“Watch out you don’t cut yourself. We’ve had blood enough.”
“Have you got clothes for me?”
“That’s an Italian officer’s uniform underneath your shaving-tools.”
“Righto. But I don’t know any Italian.”
“You don’t have to; you’ll be in Portugal in two or three hours.”
“I don’t know any Portuguese either!” Alfy had recovered his English manner—if he had ever lost it. He would behave as if he had been shot and carried out in a coffin every night since the war began. “I say, old man,” he remarked, in between the movements of scraping his chin in the dark, “all this is really ripping of you.”
“It’s been the jolliest lark ever,” replied Lanny, who had been an Englishman himself, off and on, ever since he had met Alfy’s father. “But we’re not quite out of the woods yet, you know.”
“What do we do next?”
“First you have to be a proper Italian Air Force Capitano, and then we drive to the River Tagus and put you across in a boat. You have to look right, even to your shoes, because we might have to get out of the car at one of the road control posts.”
“Will we meet any Italians?”
“I doubt it. If we do, you are sound asleep sitting up, and I will explain that you are exhausted after a long spell on the Jarama front.”
When the fugitive was all scrubbed and polished, Lanny turned a flashlight on him and made sure that he would pass. Then he said: “Your name is Capitano Vittorio di San Girolamo.”
“Oh, so that’s it! Is he in on this?”
“He was supposed to be, but he backed out. The last I heard he and Marceline were in Seville. I have a pass for the pair of them. If any question is asked, I’ll say that your wife is not with us.”
“Won’t they know where Vittorio is?”
“I don’t think we’ll meet anything but Civil Guards, perhaps a corporal with half a dozen soldiers watching the roads. They’ve never heard of the Capitano and I doubt if they’ll even make note of the name. As soon as you’re across the river I’ll tear up the pass.”
One problem more to be dealt with—the worn and bloodstained prison clothing which Alfy had just discarded, and the blood-stained towel with which he had cleaned his face. It wouldn’t do to have these found, either in the car or by the roadside. Lanny rolled it into as tight a bundle as he could and stuffed it into the bag which held the car-tools and the jack. Stowed under the driver’s seat, it would pass for working-clothes, and he was sure that no one would notice it. Later he would drop it into the river.
V
With the new-made Capitano by his side, Lanny began the drive, and for the first time they could talk without whispering. “There’s a sentry-post just outside,” he explained. “I shall have to show our passes there. I’ve already traveled once on mine, but they didn’t take it up and I suppose there’s no harm using it again. The men who are there now will hardly be the same as the day squad. Strictly speaking, my pass expired at midnight, but I can say I was delayed, and I doubt if they’ll be technical. Vittorio’s pass is good only as far as Caceres, but I don’t think they’ll dare be rude to an Italian officer. Sit very straight and look stern. If anyone asks you a question, I will answer.”
“Righto,” said the baronet’s grandson.
They came to the post, with a barrier across the road. Two sleepy-looking guards leaned over it, and Lanny greeted them politely and presented his documents. One man examined them and passed them on to the other; Lanny doubted if either could read very well. Both documents looked impressive, and so did the travelers. “Si, si, Senores,” said the men, and lifted the barrier. The car moved on and sped away into the hills.
“I think it will be that way all the time,” declared Lanny. “If so, we have only a couple of hours together, and I must tell you about Portugal and what you’re to do there.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I still have several things to attend to in Spain.”
“Will you be safe, Lanny?”
“Once I get rid of you, I’m the American art expert, and my only problem is whether they’ll let me take my paintings out. Listen carefully, because all this is important.”
“Spill it!” said Alfy, who had been flying with American aviators, a corrupting influence.
“We’re to be rowed across the river by a peasant. I don’t know where he’ll land us, but I saw a house on the other side. I’ll tell him not to land us too close and wake the dogs. As soon as the boat leaves, you’re to get out of your Italian clothes and into the mufti which is at the bottom of the suitcase. From that time on you’re an Englishman. Your name is Romney—let’s say Albert. Is that O.K.?”
“Albert Romney at your service.”
“You roll the Italian uniform into a bundle and throw it as far out into the river as you can. It will sink pretty soon. Then you wait till you can see, and walk to the farmhouse; better have a stick for the dogs, also to support you, because you have sprained your ankle. You were in a car, it broke down, and you started to walk. You pay the peasant to take you to the railroad.”
“Have I got money?”
“You will find both Portuguese and English money in the mufti. You’re to go by train or autobus to Lisbon and stay at the Avenida Palace Hotel until you get a wire from me. The point is, I can’t afford to take any chance of your being recognized until I’m out of Franco Spain; so you have to stay in your hotel room, and your sprained ankle is the excuse. You might put your shoe in the suitcase and tie a towel around your foot. You don’t want any doctor, you just want to lie down and rest. There are a couple of books in the suitcase and you can get foreign newspapers. Get some food and build up—it may take me a week, and I hope you won’t be too bored.”
“I’m bally well used to being bored,” said the baronet’s grandson.
“That’s so; I forgot. I’ll send you a wire—best wishes from the family, or anything. It means that I’m in Cadiz, on the point of sailing. So then your ankle is well and you can go by steamer to London, or fly.”
“Am I still Romney, or am I Alfy?”
“If you can get into England as Romney, it would be good. I want everything kept quiet, and the less fuss made over you the better. The point is, I’ve had to make several pledges and you have to keep them. You weren’t doing any good in that prison, you know.”
“What do I have to do?”
“First, go back to Magdalen and forget the Spanish war. I couldn’t have asked anybody here to help you unless I promised that.”
“I suppose not. I am under parole?”
“Exactly. And the other condition is that you will say you were never in Franco Spain. Your story has been widely published in England, and when you show up there, the story of your escape would come back here at once and they would dig up the coffin full of stones. So you have to say that you crashed in Loyalist territory, that you were cared for in a peasant hut in the Toledo mountains—the part which the Loyalists hold—and that you came out by way of France. Say just as little about it as you can, don’t see any newspaper men, and don’t let any photographs be taken. You did what you could and now you’re through, and back at your studies, and that’s that.”
“All right, Lanny—and thanks again. You must have paid that bloke Vazquez a thumping sum.”
“I got off amazingly cheap.”
“How much, actually?”
“So far, less than seventeen hundred dollars. I have to pay him another five hundred when I get back to Caceres.”
“What else did you pay?”
“Only some small change. With all the costs of the trip, including Vittorio and Marcy, I doubt if it’ll come to four thousand dollars.”
“My grandfather will pay it back to you, Lanny, and I’ll pay it to him as soon as I’m earning.”
“Two things you can consider, Alfy: it’s my cause as well as yours, and I had a lot to do with getting you into this mess; second, I’ll make back the costs out of the p
ictures I’m handling.”
“No good,” said Alfy. “You have made your own contributions to the cause and you don’t have to make mine; second, your picture deals are yours, and you have to do the work just the same.”
“But if you pay my traveling-expenses, the art expert is getting a free ride.”
“We’ll figure up and go halves on those expenses; but Vittorio and Marceline are on me, for I don’t suppose you’d have brought them except to get the pass and the uniform for me.”
Lanny chuckled. “We’ll have a lot of figuring to do when I get back to England. Meantime, Sir Alfred has put a thousand pounds to my account in London, and please tell him I’m going to return it as soon as I get out of Spain. You know as well as I do how such a sum would tie him up.”
VI
Alfy wanted to know how this miracle had been wrought, and the story lasted all the way to Alcantara—interrupted only when they came to a village with a sentry-post. Each time, Alfy sat stiff and straight, a haughty Italian officer who didn’t bother to salute Spanish Guardias Civiles and didn’t care whether they saluted him; and they didn’t. But they raised no question as to his reasons for traveling in the small hours of the morning. The formalities were brief, for there was considerable traffic, and all of it in a hurry. They were bringing in through Portugal new tanks, guns, and supplies to make up for the wreckage which lay rusting in spring rains in the valley of the Henares; probably this Italian flying-officer was going to Lisbon to get a bombing-plane and fly it in. When the car was speeding on, Lanny told about what had happened at Guadalajara. The prisoners in Caceres had heard rumors about it, but no details. “It looks as if I wouldn’t be needed any more,” said the Englishman.
There were several guard posts along the excellent Tagus highway, and Lanny’s heart was in his mouth every time. There was always a chance that something might have gone wrong with the burial and that a telephone alarm might have been sent out. But nothing of the sort happened; there were no delays and no objections. Lanny had noted by his speedometer the exact distance to the farmhouse, so that he would have no chance of passing it in the dark. The moon was going down, which was obliging. When he came to the grass-grown lane he shut off the car lights so that they might not shine across the river. He waited until his eyes had got used to what was left of the moonlight, and then he crept slowly in toward the house.
The dogs had been taken inside. When Lanny knocked on the door they set up a tremendous clamor, but the peasant quickly shut them up. Lanny and Alfy got out of the car, the latter carrying the suitcase and Lanny carrying the bundle of prison clothing. “Buenas noches, Senores,” murmured the peasant, and Lanny answered for the two of them; Alfy did not once speak.
They followed the man down the path to the shore; there was light enough to see, and they used neither match nor torch at any time. The peasant got a boat out of the bushes; he helped them in dry-shod, and Lanny, after accepting this help, put one hundred pesetas into the outstretched hand. The man whispered: “Gracias, Senor,” and the two passengers seated themselves. The man pushed off into the current and began to row. He had muffled the oars, and the thoroughness with which he had done it suggested that it was not the first time. Lanny, in the stern seat, held the bundle of prison clothing behind him and let it quietly go. Also he tore up the Vittorio pass and set that afloat. The night was cold, and he was shivering.
They reached the shore of Portugal without any sort of incident, and Alfy stepped out. Lanny gave him the suitcase, and they exchanged a, handclasp which they tried to make firm; Lanny whispered: “Adios,” and Alfy, according to agreement, made no reply. Lanny, resuming his seat, said to the boatman: “Two hundred pesetas,” and put them into his hand. The boatman said: “Muchas gracias,” and pushed the boat off with an oar.
He rowed in silence, and apparently had no difficulty in finding his own landing. When he stepped ashore, Lanny handed him another lump of money, saying: “Two hundred pesetas,” and adding: “I will go into the house with you while you count them.” The peasant might have said: “I trust you, Senor”; but not many peasants are made that way. He said again: “Muchas gracias, Senor.”
They went up to the house and Lanny entered. The man lighted a candle and took the three wads of bills from his pocket, spread them out on the table, and slowly and painfully counted them. Lanny sat on a stool, and when the ceremony was over he added ten pesetas to the pile. “The propina,” he said; and the peasant brought out a bottle of wine and poured a glass for each. Lanny touched the other’s glass with an elegant gesture and said: “Buena suerte.” The peasant replied: “Salud, Senor.” They went out to the car, and the man guided Lanny while he backed out of the lane without lights. When the car was on the highway, he turned the lights on and sped away.
VII
He didn’t go far, because he didn’t want to reach the first military post until he was sure the guard would have been changed. He found a clear spot off the road and parked there, turned off the lights, locked himself in, and took a nap. When it was broad daylight he felt sure of not meeting anybody who had seen him traveling with Alfy. If by ill luck it happened, he was prepared to explain that the Italian officer had found other transportation.
He drove back to Caceres without incident, and went to his room. He rang and ordered some food, and it was brought by another waiter. Lanny said: “Where is Jose?” and the reply was: “He is no longer with us, Senor.”
Lanny had had experience in not showing his emotions, so he said, casually: “Indeed? What has happened to him?”
“He has gone to join the Army, Senor.”
“What?” exclaimed the guest. “Will the Army take a man with a club foot?”
“Not to fight, Senor, but to be a cook.”
“Oh, a cook! Is he a good one?”
“I don’t know, Senor. All I know is that he left a note saying that it was his intention so to serve.”
“Well, I shall miss him; he was a good man.”
“I will do my best to take his place, Senor.” That was the proper time to hand a tip, and Lanny did so. To himself he thought: “Jose is going to beat me to Bienvenu!”
Lanny had a trouble now. How the devil was he going to get hold of the Capitan? But he didn’t have to worry very long, for while he was at dinner that evening he was called to the telephone and a deep bass voice said: “Senor Budd?” When he identified himself the voice said: “The first place; the same hour.”
“Si, si,” replied the americano.
So, near the alcalde’s house the heavy form climbed into the car. “All well with you?” asked the voice, and Lanny said: “All well; and with you?” “The same,” replied the voice; and straightway Lanny began: “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco.” Each was a note laid flat in the Capitan’s undamaged hand. “Gracias, Senor,” said the voice.
“You found the other notes O.K.?” inquired Lanny, and when the reply was in the affirmative, he added: “It has been a great pleasure to meet you, mi Capitan, and I shall remember you with pleasure.”
“Lo mismo a Vd., Senor Budd. And may I ask, what do you intend to do now?”
“I expect to finish a little business here in town and then drive back to Seville.”
“Bueno,” replied the Capitan. He climbed out of the car, whispered: “Adios, Senor,” and was gone.
Lanny’s offers for the paintings completely broke the hearts of the Caceres bourgeoisie. But he said: “I have no certainty that I shall be permitted to take them out of the country. It depends upon whether I can persuade the authorities that they are not works of art; it is only on that basis that I dare buy them.” He bought three medium-sized Holy Virgins at very low prices. Then he paid his bill at the hotel, distributed his propinas, and said good-by to the lieutenant and other friends. One of them said: “How I wish that you were taking me with you!” It was the nearest approach to a revolutionary remark that he had heard from anybody, excepting only the lame waiter.
VIII
; Lanny was safe now, and had nothing to do but keep out of the way of military traffic bound for the siege of Madrid. His money was running low, but he knew he could arrange to get some in Seville. He put his mind on the problem of the paintings of the Senora Villareal, and decided that he didn’t want to take the responsibility of trying to smuggle them out of Spain, with or without influence. He had discovered that he wanted something quite different, which was to see Trudi. He hadn’t dared to write her a word from Spain, and all that he had received was a note, signed Corning, telling him that she had some new sketches to show him on his return. That meant that she was safe and well; but he wanted to see her, and going to New York without seeing her didn’t appeal to him as in any way romantic or exciting.
So before entering the city of Seville he drove to the Villareal estate and talked with the steward. He explained that he had agreed to take the Senora’s paintings to New York, but it had been pointed out to him that the Franco government might be enforcing the old government’s law against the exporting of Spanish works of art. The Senora thought it was not so, but she might be mistaken, and the danger would be greater if Lanny tried it, because he was known to be an art expert. Lanny’s proposal was that Senor Lopez, the steward, should take the paintings out of their frames, wrap each one carefully, and pack them between the front portion of a bedstead and the rear portion. This could be crated and shipped as “household furniture,” and if the steward himself had the crate carted to Seville and put it in charge of shipping-brokers there, the shipment would surely go to Marseille without any questions being raised.
“I would write and ask the Senora’s approval,” he explained, “but of course one cannot put such things into a letter, especially in these times of censorship. I will go at once to her and explain.”
The steward assented. Lanny gave him a generous tip and the packing was carefully done. Incidentally Lanny took his four newly acquired Virgins off the frames to which they were tacked and rolled them into one packet. When he got to Seville, he would buy some sheets of drawing-paper and roll them up in it, and he guessed that if he carried that packet onto the steamer himself, there would be no questions asked.
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