The Portuguese Escape

by Ann Bridge

  ‘And my patient? What does H. A. or A. H. tell you? Something, I can see.’

  But here the man in green was firm.

  ‘Madame, I am sorry that I can really tell you no more at present. But I am most grateful for what you have done. If the young lady becomes sufficiently conscious to speak, please ask her her name and anything she can tell you of what happened to her—especially as to whether she was questioned, and revealed any facts under pressure? This could be of the utmost importance, and the sooner we know it the better.’ He drew out a small card on which was printed—

  ‘T. Soubrinho de Almeida’. On this he scribbled a telephone number, and handed it to Mrs. Hathaway.

  ‘If you will have this number rung up and mention my name, I or another officer who speaks English will come round immediately. But I cannot impress on you sufficiently that the very greatest discretion is essential. As you see, I am reposing great confidence in you,’ he ended, and bowed and went away.

  Mrs. Hathaway returned to her chair by the bed. She asked the grim chambermaid her name—most unsuitably, it was Flora—and indicated by signs that she would ring four times if she wanted any more assistance; the woman departed, and Mrs. Hathaway sat reflecting on what she had just heard. The man in the green uniform certainly knew more than he was willing to say. Well, quite soon she must ring Julia up again—she had promised to—and then she might learn more; but she would rest a little first. That struggle to get the coffee down had been quite exhausting; it was so tiresome, how fatigue got the better of one as one grew older. Thinking how tiresome old age and fatigue were, Mrs. Hathaway, in her armchair, fell into a doze.

  When Julia Probyn got up off the wine-case outside the pantry at Gralheira her first intention had been to tell Major Torrens what she had heard, but in the hall she changed her mind and went along the corridor to the priests’ study. To relieve Father Antal’s anxiety was more important than anything else; if the girl in Mrs. Hathaway’s room was Hetta she was safe anyhow, with the indomitable Mrs. H. in charge, and English-speaking police officers—damn the man, turning up just then!—popping in and out.

  Father Antal was alone. The Monsignor was still giving Atherley the treatment out in the knot-garden; beyond the high windows their figures could be seen passing to and fro. The old Hungarian was sitting at the table, his head sunk in his hands; he raised it as Julia came in.

  ‘Dom Francisco, I think it’s almost certain that she’s safe!’ Julia said, going over to him.

  He got up, slowly.

  ‘Why “almost”, my child?’ he asked, rather heavily.

  Julia told him all that Mrs. Hathaway had said, and asked, and how their conversation had been interrupted.

  ‘Drugged, and cannot speak!—poor soul, whoever she is. And who is this lady who so charitably took her in?’

  ‘The best person in the world! She’s been all the mother I’ve had since my own mother died.’

  He considered. ‘Still, it is not sure,’ he said at length.

  ‘Dear Dom Francisco’, (Julia automatically used the agreed name) ‘don’t you think it is pretty sure? Granted that there might easily be two, or even three short dark girls in Portugal who have H. P. embroidered on their underclothes, would any of them but Hetti be likely to be found drugged and gagged in a car? I don’t see how it can be anyone but her.’

  He smiled at her conviction.

  ‘You have made a good point. Yes, I believe I agree. Let us give thanks to God.’

  ‘Oh, I do!—or rather I will in a minute, when I’ve told Major Torrens. I just wanted to let you know, Father dear.’ She hurried away.

  The smoking-room at Gralheira was an apartment seldom used except on the rare occasions when the Duke entertained a shooting-party, and Torrens had more or less appropriated it to his own use. As Julia went in at the door Atherley was in the act of entering by the French window; in obedience to the Monsignor’s instructions he had come in search of Townsend Waller. Townsend was not there. ‘He went out,’ the Major told Richard.

  ‘All right, I’ll go and find him.’

  ‘No, wait, Richard—you’d better hear this too,’ Julia said.

  ‘Don’t say you have some news?’ Torrens asked.

  ‘Well, near-news, anyhow.’ She recounted what she had heard on the telephone. Richard said ‘Oh, thank God!’— the Major, like Father Antal, asked who on earth Mrs. Hathaway was?

  ‘Oh, a darling—and just the sort of person who would go and look in the other car when she’d been crashed in an accident!’ Julia said.

  ‘Well, whatever it’s worth, I think the Colonel ought to hear it,’ Torrens said temperately.

  ‘Let’s find out first if the poor Duque is in his study.’ Julia rang the bell as she spoke. Elidio, who answered it, said that His Excellency was gone out to the vineyards to examine the vines.

  ‘Muito bem, Elidio—muito obrigada’ ‘All right; he’s out,’ she said.

  ‘Which of these accursed machines gets the exchange?’ Torrens asked gloomily, surveying the array of telephones on the Duke’s desk with distaste.

  ‘Well really, Hugh, by now you ought to remember that much!’ Julia said, laughing—her own conviction that Hetta was safe had put her into the highest spirits. ‘Second from the right.’

  It was getting on for noon when Major Torrens got through to Colonel Marques. He made a guarded beginning: ‘I think perhaps we have some news of the lost lady.’ The Colonel interrupted him.

  ‘Oh, the little identifier! Yes, I know,’ he said breezily. ‘She is in the care of this admirable lady, who nevertheless did not think to look in her pockets! One of my men did so, however; he found a book with an inscription which I think makes the matter certain—but to leave nothing to chance I have sent a car to fetch the maid-servant from a certain place, to make the identification absolute.’

  Torrens asked about the men who were with ‘the identifier’ when the so lucky accident took place. The Colonel was still breezy.

  ‘Just the ones we wanted, and expected!—three. We are holding them; their papers are not quite in order!’ Torrens could hear the pleasure in the Colonel’s tones. ‘But one is missing; the principal, I am afraid. I must ask you not to relax any precautions; after all, the little person in question was only a means to an end, and the end is still with you. I will ring you up again when the identification is confirmed; in the meantime I must ask you to be very watchful.’ He rang off.

  Torrens had just begun to retail all this to Atherley and Julia when the Duke walked in with Luzia. He was delighted at the news of Hetta Páloczy’s almost certain safety, and fascinated by Julia’s account of her rescue. ‘But this must be a most remarkable lady!’

  ‘Oh, she is!’ Julia responded. Torrens, however, was particularly concerned to impress on his hearers what Colonel Marques had said about the escape of ‘the principal’, and the importance of relaxing no precautions; he did so at some length. Atherley saw Luzia listening to this intently, her grey eyes very wide.

  ‘Yes yes, of course we will continue to observe all our rules,’ the Duke was saying a little impatiently when Dona Maria Francisca sidled in—her manner of entering a room always gave the impression that she felt it immodest to walk straight forwards. ‘Yes, ma chère?’ her brother asked.

  ‘I only came to enquire—I hear there has been telephoning—whether we are to expect the young Countess today?’

  ‘No, not today, my dear sister. I will advise you of her advent in good time.’

  Dona Maria Francisca looked disapproving; she muttered something about the notice yesterday having been very short, and when the room was prepared, after all no one came.

  ‘Yes, the American came,’ Luzia piped up. ‘And now also Atherley!’—looking with great satisfaction at Richard, who grinned back at her. Luzia was a source of endless pleasure to him.

  When Dona Maria Francisca sidled out again she took the reluctant girl with her. Before the door closed they heard Luzia’s voice from th
e hall—‘Go in, go in; there is good news; she is safe!’—and Townsend Waller appeared.

  ‘Is it really all right to come in, Duke?’ he asked apologetically. ‘And it is true that the little Countess is safe?’

  Torrens told him that it was almost certainly true, and how it had come about.

  ‘But it’s not a hundred per cent certain yet?’ the American asked doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, Townsend, it really is a hundred per cent,’ Julia assured him. ‘It’s only a police fuss, sending for the maid. Don’t worry.’

  The Duke was pursuing a train of thought of his own.

  ‘As soon as the young lady is well enough to travel, should she not come here?’

  Before anyone else could answer, Atherley said,

  ‘Yes, Sir; she ought to come as soon as possible.’ He was still acutely conscious of his own responsibility for Hetta’s misadventure. ‘The whole reason for her making this expedition at all was to see Father A.’—he checked himself.

  Townsend stared at him in bewilderment.

  ‘Father A.? Who’s he? She never said a word about any Father; she just said she was upset about something, and to take her mind off it she wanted to see the North, and to call on some friends.’

  Julia intervened.

  ‘She was only being discreet, Townsend,’ she said with kindness. ‘People get to be, you know, when they live under the Communists. But the friend she most wanted to visit up here was one of the two priests you saw at breakfast.’

  ‘Not Subercaseaux, for goodness’ sake!’ the Bostonian exploded incredulously.

  ‘No, the other one,’ Julia said. She turned to the Duke.

  ‘When Hetta is better, since you are so kind, we can arrange for her to come up. Now we’ll stop invading your study! Come on,’ she said to the three men. ‘Let’s go and put Townsend properly in the picture—it’s high time.’

  This briefing was conducted in the smoking-room. Julia took upon herself to expound to Mr. Waller how Father Antal had been got out of Hungary, and the necessity for his having ample opportunity to report to Rome through Mgr Subercaseaux—‘he’s the Vatican contact, you see. Then Father Antal will go on to the States and do things there, broadcasting and so on.’ The mere name of the Vatican was slightly repugnant to Townsend Waller, who belonged to the straitest sect of the Unitarian Pharisees of New England, but he took the point all right.

  ‘I remember seeing a cable about some high-powered agent who was to be got out of here by plane; our Security people were to send someone over to meet him, but I didn’t register exactly when.’

  ‘Well the priest we’re calling Dom Francisco is the high-powered agent,’ Torrens said; ‘and the escort will fly over to meet him when I tell my opposite number in your outfit that we’re ready—he’ll cable for him, and your Security man will be here in thirty-six hours.’

  Waller reflected for a moment or two.

  ‘What I don’t quite see is why you British are handling this here, if he’s coming to the States, and being flown across by our people,’ he said then, looking rather straight at Torrens.

  ‘I think I can tell you why, Townsend,’ Richard put in before the Major could answer. ‘This is a small, but a very explosive operation where Europe is concerned, and one that has had to be organised hand-in-hand with the Catholic net-work over here. And though your Catholic net-work is much wider than ours, it’s looser mesh!’ He smiled very pleasantly at his friend. ‘As one Protestant to another, I expect you’d agree that European Catholics during these last years have become admirably security-minded—they’ve had to; the English ones of course have been ever since the days of Good Queen Bess! And security was Word Number One, in this.’

  Townsend looked a little uncertain.

  ‘But is he a Catholic?’ he asked, glancing at Torrens.

  ‘No,’ Richard said, laughing. ‘But he’s been working in with them now for a long time, and they know him. It was just a case of how to get the job done in the safest way. Maclean or no Maclean,’ he added with a grin.

  Townsend, who was far from a fool, and moreover had the admirable quality of great honesty, took the point.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’ Suddenly he too grinned, ruefully and disarmingly. ‘Well seeing I was stupid enough to lose Countess Hetta, I suppose I must let you say what you like about wide mesh! But you never told me what it was all about, Richard, as you promised to; if you had, I wouldn’t have been so careless.’

  ‘I know. I’ve told you I’m sorry about that,’ Richard said.

  A gong boomed, the preliminary summons to luncheon. ‘Goodness, where’s the morning gone?’ Julia exclaimed, and went upstairs to attend to her face.

  It was shortly after lunch that Mrs. Hathaway, as promised, rang up again; Julia took the call outside the pantry—‘Oh, the inconvenience!’ she muttered bitterly. The girl was now conscious, Mrs. Hathaway said; the doctor had been again, and said that she was quite all right.

  ‘And has the servant been?—is she really who we thought?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Oh yes, there’s no doubt about that; she is your friend.’

  ‘Is she fit to travel?’

  ‘Oh, do you want her? The little fat man thought perhaps you might.’ (By the little fat man Julia guessed that Colonel Marques was meant.) ‘Not today, but tomorrow, I think she could.’

  ‘Is she going back to her mother, or staying with you?’

  ‘She will stay with me tonight anyhow. The fat man seemed to think it better, and of course I like having her; now she’s awake, she’s charming. But she seems very troubled about something she’s said, or done—I wish I could get her mind off it.’

  This is it, Julia thought; she has given something away, poor little wretch. Down the telephone—‘I couldn’t speak to her, could I?’ she asked. ‘Is she still in bed?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s up and dressed. I’ll see. But this isn’t a very convenient place—it’s out on the landing, and there’s that man at the door, and people going up and downstairs all the time. Wait a minute.’

  Even more inconvenient than here, Julia thought, grinning to herself, as she sat down again on the wine-case, the receiver at the full stretch of the flex held to her ear. There was a long pause. At last—

  ‘Here she is,’ said Mrs. Hathaway’s voice. ‘I’m sorry to have been so long, but the bobby—I’m sure you understand me—didn’t want her to leave the room, or use the telephone. I got the manager to overpersuade him, but it took some time. I’ve told her not to use any names. Now!’ And then Julia heard Hetti’s rather deep voice saying— ‘Is it you?’

  ‘Yes, darling. How good to hear you! Are you all right again?’

  ‘Yes yes, quite all right. But oh Yulia, I am so miserable! I have done a terrible thing. Only I cannot tell you about it on the telephone.’

  ‘No no—for goodness’ sake don’t try!’ Julia said hastily. ‘I shall be seeing you very soon; either I’ll come down, or you will come up. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Is he still with you?’

  ‘Of course. Tell Mrs. H. she will be rung up later about plans.’

  ‘Please? Mrs. Who?’

  ‘Oh, the lady you’re with, silly! Ask her her name!’ Julia said impatiently—to her relief she heard Hetta laugh.

  ‘She is an angel!’ the girl said fervently.

  ‘I know she is. Goodbye. Do exactly what she tells you, and don’t worry.’

  ‘Yulia, I must worry! And please be so careful, because of what I have done.’

  ‘All right. Now you do what you’re told! Bless you. Goodbye.’

  After ringing off Julia went at once in pursuit of Major Torrens. She had some difficulty in finding him. Richard, still anxious to implement the Monsignor’s recommendation to do something to distract Townsend Waller, had offered to take the American round that remarkable house, and Torrens had gone with them. She ran the party to earth at last in one of the huge salons, full of Boulle and Empire furni
ture; as she went in the Major was commenting in some astonishment on the fact that though the room contained seventeen armchairs there were only two table-lamps, both heavily veiled in grey crêpe-de-chine. ‘How on earth do they read?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, the women don’t much; anyhow no one ever sits in here,’ Julia told him. ‘Listen, Hugh—Hetta’s all right again, quite fit to come up tomorrow, so we must settle how to get her here. Should I go down in Richard’s car?— if I might?’—glancing at Atherley.

  The two young men broke into eager enquiries, which Julia answered, rather brusquely. ‘Yes, perfectly all right; I spoke to her. But for goodness’ sake be quiet for a minute and let me settle this with Hugh.’ She pursued the thing with Torrens. ‘She’s given something away, I gather.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t let her tell me. I presume simply that Father Antal is here—she begged me to be very careful. And I imagine, too, that by now the pavement outside the Lucrezia is stiff with Commie agents, disguised as camellia-sellers!’ Julia ended, with vigour.

  Torrens laughed. ‘We’d better consult the Colonel,’ he said. ‘Where’s the Duke? Out, please God.’

  The Duke was out.

  ‘Spilt some beans, has she?’ the Colonel said, displaying his usual pleasure in using English slang. ‘Well, no wonder. Was she tortured?’ Torrens couldn’t say. ‘In any case, you and her friends are much more likely than I am to find out what she has said, and it would be useful to know—precisely, please, if she can remember. But people under torture are apt to forget what they have said; it is part of the psychological blotting-out of distress.’

  Those words, so casually uttered, caused Major Torrens to shiver a little. He knew that Communists do use such methods, and merely said—

  ‘The thing is how to get the person in question up here. Miss P. thought of going down to fetch her, in the car in which she brought me up.’

  ‘Oh, do not let her go to this trouble! Why not allow this admirable Englishwoman who succours her—and to whom we owe the fact that the young person was discovered so soon—to bring her up? I can supply a car and chauffeur, which will be closely followed by another car with my own men. No one knows the old lady by sight, and la petite can wear a veil, as she did at Portela. Can Miss P. arrange this at your end? I gather she is the contact for the Englishwoman.’