by Ann Bridge
The official, well briefed by Colonel Marques, knew all about what had happened in Spain; he now said that the English Senhora herself ought to come and identify the man. The Duke was not over-pleased at this idea; but he hardly felt in a position to refuse. He did however insist on going himself to ascertain if Mrs. Atherley felt equal to coming to look at the man—‘She has been shot at today, and has had a shock; moreover she is not in very robust health.’ He told João and Antonio to clear away the blood-stained chair and towels—‘And get sand to cover over the stains on the floor; and bring a clean chair or two.’ Then he went through into the drawing-room.
The party there was waiting anxiously for news of what went on; when her host asked Hetta, rather tentatively, if she would be willing to go and look at the captive, to say whether he was in fact one of the men who had followed her, they all listened intently.’ It is only to look at him, and tell the Security Police yes or no—he cannot speak.’
‘Why not? They have not gagged him?’ Hetta asked, horrified.
‘Oh no—he is unconscious.’ The Duke explained about the man’s attempted suicide. ‘We expect Dr. Mendes at any moment, and this Security officer has put on a tourniquet. But he is greatly upset; if the man dies without speaking, they will learn nothing.’
Hetta suddenly looked very alert.
‘Yes, I will come at once,’ she said, getting up.
‘You’re sure you are up to it?’ Richard asked, with concern.
‘Perfectly sure.’ As she spoke she looked in her small evening bag, and took out a tiny pocket diary.
‘I should like to come with her, Duke,’ Richard said.
‘Do, by all means—I am sorry that Mrs. Atherley should be put to this trouble, but the PIDE individual is very insistent.’
‘He is quite right,’ Hetta said. But out in the hall she turned to her host.
‘Please, before I go to see this man, I must use the telephone,’ she said. ‘May I do it from your study?’
‘Of course, if you wish. But will it not do later?’
‘No. If the man is possibly dying I must lose no time.’ She spoke with a quiet firmness that there was no gainsaying; the Duke obediently led the way into his study, and indicated one of several telephones on his desk. ‘Do sit down. Can I get you the number?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said, sitting down in the desk chair; opening the diary she read out ‘Vale da Cambra 346.’
Ericeira put the call through; as they waited ‘For whom shall I ask?’ he said.
‘For Monsignor Subercaseaux, I think—if he is not available, for Father Martinez. And please give my name—then one of them will certainly answer.’
Greatly intrigued by this, the Duke nevertheless did as he was bidden, and in a few moments heard that rich ecclesiastical voice—he handed the receiver to his guest.
‘Monsignor Subercaseaux? Here Hetta Atherley. Can you send Father Martinez over to Gralheira at once? We need a priest, and one who speaks Spanish; it is exceedingly urgent.’
A long comprehending ‘Aah’ came down the line. ‘So you have them?’
‘One. But the Father should hurry.’
‘He is with me—he will come immediately.’
‘Good—thank you.’ She rang off, cutting short the Monsignor’s voice in mid-flood, and got up.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘Now, where do we go?’
Richard, after his talk on the telephone with Ainsworth, was less surprised than his host at this development; but both men recognised the necessity for bringing a priest to a dying man, and the great desirability, in the circumstances, of securing a Spanish-speaking one. As they walked through into the back regions Hetta explained briefly that the Monsignor had suggested sending Fr. Martinez if any emergency should arise—‘though how he could have foreseen this I do not know.’
‘Do you know this other priest by sight?’ Richard asked.
‘Oh yes—I asked to meet him while I was at La Trapa, so that there could be no mistake.’
‘Good.’
In the shed João and the footman had put clean chairs, and were still strewing sand on the floor. The Duke presented the PIDE official to Hetta, adding—‘I am afraid I do not know your name.’
‘Major Belmonte’—bowing.
‘Ah, thank you.’
‘Now, Senhora, can you tell me if you have ever seen this man before?’
Hetta went up to the blanket-covered figure; it was the man with the black moustaches.
‘Yes—three times.’
‘Where?’
‘First, out in the country; he hid in some reeds, and peeped at me through them. When I tried to speak to him, I saw him running away. Then, quite close to the house, here, in the woods.’
‘Did you speak to him then?’
‘No—he ducked down among some bushes, and I came away, because his behaviour was so peculiar—not at all like the people here, who are always friendly.’
‘Quite so. And the third time?’
‘We went down to the adega, to see the dancing at the winetreading; he was there, with the other two, and I asked the Senhor Duque about them, and learned that they were strangers, and spoke Spanish, not Portuguese.’
‘You had not seen them before, when you were in Spain?’
‘No.’
‘But you did not at once report their behaviour to his Excellency, since it struck you as so peculiar?’
Hetta treated the official to a cold stare.
‘No, Senhor Comandante, I did not.’ She turned to her host, and said in English—‘Dear Duke, if you desire to preserve this man’s life, should he not be put somewhere more suitable?’ She looked round the windowless shed—it was at once chilly and stuffy, and seemed full of people. ‘It is not very warm here, and he gets no air.’
‘It was thought better not to move him till the Doctor comes,’ Ericeira replied.
‘And where is the Dr. to put his things, when he does come? Here is nothing but the floor,’ she replied vigorously. ‘Surely at least a room should be prepared, and something to carry him on?’
Major Belmonte understood English, it seemed.
‘Excellency, the Senhora is right,’ he said. ‘A bed should be got ready, and a stretcher, if you have such a thing.’
Gralheira did not run to a stretcher, but Elidio murmured in his master’s ear that a light door could be taken off its hinges instead; he was told to see to this, and a room, and hurried away.
‘Now, if the Senhor Comandante has heard all he wishes from the Senhora, we will leave you,’ Richard said, a little stiffly.
‘Certainly, Senhor. I regret the necessity for disturbing the Senhora; my best thanks,’ Major Belmonte said, with another bow to Hetta.
‘And I will return to my guests,’ the Duke added.—‘I shall be available later.’ And he and the Atherleys made to leave the shed. As they went out, Dr. Mendes walked in.
Chapter 11
Dr. Mendes, like Hetta, took a dim view of the shed as a place in which to treat his new patient. He felt the pulse, listened to the heart, and loosened the tourniquet—the hand was turning blue; then he demanded that the man should be taken to a proper bed immediately. By Elidio’s orders this had been prepared with surprising speed; the man was laid, not on the door, but on a blanket, and so carried to a small decent room, with a table on which the Doctor could place his effects—there Mendes said that the foot of the bed must be propped up, so that what blood was left in the body should flow back towards the heart and head. This was done; then, and only then, the Doctor re-tied the tourniquet, examined the wrist, and asked a few questions. Was it known at what time the man had slashed himself? No—he had been searched, bound, and left in the shed at some time between 6.30 and a quarter-to-seven, João said; he very sensibly produced the cord which had bound the wrists and explained that the man must have bitten through it; but that, he thought, could only have taken a quarter of an hour, at the most. Major Belmonte, all this time, looked on a
nd listened in acute anxiety; at last he asked the Doctor what the prisoner’s chances of survival were?
Poor—nothing but a blood-transfusion could save his life, Mendes opined; and he was in no condition to stand the journey to the hospital, the only place where it could be given. ‘If he had known better where to cut himself, he would have been dead by now—but he tried too near the hand, where the tendons are in the way, and missed the main artery.’ As he spoke he began to strap up the wound with plaster.
Major Belmonte was aghast at this. Could nothing be done, he asked urgently, to bring him back to consciousness. ‘It is vitally important that he should speak.
Dr. Mendes gave him a queer look at that.
‘For his own sake, in any case, he should be given a warm drink,’ he said rather sardonically. ‘Warm, and very sweet—milky coffee, with much sugar,’ he added to Elidio, who hastened off to supply this fresh need. He finished strapping up the wrist, removed the tourniquet, and tied the arm loosely up in a sling. ‘We might try bandaging his legs, to get more blood up to his head,’ he said to the Major. ‘Take his trousers off.’ While João and the Major did this he hunted in his bag for bandages; as he bandaged one leg—‘Why do you so greatly wish him to speak?’ he asked.
‘He made an attempt on someone’s life, only this afternoon; we have reason to suppose that he is a communist agent,’ Belmonte replied.
‘With what weapon?’
‘A rifle,’ João replied. ‘We have it in the house.’
‘Ah—a rifle! I thought a shot-gun could not have done it,’ the Doctor observed, puzzling the Security man, who had not been told the precise nature of Mrs. Atherley’s wound. At that moment Elidio returned with a jug of milky coffee; the brilliant servant had also brought a feeding-cup. ‘That is well,’ Mendes said approvingly; he held the jug against his cheek. ‘No, it is not too hot—excellent. Raise him a little,’ he pursued, pouring some coffee into the cup; then, while Elidio held the man up he put a hand behind the head, and gently inserted the spout between the pallid lips. Elidio snatched up one of the cloths which had tied the tourniquet and placed it under the chin—wisely, for at first the man merely gulped, and the fluid ran down. Then he began to swallow.
‘That is right—gently, by little and little,’ Mendes said, refilling the cup. They persevered, with frequent pauses; Major Belmonte watched in painful anxiety. At last the eyes opened, but in a moment they closed again. ‘Can he speak now?’ the Security man asked.
‘Pazienza!—not yet.’ He filled the cup again, and continued to hold it to the mouth, giving the coffee in little sips.
‘Senhor Doctor, he is getting warmer,’ Elidio observed presently.
‘Yes, I also think so.’
In the distance a bell rang—Elidio looked anxiously at Mendes.
‘Senhor Doctor, that is the front door. Could João here hold him up?—I should go and answer it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ João came and took the servant’s place, with one arm round the injured man; Elidio hurried away. Presently the patient with his free hand tried feebly to push the cup aside, and muttered something; Major Belmonte came near and strained his ears to catch it—so did Oliveira. ‘He is speaking Spanish,’ he said. ‘None of them speak any Portuguese.’
‘Do you speak Spanish?’ Belmonte asked him.
‘No, Senhor Comandante—three words, that is all.’
‘And you?’ the Security man asked, turning to João.
‘Minho Senhor, no; a little French only.’
The local Chief of Police, and Dr. Mendes, equally denied any knowledge of Spanish; meanwhile the man opened his eyes again, and made an attempt to speak.
‘Well, I must try myself—I used to speak it,’ Belmonte said. ‘Can I begin now?’ he asked the Doctor.
‘You can try,’ Mendes said, putting down the cup; he placed a pillow under the head, and told João to lay the man down on it; he again opened his eyes, at that, and stared vaguely at the faces around him—‘Where am I?’ he asked faintly, in Spanish.
Before anyone could answer, the door was opened by Elidio, who ushered in Mrs. Atherley, followed by a small priest. ‘How is he?’ she asked Mendes.
‘Just alive,’ he replied in a low tone.
‘Ah, that is well—gracias a Deus! Here is the priest—Father Martinez, Dr. Mendes.’ The two men bowed to one another; the small Father, calm and businesslike, drew a chair up beside the bed, and sat down.
‘Senhora, I am about to question this man,’ Belmonte said, with emphasis.
‘That must wait, Senhor Comandante,’ Hetta replied, quietly, but with authority. ‘All should leave, now. Father, have you everything that you require?’
‘I should like the table near me,’ the priest said; Dr. Mendes bundled his effects back into his bag, and João brought the table over and set it down by the bed.
‘Senhora, my business is official,’ Belmonte protested.
‘The soul comes first—this way, if you please,’ she returned implacably—fuming, he followed her and the rest out of the room. In the passage she drew him aside, and spoke in French, very low.
‘The Father knows precisely what is at stake, Monsieur le Commandant, and he speaks fluent Spanish; if he is able to help you, he will, I am confident.’
‘A confession cannot help us,’ the Security man replied gloomily.
‘Naturally not.’
‘Then why is Madame so confident? Do you know this priest? How does he come to be here, in any event?’
‘I sent for him—it was arranged in advance, with Monsignor Subercaseaux, that he should be sent for if—if anything untoward happened.’
At the mention of the Monsignor’s name Major Belmonte looked slightly less gloomy. ‘Ah, so he is concerned in this? How, I wonder.’
‘I asked his advice. But do come downstairs; I believe some supper has been arranged for you,’ she said, and led him through into the front part of the house. There Elidio was waiting in the hall with Dr. Mendes, and took the two men into the dining-room, where a supper had been prepared for three; however the local Chief of Police, Elidio explained, had driven back to São Pedro—‘but when the Senhor Comandante desires to return, a car will take him.’
Hetta went into the drawing-room. When Elidio had come up to her and in an undertone announced the priest’s arrival, she had excused herself to her host and slipped out; he, and Luzia and Richard, at once realised what was happening; the others remained mystified. Now questions began.
‘Yes, it was Father Martinez; he is with the poor man now,’ she said to the Duke.
‘Is he conscious?’
‘I think so—this Major said he was about to question him; but I said that the priest must see him first.’
‘How did Belmonte take that?’ Richard asked.
‘He was displeased. But I told him it had to be so, and really he could not help himself.’
‘Of course not,’ Ericeira said firmly. ‘The man must make his confession, if he can—which please God may be the case. Though a confession will not help the police much.’
‘That is what Major Belmonte said,’ Hetta remarked.
Lord Heriot was slightly shocked by this attitude.
‘But really, Duke, since this man is a known criminal, can it be right to prevent the police doing their duty, and learning all they can?’
Luzia put in her oar.
‘Dear Beau-père, just because he is a criminal, is it not essential that he should make his peace with God?’ The old peer grunted disgustedly—he could not bring himself to attempt an answer. His wife tried to console him.
‘As he is a communist, perhaps he won’t make a confession at all,’ she said cheerfully; Richard and Luzia laughed; the master of the house frowned on them, and turned the conversation.
‘Are the police having some supper?—and the Doctor?’ he asked Hetta.
‘The Doctor and the PIDE man, yes—the chefe has gone back,’ she told him.
They contin
ued to wait, talking disjointedly. Presently Elidio ushered in Major Belmonte, and asked his master, in an undertone, if he should perhaps bring drinks to the salon? Luzia overheard.
‘Oh yes, Papa, please—just this once. I am sure Hetta ought to have some whisky, after all this.’
‘I think Mrs. Atherley should go to bed,’ Lady Heriot observed, with motherly concern. But the idea was not welcomed.
‘After she has had some whisky, Bonne-Mama,’ Luzia said brightly; Hetta gave her a grateful glance. The trays were brought in, and glasses filled; all, in their rather dampened and shaken state, were glad of this restorative. The Duke made laborious conversation with Lord Heriot and the Ambassador; no one spoke of the subject which was uppermost in all their minds till Major Belmonte, after a furtive glance at his watch, suggested that it might be as well to go and see how the sick man was? Ericeira glanced questioningly at Hetta.
‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Father Martinez will come as soon as he is ready, and this person is in no condition to escape.’
In fact quite soon after that Elidio showed the priest in; everyone in the great room gazed with deep interest—and some astonishment—at the minute figure in the black soutane. But with the urbanity and smoothness which so many sons of the Church acquire quite early on, he dealt with the situation in a way that somehow brought ease into it at once. Tactfully, Hetta Atherley introduced him to their host in French, to Lord Heriot’s manifest relief—he was able to listen eagerly to their conversation, with a hand cupped round his ear. Yes, the man was now comforted and had made his peace with God, the priest said—at which Major Belmonte’s face fell, to the Ambassador’s secret amusement. But Father Martinez had something for him too. After telling the Duke that the man was still alive, and that an elderly maid-servant, produced by Elidio, was sitting with him, he turned to the Security officer.
‘Being in theory, at least, a Communist, he did not wish to make a confession,’ he said. ‘Therefore I am at liberty to pass on certain information which I managed to obtain. His two companions are, he thinks, still in Portugal; they were to remain in case his attempt failed. But he could not say where—I think he was genuinely in ignorance of their precise whereabouts; he said something about their all having been instructed to “separate” before the actual shooting today.’