by Ann Bridge
Luzia wasted no more time on the beggar except to thank him politely—she ran like a deer to the Misericordia Church, outside which Julia and Major Torrens now stood, admiring the delicious little narrow balcony—such a curious feature for a church front—immediately above the copper-green door. The girl caught Julia by the arm.
‘They’ve got her! They’ve taken her away,’ she said.
‘Who’s got whom?’ the Major asked. Julia was quicker.
‘D’you mean Hetta Páloczy? How do you know?’
‘It must be her. Come this way,’ she said, propelling Julia a few steps towards the square. ‘Do you see that diplomatic car? A dark girl came in that, with an American man; she went into the Matriz Church, he went to drink. And then’—she repeated the beggar’s story of the men in grey pushing Hetta into the car. ‘One put his hand over her mouth,’ she said, staring at Julia, her eyes immense with horror. ‘It can only be her.’
‘How did you learn all this?’ Torrens asked.
‘From a beggar by the church. Beggars watch everything—what else have they to do? But do not waste time on him; I have sucked him as dry as a lemon! What must we do?’ the young girl asked urgently.
‘Ring up the Colonel, don’t you think?’ Julia said to Torrens. ‘They’re pretty certain to make for Spain, and he can have the frontier watched—closed, if need be, can’t he?’
‘I suppose so.’ He looked worried. ‘Did your observant beggar get the number of the car?’ he asked Luzia.
‘No. He can’t read. But it was a big black saloon. Oh, and I didn’t tell you—one of the men had a beard, and rolls of fat at the back of his neck. Surely this is the person who smashed your car?’ Luzia said to Julia, causing Torrens to gape at her—Julia nodded briefly.
‘Well, that sounds like it,’ the Major said, rather slowly, to Julia. ‘But of course we’re not certain it is the little Countess at all—Luzia doesn’t know her by sight. Or do you?’ he asked the girl.
‘No—but who else would be forced, struggling, into a car? To me, it all fits. Do telephone!’ she urged Julia.
‘We’d better do that from the Policia, Julia said. ‘Where is it, Luzia?’
As Luzia led them towards the police-station a frantic figure came hurrying from that direction, staring about him as he ran; his hat and the cut of his overcoat blazoned him as American, in that European setting.
‘Oh, there’s Townsend,’ Julia said calmly. ‘Let’s ask him about this. Oy! Townsend,’ she yelled—the Bostonian heard her, and raced towards them across the open space.
‘Have you seen Countess Hetta?’ he panted as he came up. ‘Julia, it’s good to see you! D’you know where she is? She went into a church to pray, and I went to have a drink, and now I can’t find her!’
‘Relax, Townsend. We’re looking after this,’ Julia said kindly. ‘Come along with us.’
‘But where is she?’ the American asked.
‘We think she’s been abducted,’ Torrens said brutally. ‘By Communist agents. Why on earth did you let her out of your sight?’
‘Oh shut up, Hugh,’ Julia said. ‘It’s all our fault for keeping him in the dark.’
‘Communist agents?’ the Bostonian asked, aghast. ‘Were they at the bottom of that business of crashing your car after the Guincho, Miss Probyn?’
To the surprise of the others, Luzia answered. ‘One man, at least, was the same both times,’ she said. Townsend, for the first time, noticed her.
‘This is Luzia Ericeira, Townsend,’ Julia said, using the customary Portuguese form of identification. ‘But come back to the Policia—we want to telephone about this at once.’
As they walked on Townsend’s distress was painful to see.
‘Shouldn’t we go after her?’ he asked. ‘Communists do frightful things to girls!’
‘We might, if we knew where they’d gone,’ Torrens replied. ‘But we don’t know the number of the car.’ He took Julia by the elbow and muttered in her ear. ‘For God’s sake detach him somehow! We don’t want him fretting round while we’re telephoning to the Colonel.’
‘There—that is the Policia,’ Luzia said. She turned to the American. ‘I think you are quite right—we should go after her. Will you come with me while they are telephoning? I want to arrange something.’
Julia didn’t know whether Luzia’s extraordinarily sharp ears had overheard Torrens’ aside to her, or whether the girl was simply using her customary astuteness and tact, but she was thankful to be relieved so painlessly of poor Townsend’s presence.
They got through to Lisbon rather fast—Colonel Marques’ name and telephone-number seemed to act as a talisman. The local police, deeply impressed and much excited, stood round while one of them sat at the telephone; meanwhile Julia and Torrens examined a large map of northern Portugal which hung on the wall—she showed him the various routes from São Pedro do Sul into Spain.
‘It just depends whether they choose a fast road, with a big, efficiently-manned frontier-post on it, or a slower route to some dud little place where they might get through more easily—I don’t suppose Hetta has her passport with her,’ she said. ‘Look—Fuentes de Onoro is fairly small; it’s’—she worked out the distances with a pink-tipped finger—‘nearly 200 kilometres, via Viseu and Guarda; the road’s good all the way, but it’s frightfully curly. Then, going’ north, there’s Barca d’Alva—that’s only just over 140 kilometres, and it’s a tiny place, but the road’s appalling; they’d have to turn off the Guarda road at Celorico, and trickle through Pinhel and Figueira de Castelo Rodrigo. And I don’t know whether the bridge has been rebuilt yet.’ She turned and questioned the policemen. ‘They’re not sure,’ she told Torrens. ‘So I think we can count that out.’
The Major nodded. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said, though he saw little but the map before his eyes; he was bewildered by the flow of difficult names, and amazed at Julia’s apparently inexhaustible fund of information about Portuguese roads.
‘Well, that only leaves Vila Nova de Foscoa and Chaves. Vila Nova’s a long way too, about 180, though it’s a fair road almost all the way—and it’s not a very big place. But the fastest of all would be—’
‘Minha Menina, I have the connection!’ the policeman at the telephone called out.
‘Muito bem—I will speak.’ Leisurely, she went over and took the receiver. ‘No,’ she said in Portuguese—‘I must speak with the Chief himself. A name Ingles—Probeen.’ And in a moment the Colonel was on the line, and she handed the instrument to Torrens.
Colonel Marques’ admirable command of English was an enormous asset on an occasion like this; so was his quickness at the uptake. Torrens did his part quite well— ‘We suspect an abduction of a little foreign lady—do you know who I mean?’ he began at once.
‘The identifier? Certainly. What do you know? Speak openly, but fast—English is difficult for these others, if spoken quickly.’
Torrens told him, speaking rapidly, the little they knew. ‘But we have failed to get the number of the car.’
‘Oh, I have that,’ the Colonel said cheerfully. ‘I sent some stooges’—he pronounced the word with a certain relish—‘out in a certain car over the week-end, and, as I anticipated, it was followed! How long ago did this abduction take place?’
‘Hold on.’ Torrens consulted Julia, his hand over the mouthpiece; they both looked at their watches—it was five o’clock.
‘We’ve been here at least half an hour—no, more,’ Julia said—‘but of course we’ve no idea how long Townsend was drinking and Hetta praying. Say about four.’
Obediently, Major Torrens said, ‘About an hour ago,’ down the telephone. ‘We imagine, of course, that they are making for another country,’ he added.
‘So I also imagine. From where do you speak? The house, or the town?’
‘From the town.’
‘Muito bem! Excuse me if I ring off now—I want to close the frontier to this car. Wait! Where can I contact you later?’
Once more Torrens consulted Julia.
‘Tell him to try the house—we may be there, or we may not, but we certainly shan’t be here’
‘Well that’s something—he’ll stop all the exits now,’ Julia said, when Torrens had rung off.
‘If he’s in time. I wish we knew how fast that car is.’
‘I think he’s bound to be in time—the shortest route, the one with the dubious bridge, is eighty-five miles, and that’s an appalling road; they’d have to crawl’
‘Which was the one you were saying was the fastest, just when we got through to him?’ Torrens was beginning, when Luzia and Townsend Waller walked in. All the police greeted the young girl with a combination of affection and deference which amused the Englishman.
‘You have got him?’ Luzia asked. Julia nodded. ‘But look, pipe down a moment, Luzia,’ she added. ‘Mr. Waller, you don’t mind waiting a second or two, do you? I want to explain something to Hugh.’ She turned again to the map on the wall, and traced a line with one finger.
‘Much the fastest is to blind straight north to Chaves, crossing the Douro at Regua—see?—and on through Vila Real; it’s the main route north into Spain, and a good road all the way. But it’s over a hundred miles, and a major frontier post, of course. Could they do it in the time?’
‘Touch and go,’ Torrens said, looking at his watch—it now said 5.10. ‘No, they would hardly do it, even on an auto-strada, in under an hour and a half—unless the black saloon is a super-charged Mercedes-Benz or something like that.’ He thought, frowning. ‘It all depends, really, on how quickly our friend gets the frontier alerted. Very fast, I imagine—he is so enormously efficient.’
Luzia suddenly spoke up.
‘If they were well-informed, and clever, they might not cross the frontier on the main road at all. In Chaves they could turn left to Montalegre, in the Terras de Barroso; and from Montalegre there are two little, small roads into Spain—so tiny, I doubt if the frontier posts have telephones at all. One goes to Baltar, and one to Lucenza; oth in Spain.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Torrens asked, staring at her doubtfully.
‘Papa has a small house—do you call it a shooting-box? —near Montalegre, where he goes to shoot wild goats; so I know the roads there.’
‘Luzia, is there a telephone at the shooting-lodge?’ Julia asked, while Torrens digested this information.
‘Of course.’
‘And they’re sensible people, discreet?—the keepers, I mean?’
‘Martinez is wonderful—he is a Gallego Spaniard.’
‘Could he do something about having the car stopped? How far is the lodge from Montalegre?’
‘Only eight kilometres. But let us start to telephone now; there is no car up there, and Maria-Rosa at the exchange at Montalegre is not very prompt!’ She turned to one of the police and gave a number. ‘Expressly for the Senhor Duque, tell them,’ she added brusquely, ‘and urgente!’—grinning, the policeman did as he was told.
‘How will your keeper stop the car?’ Torrens asked, lighting a cigarette.
‘Oh, leave all that to Martinez!’ Luzia said cheerfully —pushing aside some dusty and faded files she had perched herself on the office table, and sat there swinging her long thin legs, the legs of a very young but thoroughbred colt. ‘He will stop it by some means or another, if he is told to.’
‘I think we ought to ring up the Duke and say we may be delayed,’ Julia said presently, also seating herself on the table beside Luzia.
‘I’ve done that,’ Luzia said. ‘Mr. Waller and I went and did it from the Camara, while you were telephoning to Lisbon.’
The Camara is the name used in Portugal for the municipal offices of any town. In São Pedro do Sul this rather uninspiring organisation is most splendidly housed, behind superb baroque façades, in what was formerly the Convent of the Frades; along corridors where once religious walked in stately meditation, little clerks now scurry to and fro on errands concerned with street lighting and sewerage disposal. It is something when these noble buildings, left vacant when the religious orders were driven out in the 19th century, are used as Camaras or barracks, for then at least the fabric is preserved; all too many are simply abandoned to the ravages of the elements and the tender mercies of squatters, who crouch in one corner of some vast ground-floor room—probably with a magnificent painted ceiling, now rather damp-stained—along with their skinny fowls and their stinking goats. Julia grinned a little at her pupil’s resourcefulness. But just as she was about to speak the telephone rang; Luzia leapt off the table, and gabbled into the instrument in Portuguese.
‘That is arranged,’ the girl said, as she put down the receiver. ‘Now, do we go after her?’
Poor Mr. Waller, who had perforce remained a rather passive spectator since he and Luzia returned to the Policia, now spoke up.
‘Of course we do. We have to! We can’t just leave her in their hands!’
‘Just a moment’—Julia spoke very calmly. ‘Luzia, who did you speak to at Gralheira?’
‘Elidio—Papa was out.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That there was a contretemps, and we should not be back in time for dinner; we might be very late, and they were to keep food hot for us. I was exceedingly discreet!’ the girl said.
‘That all sounds in order,’ Townsend said to Julia. ‘Let’s go. What are we waiting for?’
‘Let’s go and talk about it in the open, anyhow,’ Julia said. ‘I think these polite policemen must have had about enough of us.’ She spoke courteous farewells and thanks, which were received with a perfect ballet of smiles and bows and a chorus of um muito grande prazer! (a great pleasure). ‘I told you you’d see up here what nice people they were,’ Julia said to Torrens as they walked towards the square. ‘Well now, had we better go after her?’
‘I think some of us must, anyhow. I wish to God we knew which road to try, though.’
‘I think Chaves is much the best bet. The others are all far slower,’ Julia began, when a piercing whistle just behind them made both her and the Major jump.
‘Oh, I am sorry! But there it is,’ Luzia said; once more she put two fingers in her mouth and emitted that frightful sound, usually a shepherd’s secret, and waved vigorously. The Gralheira Land-Rover, driving slowly into the square, swung round in their direction.
‘Good gracious, what’s this doing here?’ Julia said astonished.
‘I had it sent. For these bad, small roads in the Terras de Barroso it is much better than the Daimler, and on a good road it can do a hundred kilometres an hour easily,’ the girl said earnestly. ‘So I told Elidio to send it in.’
Torrens burst out laughing.
‘Splendid! Send back the other car, and we’ll go in this. Waller, have you locked yours?’
Townsend had. But Julia began to feel some slight qualms about her pupil.
‘Luzia, you’d better go home in the Daimler,’ she said.
As Luzia opened her Medusa mouth in a bitter protest, Torrens broke in.
‘Damn it, Julia, you can’t do that! The child has had the wits to produce the right machine for the job, and she may be very useful in dealing with all these types on the spot. For pity’s sake let her come along.’
Julia glanced at him in surprise. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said—Luzia, in her thankfulness for this mercy, swallowed the Major’s use of the humiliating word ‘child’. The Daimler was despatched to Gralheira, and the four of them piled into the Land-Rover and roared off towards the north. From habit Torrens glanced at his watch—it was a quarter to six.
From São Pedro do Sul to the frontier, a few kilometres beyond Chaves, is about 106 miles. The Land-Rover did it in two-and-a-quarter hours, battering its occupants almost to jelly in the process; for the road goes uphill and down dale, descending to cross the deep golden-schist valley of the Douro at Regua, and then climbing up onto and over the wild high-lying country of Tras-os-Montes, the most remote province of Portugal. Ex
actly at 8 p.m. they drew up in front of the wire barrier closing the road, climbed down, and went to interview the frontier officials. By common consent Julia did the talking. She showed the man at the barrier Torrens’ ‘white card’, an invaluable document issued by the Security Police only to senior members of diplomatic missions and to Portuguese Cabinet Ministers; Torrens had, of course, been furnished with one of these coveted objects, which enable their fortunate possessors to go practically anywhere, and—most useful of all—to park their cars in places where parking is normally forbidden. (In fact they do confer carte blanche on their owners.) The frontier guard recognised this portentous document when he examined it by the Land-Rover’s headlights; he pushed the long slender barrier back a little way, beckoned the party through the gap, and led them to where his superiors were smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine in a small office.
Here Julia introduced the Senhor Comandante Ingles as a friend and colleague of Colonel Marques, and then began her questions about a large black car. Yes, such a car had driven up about 6 p.m., but it did not bear the number advised telephonically by the Colonel, so the occupants had not been held; however, the Colonel had closed the frontier tonight, so it was not allowed to pass— it turned round, and drove back towards Chaves. Was there a Menina in it? Ah, that they could not say; since it did not bear the specified number it was not examined—it came, and it went.
‘Well that gets us exactly nowhere,’ Torrens said gloomily when Julia passed on this information.
‘Shall I ask if the men wore grey overcoats?’
‘Might as well.’
Julia did so. Yes, in effect the Senhores had worn grey top-coats—‘like most travellers who are not Ingleses,’ the customs officer said, with a side-long glance at Torrens’ rather vivid tweed. Luzia laughed.
‘That really tells us nothing either,’ Torrens said, as they walked back towards the barrier. ‘I wonder what our next move is?’ Luzia, however, was speaking to the frontier-guard in his own tongue; she rounded briskly on the Secret Service man.
‘They consulted a map when they got back to the car! —he saw them. They might have seen these little roads on it. Oh, do let us go to Montalegre and see if Martinez (she pronounced it Marteensh) has done something!’