by John Harris
The contents of the case were dynamite. It was obvious that it should be taken at once to Horrocks and shown by Horrocks to Midwinter. Slattery sat back, frowning, aware that he had to return to Mexico City as soon as possible. By this time Atty ought to have pushed Turner’s brother into action. What Slattery had found would add indisputable confirmation.
As he shovelled the documents back into the case and locked it, he became aware that the house had become silent. He could hear Victoria in the kitchen, sniffing back her tears, but from Magdalena there was no sound and, suddenly alarmed, he ran up the stairs to her room. It was empty.
Tumbling down the stairs again to the kitchen, he snatched at Victoria’s wrist. ‘Where is she?’
The housekeeper began to wail again and this time he sent her reeling with the ferocity of the slap he gave her.
‘She went out, your honour.’
‘Where to?’
‘She said she was going to find Don Fausto.’
Frustrated and angry, feeling he was being betrayed all along the line – now even by Magdalena – he thrust the woman aside. As she disappeared he went to where Jesús lay to take his gun. But it had disappeared. The holster was empty and he could only assume Victoria had stolen it.
Locking the suitcase in one of the bedrooms, he slipped the key into his pocket and left the house. It was empty now apart from Jesús. Poor Jesús, he thought. With all his promise, with all his pride in himself, it had been his misfortune to come face to face with someone as tough and bigoted and fanatic as Fausto Graf who, for all he knew, had been pushed just over the top by Slattery’s taunts in Torreón.
He went to the room where the boy lay. For a moment he stared down at the still figure then, leaving the house and closing the door behind him, he headed into the street. Walking was difficult. His leg was always painful at the end of the day and the wound, slight as it was, added to his problems. At least, he thought, it was the same leg.
He could think of no reason for Magdalena’s disappearance beyond a hope of smuggling her brother away. Why in the name of God couldn’t she realise he was beyond saving? He was a swindler, a killer, a traitor to his adopted country. Christ, he thought, with Jesús dead and himself wounded, wasn’t it enough to convince her Fausto was a dangerous lunatic?
The night sky was crimson with flames. The shooting all seemed to be along the Avenida Colon and round the neighbouring park but there was no sign of Murguía’s men in this area, only the tall hats of Villa’s desperadoes.
The trees threw shadows over the streets that seemed to move in the flickering of the flames. There were a few men about carrying weapons but none of them showed any interest in Slattery. Eventually he came on a car and immediately recognised the figure standing alongside it as Villa. Hands went to guns and a man appeared from the shadows and stuck a rifle in Slattery’s back.
‘Do we shoot him, Don Pancho?’
Villa peered closely, then he gestured. ‘Put up your gun,’ he said. He stared at Slattery. ‘What are you doing in Chihuahua, inglés? Did you know the German has betrayed me?’
‘I know now, Panchito.’
‘He told Murguía I was coming. If I find him I shall kill him.’
The firing was still going on and Villa stared down the Avenida Colon with its low overhanging trees.
‘A lot of people have died, Panchito,’ Slattery said.
‘There’ll be a lot more before long. Thanks to the German, three hundred of my gente have been cut off down there. Monserrat’s with them and I shall have to abandon them.’ Villa’s voice was heavy and tired, his words like plodding footsteps. ‘I shall give up the fight now, inglés,’ he went on. ‘It’s time to stop. I want peace to educate my children. The revolution is finished. It’s time now for the law-makers. Yesterday’s heroes are out of date. Great visions were painted on my heart once, but there were too many ambitious men. I asked nothing from the revolution but others were different. I shall discharge my army. There is just this one last thing I have to do. If you see the German, tell him I want him and I shall find him.’
As he turned away, Slattery was at a loss where to head next. He had been on his feet a long time and his leg was painful. He had no idea where Graf had gone, and no idea where Magdalena might be in her search for him. The whole city seemed to be throbbing with the gunfire now and the park was lit by flames rising high in the sky and showering the place with sparks. For a long time he moved among the trees then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he saw Magdalena.
She was standing quite still, staring into the shadows. Beyond her, also standing quite still, was her brother. For a moment Slattery wondered what she intended, then he realised that in her hand she held Jesús’ gun, the gun the boy had carried to protect her, the gun Slattery had assumed had been taken by Victoria as she had bolted, and he finally understood why she was there, and what she intended.
Graf’s head was turned away to stare into the darkness and it dawned on Slattery that he was totally unaware of his sister’s presence and was staring in a different direction entirely. Magdalena’s hand lifted but, as Slattery waited for the report, a different gun went off. He saw the flash and saw Graf stagger, then Consuela Lidgett stepped out from among the trees. The gun she held, the one she had shown him in her bag at the station, was still smoking.
Graf was gazing at her, his mouth open, holding his right arm with his left hand. He tried to lift his weapon but his arm dangled as if it were broken, and his face twisted with pain and rage.
‘Hure!’ he said, the words quite plain ‘Matze!’
He stared at her with hatred and Consuela dropped her gun and put her hands to her face.
‘Bitch!’ Graf shouted. ‘Whore! Puta! You’ve shot me!’
Vaguely Slattery was conscious of movement near him and the throb of a car’s engine, then as Graf turned to stumble away, another gun roared out. Twice. It was of a much heavier calibre than Consuela’s and it sent Graf staggering several yards before he came up against a tree. He had dropped his gun and was sprawled against the trunk, his arms outstretched to support himself. Slowly he turned, his back to the tree, and he was searching for his new assailant as the gun roared twice more. Chips of wood flew and Slattery saw wisps of smoke come from Graf’s clothes. He was flung back against the tree this time as if he were crucified, his mouth open, his eyes wide, his arms extended, then he slid down to a sitting position. For a moment or two longer he stared across his feet into the shadows, then slowly rolled on to his side.
Slattery had his arms round Magdalena, but she was silent and dry-eyed. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered.
‘I’m not crying,’ she said firmly. ‘He isn’t worth the tears.’
As he led her back to the road, they passed Consuela, who was still standing with her hands to her face, and Magdalena put her arm round the distraught woman. As they reached the road, they saw the big black Dodge and behind it tall-hatted men with horses. Villa was among them, his face grim. He had his pistol in his hand and slowly he replaced it in its holster. ‘He stayed alive long enough, I think, inglés,’ he said, ‘to remember me.’
Ten
There was clear satisfaction in Mexico City at Villa’s defeat. Villa had always been the maverick, unpredictable and murderous. Even Zapata was never so full of dangerous plans.
The two days he had spent in Chihuahua had left Slattery spent. Villa’s raid had been a disaster. As he had told Slattery, many of his men had been cut off in the Avenida Colon and the grim-faced Murguía had rounded up two hundred and fifty-six of them, Monserrat, the last of the Holy Trinity, among them, and strung them from the trees in what looked like huge bunches of human grapes. The bodies were still moving slowly in the breeze, feet dangling among the tangled ropes, and already the people of Chihuahua were calling the Avenida Colon the Avenue of Hanging Men.
The station sheds and the boxcars were charred skeletons and Slattery wondered if somehow Scheele had been responsible. Among the things which had gone up in t
he flames were the properties from the Opera House in Mexico City. Stutzmann had tried to save them and was now in his hotel with badly burned hands. With the properties, the costumes and their manager gone, there had been no alternative but to cancel the whole tour and when an American agent appeared from El Paso with contracts for a different date, Magdalena simply brushed him aside. Pushing Consuela aboard a train for the border, they buried Jesús quickly and prepared to return to Mexico City. The country was living up to its reputation for misery, murder and anarchy.
‘Poor Jesús,’ Magdalena kept whispering. ‘Poor Hermann.’
They closed the house and boarded the train among the blackened buildings and burned-out boxcars. For most of the journey south, Magdalena sat in silence, staring through the window as if she were shell-shocked. As they slid into the station in the capital, Slattery called a taxi and directed it to the house in the Avenida Versailles. When they arrived, Pilar was on the doorstep with Atty, who seemed to know exactly what had happened.
It was some time before Slattery felt he could leave her, but she insisted she was all right and that Pilar could do everything that was needed. Taking a cab to his office, Slattery was confronted by Horrocks as he placed the suitcase on the desk.
‘I got your wire,’ he said. ‘Is this the case?’
‘It’s all there. As much proof as you need.’
Horrocks shrugged. ‘Was Graf behind it all?’
‘He was behind a lot of it.’
‘We’ll get Midwinter to pick him up if he tries to stick his nose over the border.’
‘There’s no need,’ Slattery said. ‘He’s dead.’
Horrocks’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘No. Villa did.’
There was a long silence. ‘Funny we should be in debt to Villa,’ Horrocks said eventually. ‘When you think of it, it all started with Villa, didn’t it? How is Magdalena taking it?’ For once there was a trace of compassion in the cold voice.
‘She’ll be all right,’ Slattery said.
Horrocks waited for more but, realising nothing further was forthcoming, he shrugged and pressed on. ‘Our friend, Turner, did his stuff,’ he said. ‘Atty brought along a copy of the telegram we wanted. A photograph of it’s gone to Washington.’ He indicated the stick Slattery was still using. ‘Heard you got hurt, by the way.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘That’s the spirit, old chap. Dulce et decorum est. Stiff upper lip, play the game and all that.’
‘Christ, sometimes I detest you!’
Horrocks sighed. ‘A lot of people do,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the hazards of command, as you’ll discover.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Midwinter’s coming in two days’ time. You’ll enjoy explaining everything to him.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s all yours, old boy.’ Horrocks beamed. ‘The rebel’s become the satrap. The symbol of independence’s suddenly the keeper of the keys.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Horrocks seemed tickled by his own words. ‘You’re in charge. Isn’t that a surprise? I’ve been summoned to Washington, and they’ve given you my job. Little Unwilling is now the Boss.’
‘I don’t want to be the bloody boss!’
‘No choice, old boy. I recommended you months ago. That’s why they gave it to you. I told them I knew no one so well versed in treachery, and that you’d experienced it from every angle and at every level. I said you knew everybody likely to be involved and had more experience of the Germans than anyone south of the border save yours truly. That’s why you were let into the secret of the telegram. It was known then that you’d probably have to handle it.’
‘Me?’ Slattery was still startled.
‘You! You’ve got the appointment. And, if I may say so, you’d be a bloody fool to turn it down. There are a lot of things that go with it. Secure future. Good pay. Prestige. Probably a decoration after you’ve finished your time at the oars. Gives you a touch of class, a decoration. And class counts. Opens doors. Opens hearts. Good for tick at the grocer’s.’
He realised Slattery was still looking a bit bewildered. ‘What’s so odd about it, damn it?’ he went on. ‘It’s not a very difficult job, so even a bog Irishman like you ought to be able to cope. You know every name in the files, and, if you don’t, Atty does.’
As Slattery stared, staggered, he went on cheerfully. ‘Full status. Rise in pay. House, car and servants supplied. The ear of the ambassador whenever you want it. Just what the doctor ordered. Especially married to Magdalena Graf. She’ll grace any diplomatic function you have to go to and you’ll be going to a few. It’s always useful to have a beautiful wife. I envy you.’
Slattery was still staring and he went on cheerfully.
‘She’s even intelligent enough to be an asset to you. More than you could say for some wives. You could be here another twenty years – more if you want. Revolutions don’t come to an end overnight.’
He paused, smiling. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘on big occasions you’ll have to wear a morning suit and top hat but, that should be no hardship. Atty takes your job. He’s a damn funny choice but its wartime and everybody else is in uniform. Though I don’t ever see him as a future ambassador, I suspect he’ll be better than some of the funny little men from the right schools they might have sent out.’ Rising from his chair, he gestured at the desk. ‘So you’d better get stuck into things, hadn’t you? You’ll need to be on top of the job when Midwinter appears.’
Despite her grief, Magdalena was impressed by Slattery’s new importance. ‘I’m proud,’ she said quietly.
She was careful to attend to his clothes, chivvying Pilar to sponge and clean them, and provided linen to go with them, almost as if it were what she needed to take her mind off what had happened. Her eyes slowly became alight again and he knew it was the thought that he was being made to settle down after years of doing as he pleased.
She was recovering a little now from Jesús’ death, though she had been stunned by the contents of her brother’s suitcase. She was refusing to quit the house or receive visitors but Slattery left her alone, feeling that time would eventually heal her wounds, and he and Atty concentrated on adding to the contents of the suitcase with a few more discoveries of their own.
‘German activity in Guatemala, me dear,’ Atty said. ‘A nice little gunpowder train of revolutions in Central America, with all the regimes friendly to the United States to be overthrown for a new federated state of Central America with a German president.’
When Midwinter arrived, he looked like a bull trying to make up its mind which china shop to attack.
Slattery was ready for him. He had known what Horrocks had been up to since 1913 and had worked with him for three years far more closely than he had ever intended. And the delay before Midwinter had arrived had given him time to get on top of things. It had even helped him to get over what had happened in Chihuahua. The amount of work with which he had found himself faced had left him no time for brooding.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Midwinter demanded. ‘Somethin’ is, because I keep hearin’ rumours. There’s talk of some telegram. There is one, I know, because Under-Secretary Polk in Washington’s demanding it from Western Union and they’re refusin’ to let him have it. Are you Limeys thinkin’ of negotiatin’ with the Germans for peace, after all?’
Slattery smiled. ‘Not on your life,’ he said.
‘Never mind “Not on your life”,’ Midwinter snarled. ‘If I didn’t know he’d been called to Washington, I’d suspect that long streak of whitewash, Horrocks, had disappeared so he wouldn’t have to face me. Somethin’s goin’ to bust wide open soon. Up north it’s like you took the wire off a champagne bottle but haven’t popped the cork.’
The following day he was in possession of further information. ‘There is a telegram,’ he said. ‘A German telegram. I’ve seen a copy. It’s a fraud, of course.’
&nb
sp; ‘Is it?’ Slattery carefully cultivated Horrocks’ disconcerting vagueness.
‘All that stuff about an alliance and offering the Mexes New Mexico, Texas and Arizona?’ Midwinter gestured derisively. ‘Nobody would be that mad. It’s eyewash.’
‘Is it?’ Slattery said again.
As he spoke, he realised he was starting to act like Horrocks. My God, he thought, it goes with the job!
Midwinter was staring at him with narrowed eyes as if he, too, had noticed the difference. ‘Isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Do you think that London would lay themselves wide open to an accusation of fraud at a time like this?’
‘There are some goddam stupid rumours about it coming through on the State Department cable. Our own cable.’
‘The statement to the press says it was received by a means which Washington isn’t prepared to disclose.’
Midwinter stopped dead. ‘By God,’ he breathed. It did!’
‘It would certainly make it authentic, wouldn’t it?’ Slattery said and Midwinter scowled, almost as if he found himself confronting another Horrocks.
The newspapers had already got wind of something big about to break and those which came down on the train from the north were screaming of German plots. The United States Congress was suddenly noisy with patriotic oratory and objections that the telegram had been planted by the British.
‘I bet London’s rollin’ on the floor laughin’,’ Atty grinned. Hardly able to believe their eyes, they saw in the next day’s papers that Zimmermann, the German Foreign Minister, had been forced to admit sending the telegram.
‘Was it a plant?’ Midwinter asked.
Slattery quietly pushed across the blue notebook he had found in the suitcase in Chihuahua. One item was ringed in red ink.
