by Ann Bridge
‘Who gave him these instructions?’ Belmonte wanted to know.
‘His “superiors” in Spain; he is a Spaniard, and the organisation is there.’
‘Well, you can pass that much on to the Spanish police,’ the Duke said to Belmonte. ‘And I hope pursue your enquiries here—I shall be more at ease when those other two have been accounted for.’
‘This we shall certainly do,’ the Security man said rather stiffly. He again glanced at his watch, ‘I wonder if I had better see him myself.’
‘You speak Spanish?’ the priest asked.
‘Very little.’
‘Then I wonder if that will serve you much. He is an ignorant youth, and at present very weak—he mutters, and rambles; it is hard to hear what he says. But of course that is as you and his Excellency wish.’
His Excellency did not wish it in the least. ‘If you feel it essential, of course you shall see him,’ he said to Belmonte. ‘But he, at least, can do no further harm; I am more concerned about his companions, who are still at large.’ At this rather broad hint the Security man decided to leave it for the present, and asked if the car could be sent for? ‘And the weapon—I must take that with me.’ The rifle was fetched from the study; the car, it seemed, was waiting—the Duke asked Father Martinez if he would like a lift as well?
‘I thank your Excellency, but I have my little machine, which seldom fails me! And the night air is good for clearing the mind before the evening devotions,’ he said blandly. As Ericeira politely led the Major out into the hall, Father Martinez went over to Mrs. Atherley.
‘The Monsignor sent you his warmest good wishes, and asked me to tell you that he so much regrets that he probably will not see you again, as he goes into retreat tomorrow until he leaves La Trapa. But he bade me give you this, and express his desire that you should study it at once.’ As he spoke he drew out of his soutane a little book in an exquisitely tooled 18th-century binding, and handed it to her. ‘It is a work of devotion; the Monsignor is confident that it will assist your progress.’
‘Well really, Hetta, I’d no idea that you and old Subercaseaux had got on to those terms,’ Richard said, when the small priest had made his farewells and hummed away on his Vespa. ‘Let’s see this famous work of devotion.’
‘I will show it to you upstairs—Lady Heriot, if you will excuse me, I think I will go to bed.’
‘My dear, you ought to have been there long ago,’ the good lady said. ‘Really, this tedious policeman wanting you to go and identify your own assassin, at this time of night! Have you got something to make you sleep?’
‘Yes thank you—Dr. Mendes left me some tablets.’
‘Well, go and take them. Goodnight, my dear, and sleep as well as you can.’
But up in their room Hetta did not take her tablets at once.
‘I will just get into bed; then we will look at it,’ she said, putting the small volume on the bedside table, and beginning to throw off her clothes.
‘I shouldn’t bother with it tonight at all, if you’re tired,’ Richard said. Hetta made no reply, but continued her undressing, slipped into her nightdress and a soft white liseuse, got into bed and lay back on the pillows with a long sigh of relief. Then—‘Yes, we must look at it at once; there is something in it,’ she said, and took it up.
‘What do you mean?’ But he soon saw what she meant. Tucked into the pages were some sheets of thin paper, covered with fine writing; she smoothed these out on the sheet, and began to look at what was written on them—Richard pulled a stool up beside her, and they studied the priest’s message together.
It was, as they presently saw, of considerable importance; even though at first—as Father Martinez had told Major Belmonte—the Spaniard’s mutterings had been rambling and disjointed. He had definitely refused to make a confession, but had asked if a message could be sent to his Mother—the Father, from then on, had jotted down his words as they came, however confused and disconnected. There were constant references to ‘El Lobo’ (the Wolf). ‘El Lobo said we were to come—I was never abroad before’… ‘El Lobo said if I did not take the rifle, and shoot the lady, he would menace mia Madre’… ‘El Lobo gave me the rifle and the bullets—and the blade; it was he who said I was to cut my wrist if I was taken.’… ‘Yes, I know it was a sin’… He had asked the priest, weeping a little, to look after his Mother, a widow—‘La Viuda Elizondo’, and had given the name of her village near Pamplona; his Father had been an albanil, a mason.
‘Well that will be easy enough to verify,’ Richard Atherley said with satisfaction. ‘What’s on this next sheet?’
On the next sheet the Father mentioned that he had asked for, and been given some indications about ‘El Lobo’—which Richard at once realised would be a code name. ‘We met in that Tasca (wineshop) behind the old Mercado (market)’… ‘Yes, in Madrid’… ‘Yes, El Lobo sent us in a car to near the frontier.’
‘Then’ Father Martinez’ fine small script reported, ‘he became much distressed, and wept; I questioned him no further, but attended to the needs of his soul. I was able to shrive him, in the end; he should have Christian burial, if he does not live. I hope this little that I have learned may be of some help to you. J. Martinez.’
‘Clever little creature!’ Richard exclaimed. ‘Belmonte would never have got half as much. Old Subercaseaux knew what he was about when he sent him.’
‘I think he always does know what he is about,’ Hetta said, smiling a little. ‘Give me my tablets, please, Richard; they are on the wash-stand—and a glass of water.’ After she had swallowed them—‘How craftily he arranged for the information to be passed to me, too, without others seeing,’ she went on, taking up the beautiful little volume.
‘Yes, it has assisted your progress quite a bit!’ Richard agreed, grinning. ‘What is the book?’
It was in fact that rather famous work ‘Caractères de la vraie dévotion’ by Père Nicholas Grou, S.J.—the title-page bore the date 1788.
‘Oh, Father Antal had this, in his study on the Alfold, only in German,’ Hetta said. ‘He said once that it was a wonderful book. I expect it will assist my progress in other things also! Now hurry and get undressed, dear one—I want to go to sleep.’
‘Does your head hurt?’ he asked rather anxiously.
‘Not so much; but I am a little tired.’
‘Yes, it’s been a gruelling day for you all round. I hope to goodness it hasn’t done the child any harm. Sure you feel all right otherwise?’
‘Perfectly sure.’
The first thing Richard did next morning was to seek out the Ambassador in his room, and take counsel with him as to the next step; unwisely he took the little book as well as what had been enclosed in it.
‘Very skilful,’ Sir Noël commented. ‘Let’s see the book.’ He fairly jumped at the sight of the title-page. ‘But this is a first edition! What a treasure!—it’s beyond all price. The old Monsignore must think the world of your wife to give her that, as a cover-up!’ He turned the book over and over, fingering the pages reverently. ‘Contemporary binding, I should say—and in mint condition. I wonder how on earth he came by it?’
Richard, too late, regretted heartily having brought Père Grou’s devotional work along; he had forgotten what a bibliophile his chief was.
‘Yes, but look here, H.E., what are we to do about this information? Do look at it. Ought we to pass it on to that PIDE man, or what?’
Reluctantly, the Ambassador turned his attention to the Father’s written sheets. ‘Beautiful script the fellow has,’ he commented—‘clear as print.’ He read them through carefully, however. ‘H’m’m,’ he said at length. ‘No, I don’t think we need let the gallant Major in on these items at this stage—this is something for the Spanish Intelligence people. Wherever else El Lobo is, he isn’t in Portugal.’ He looked at the middle sheet again. ‘Wonder which old market he means?’ he speculated. ‘Even I know at least three in Madrid! However, that’s up to them. The key thing is to have
El Lobo’s trade name—that can be most useful.’
‘But how are we to get the stuff to them?’ Richard asked.
‘Oh ah, yes. Someone will have to take it—that’s the only safe way.’
Richard looked gloomy. ‘I suppose it is,’ he said, rather glumly. ‘And that I’m someone.’
Sir Noël laughed.
‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘Ring up Ainsworth and tell him to come and meet you at the frontier at Shaves, or whatever the place is called; you can get there and back in the day. Then you’ll only miss one day’s shooting.’
‘If the old Duque goes on shooting at all—I have a feeling that he may not want to, till the other two types are rounded up,’ Richard observed.
‘Then you’ll miss nothing except your Missus’s delightful company. How is she this morning, by the way?’
‘Very fit; she slept splendidly. She’s tremendously tough.’
‘That’s good. Well ring up Ainsworth at once; if he starts quickly he could meet you tomorrow. Oh, and I shouldn’t say anything to that nice Gil boy—he may have official feelings about the Major. No good asking for trouble.’
‘What about Luzia?’
‘Oh, tell her—she’d find out, anyhow! I saw her watching that little priest last night like a lynx. She’s probably cross-examining Hetta at this moment. But she’s perfectly capable of keeping her mouth shut. Look at her with her Father last night!’
Not for the first time, Richard Atherley was slightly irritated by the fact that there were only two telephones connected with the national system in the whole huge house at Gralheira: the one in the Duke’s study, and that other so public one outside the pantry; he also wished that his host were not such an early riser. However, to the pantry he betook himself, put in his trunk call to Madrid, and sat down, also not for the first time, on a case of wine to wait. Here he was found by Luzia; she came up to him, her face sparkling with mischievous amusement.
‘So! You are ringing up Madrid, I suppose,’ she said in English. ‘I am glad Hetta is so well this morning.’
‘The Ambassador was right,’ Richard grunted.
‘Plait-il?’
But at that moment Richard got his connexion, and asked for Ainsworth’s extension.
‘May I listen?’ the girl asked.
‘Yes, provided you don’t tell Gil! Oh, good morning,’ he said, hearing the voice he wanted. ‘We’ve got some news for you—rather handy, we think … No, I can’t tell you—you’ll have to come over and get it … No, not here, only to the frontier. Got a pencil? All right, just jot down the names. Not to the Fountains of Honour, but the road to the Keys.’ Here Luzia giggled audibly; he ignored her. ‘Got that? Right; look them out on the map, with a dictionary—you can’t miss the place. I’ll be there tomorrow about noon, and stroll across and see you…. Yes, there is one other thing—you might tell your so co-operative indigenous pals to be looking out for someone in sheep’s clothing … Don’t be dumb—I said “in sheep’s clothing” … Yes, translate it into Spanish. Right. See you tomorrow.’ He rang off.
‘I so like the way you talk to him,’ Luzia observed as they went back to the hall; ‘it is most clever, and amusing. Few would guess that you meant Fuentes de Onoro and Chaves. But what is this, in sheep’s clothing? I could not follow. What wears sheep’s clothing, but a sheep?’
‘It’s an old phrase—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’ll get that all right.’
‘Ah, so!’ She did not repeat the Spanish word. ‘What a convenient proverb! But why I am not to tell Gil?’
‘Because he may feel he ought to pass it on to the Major, and this is really a matter for the Madrilenos.’
‘Oh, this Belmonte! Already he has telephoned Papa, to say he is coming over early, to interview that man.’
‘Oh well, it’s his job, after all,’ Richard said charitably. ‘But not this part of it.’ As he made for the staircase Elidio appeared from the direction of the back regions.
‘Senhora Condesa, esto homem is dead,’ he said.
The girl crossed herself, murmuring ‘May his soul rest in peace.’ Then she turned briskly to Atherley. ‘That settles the Major!’ she said, in a satisfied tone.
Chapter 12
Richard Atherley, after consultation with Hetta, went in to see his host and explained that Father Martinez had in fact furnished his wife with ‘some further information’ about the Spaniard, had expressed the opinion that the poor youth’s Communism was only skin-deep, and that he should be given Christian burial—he had admitted that his attempt at suicide was a sin, committed under orders. The Duke was relieved; and the fact that he had been out of the room, seeing the Major off, when the priest left made this rather selective version of Father Martinez’ information quite easy to put across. As Richard had foreseen, there was no question of further shooting that day or the next; the Duke set about making arrangements for the funeral, and when Major Belmonte arrived he dealt calmly with his frustration at finding that death had robbed him of his quarry—‘At least now, Senhor Commandante, there is nothing to deflect you from your pursuit of this unhappy creature’s two companions.’
Then, while the Major started to scour the countryside, Luzia and the two Atherleys concerted their plans for Richard’s drive to Chaves the following day.
‘No, I do not see any point in telling Papa why you are going,’ the girl said. ‘It will only make him more curious—and perhaps vexed again. Chaves is a pretty place, with things to see—can you not look at the Roman Bridge? You could take the Ambassador—oh no, better not; he does not know.’
‘Well he does know, as a matter of fact—but I don’t think he’s the ideal passenger.’
‘Why not take Nick?’ Hetta suggested. ‘He hasn’t seen Chaves—he came by the other road.’ She was secretly determined that Richard should not go on this errand alone.
‘Then he also will have to be told,’ Luzia observed.
‘He knows all the rest, anyhow—so I don’t see why not,’ Richard said. ‘Yes, bring him along, Luzia, and we’ll explain it all.’
Nick was delighted with the scheme. ‘Meet Our Man in Madrid—I’m all for it,’ was his reaction. But Hetta had a further idea.
‘Richard, should you not write to the Mother of this young man, and let her know that he is dead, but made a good end, with a priest? Then Ainsworth could post the letter in Spain. We know her name, and that of her village.’
Richard was not sure about writing. ‘Ainsworth could tell her—I will expect he will want to check on her, anyhow. The Spaniards certainly will.’
‘Yes, and how will they tell her? Perhaps brutally. No, Richard; she should have something written, that she can keep always.’
‘Provided she can read,’ Richard said.
‘The priest will be able to read it to her,’ Luzia put in. ‘Hetta is right. I know!—Hetta, do you write it, in Spanish; and Nick can copy it out on my typewriter. And we will put in a piece of his hair—I will get it at once.’ She darted away.
‘Don’t tell my Father all this,’ Nick said, with a half-rueful grin. ‘He wouldn’t get the idea at all.’
‘Your Mother would—but we shall not tell her,’ Hetta replied.
The two young men set off early next morning, Nick in tearing spirits at the prospect of seeing fresh country. The drive was in fact not without interest: beyond São Pedro do Sul the road drops to cross the Douro at Regua, on the southern edge of the Pais do Vinho, the Wine Country, and the young man gazed eagerly at the golden-buff terraced hillsides stretching away up the great valley whence, alone, port comes. ‘My Father simply must come and see this,’ he remarked. Then up and on, over the great rolling uplands of Traz os Montes, never more beautiful than in autumn, when the pale golden stubble stretches for miles on all sides—to drop again to a lesser river, spanned by the Roman bridge which still carries all northbound traffic into Chaves. They paused to have a look at this; they were in good time, and the frontier was only a few kilometres beyond
the pleasant watering-place—then they drove on. Richard had purposely come in his own car, with the C.D. number-plates, rather than Nick’s; he pulled up short of the wire barrier which closes the road, turned, parked, and then, on foot, went up and spoke to the frontier officials. No, he did not desire to drive into Spain; he and this young Senhor just wished to walk across and take a stroll on the further side. Yes, of course they had passports; if the Senhor wished to put on exit visas for a matter of half a kilometre, let him by all means do so!—he said laughing. The frontier-guard consulted with his colleagues on this knotty point, but at length, encouraged by the C.D. on the car, and the laisser-passer which Richard produced from his passport, he rolled back the barrier and let them through. They walked on, Richard wishing aloud that there was a bend; however, presently the road did curve very slightly round a low piece of hill, and looking back they could see that the hut at the frontier post was no longer visible.
‘Good—this will do,’ Atherley said; they sat down on a rock by the roadside and waited. After a few more minutes a cloud of dust in the distance proclaimed the advent of a car; Richard went and stood in the road, and when he saw the number-plate he held out his arms to stop it—the car slowed down and Ainsworth leaned out.
‘Pull into the side, here,’ the diplomat said; Ainsworth did so, and got out, followed by a younger man—he too had brought a companion. ‘This is Johnnie Miller—he’s just been sent out to join me,’ he said.
‘Then our seconds had better meet—this is Nick Heriot,’ Atherley replied. As the two others shook hands—‘Mr. Heriot has been at Gralheira since the start of this affair,’ he added, ‘he’s been in on it all along.’
They re-seated themselves on the rocks and got down to business. Richard recounted, briefly, the shooting episode, the assassin’s attempt at suicide, and Father Martinez’ arrival; then he handed over the priest’s notes. Ainsworth studied them carefully.