The Portuguese Escape

by Ann Bridge

‘With Mama?’

  ‘Of course if you say so—but Miss Probyn will tell you that in the free world young ladies do lunch with young men without their parents.’

  ‘So? This too I do not know.’

  ‘Ask the Monsignor—he’s your mother’s spiritual adviser, so if he approves, she can’t object,’ said Atherley, smiling. ‘Anyhow Miss Probyn will be there.’

  ‘If Mama has no other plans for me, I shall be happy to come. Thank you,’ Hetta said, with the composed decision that somehow had so much distinction.

  ‘She is out of the top drawer, isn’t she?’ Julia remarked to Atherley as they drove back to Lisbon.

  ‘Who, the young Countess? Yes. It’s so curious, really, that little aristocratic air of hers, when she’s been a convent school-girl for nearly two-thirds of her life, and cook to a rustic priest in Hungary for the rest.’

  ‘Oh, was she?’

  ‘Yes.’ He repeated what Townsend Waller had passed on to him of Hetta’s experiences.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Julia, reflectively. ‘She can’t be the frightfully important Hunk who was going to be got out to tell the world about conditions there, can she?’

  ‘What important Hunk?’

  ‘Oh well, I heard ages ago that one was to be got out, if it could be fixed.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Just a friend, who does those sort of things,’ said Julia airily, while the slight blush which always enraged her appeared. ‘But this girl would hardly be high-powered enough, would she?’

  ‘She seems fairly high-powered, but I gather the one thing she won’t do is tell anyone anything,’ said Atherley, ‘so I shouldn’t say telling the world was really her line. Anyhow she came out quite openly, as the result of a piece of perfectly honest blackmail—didn’t you read about Countess Páloczy’s Press Conference?’

  ‘Oh, that—yes, of course I did, but I thought that was some poor little tot.’

  ‘Really, Julia, you are too vague to live! Well, now you’ve met the little tot.’

  ‘Yes. She’s certainly small, but so is an atom bomb, I believe.’

  ‘Is that your impression of her?’

  ‘Oh well, I think all this convent life and cooking for country priests may simply have been smothering some sort of dynamite. Or developing it—did your American chum establish whether life was safe and easy for her in the People’s Democracy, or risky and dangerous?’

  ‘Not for her, I don’t think. The priest she cooked for took risks, he said.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Julia. After a pause—‘Well I hope I am coming to lunch on Thursday, or whichever day it proves to be. I’d like to have a go at her myself.’

  ‘Of course you’re coming.’

  Two days later Mr. Atherley was sitting in his room in the Chancery, which looked out, not onto the Rua S. Domingos à Lapa, where the trams rattle up and down over the steep cobbles, but onto the green tree-filled space of garden behind, memorising phrases in that famous Portuguese lesson-book, a ‘must’ for students of the language, A Familia Magalhães. (These seem to have been a family rather like the Dales, and presumably descendants of the gentleman who gave his name to the Straits of Magellan.) Atherley’s studies were interrupted by the rather brusque entrance of a small man who bore the title of assistant Military Attaché.

  ‘Atherley, I’ve got one of our chaps downstairs— Torrens, from Morocco. I wonder if you’d see him?’

  ‘Good morning, Melplash. Why does the man from Morocco want to see me?’ Atherley asked, rather repressively, putting a finger in the Magalhães family to keep his place.

  ‘He seems to think he may want backing-up at a higher level than mine,’ Mr. Melplash replied, grinning cheerfully—‘so he wants to put you in the picture. D’you mind?’

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Atherley asked.

  ‘Some top-secret, top-priority Central European who’s been got out, and’s coming here,’ Melplash said, in his usual hurried gabble.

  ‘Not a Hungarian, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I rather think it is—but he’ll tell you all about it. May I bring him up?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Atherley resignedly, putting the Magalhães family away in a drawer. H’m. That pretty Julia Probyn, whom he had met a good deal when she was with the Ericeiras, and had liked enough to take her along to Countess Páloczy’s party two days ago—was she rather well-informed, or what?

  Melplash reappeared with a tall red-haired man. Having introduced him, he said—‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ and scuttled away.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you?—or what do you hope I can do?’ Atherley asked, pushing a gay Alentejo box of cigarettes across the table to his visitor.

  ‘Thanks. We might not want you to do anything—but then again we might,’ said Major Torrens, grinning rather more subtly than his introducer had done. ‘May I hold forth?’

  ‘Please.’ As he said the word Atherley was reminded of Hetta, and smiled a little.

  ‘We have just got someone rather important out of Hungary—’ Torrens began.

  ‘How?’ Atherley interjected.

  ‘He came out as part of the Hungarian film unit which arrived a few days ago for the Film Festival at Cannes; they’re showing two films this year—both rather good, I hear. And as you know, some of the stars and so on usually go too, for prestige purposes.’

  ‘Is this individual a film-star?’

  Torrens laughed.

  ‘Good God no! But he came out disguised as a technical director; one of the real stars is pro-West, and arranged with our man in Hungary to bring him along.’

  ‘Where is he now? In Cannes?’

  ‘No. Our people have got him out. Not too easy—the opposition were watching them all the time like lynxes; but the star organised five different parties on the same day; to La Turbie, Vence, Grasse, and what-have-you; that rather foxed the sleuths, and our man got down to the Vieux Port and on board a little yacht, and sailed away to Port Vendres.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘The last port in France before the Spanish frontier—a tiny place. He’s in Spain now, on his way here.’

  ‘May I know why he’s coming here? To live?’

  ‘No, he’s going on to the States; primarily I suppose to boost the morale of the Hungarians there—you know there are something like 100,000 of them in and around Pittsburgh alone—and of course to give up-to-date information to the Free Hungary Committee, or whatever it’s called. But I think the “Voice of America” people have their eye on him too, for broadcasts.’

  ‘Then why is he coming here? Just to take a plane? If so, I hardly see where the Embassy comes in, if his papers are in order—and I’m sure your people have seen to it that they are,’ Richard said, in rather chilling tones.

  ‘Oh yes, his papers are all right—a German technician with a specialised knowledge of printing processes and types! I’m told he speaks faultless German.’

  ‘Does he know anything about printing processes?’

  ‘Seemingly he does, a great deal; but he isn’t coming here for typography,’ Torrens said, looking a little amused. ‘He has to make an important contact, which may take some time. If all goes well there will be no need to bother anyone—but if we run into any trouble it might be necessary for the Embassy to step in.’

  ‘The Ambassador would hate that,’ Richard said, continuing to display the regular diplomatist’s reasoned and wholesome distaste for any involvement in under-cover activities. ‘Have you any reason to expect trouble?’

  For the first time his visitor hesitated. ‘Well?’ Atherley pressed him.

  ‘I’m not sure, really. There was no difficulty whatever at Cerbère—that’s the Spanish frontier post near Port Vendres; but on the way to Barcelona, by car of course, there was what might have been an incident, at a little pub where they stopped to eat. Another car drew up, several men came in, apparently tipsy, ordered wine, and contrived to start a general fracas, in the course of which our men got the impressi
on that there was an attempt to slug the Hungarian. We had three people with him, and two of them were middle-weight boxers, so they slugged the sluggers, and got clear. But of course he would have been missed in Cannes well before that, and presumably spotters spotted him as he crossed the frontier, and followed him.’

  Richard frowned.

  ‘Probably—that’s common form, of course. Anything since?’

  ‘Not so far—but I only heard that this morning. We’re holding him over in Barcelona for forty-eight hours before he flies to Madrid. We have a fairly thug-proof hide-out for him there.’

  ‘And from Madrid he comes here?’

  ‘Yes, and stays a bit to meet his contact before flying on to America.’

  ‘I see.’ Atherley brooded. ‘You have an equally thugproof hide-out for him here, I hope?’

  ‘I think so. Melplash has it in hand.’

  Atherley restrained a groan—he had never been inspired with much confidence by Mr. Melplash. But he let it pass.

  ‘Do you by any chance know a Miss Julia Probyn?’ he now asked.

  Torrens stared a little, surprised at the question.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He gave a sudden confidential grin. ‘She stood me up once, completely, out in Morocco.’

  ‘Oh, really? How amusing. When was that?’

  ‘Year before last.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

  Torrens looked still more surprised.

  ‘Yes—I met her here in January, on my way home to report. But why?’

  ‘No reason on earth,’ Atherley lied easily, pleased with the information he had picked up. ‘Except that I wondered if you would come to lunch on Thursday to meet her.’

  Torrens was caught off guard.

  ‘Is she still here? I thought she went back to England in March.’

  Then they are in touch, Atherley thought to himself, but not in very close touch.

  ‘She did, but she came back five days ago, to cover the wedding for some paper. So I hope you are free on Thursday. Little Countess Hetta Páloczy will be there too.’

  ‘Oh, really? The one who’s just got out? Yes—thank you, I should like to come very much.’

  ‘Good—that will be very pleasant. Just the four of us, I thought—it will be easier for Countess Hetta. She seems a little inclined to find the West the Wild West,’ Atherley said. ‘Not really so surprising, in a way.’ He gave Torrens a card with the address of his house, and scribbled the hour on it. ‘Goodbye for the moment,’ he said, rising to terminate the interview.

  When his visitor had gone Atherley sat for a little while, reflecting on what he had heard. Torrens himself impressed him favourably: he was in quite a different class to so many of these S.I.S. types—like poor little Melplash, for instance. He rang up the Military Attaché—the Embassy had a private exchange, unconnected with the Lisbon telephone system except for outside calls—and asked a few questions. The M.A. did not know very much, but the little he did was satisfactory: a sound man; thoroughly reliable, and with a high reputation. ‘He was in the Scots Guards to begin with,’ he said, with a certain finality.

  ‘That won’t make H.E. like it any better if he drags us into some mix-up over a Central European,’ Atherley said, rather sourly—and Colonel Campbell laughed down the telephone. ‘Let’s hope he won’t,’ he said.

  Atherley continued to reflect. Quite clearly it must have been from Major Torrens that the lovely Julia had picked up her rumour about the important Hungarian, presumably when he passed through Lisbon in January. Both his own impression of the man, and the Military Attache’s account of his record led Atherley to decide that his visitor was not a person to talk recklessly about service matters; he would only do so to someone with whom he was involved in some way, usually emotionally. But not necessarily emotionally, of course, he thought; they might be working together. Press assignments sometimes covered other activities. H’m. Perhaps he had better try to find out from Miss Probyn a little more about her relations with the Major, past and present. When dealing with these Secret Service people—or indeed with almost anyone—it was impossible to know too much. He had actually reached out his hand to the telephone on his desk when the instrument gave its low discreet buzz—he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Atherley,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Richard.’ It was the Ambassadors voice.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Sir. How is her Ladyship?’

  ‘Splendid, thank you—and the baby is putting on weight like anything! She get’s up today, and I think we ought to have a cocktail-party next week; we seem to have been more or less incomunicado for some time. I thought of Friday—Helen should be thoroughly strong by then. But we should like you to be there. Are you free?’

  ‘Of course, Sir,’ Atherley said dutifully, even while he felt in his breast-pocket for his engagement book, and thumbed it awkwardly with his left hand to find next Friday’s page. Before he had found it—and his conscious mind told him that it was merely to gain time—he added —‘Shall you be asking Countess Hetta Páloczy? You know she’s arrived?’

  ‘Oh yes, so she has. How interesting—I expect Helen would like to meet her. Must the mother come too? Yes, I suppose she must. Very well—I’ll ask Miss Cuthbertson to send cards to them both. What is the girl called?’

  ‘Countess Hetta’—he spelt it out.

  ‘Yes. The surname is the trouble; but I expect Miss Cuthbertson knows how to spell it. I never can be certain whether Polish or Hungarian names are the worst! Well, we shall count on you on Friday.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it, Sir. And I’ll see that Miss Cuthbertson gets the name right! Countess Hetta is an interesting girl—unusual,’ Richard added; and then wondered why he had said that.

  ‘I imagine that she has led a rather unusual life, by our standards,’ said the Ambassador a little drily, and rang off.

  After a moment or two Richard lifted his receiver again and asked the bi-lingual telephone operator—the Portuguese wife of one of the English-born Chancery messengers —to ring up the Duke of Ericeira’s house and get Miss Probyn for him. He then replaced the receiver, opened the drawer in his desk, and resumed his study of the life of the domesticated but so informative Magalhães family. When that discreet buzz came again he once more took up the instrument as before, saying ‘Atherley.’

  ‘Really, Richard,’ Julia’s voice said indignantly—‘what a way to speak! Atherley indeed! Have you become a Duke, or something?’

  ‘No, it’s simply common form—it avoids confusion,’ Richard said. ‘Can you come round to my house for a drink this evening?’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘No, you and me. Yes—No?’

  ‘Yes’—rather hesitantly. ‘Yes, I think probably. Could I call you back presently and let you know? What time?’

  ‘By all means. Sevenish—or whatever suits you.’ As he put back the receiver he added aloud—‘According to what time your dinner with Major Torrens is, dear Julia!’ The Major, he decided, had been uncommonly quick off the mark after learning that Miss Probyn was in Lisbon; indeed, unless he had telephoned from the Embassy he could hardly have done it in the time—he had left Atherley’s room under half an hour earlier. Curiosity prompted Richard to find out about this.

  ‘Mrs. Tomlinson, did a Major Torrens put a call through from the Chancery this morning?’ he asked the operator.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Atherley, he did—about twenty minutes ago, from Mr. Melplash’s room. Mr. Melplash spoke to me first.’

  ‘Quite all right, Mrs. Tomlinson. It was to the Duke of Ericeira’s, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Atherley. To the same young lady that you spoke to just now.’ There was a certain smugness, Richard thought, about the operator’s voice. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Julia rang back later to say that she would be with Richard at 6.45—‘I’ve a dinner engagement.’

  ‘Do you want fetching?’ the young man asked.

  ‘No no—I have my own car; go
t it yesterday.’

  ‘I’m glad the firm’s so rich,’ he mocked.

  Julia was looking very lovely when she came into his drawing-room that evening, in a short full-skirted sub-evening dress of very rich dark-green brocaded silk.

  ‘Goodness, Julia, what a frock!’

  ‘It’s my wedding dress. Do you really like it?’

  ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ Richard said. ‘But I am afraid you have probably put it on more for Major Torrens than for me.’

  The detested blush dyed Julia’s cheeks to the tone of a fully-ripened apricot set against a sunny wall.

  ‘What do you know of Major Torrens, pray?’ she asked, rather tartly.

  ‘He came to see me this morning, and I very kindly told him that you were here, which he didn’t know. You owe this dinner to me, dear Julia.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh well.’

  ‘Poor liaison, I thought,’ Richard pursued. ‘You didn’t know he was here either, till he rang you up at 11.15 a.m., or as near as no matter.’

  ‘Richard, how do you know all this?’

  ‘Never mind that, for the moment. But as a reward for my valuable services, will you now tell me exactly how you stalled him in Morocco last year? Come on—I have a feeling that it’s a good story.’

  It was rather a good story—how she had gone to Tangier to look for her missing cousin Colin Monro, and in the course of her search for him had stumbled on Major Torrens’ current activity of shipping a new and rare radioactive mineral out of Morocco; how her enquiries, quite without her intention, had raised so much dust that the operation had to be closed down. However, they had got all they needed for tests by that time, Julia said airily, so it didn’t matter—‘and now Morocco is such a muck-up that nobody can do anything there anyhow. I was blown up by a bomb!’ she added, rather proudly.

  ‘Good Heavens! Not that affair at Marrakesh? Wasn’t some Duke blown up too?’ Richard asked, quite driven off his usual careful-casual line.

  ‘Yes, Angus Ross-shire. But nothing like as bad as me— here’s my scar.’ She lifted her lion-gold hair to display a narrow white line running down her forehead.

  ‘Golly! And did you ever find your cousin?’