‘Only a Johnnie Walker. Nothing fancy.’
Dr Braun said, ‘If anyone here can speak for all of us about the long years of patient service a trader gives to the public, I am sure it is Mr Wormold, whom now I call upon …’
Carter winked and raised an imaginary glass.
‘H-hurry,’ Carter said, ‘You’ve got to h-hurry.’
Wormold lowered the whisky. ‘What did you say, Carter?’
‘I said drink it up quick.’
‘Oh no, you didn’t, Carter.’ Why hadn’t he noticed that stammered aspirate before? Was Carter conscious of it and did he avoid an initial ‘h’ except when he was preoccupied by fear or h-hope?
‘What’s the matter, Wormold?’
Wormold put his hand down to pat the dog’s head and as though by accident he knocked the glass from the table.
‘You pretended not to know the doctor.’
‘What doctor?’
‘You would call him H-Hasselbacher.’
‘Mr Wormold,’ Dr Braun called down the table.
He rose uncertainly to his feet. The dog for want of any better provender was lapping at the whisky on the floor.
Wormold said, ‘I appreciate your asking me to speak, whatever your motives.’ A polite titter took him by surprise – he hadn’t meant to say anything funny. He said, ‘This is my first and it looked at one time as though it was going to be my last public appearance.’ He caught Carter’s eye. Carter was frowning. He felt guilty of a solecism by his survival as though he were drunk in public. Perhaps he was drunk. He said, ‘I don’t know whether I’ve got any friends here. I’ve certainly got some enemies.’ Somebody said ‘Shame’ and several people laughed. If this went on he would get the reputation of being a witty speaker. He said, ‘We hear a lot nowadays about the cold war, but any trader will tell you that the war between two manufacturers of the same goods can be quite a hot war. Take Phastkleaners and Nucleaners. There’s not much difference between the two machines any more than there is between two human beings, one Russian – or German – and one British. There would be no competition and no war if it wasn’t for the ambition of a few men in both firms; just a few men dictate competition and invent needs and set Mr Carter and myself at each other’s throats.’
Nobody laughed now. Dr Braun whispered something into the ear of the Consul-General. Wormold lifted Carter’s whisky-flask and said, ‘I don’t suppose Mr Carter even knows the name of the man who sent him to poison me for the good of his firm.’ Laughter broke out again with a note of relief. Mr MacDougall said, ‘We could do with more poison here,’ and suddenly the dog began to whimper. It broke cover and made for the service-door. ‘Max,’ the head-waiter exclaimed. ‘Max.’ There was silence and then a few uneasy laughs. The dog was uncertain on its feet. It howled and tried to bite its own breast. The head-waiter overtook it by the door and picked it up, but it cried as though with pain and broke from his arms. ‘It’s had a couple,’ Mr MacDougall said uneasily.
‘You must excuse me, Dr Braun,’ Wormold said, ‘the show is over.’ He followed the head-waiter through the service-door. ‘Stop.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to find out what happened to my plate.’
‘What do you mean, sir? Your plate?’
‘You were very anxious that my plate should not be given to anyone else.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did you know that it was poisoned?’
‘You mean the food was bad, sir?’
‘I mean it was poisoned and you were careful to save Dr Braun’s life – not mine.’
‘I’m afraid, sir, I don’t understand you. I am busy. You must excuse me.’ The sound of a howling dog came up the long passage from the kitchen, a low dismal howl intercepted by a sharper burst of pain. The head-waiter called, ‘Max!’ and ran like a human being down the passage. He flung open the kitchen-door.’ Max!’
The dachshund lifted a melancholy head from where it crouched below the table, then began to drag its body painfully towards the head-waiter. A man in a chef’s cap said, ‘He ate nothing here. The plate was thrown away.’ The dog collapsed at the waiter’s feet and lay there like a length of offal.
The waiter went down on his knees beside the dog. He said, ‘Max mein Kind. Mein Kind.’ The black body was like an elongation of his own black suit. The kitchen-staff gathered around.
The black tube made a slight movement and a pink tongue came out like tooth-paste and lay on the kitchen floor. The head-waiter put his hand on the dog and then looked up at Wormold. The tear-filled eyes so accused him of standing there alive while the dog was dead that he nearly found it in his heart to apologize, but instead he turned and went. At the end of the passage he looked back: the black figure knelt beside the black dog and the white chef stood above and the kitchen-hands waited, like mourners round a grave, carrying their troughs and mops and dishes like wreaths. My death, he thought, would have been more unobtrusive than that.
4
‘I have come back,’ he said to Beatrice, ‘I am not under the table. I have come back victorious. The dog it was that died.’
CHAPTER 4
1
CAPTAIN SEGURA SAID, ‘I’m glad to find you alone. Are you alone?’
‘Quite alone.’
‘I’m sure you don’t mind. I have put two men at the door to see that we aren’t disturbed.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Milly and Beatrice are out at a cinema. They’ll be surprised if they are not allowed in.’
‘I will not take up much of your time. There are two things I have come to see you about. One is important. The other is only routine. May I begin with what is important?’
‘Please.’
‘I wish, Mr Wormold, to ask for the hand of your daughter.’
‘Does that require two policemen at the door?’
‘It’s convenient not to be disturbed.’
‘Have you spoken to Milly?’
‘I would not dream of it before speaking to you.’
‘I suppose even here you would need my consent by law.’
‘It is not a matter of law but of common courtesy. May I smoke?’
‘Why not? Is that case really made from human skin?’
Captain Segura laughed. ‘Ah, Milly, Milly. What a tease she is!’ He added ambiguously, ‘Do you really believe that story, Mr Wormold?’ Perhaps he had an objection to a direct lie; he might be a good Catholic.
‘She’s much too young to marry, Captain Segura.’
‘Not in this country.’
‘I’m sure she has no wish to marry yet.’
‘But you could influence her, Mr Wormold.’
‘They call you the Red Vulture, don’t they?’
‘That, in Cuba, is a kind of compliment.’
‘Aren’t you rather an uncertain life? You seem to have a lot of enemies.’
‘I have saved enough to take care of my widow. In that way, Mr Wormold, I am a more reliable support than you are. This establishment – it can’t bring you in much money and at any moment it is liable to be closed.’
‘Closed?’
‘I am sure you do not intend to cause trouble, but a lot of trouble has been happening around you. If you had to leave this country, would you not feel happier if your daughter were well established here?’
‘What kind of trouble, Captain Segura?’
‘There was a car which crashed – never mind why. There was an attack on poor Engineer Cifuentes – a friend of the Minister of the Interior. Professor Sanchez complained that you broke into his house and threatened him. There is even a story that you poisoned a dog.’
‘That I poisoned a dog?’
‘It sounds absurd, of course. But the head-waiter at the Hotel Nacional said you gave his dog poisoned whisky. Why should you give a dog whisky at all? I don’t understand. Nor does he. He thinks perhaps because it was a German dog. You don’t say anythi
ng, Mr Wormold.’
‘I am at a loss for words.’
‘He was in a terrible state, poor man. Otherwise I would have thrown him out of the office for talking nonsense. He said you came into the kitchen to gloat over what you had done. It sounded very unlike you, Mr Wormold. I have always thought of you as a humane man. Just assure me there is no truth in this story …’
‘The dog was poisoned. The whisky came from my glass. But it was intended for me, not the dog.’
‘Why should anyone try to poison you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Two strange stories – they cancel out. Probably there was no poison and the dog just died. I gather it was an old dog. But you must admit, Mr Wormold, that a lot of trouble seems to go on around you. Perhaps you are like one of those innocent children I have read about in your country who set poltergeists to work.’
‘Perhaps I am. Do you know the names of the poltergeists?’
‘Most of them. I think the time has come to exorcise them. I am drawing up a report for the President.’
‘Am I on it?’
‘You needn’t be. I ought to tell you, Mr Wormold, that I have saved money, enough money to leave Milly in comfort if anything were ever to happen to me. And of course enough for us to settle in Miami if there were a revolution.’
‘There’s no need for you to tell me all this. I’m not questioning your financial capacity.’
‘It is customary, Mr Wormold. Now for my health – that is good. I can show you the certificates. Nor will there be any difficulty about children. That has been amply proved.’
‘I see.’
‘There is nothing in that which need worry your daughter. The children are provided for. My present encumbrance is not an important one. I know that Protestants are rather particular about these things.’
‘I’m not exactly a Protestant.’
‘And luckily your daughter is a Catholic. It would really be a most suitable marriage, Mr Wormold.’
‘Milly is only seventeen.’
‘It is the best and easiest age to bear a child, Mr Wormold. Have I your permission to speak to her?’
‘Do you need it?’
‘It is more correct.’
‘And if I said no …’
‘I would of course try to persuade you.’
‘You said once that I was not of the torturable class.’
Captain Segura laid his hand affectionately on Wormold’s shoulders. ‘You have Milly’s sense of humour. But seriously, there is always your residence-permit to consider.’
‘You seem very determined. All right. You may as well speak to her. You have plenty of opportunity on her way from school. But Milly’s got sense. I don’t think you stand a chance.’
‘In that case I may ask you later to use a father’s influence.’
‘How Victorian you are, Captain Segura. A father today has no influence. You said there was something important …’
Captain Segura said reproachfully, ‘This was the important subject. The other is a matter of routine only. Would you come with me to the Wonder Bar?’
‘Why?’
‘A police matter. Nothing for you to worry about. I am asking you a favour, that is all, Mr Wormold.’
They went in Captain Segura’s scarlet sports-car with a motor-cycle policeman before and behind. All the bootblacks from the Paseo seemed to be gathered in Virdudes. There were policemen on either side of the swing-doors of the Wonder Bar and the sun lay heavy overhead.
The motor-cycle policemen leapt off their machines and began to shoo the bootblacks away. Policemen ran out from the bar and formed an escort for Captain Segura. Wormold followed him. As always at that time of day, the jalousies above the colonnade were creaking in the small wind from the sea. The barman stood on the wrong side of the bar, the customers’ side. He looked sick and afraid. Several broken bottles behind him were still dripping single drops, but they had spilt their main contents a long while ago. Someone on the floor was hidden by the bodies of the policemen, but the boots showed – the thick over-repaired boots of a not-rich old man. ‘It’s just a formal identification,’ Captain Segura said. Wormold hardly needed to see the face, but they cleared a way before him so that he could look down at Dr Hasselbacher.
‘It’s Dr Hasselbacher,’ he said. ‘You know him as well as I do.’
‘There is a form to be observed in these matters,’ Segura said. ‘An independent identification.’
‘Who did it?’
Segura said, ‘Who knows? You had better have a glass of whisky. Barman!’
‘No. Give me a daiquiri. It was always a daiquiri I used to drink with him.’
‘Someone came in here with a gun. Two shots missed. Of course we shall say it was the rebels from Oriente. It will be useful in influencing foreign opinion. Perhaps it was the rebels.’
The face stared up from the floor without expression. You couldn’t describe that impassivity in terms of peace or anguish. It was as though nothing at all had ever happened to it: an unborn face.
‘When you bury him put his helmet on the coffin.’
‘Helmet?’
‘You’ll find an old uniform in his flat. He was a sentimental man.’ It was odd that Dr Hasselbacher had survived two world wars and had died at the end of it in so-called peace much the same death as he might have died upon the Somme.
‘You know very well it had nothing to do with the rebels,’ Wormold said.
‘It is convenient to say so.’
‘The poltergeists again.’
‘You blame yourself too much.’
‘He warned me not to go to the lunch, Carter heard him, everybody heard him, so they killed him.’
‘Who are They?’
‘You have the list.’
‘The name Carter wasn’t on it.’
‘Ask the waiter with the dog, then. You can torture him surely. I won’t complain.’
‘He is German and he has high political friends. Why should he want to poison you?’
‘Because they think I’m dangerous. Me! They little know. Give me another daiquiri. I always had two before I went back to the shop. Will you show me your list, Segura?’
‘I might to a father-in-law, because I could trust him.’
They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as a pain in the memory, like the pain of an amputated leg no longer there. It was time, Wormold thought, to pack up and go and leave the ruins of Havana.
‘You know,’ Captain Segura said, ‘this only emphasizes what I meant. It might have been you. Milly should be safe from accidents like this.’
‘Yes,’ Wormold said. ‘I shall have to see to that.’
2
The policemen were gone from the shop when he returned. Lopez was out, he had no idea where. He could hear Rudy fidgeting with his tubes and an occasional snatch of atmospherics beat around the apartment. He sat down on the bed. Three deaths: an unknown man called Raul, a black dachshund called Max and an old doctor called Hasselbacher; he was the cause – and Carter. Carter had not planned the death of Raul nor the dog, but Dr Hasselbacher had been given no chance. It had been a reprisal: one death for one life, a reversal of the Mosaic Code. He could hear Milly and Beatrice talking in the next room. Although the door was ajar he only half took in what they were saying. He stood on the frontier of violence, a strange land he had never visited before; he had his passport in his hand. ‘Profession: Spy’. ‘Characteristic Features: Friendlessness.’ ‘Purpose of Visit: Murder.’ No visa was required. His papers were in order.
And on this side of the border he heard the voices talking in the language he knew.
Beatrice said, ‘No, I wouldn’t advise deep carnation. Not at your age.’
Milly said, ‘They ought to give lessons in make-up during the last term. I can just hear Sister Agnes sayin
g, “A drop of Nuit d’ Amour behind the ears.” ’
‘Try this light carnation. No, don’t smear the edge of your mouth. Let me show you.’
Wormold thought, I have no arsenic or cyanide. Besides I will have no opportunity to drink with him. I should have forced that whisky down his throat. Easier said than done off the Elizabethan stage, and even there he would have needed in addition a poisoned rapier.
‘There. You see what I mean.’
‘What about rouge?’
‘You don’t need rouge.’
‘What smell do you use, Beatrice?’
‘Sous Le Vent.’
They have shot Hasselbacher, but I have no gun, Wormold thought. Surely a gun should have been part of the office-equipment, like the safe and the celluloid sheets and the microscope and the electric kettle. He had never in his life so much as handled a gun, but that was no insuperable objection. He had only to be as close to Carter as the door through which the voices came.
‘We’ll go shopping together. I think you’d like Indiscret. That’s Lelong.’
‘It doesn’t sound very passionate,’ Milly said.
‘You are young. You don’t have to put passion on behind the ears.’
‘You must give a man encouragement,’ Milly said.
‘Just look at him.’
‘Like this?’ Wormold heard Beatrice laugh. He looked at the door with astonishment. He had gone in thought so far across the border that he had forgotten he was still here on this side with them.
‘You needn’t give them all that encouragement,’ Beatrice said.
‘Did I languish?’
‘I’d call it smoulder.’
‘Do you miss being married?’ Milly asked.
‘If you mean do I miss Peter, I don’t.’
‘If he died would you marry again?’
‘I don’t think I’d wait for that. He’s only forty.’
‘Oh yes. I suppose you could marry again, if you call it marriage.’
‘I do.’
‘But it’s terrible, isn’t it. I have to marry for keeps.’
‘Most of us think we are going to do that – when we do it.’
‘I’d be much better off as a mistress.’
Our Man in Havana Page 19