by Ann Bridge
‘Oh, Luzia’s as safe as houses—she’s a wonderful child. And she was so longing to meet a diplomat! You’ve quite come up to her expectations,’ Julia said, with her slow gurgle of pleasure—‘I can see that.’
‘Julia, I do wish you’d grow up! What Torrens sees in you I can’t think,’ Richard said irritably, pocketing the paper. ‘ Now, will you please get me out of this museum? Am I allowed to walk downstairs alone? ’
‘Goodness no!’ Julia replied, ringing the bell. ‘I’ll start you, and Elidio will meet us on the way up.’
‘Goodbye, Luzia,’ the young man said, shaking hands with the girl who was so soon to be beautiful—his vexation faded as those astonishing grey eyes, so eager, so candid, were once again fixed on his face.
‘Oh, goodbye. This has been a pleasure. Will you not come again, and look at more of the china? We have a great deal of Celadon,’ the child said.
‘Yes, I will, if your aunt will let me,’ Richard replied.
‘ Nanny likes you, and that is what matters,’ said Luzia. ‘Oh—oh, but we go to the country on Saturday!’ she exclaimed dolefully: her mouth on the ‘oh’ was a rounded sculpture of woe. Where was that head of the Medusa that it reminded him of, Richard wondered—and why should a Portuguese schoolgirl have a face moulded on the splendours of classical antiquity? Oh well, the Romans had colonised Portugal, so she might easily possess Roman as well as Celtic blood, he thought, as Julia and Elidio between them took him downstairs and out of that labyrinthine house.
He dropped Julia’s paper at Colonel Marques’ office, and then drove quickly to the Chiado and bought a charming veil set with black velvet stars; it was no good to try and make Hetta look like a widow, and anyhow, he found himself thinking, this was his first present to her, and he wanted it to be a pretty and an expensive one. (It was certainly expensive.) Afterwards he dropped down to the Tagus, and raced out along the road to Estoril.
Experienced drivers like Richard Atherley are apt to find speeding rather conducive to reflection. The pace, the automatic reactions to the need to brake, or accelerate, or avoid other vehicles produce something faintly resembling the effect of fingering the beads of the rosary, also automatic—one thinks almost involuntarily. Richard, afraid of being late for his interview with Hetta Páloczy and therefore driving extremely fast, was soon thinking about her with an unexpected and almost unwanted clarity. He had not been wholly unaffected by having carried her in his arms the evening before, in that clinging garment; her shape, so revealed, was as sturdily slender as a sapling willow, and had a willow’s resilience—in the night he had found himself, almost with dismay, recalling the very feel of her small supple muscular body twisting and wriggling in his grasp to free herself. All the subsequent events—the watcher in the rocks, Julia’s car, and Torrens’ pursuers had pushed these impressions to the back of his mind at the time; but in the small hours, when the mind is peculiarly defenceless, they had returned on him with troubling force. And the splendour of her swimming, and the vivid gaiety of her face and her talk at supper! She was rather marvellous. Atherley, outwardly so much the conventional Englishman, and in addition heavily veneered with the watchful coolness of diplomacy, in his secret heart adored recklessness and panache—and this little creature, this convent schoolgirl turned cook, obviously possessed both to a high degree. But then her inexperience, her intolerance, the gaucherie which her prejudices engendered—how troublesome these were!
Hetta was in the little morning-room, alone; she was wearing a simple sleeveless cotton frock closely patterned in flame-colour and white, and white sandals; she looked as fresh as sunrise, and very pretty indeed.
‘How do you do? When does he come, do you know now? ’ she asked at once. This neutral coolness should have put Richard at his ease; in fact, since his heart turned over at the sight of her, it suddenly irritated him. ‘ She can think of nothing but her wretched priest,’ he told himself angrily. But he proceeded to the business in hand.
‘His plane gets in tomorrow morning at 9.40. I will call for you here at 8.30, and take you out to the airport. There are some railings there where a little crowd always collects—the public, who are not allowed onto the apron; you will stand among them and watch all the people who get off the Madrid plane, and when you recognise Father Antal you will point him out.’
‘But do I not speak with him?’ There was something like desolation in her face, her voice.
‘Not there, no; it would not be prudent. Every plane from Madrid will probably be watched when it arrives here.’
‘Oh, by the Spitzel, of course—yes, I understand. But I shall see him properly later? ’
‘Yes, you shall,’ Richard promised recklessly, moved in spite of his irritation by the urgency of her tone. Damn it, Torrens could surely contrive that much, when she was so ready to help?
And so intelligently ready, as her next question showed.
‘And whom do I point him out to?’ Hetta Páloczy asked. ‘To you?’
This quite flummoxed Atherley—somehow or other he and Torrens had entirely overlooked that particular point when laying their plans. To whom was Hetta to indicate which of the passengers was the priest? Not to himself, if it was in any way avoidable—he thought gloomily of the Ambassador’s justifiable reprobation if a member of his staff were to be involved in an affair like this, and anyhow he would not be having anything to do with the subsequent proceedings. It would have to be Torrens, or Melplash, or Julia—Torrens and Julia were of course both known by sight to ‘the opposition’, after last night, but that couldn’t be helped. He thought rapidly. One person would have to be in the long hall at the airport through which the passengers entered, and where the customs examination took place; a second must stand at the railings with Hetta to be given the identification, and nip round to contact whoever was in the hall. It was perfectly possible.
‘I’ll tell you that tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘We haven’t decided yet. But someone will be with you, and when you have pointed out Father Antal, he will go round and meet him.’ He pulled the little parcel with the veil out of his pocket, and said as he gave it to her—‘ And you are to wear this.’
She undid the pretty flowered paper, drew out the veil, and shook it open.
‘Oh, how pretty! But why? I never wear veils—they are for older women, with bad complexions, are they not? ’
Richard had to laugh. ‘Yes, as a rule. But tomorrow you must wear this. And put on some dark, inconspicuous clothes—something shabby, if you have such a thing! ’
‘Oh, I have my terrible Hungarian suit; this is as ugly and shabby as possible! But please tell me why? ’
He explained to her what Major Torrens had first made clear to him the night before—that she herself might well be in some danger, since her previous association with Dr. Horvath must certainly be known, and therefore she must not be recognised at the airport, if possible. Hetta jumped up, ran to a mirror, and held the velvet-starred veil before her face.
‘Oh, it is pretty! I think I look very nice! Do you know me? ’ she asked, wheeling round on him.
‘I should know you anywhere, I think, you silly little creature ! ’ Richard said, restraining a strong desire to get up and hug her. ‘But, Hetti, this is serious—it isn’t a game. You must be very careful for the next little while. Don’t go out alone, except in the car.’
‘I do not.’
‘I thought you went swimming before breakfast.’
‘Oh, this—yes.’
‘Well you positively mustn’t do that, for the present.’ He spoke urgently—how appallingly easy it would be for her to be pounced on down on the beach, at an hour when nobody in lethargic Estoril was about. ‘Promise me,’ he said.
‘I must go to Mass!’
‘No, you mustn’t do that either, unless your mother’s maid or someone can go too.’ Then, as she looked mutinous, he was inspired to say—’ Not till the Father is safe out of the country, anyhow.’
The mutiny died in her face. ‘ Oh,
if it is for him. Very well—I promise. But you promise that I shall speak with him before he goes away? ’
‘Yes, I have promised you that. You shall.’
They fell silent—a silence which to Richard became uncomfortable because of his own emotions. Hetta broke it with one of her characteristic switches to a fresh subject.
‘I believe that Yulia really works with Major Torrens. Doesn’t she? You remember I told you when you drove me back from your luncheon that I think they are involved together in some way—now I think it is in espionage, not as fiancés. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think about them at all,’ the young man said, getting up. He had got to catch Torrens and organise the arrangements for the morning, as well as clearing up his work in the Chancery, and he had no desire whatever to discuss Miss Probyn’s relations with the Major with Hetti —his own relations with her threatened to become of overmastering interest.
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Remember what I’ve said, and be ready tomorrow morning at 8.30. Down in the hall.’
The airport of Portela lies some distance outside Lisbon, farther up the Tagus; the drive to it is partly through suburbs, partly through open country now becoming increasingly studded with Dr. Salazar’s new housing estates —these are rather straggling, since each house must have its bout de terre. Richard took Hetti there in a taxi, rather to her surprise; he thought it wiser not to take his own car with its red-and-white CD. number-plate on this expedition. He had seen Torrens the evening before and they had settled that Mr. Melplash, who was small and suitably inconspicuous, should stand with Hetta at the railings, and then go round and tell the Major, who would be in the entrance-hall, which of the passengers was his man.
‘What did you tell your mother? ’ Richard asked Hetta on the way out.
‘Nothing. She will think that I went to a later Mass, or spent long in the sea—she is not interested in what I do before midday.’
Torrens was there before them; Mr. Melplash was there too, and was introduced to Hetta; they went off to stand at the rails, where, early as it was, a small crowd had already gathered. Who these people are who have leisure to stand interminably watching the arrival and departure of aeroplanes is one of the standing mysteries of Lisbon life.
‘I’ll wait in my taxi,’ Richard said to Torrens—‘I’ve told her to come back to me there.’
‘Yes, whisk her away. I hope to goodness Melplash doesn’t perpetrate some clottery!’ Richard recognised one of Miss Probyn’s favourite phrases, and grinned. ‘I don’t see anyone with rolls of fat at the back of his head, do you? Perhaps they haven’t got anyone here for this plane.’
Hetta Páloczy stood at the railings in the bright morning sunshine with Mr. Melplash. Beyond the white surface of the airfield olive-trees stood out, shapely, silvered by the morning breeze, against a background of reddish soil shot over with the delicate green of growing corn; in a homely yet rich way the landscape had a certain beauty. But her mind was in a turmoil of excitement and anxiety. Mr. Melplash, eager to be helpful and thoroughly enjoying the situation, promptly pointed out to her the little motor affair, with its trailer for luggage, waiting out on the tarmac; there, he explained, the plane would come down. To Hetta it seemed appallingly far away; if Father Antal was really wearing a beard could she possibly recognise him at that distance?’ Where do they go then?’ she asked anxiously.
‘In at that door, just to our right, where you see the police standing.’
The police were reassuringly close at hand. There, surely, she would know his face and his eyes—though how hard it was to visualise that beloved stocky figure in anything but a dusty black soutane rather green with age, and either with his thinly-covered silver head bare or with an equally ancient and dusty biretta perched, rather askew, on it.
A faint hum sounded and grew in the blue bowl of the sky, above the red earth, the rising crops, the sculptured silver of the olives—grew till it filled the bowl, the air, and hummed in the ears of the watchers. ‘There she is,’ said Mr. Melplash, tilting his head, as a silver shape crossed overhead.
‘But it’s going away!’ Hetta said astonished.
‘No, only going out to turn over the Tagus—look, now she’s coming in to land.’ And in a moment or two more the great machine touched down, gently, with one or two easy bounces, taxied along the run-way, and came to rest by the luggage-trailer.
Hetta leaned forward, straining her eyes to see through the stars on her veil, as the door in the aeroplane’s silver side opened and the mobile steps were run up to it. A figure in uniform appeared, then withdrew again into the machine; some officials stood by the steps. Now, at last, the passengers began to descend. Three men with briefcases, all too tall to be the priest; four ladies in mourning, heavily veiled; a man and a woman, apparently together, for she turned on the steps and spoke to him; three girls whose neat suits, clever shoes, and beautifully-dressed hair betokened Americans, followed by a tall man, also by the shape of his hat an American; two nuns. Then, one after the other, half a dozen men—all of medium height, all carrying the distended brief-cases which will hold pyjamas as well as papers, all wearing the light-weight slate-coloured rain-cloth overcoats which are practically a uniform among continental men travelling by air, brown trilby hats and sun-glasses! Hetta’s heart sank as she watched them crossing the apron towards her, in the bright sun; the stars on Richard’s veil were maddening, she pushed it up, impatiently, and studied the faces, panting a little. None wore a beard, she noticed with thankfulness, but how could she ever make this Mr. Melplash know which one she meant, when all were so alike, even if she managed in spite of their goggles to recognise Father Antal herself?
That, however, she must do, and as these stereotyped specimens of Homo sapiens europaeus came nearer, their eyes concealed by the tinted glasses, she was inspired to study the backs of their heads under the trilby hats. Yes—all but one had hair, and darkish hair at that; as the colourless stubble on the sixth head approached the group of police, she recognised—she could not fail to—the blunt ugly nose, the stubborn chin, the wide, wise mouth that she knew so well. She pinched Mr. Melplash’s arm.
‘That is he—the one whose hair is without colour.’
‘The bald-pate, d’you mean?’
‘What is bald-pate?’ Hetta asked angrily—was this man’s stupidity, or her lack of English, to spoil everything at the last moment?
‘Well, he is nearly bald, isn’t he? Is that the chap?’
‘Yes! I said so. All the others have dark hair. Now go!’ Hetta said, managing to speak in an undertone in spite of her fury with this silly little man.
‘All right, all right,’ Melplash said, rather miffily. ‘There’s no rush—they’ll be ages in the hall.’ What a tartar this Hungarian secret agent was, he thought, for all she looked rather pretty—what you could see of her through that veil. (Major Torrens had thus promoted Hetta into the ranks of counter-espionage; he preferred not to reveal her identity to his local colleague.)
The little secret agent, left to herself, stood for a moment longer at the rails. She was trembling a little from reaction; a few tears fell behind her veil. He was there, in that building within fifty yards of her!—and yet she must not approach him or speak to him. It was almost more than she could bear; she clenched her hands round the rails, as if to clamp herself in position, to control the ferociously strong impulse to follow the detestable Melplash round into the building. But the crowd was thinning on either side of her, as it does after a plane has arrived; noticing this she sniffed, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, drew her veil down again, and walked back, very deliberately, to where the taxi waited on the parking-place.
‘Well?’ Richard asked as she got in. ‘All right?’
‘Yes—but what a stupid person this Melplash is!’
The taxi-man started his engine.
‘Oh, can’t we wait just one minute? We might see him again!’
Ri
chard himself would have liked to wait, but he remembered Torrens’ injunction to whisk his young companion away at once, and he was going to be appallingly late at the Chancery as it was.
‘No, Hetti—better not. Now, tell me what happened.’
She told him about the six short men in sun-glasses and raincoats, her terror lest she should fail to recognise the priest, and her final solution of the problem. ‘And then this creature used a word I cannot know! What is “baldpate”, if you please?’ she asked indignantly.
‘Poor Melplash—he isn’t exactly a ball of fire,’ Richard said laughing. ‘You’ve done splendidly, Hetti. Those five or six ghastly little men in overcoats are always on every plane from Madrid. Anyhow,’ he added easily, ‘now everything is all right.’
But in this he was unduly optimistic.
Chapter 7
The British Embassy in Lisbon is in various ways an inconvenient place for entertaining, not least because the main entrance is in a rather narrow and extremely steep street; moreover, the house is built on the slope of the hill, so that to reach the principal rooms all visitors must climb a quite considerable flight of stairs, broad and dignified as these are. However, once on the main floor, dignity takes over entirely. A splendid portrait of Marshal Beres ford looks down on the guests even as they pant up the stairs to the wide hall; the long drawing-room is noble, with splendid views from its six windows; a glazed-in passage leads round a half-square to the great ball-room with its vast gilt mirrors, used for large receptions, and out into a small flagged court from which a flight of stone steps, overhung by the delicate sharply-cut foliage of a big pepper-tree, mounts up into the garden—immensely large for a town house—with its expanse of lawns, shady trees, and brilliant flower-beds. It is, in spite of its inconveniences, one of the most beautiful embassies in the world.
The drawing-room, fine as it is, is too long and narrow to receive in with any comfort—people fail to find their way out by the doors at the farther end, and get jammed in a solid block. Lady Loseley, who was as practical as she was short, neat, and pretty, therefore always awaited her guests in a smaller room, also with two doors, opening off the glass passage; this had a marble floor and marble tables, like mortuary slabs, against the walls—one of her predecessors had christened it ‘the morgue’; but it is too square for anyone to get jammed in it, and only a few steps from the long buffet in the great ball-room. Here the following afternoon Countess Páloczy, with Hetta in tow and deep satisfaction filling her heart, was for the first time received by the Ambassadress; Richard—looking very peculiar, Hetta thought, in morning coat and striped trousers, a uniform with which she was unfamiliar—stood at Lady Loseley’s elbow and introduced them.