by John Lodwick
At the hotel, although the administrative staff was unchanged, the manager did not recognise Rumbold, and paid no particular attention to him, apart from enquiries concerning the cost of living in France. Rumbold took a bath, ate a lunch enlivened by the excellent red wine of Navarre, and went out with the intention of passing the afternoon in pedestrian re-exploration of the city. Fifty yards down the street, he turned into a wine-shop, drank several glasses of Manzanilla, threw dice for half an hour with the proprietor, and losing, decided to go to the bank to change his French money in order to save himself the trouble of broaching the secret hoard in his shoes. Somewhat heavy on his feet from much wine, he travelled to the bank by taxi.
Stone steps flaring outwards flanked by urn-bearing balustrades . . . a portico of the mid-Baring period . . . swing doors that were genuine modern Rothschild. Some people suffer a depression of the spirit in railway-stations, in barber shops, in the cascade and antiseptic drip of lavatories. The nose is the Judas of the sensory organs. Immune elsewhere, Rumbold had, from his earliest days as a junior clerk, been susceptible to this malaise in banks. Therefore, he paused before the swing doors, hesitating until driven forward by the arrival of two messengers, whose path he blocked.
He walked straight to the Chief Cashier’s grille.
“Hullo, Barnard,” he said, without surprise.
The man peered at him from behind thick lenses. “Why, Rumbold,” he said. “It is Rumbold, isn’t it? We thought you were dead.”
“No,” said Rumbold. “Not dead.”
“Well, what brings you here?” said Barnard. He had heard something about Rumbold, but couldn’t remember quite what. He was certain that the man was supposed to be dead, though. “What brings you here?” he repeated. In his trouser pocket his fingers closed defensively upon coins. He feared a touch.
“Just a little question of currency exchange,” said Rumbold. He indicated the wad of notes which he had flung on the counter. There was a great deal of money in the wad.
“Ah,” said the cashier. His expression of caution did not relax, but underwent a mutation from private to official suspicion. Where had this man, once a clerk, obtained this considerable sum? “You want pesetas?” he said.
“Naturally.”
“Just a moment then.” The chief clerk handed the notes to an assistant behind him. The assistant disappeared from view. “Shan’t keep you a second,” said the chief cashier.
Rumbold watched with amusement the mummery taking place behind the bars. He was perfectly well aware that Barnard suspected that the notes were either forgeries, or hot.
“Well, Barnard,” he said. “You’ve come up in the world, I see.”
“You, too, perhaps,” said Barnard.
“Yes and no, old man . . . yes and no. But chief cashier! Well, that is something to be proud of. How do you like it in Madrid? Better than Paris, eh? I suppose you were here throughout the war?”
“I was,” said Barnard. “The military wouldn’t take me. My chest, you know.”
“I remember your chest,” said Rumbold. “Ah, how I wish that I, too, had had a chest.”
The assistant returned and whispered something to Barnard. “Oh,” said Barnard, “all right. How will you take it?” he said to Rumbold. “In tens, or fifties?”
“Any way you like, old man,” said Rumbold. “You see, you shouldn’t be so suspicious of an old colleague. But I forgive you, Barnard. I have a generous nature. Here’s a little something to prove it.”
From the new notes handed to him he extracted one, of fifty pesetas value, and laid it on the counter. He began to walk away.
“Take your money back at once,” shouted the chief cashier. He positively pranced with rage, clawing the woodwork, and thrusting a thin wrist through the grille in an attempt to strike the note to the floor.
“Now, now,” said Rumbold. “Remember where you are, and that you’re behind the bars. You’ll never get out from behind those bars, Barnard. A pity, because you look to me as if you had cirrhosis.”
“You watch your step,” hissed the chief cashier. “I know you, Rumbold. There was always something fishy about you. Take my advice and check with the Spanish police. We can make things pretty hot for you here.”
“Funny you should say that,” replied Rumbold. “You’ve reminded me of something I have to do.”
He raised his hat solemnly, and bowed, watched with amusement by fellow clients, with apprehension by the chief cashier.
“Goodbye, Barnard,” he said. “I’ll be in again tomorrow to change some more of the loot.”
Outside the bank, he hailed another taxi. He instructed the driver to take him to the Police Prefecture.
“Yes?” said the duty clerk in the Aliens’ room.
Rumbold extended his passport. “Transit visa,” he said. “Any pretty stamp you care to put upon it will be welcome.”
The duty clerk reached for the thick black book of names.
“You can save yourself the trouble,” said Rumbold. “Somebody has already taken a look at it at Portbou. As a consequence, I was asked to call here most particularly . . . most particularly.”
“Ah,” said the clerk. “In that case you had better follow me.” He lifted a detachable section of the counter, and beckoned Rumbold to pass. Rumbold followed the man through the office, through an inner office in which two women typists wearing eye-shades were sipping coffee and gossiping, and into a long and cold white corridor.
“Please wait here a moment,” said the clerk. He knocked upon a door, entered, and closed it behind him. Left alone, Rumbold inspected the pictures in the passage. These were reproductions of Goya’s “Horrors of the War”. Abstractedly, Rumbold noticed that one of the men in the firing squad was not holding his musket correctly.
The clerk came out of the office: “The Director will see you now,” he said.
“The Director?” said Rumbold. “This is choice . . . very choice. Am I to take it that I enjoy priority?”
The clerk did not answer. He scowled. Rumbold entered the office, which was small, but comfortably furnished . . . electric fire with imitation coals, massive paperweights, less than usually distasteful photograph of General Franco, curtains of heavy green material, spittoon, and easy-chair for visitors.
Behind a roll-top desk in need of dusting sat a man with a non-secular face.
“Mr. Rumbold, good morning,” he said in English. “You are a very interesting man and I am glad to make your acquaintance. Please sit down.”
Rumbold sat down. “From your manner,” he said, “I infer that you have some proposition to make to me. I have no idea what this can be, but trust that it will be in keeping with those principles to which I subscribe.”
“‘Subscribe,’ is, of course, the mot juste,” said the man behind the roll-top desk. “I shall come to my proposition presently. Meanwhile let us re-examine the history of certain incidents familiar to both of us.”
From a drawer the man produced a pink folder. He consulted this folder: “On the 16th July, 1942,” he said, “at the entrance to the British Consulate, Bilbao, you assaulted the uniformed Civil Guards, Zuloaga and Arrese. The Guard Zuloaga suffered a fractured jaw, the Guard Arrese multiple contusions. By reason of the diplomatic immunity which you then enjoyed, you were never called upon to answer for this crime. Correct?”
“Correct,” said Rumbold.
The man turned a page of the folder. “On the 16th November, 1942,” he continued, “upon the occasion of your third visit within eight months to our country, you deflated the tyres of a German military staff car which was parked in the Calle Major. Asked what you were doing by a police agent who had observed you at work, you struck this man, and made off at full speed on foot. Chased, you took refuge in the British Embassy, where you remained . . . once again enjoying extra-
territorial protection . . . until your departure from Spain in an Embassy car. Correct?”
“Perfectly correct,” said Rumbold. “Tell me, have you many such delightful case histories, and are they all housed in pink folders?”
“We have a great many such histories,” said the man behind the roll-top desk, “but the colour of the folders varies considerably. Yours, as you have observed, is pink: this pleasant pastel shade indicating that the crimes of which you are accused are not taken very seriously.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Rumbold. “Your intention in recalling them was, I take it, to impress me with your efficiency.”
“Yes,” said the man behind the desk, “I confess that such was my aim. You see, Mr. Rumbold, despite the fact that the New Spain has been in existence for some years, there are many abroad who believe that the slothfulness, the . . . how shall I put it . . . the spirit of mañana still rules supreme. I would not like you to think this, Mr. Rumbold. I would not like you to think this at all.”
“Oh, believe me,” said Rumbold politely, “I have the greatest respect for your police.”
At this point in the conversation a short silence ensued. Rumbold stared out of the window at an asphalt courtyard flanked by plane trees. A workman was sweeping leaves into heaps with a broom, and loading these heaps upon a wheelbarrow.
“You are a Catholic, I believe, Mr. Rumbold,” said the man behind the desk.
“I was born a Catholic,” admitted Rumbold.
“Then you will also die a Catholic. In the meantime, however, you are going home to England . . . is that not so?”
“Yes,” said Rumbold.
“Where you will be arrested and tried as a deserter, I believe? Is this not also correct?”
“Oh, I very much doubt that, you know,” said Rumbold pleasantly. “English methods are considerably more lax than your own. However, don’t let me interrupt you. Please continue. I see perfectly what you are driving at and am watching your approach with interest and even . . . if you will permit me to say so . . . with amusement.”
The man behind the roll-top desk smiled. He wore square, rimless glasses of American manufacture, and when he smiled his face underwent an owlish metamorphosis which was far from unpleasing.
“You speak Spanish so well,” he said. “In an Englishman that is unusual. Yet you were not here during the Civil War, I understand?”
“No,” said Rumbold. “I learnt it for commercial purposes . . . to obtain an increase in pay, as a matter of fact. In the banking business linguists are valuable.”
The man behind the roll-top desk removed his glasses. He began to polish them. His eyes, which Rumbold now saw clearly, were dark and lustrous, illuminating the steep brow, the thin and questing nose with a suggestion of magnanimity. In the cornea of every short-sighted man there lies the stuff of dreams.
“With your knowledge of the language,” he said gently, “you could do well in Spain.”
“You are suggesting that I stay here?”
“I am suggesting that you might do very much worse.”
Rumbold selected a cigarette from his case, and lit it. He offered the case to the man behind the desk, who refused. “You forget that I am a poor man,” he said. “The current exchange rate is not favourable to prolonged residence here.”
“The exchange rate,” said the man, “does not affect people who reside permanently in this country, and who earn their living here.”
Rumbold was astonished: “Surely you don’t propose that I should accept Spanish nationality?” he said.
“Why not? Of course, there would be a period of probation . . . on both sides . . . but in the end I am sure that it would suggest itself to you as the most logical and sensible of steps.”
“Well, well,” said Rumbold. “This is most intriguing. Please be more explicit.”
“Certainly.” The man crossed his legs. He pushed his swivel chair several inches away from the desk. “By the way, my name is Aranjuez,” he said.
“I was afraid it might be Torquemada,” said Rumbold.
Both laughed. “No,” said Aranjuez, “I am not the Grand Inquisitor, but still less am I Don Quixote. My proposition is a sensible one because I am a practical man with a position to consider.” He paused. “Are you aware, Mr. Rumbold,” he said, “that there is a certain measure of dissidence in this country, that there exist persons who are dissatisfied with the Government, and who would be glad to change it?”
“How can one fail to be aware of it?” said Rumbold.
“Precisely. Your answer pleases me. How, as you say, can one fail? Now you, Mr. Rumbold, are a man whose courage is not in doubt and who, in addition, have received training of a particular nature.”
“You mean, I suppose, in sabotage, and underground work in general?”
“That is what I mean, Mr. Rumbold. Oh, I realise that we poor neutrals are not supposed to be aware of these things, but, during the war, our very position as neutrals, with a foot in both camps, enabled us to learn much that was going on. I have here, for example, a report of the activities of your organisation. It does them, if I may say so, great credit.”
“Wait a minute,” said Rumbold. “If I interpret you correctly, you are offering me employment on the principle that reformed burglars make the best policemen. Is that so?”
“Yes, Mr. Rumbold, it is so. Instead of working underground you would work for us in the counter-underground. Your knowledge of explosives alone would make you invaluable to me, while the fact that you are a foreigner . . . far from being a handicap . . . might prove a positive advantage. I have been waiting to engage somebody like you for a long time, Mr. Rumbold.”
“Yes, I daresay you have,” said Rumbold. “What’s more, you think I’m the more likely to accept because of certain difficulties which may await me in England.”
“Well, Mr. Rumbold, you put it rather bluntly, but I confess that you interpret my thought. Besides, even if you have no trouble, what future is there for you in England? You are a man of action. You surely do not wish to return to your bank?”
“No,” conceded Rumbold. “I do not, nor do I intend to do so. But that is no reason why you should assume that I should jump at the employment you mention in Spain. I find your optimism rather . . . rather insulting, Señor Aranjuez. You have evidently made up your mind that I am a man devoid of scruples.”
“You have no political scruples, surely, Mr. Rumbold?
“None whatever, but I nevertheless object to hounding down my fellow men, while disguised, no doubt, as an innocent tourist. I have been hounded down too often myself, Señor, to find your proposition alluring.”
The man, Aranjuez, was silent for a moment. He appeared to be considering some question irrelevant to the subject under discussion. A small and fleeting smile caused his lips to droop.
“Good pay,” he said at length. “Good prospects. A position of honour and confidence, the reasonable certainty of a long and happy life and the bourgeois fear of destitution removed by the promise of a pension in old age . . . these arguments, Mr. Rumbold, are, I know, unlikely to influence you, but before you commit yourself let me remind you that the profession of mercenary is as ancient as it is dignified. The words in which I make this offer are mine but the spirit is that of a Lorenzo de Medici, of a Bourbon monarch in parley with Dupleix. I have need of you, Mr. Rumbold. I need your independence of mind for myself, and your technical knowledge for the training of my men.”
“In that case,” said Rumbold, “you should choose your historic parallels with more care. Dupleix died in squalor. The hired men of Lorenzo were almost always assassinated.”
“Tiens,” said Aranjuez. “So you are also a historian? I did not know that you added intellectual pretensions to your other accomplishments.”
“I have small intelle
ct,” said Rumbold, “and my pretensions are all uniquely sensual. But I have observed in the course of the last few months . . . and particularly in the last few days . . . that people are continually trying to engage me, to oblige me to associate myself with their desires, their plans, their way of Life.”
“You imagine that you can remain aloof from Life, then?” said Aranjuez, ironically. He glanced at his watch, but seeing that Rumbold had observed him and made as if to rise, waved him back to his seat. “No, no,” he said. “Please forgive me. It was a reflex action. I do not want to get rid of you. On the contrary, I am interested, and am learning much. Please continue. . . .”
“Very well,” said Rumbold, recrossing his legs. “Yes, I do confess that it is my hope to remain aloof. That is the lesson which my formative years, all spent in war, have taught me. I despise the world. I cannot accept its conventions. I do not wish to be driven, cornered, the victim of chance and circumstance and the whims of others financially more powerful than myself.”
“That,” said Aranjuez, “is exactly why you are the man for me.”
“Even though I be sick of heart, and mind?” replied Rumbold, in his turn ironical.
“Doubly so for that reason.”
“But wait,” said Rumbold. “You have not heard all, though you appear to have some general knowledge of it. Tired of grand larceny I determine to return to England. Immediately, I am caught up in the toils of a previous existence. My Consul warns me. My original employers in London make it plain that, upon landing, I must see them. Meanwhile, my business associates attempt to retain me, and I have the greatest difficulty in leaving at all. On the train I consider myself safe, but no . . . within an hour or two I very nearly become involved with a young woman in search of a Protector. . . .”