The Face of Eve

by Betty Burton

  In the sun, the Ritz’s terracotta fagade was impressive. Domed and balustraded, the hotel glowed in pale blue neon. Mendoza brought the motorcar to a halt, opened the door for Eve, then a uniformed doorman conducted her inside. Mendoza, with a porter on board, drove off to where the expensive luggage could be off-loaded.

  Eve was surprised at how quickly the hotel had recovered from its wartime experiences, ready to welcome the return of patrons who had not ventured into the country until the General was safely installed.

  Mendoza and the car disappeared and suddenly Eve was on her own, floating free. Her anxiety disappeared. The rush of adrenalin was something she recognised and welcomed. It made her alert and quick-thinking, and gave her the stimulus she loved. Eager, and in love with life. She was determined to work as much as she was able without the car, without Mendoza around. Peter had been right: her butterflies disappeared, but she remained tense and alert.

  The well-turned-out manager appeared, expressing his pleasure. ‘Allow me to attend to you myself.’ He beckoned the reception clerk, who dealt quickly with Eve’s papers.

  ‘I shall conduct you to your suite, madame.’ He led the way. ‘As you requested, we have provided for you a personal maid, Nati, who has very good English. In the past, she was a tutor in department of languages.’

  ‘Why would she leave a good post like that?’

  ‘Since our recent difficulties, there are some things no longer quite as before.’

  Eve said, ‘Oh, really?’ with convincing disinterest. Then, giving him a coy look: ‘Gracias.’

  ‘Ah, you speak our language?’

  With a touch of silly affectation she gave him a smile. ‘I have a few words, and I have a dear little dictionary in my bag.’

  With urbane graciousness, he asked, ‘May I ask what is the second word madame has learned?’

  ‘Por favor.’ She pronounced it ‘favour’. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Almost, almost, madame – ff-vor.’

  She repeated the word.

  ‘That is very good, madame. Perhaps you will like for the maid to help you learn a little more.’

  ‘Well, gracias, senior,’ She made a show of being pleased with herself. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ah, madame, my name is my burden. It is Quixote.’

  A little pause. ‘Why is Ke-hotay a burden?’

  ‘Quixote is the hero of a book, who, with his servant Sancho Panza—’

  ‘Oh, you mean The Man of La Mancha! I just loved that book as a child. I always thought he was called ‘Quicksote’.’

  He was all affability. ‘You see, madame, now you learned a little more of our language.’

  A mental image flared in her mind of the blue fields of La Mancha, and the smell of lavender. In a second she had doused that little flame of memory.

  The manager opened the door with a flourish appropriate to Eve Anders’ accommodation. ‘Your suite, madame.’

  ‘It’s delightful.’ She went to the balcony where there were loungers, and a small table under a deep awning. In direct line of sight was another hotel, equally splendid and restored. She gave it no more than a passing glance although she knew from her briefing that it was likely to be a source of great interest to her. The Hotel Royale was the preferred hotel of German officials.

  Within the sitting room, Quixote was giving orders which were acknowledged in a woman’s voice: ‘Si, señor’, ‘Lo comprendo, señor,’ ‘Si, señor.’ The voice was quiet and cultured, and had what Eve thought were the accents of a Catalan. When she withdrew from the balcony, Quixote was standing waiting with a woman who could have been any age. Her face had the exhausted look that Eve herself had had when she’d first arrived in Australia, and there were a few grey streaks in her hair, but her chin and neck were still firm, indicating she was probably no more than thirty. She wore the neat uniform of a maid and held a folded towel over her arm.

  ‘Madame, this is Nati.’

  Nati gave a little bob of acknowledgement. There must be thousands of such women, Eve thought, now being knocked into a post-war humble shape.

  Eve nodded her acceptance of Nati through Quixote. ‘She can begin with my trunks straightaway and pressing any creased garments.’

  Nati nodded and disappeared.

  ‘She understood that OK.’

  ‘You will find her very useful, madame.’

  At last left alone, Eve poured a glass of fresh, chilled citrus juice and carried it to the balcony. The sun was well up but the awning shed a restful light. A radio that had been broadcasting classical guitar music now turned to news items, mostly concerning Spain’s internal affairs, but there was an item concerning France which, it was said, would capitulate to Germany at any time. She would have liked to order her car to be sent for so that she could talk to Mendoza, but having just arrived she couldn’t do that. ‘Nati.’ Nati appeared, ‘Señorita?’

  Eve was glad not to be addressed as ‘madame’. ‘Run me a cool bath and lay out some cream linen slacks and a short-sleeved jacket which you will find in my trunk.’

  ‘Si, señorita. Do you like bath salts?’

  ‘Thank you – gracias, Nati.’

  ‘Undergarments, señorita?’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘The temperature is rising very much. Cotton would be best for you. Your country is cold?’

  ‘Not in summer, but there are summer rains.’ Nati nodded and disappeared, and Eve heard water thundering into the deep bath and smelled the evocative scent of oil of lavender. Having soaked for half an hour or so, she put on a cotton wrap and dark glasses and went back to sit in the shade of the green awning. At once her attention was caught by a flurry of activity outside the Hotel Royale. Three black, highly waxed long-bonneted limousines drew up and were immediately attended by the equivalent of Quixote and the rest of the other hotel’s special guest entourage.

  Her weeks of training held her in her relaxed pose; she might have been asleep for all the movement she made. But her eyes were open and her brain was active and memorising the men and the order in which they emerged from the motorcars. The first three were in formal but lightweight suits, the cloth of which, Eve guessed, contained a high proportion of silk. At this distance she could not see detail, but the high old-fashioned collars of the shirts were those favoured by well-off Germans – as were the motorcars.

  The passengers of motors two and three were splendid in uniforms of dark blue and of grey. Flash illustrations of German military insignia memorised at Ryde told her that one was a general, one a navy commander, and four of lesser rank whose insignia were too far away to be certain.

  She thought that this was something worth reporting to Electra, added to which she wanted to test her line of communication with ‘Aunt Maureen’. She called the hotel exchange to book a line. When one became available she stood back in the darkened interior of her sitting room and watched the Hotel Royale whilst she told Electra that she had arrived safely and that the hotel was very satisfactory.

  ‘I’m just sitting around on my balcony wearing only the smell of soap and Chanel, watching the world go by… Of course I’m wearing a bathrobe, you are funny… No, nothing of interest, just the odd cat and dog, and some very posh soldiers… How should I know what rank?… Very high, I should say – lovely military caps, grey and very shiny peaks… I’m not out here to find a husband, I’m here to do my book. Actually, I was more interested in the lovely cars…’

  That banal conversation should have satisfied any eavesdropper of her bona fides. She hooked the earpiece on its holder and went back to her chair on the balcony.

  * * *

  Dressed for the part with flat shoes and carrying a camera, Eve spent the latter, and cooler, part of her first day exploring the area surrounding the hotel. It was so strange being here again, seeing the city from a new perspective, walking the streets instead of manoeuvring a big truck through them. Inside the hotel there was an atmosphere of quiet luxury – easy to be seduced into
the life.

  At dinner Eve chose a table where she could watch who came and went in the dining room, without being easily seen herself. As far as she could tell, the guests were mostly Spanish, a few Portuguese and an aristocratic-looking Frenchman. If there were SIS agents here, she couldn’t pick them out. David had said that it wasn’t likely that there would be. But how would David know? The regular secret services, being suspicious of The Bureau and its radical methods, weren’t likely to jeopardise their own operations because of some mistake made by a raw recruit to the maverick branch. That Winston Churchill had seen the success of irregular agents used by the Boers did nothing to recommend The Bureau and its special operatives to MI5 and MI6.

  Eve spent an hour in the lounge, reading a novel and sipping a brandy with ice, a mix which made the waiter assume that she was American, then went to bed feeling tired, but did not sleep well – her mind working on dreams of being suddenly naked in a well-dressed crowd.

  The next two days went well. She settled into the routine of the hotel, the food and wine were good, the waiters attentive. If she would be remembered by anyone, it would more likely to be by kitchen and domestic staff.

  The third day was hot well before noon, so she bathed and sat on the balcony wearing a headscarf and beach-wrap and a pair of dark sunglasses. She had had another bad night when she had even more vivid dreams of being seated at dinner and the whole restaurant erupting in laughter at her nakedness except for custard dripping from her face. She had called Electra, who wasn’t much comfort. ‘Egg on your face, Eve. Don’t let it worry you, I never do.’

  What happened while she was sitting there was a bit unnerving. A sporty motorcar was driven slowly past the two hotels a couple of times, and was then parked a hundred yards or so past the entrance to the Hotel Royale. A woman wearing very dark sunglasses and in a dark dress, with a kerchief tied loosely around her head and neck, got out of the driver’s seat and leaned against the bonnet. After a minute she lit up a cigarette. After another minute, propped against the wheel-guard, smoking her cigarette, the woman reached into the glove-compartment, brought out a large hand-held camera, and took several shots of the Ritz, including where Eve was seated basking in the sun. Eve remained in her dozing position until the woman drove off. It was easy to misread situations. Perhaps the woman was a journalist? Tourist?

  Eve dismissed the incident from her mind until late that evening when Nati brought up a large envelope on which was written ‘By Hand. Miss Anders, Ritz Hotel’.

  What the envelope contained was quite chilling: an enlargement of a section of photograph obviously taken by the woman in the sports car. It might have been a photo of anyone. But not anywhere. In one corner was a small portion of the distinctive entrance to the Madrid Ritz. Eve turned the picture over. ‘There is a little-known but delightful English tearoom (it is no longer known by its old name) in Montefiore Square, close to a very photogenic little church. 16.00 hrs is a good time to be there. Perhaps tomorrow? Un-English street tables in shade.’ There was not even an initial, and the handwriting was not familiar. Eve ordered Mendoza to bring the car round early in the morning.

  Oddly enough, that night she slept soundly.

  * * *

  Mendoza examined the photo and the message.

  ‘Were you aware that this was being taken?’

  ‘Yes, by a woman. I had a moment of wondering if it was me she was photographing, but then I thought I was being paranoid.’

  They had driven well out of the city and had stopped where it was quiet. He had brought iced limonada, which Eve drank gratefully as the sun was already up and drying. ‘There is little between suspicion and paranoia, Miss Anders,’ Mendoza smiled. ‘One doesn’t need to look under the bed at night, but it is reassuring to know that there is no one there.’ He smiled.

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Tapping the photo he asked, ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘About my height, quite elegant in her movements – no, not elegant, I’d say languid. What I mean is that she wasn’t surreptitious. Dark frock – probably green. She lit one cigarette from another. A large wristwatch on her right hand – could be a man’s watch. The headscarf she wore was tied loosely under the chin as an English woman walking her dogs would; probably not American, they usually tie at the back of the neck… certainly not tightly under the chin as Spanish women do. I think the car was an Espanol Suissa. I couldn’t see the registration number. I think the car was wine-coloured.’

  ‘Not green, and you are not colour-blind?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I was wearing dark glasses. And I could hardly take them off once she started taking photos.’

  He nodded. ‘So I am to take you to Montefiore Square.’

  ‘Yes.’ Not what he said, but his tone made Eve feel tetchy. ‘That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘This is your operation,’ he smiled. ‘I go with you for the ride.’

  ‘I’m going to take Nati. So please turn round and tell them to send her down.’

  ‘Why?’

  She was feeling edgy and uncertain; couldn’t interpret Mendoza’s mood. Perhaps because she had spent too little time with him. He shouldn’t have asked her ‘Why?’ This was her operation.

  ‘She could be very useful. She speaks good English and I am supposed not to understand Spanish, so I want to take her about with me as my interpreter. How honestly she interprets will show how far I can trust her. If you take her round to the kitchens or whatever servants are supposed to do whilst they are waiting around, it will give you a chance to talk to her, see if she tells you the same as she has told me.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘You don’t trust her?’

  ‘I don’t trust anybody.’

  He looked at her briefly as he turned the car, and smiled. ‘That is the first rule of secret work.’

  * * *

  Mendoza knew Montefiore Square.

  ‘Will you please stop the car right here, bring my photographic equipment and follow me? Nati, you stay where you are.’ As Eve stepped out, the heat rose up from the stones and hit her a blow that was almost physical, only deflected by the shade of an ancient fig tree. When Mendoza reached where she stood looking up into the dark green canopy, she almost snatched one of the bags from him and began to adjust the mechanism without looking in his direction.

  He started to say something but she stopped him. ‘Just shut up and listen… please. Now, d’you see that car? That’s the woman’s car or its twin.’

  ‘It is not a very feminine motor, not at all a lady’s choice.’

  ‘Really? It could be my choice. Maybe you don’t know modern women, Mendoza.’

  ‘True, madame.’

  Mendoza was beginning to irritate her. She had met the type on too many occasions: put a woman in even a slightly elevated position and they couldn’t deal with it. He might be her superior within The Bureau, but he didn’t like the reality of taking orders from a woman.

  There were few people at the outside tables, which wasn’t surprising as it was hardly out of siesta time and shops were only just opening up. So Eve chose a table where no one could come and sit behind her. The buttoned chintz-covered cushions on the rattan chairs were warm and had probably been in use since the days when English tourists frequented Madrid. A waiter, with black hair taken straight back and slick with oil, came and said ‘Señorita, you lake to order tea?’ His attempt at a man’s hairdo made him appear younger than the boy he still was.

  ‘You speak English.’

  ‘I am learning, madame. If you will order in English, por favor, it will be bad for me… Sorry, señorita, will be good for me. I am Jose. English is Joe.’

  ‘All right, Joe, what shall I have?’

  ‘You lake Earl Gay? We have him, also teacake, also Shelsea bun, also fruity cakes in slices, also small pretty cakes in papers. You understand OK?’

  ‘Absolutely, I do. Small pretty cakes i
n English are ‘iced fancies’.’

  ‘Si, madame, iced fantasies white and…?’

  ‘Pink?’

  ‘Si, señorita. Very sweet, weeth…’ He struggled for the words but Eve guessed that there would be glace cherries.

  ‘Then I would like those and some Earl Grey tea.’

  She sat back, enjoying the dappled light that gave the illusion of cool air, and lighted a cigarette. This was very nice. In a past life she had often stopped at some small café like this which the war had seemed not to have touched. It was surprising, though, to find one so close to the city.

  ‘Señorita? Excuse me. Perhaps you are expecting to meet an English lady?’

  Eve’s smile faltered; she shook her head. ‘Not me. Give my driver and maid some refreshment, por favor. You understand, Jose?’

  ‘I do so, señorita. Very well I understand. Gracias, señorita.’ Joe zipped smartly off, his small bottom tight as he tried to stop himself from running.

  From behind her sunglasses Eve watched from the corner of her eye as a woman in a spotted frock and a large shady hat came out from the tearoom. This, Eve guessed, was the one she had come to meet here.

  The woman took the seat opposite Eve and looked up from beneath the brim of the straw hat. ‘Hello, Eve. Bet you a G&T you never expected it would be me.’

  Eve didn’t need to look at the woman. The voice was memorable, resonant of her entire war experience, of the lorry depot, the driving, the refuge, of Albacete, of Barcelona, of Madrid. Of the rare G&Ts, mugs of dreadful coffee and unexpected English tea, and of rare shared American cigarettes, smoked to their ends which were saved and rolled again. Helan Alexander. Eve’s heart leaped with joy, then again with unease.

  As coolly as she could, she smiled and shook hands, then pulled the glasses down her nose. ‘Helan Alexander? Alex! I’m so pleased…’ The woman smiled and helped herself to a cigarette from Eve’s silver case. ‘Were you going to say, “…of all people”? Here, have one. I’ll give you something to do with your hands.’