don't turn the light on," Hall said. "The window faces the street."
Rafael locked the door, pulled two seats close to the big desk in the corner. "We can sit here and talk quietly," he said.
"It's wonderful to see you, Rafael. I'd heard you were captured in a hospital during the Ebro retreat."
"Mierda!That's what the fascists boasted. No. I came out of the retreat in good order. I started with thirty men, but, instead of taking to the roads like the Lincolns, I started to cross the mountains. I went up with thirty men, and I came down on the other side with a battalion. Most of them got through alive after that."
"Good boy! Where have you been since then?"
"In hell!" Rafael spat, angrily. "Rotting in a French concentration camp, mostly. I organized an escape. We killed six guards, and more than twenty prisoners got away. I got to Casablanca through the underground, and they put me on a Chilean ship. Two weeks ago we reached Havana. I'm to eat and rest for a month. Then I go back to Spain for more fighting. With the guerrillas. When did you get here?"
"An hour ago. Listen, I want to talk to you. But it is important that we find Santiago. Is he in town?"
"Yes. He is supposed to be at our meeting. He'll be here."
"Can you go back and leave word for him to join you in here the minute he comes? It's very important."
Rafael jumped from his chair, struck an absurd caricature of military posture, and made a limp French salute, his hand resting languidly against his ear. "Mais oui, mon général," he said. "Mais oui, oui, oui." He marched stiffly out of the room, posing at the door to make an obscene gesture meant for the men of Vichy.
He glided noiselessly back to the dark office in a few minutes, waved Hall's proffered cigar away. "I can't smoke any more. We had nothing to smoke the last year in Spain, and Monsieur Daladier and Company never sent us any tobacco. Now I just can't stand it. I walk around Havana and everyone offers me cigars, but I've lost my taste for it."
"It will come back, Rafael."
"Why are you in Havana, Mateo?"
"It is a long story,chico. I'd rather tell you in front of Santiago. It's about Anibal Tabio. I left San Hermano two nights ago. Things are serious, there. Falange."
"Is Tabio really so ill?"
"He is dying,chico. He may be dead by now. I think he was killed by the Falange. I came here for the proof. Santiago knows. We've exchanged letters."
"Hola!" Santiago Iglesias was at the door. "Then you got my letters?" He was ten years older than Rafael, tall and powerfully built. He crossed the room in long, athlete's strides, his head thrown back as if to announce to the world that the white hairs which outnumbered the black of his head were merely an accident of the war.
"I knew you would understand," Hall said.
"What happens?"
"Don Anibal is dying. I think Ansaldo did it."
"He is a fascist, Mateo. You were absolutely right."
"How do you know? I need the proof immediately."
"There is a man in town who was trapped behind Franco's lines for two years. He knew Ansaldo well."
"That is good—for you and me. But it is not enough. There is too much at stake."
"I guessed as much, Mateo. General Mogrado sent a message from Mexico City a few days ago. He wanted the information also. I took this man in Havana and we went to a lawyer and he made a long affidavit about Ansaldo. Mogrado has the affidavit by this time."
"Who is this man? Is he well known?"
"No, Mateo. He was a minor official of the Ministry of Commerce. I have a copy of his affidavit, and you can meet him tomorrow if you wish. He is staying with relatives in Marianao."
"Let us try to see him tomorrow. But I need much more than his affidavit. I need more than anything else a picture of Ansaldo in Falange uniform, a picture that shows him with officers of Germany and Italy. I was in Burgos when the picture was taken—and I have a feeling that the picture is right here in Havana."
"Here? In Havana?"
"Listen,compañeros. I saw theArribaman take that picture. I was standing a hundred feet away. It was in the spring or summer of 1938," Hall said. "I know you have the complete file ofArribahere."
"No, Mateo. We do not."
The blood left Hall's head. "You don't?" he said. "But when I was here we ..."
"It is the complete file ofArribaof Madrid since April of 1939, Mateo. Since Franco entered Madrid,amigo."
"And before that?"
"There are some, but not a complete file. They have many fascist papers atAhora, and at the University there is Dr. Nazario with his personal collection of fascist publications. It is very large, and it goes back to 1935 in some cases, but it has many empty places."
"And the Secret Police? What has Colonel Lobo got?"
"Dossiers and documents. But papers—who knows?"
"I'll be back in Madrid in a month," Rafael said. "I can go back sooner if it will help the cause, Mateo. There is surely a complete file there."
"No, thank you, Rafael, but I need the picture in a few hours." He told them why the pictures were needed, and how they would be used if he could find them.
"Don't worry," Santiago said. "There are three collections to examine, and in the meanwhile we might get some further clues from de Sola. He is a very intelligent fellow. I'll put him to work on Dr. Nazario's collection in the morning. Rafael, tonight you go toAhora. Go through their Spanish collection, and then examine their files ofArribaof Havana. The localArribaused more pictures than an American magazine, and most of them came from Franco Spain. You'd better go right now."
"I'll be there in ten minutes. Shall I tell them what it's about, Mateo?"
"No, I'll tell them myself. I'm here on false papers. Just warn them that if they see me on the street I'm not to be recognized. But I'll see them before I leave."
"I'm going to call Lobo," Hall said. "At the very least his dossiers are more official than de Sola's affidavit."
Santiago shoved the phone toward Hall. "I was going to suggest it myself. Do you remember the number?"
"Of course."
There was no answer at Lobo's house. Hall called the headquarters of the National Police. "I want to reach Colonel Lobo," he said to the man who answered his call.
"We no longer have a Colonel Lobo."
"What?"
"We have a General Lobo, señor."
"Where is he?"
"Who is this speaking?"
"Who am I?" Hall hesitated. "If he's there, just tell him it's Johnny Verde Luna. He'll know who it is." Lobo called all Americans Johnny; Verde Luna was a horse he and Hall had played for three straight weeks at the Hipodromo until it romped home in front at the longest odds in ten years.
"I will, Mr. Johnny Green Moon," the other man said, in English. "When I see him tomorrow."
"I don't understand you, señor. I ..."
"He is not here, señor."
"I know. Don't tell me where he is. But do you know?"
"That depends."
"Listen to me, my friend," Hall said, his voice rising angrily, "I have no time to play games. If you know where he is, find him and give him my message. I'll call you every fifteen minutes until you get word from him."
"Yes, señor. I will do what I can. Where can I call you?"
"Never mind. I will call you." Hall hung up. "A clown!" he muttered.
"I forgot to tell you that Lobo is now a general."
"When did it happen?"
"Last week. It came as a reward for breaking up the Pinar del Rio Nazi-Falange ring. You know, the one that was in radio contact with the German submarines."
"I remember it well." Hall had worked with Lobo in rooting the spy ring out. "I wonder where the hell he is?"
"Who knows? But listen, Mateo, I know a man who knows all of Lobo's hangouts. Suppose I send him out to look?"
"Excellent. Just tell him to give Lobo this message—that he is the only man who can save the life of Don Anibal Tabio. Eh?"
"We'll try it. Wait here for me. I'll be right back."
Hall started to tell Santiago the whole story of his experiences in San Hermano when the Spaniard returned to the office. As soon as he mentioned the fact that Ansaldo's assistant Marina was a morphine addict, Santiago interrupted him.
"Hijo de la gran puta!I think I know him. Wait, I'll describe him. I know him, all right, Mateo. Wait, I'll close the shutters. Then we can turn on the light. I think I have his picture in this room."
"Who is he, Santiago?"
"Just a second. That's better." He turned on the small desk light. "Let's go to the files."
The Spaniard took a set of keys from his pocket, opened a heavy door behind the desk and snapped on the light in a small store room. He stepped in front of a row of steel filing cabinets, opened one with another key. "He used another name in Spain—and in Paris. I know it's the same man. Called himself Marcelino Gassau in 1937. Wait. Here it is."
"It's themaricón!" Hall cried when he saw the picture Santiago drew from the file.
"I knew it."
Hall glanced at his watch. "Just a second. I'm going to call Lobo back. It's time. Let's bring the whole file on the bastard out to the desk."
The man at police headquarters had no news of Lobo. "I'll call you back," Hall said. "Keep trying him."
"So Gassau is your Marina," Santiago laughed. "We knew him well, thecabrón. He was working in Portugal and Berlin as a liaison between Sanjurjo and von Faupel in 1935 and 1936. Then, when the war started, he went to Paris, the coward, spying on the German anti-fascists who were on their way to fight with the Thaelmanns in Spain. He posed as a contact man for the U.G.T., and then he'd lead the Germans straight to the French police and notify the German Embassy. Then the Nazis would start to complain that they were criminals who escaped from German prisons and claim them back. Not one of the poor devils ever got to Spain, but some of them were ultimately turned over to the German Government and killed. It's all in this file."