by Ann Bridge
‘I expect so. Anyhow do let’s go and have that cuentra —any contact with secret service activities always leaves me feeling distinctly weak,’ Richard said, starting down towards the restaurant; Torrens followed him laughing.
‘You’d better suggest it; you know her best,’ he said.
‘Oh yes—I’ll be cover.’
Richard did it quite well, as the other readily admitted to himself. Sipping a second cuentra he said, very casually —‘Julia, I’ve got to get back rather early, and so has the Major. And I’m sure the sooner Hetti is between the sheets the better, after all that swimming. How would it be if we three went off and left you and Townsend to make a night of it? He likes to drink till i a.m., I know.’
‘Richard, may you be forgiven!’ Mr. Waller protested, while Hetta looked from one to the other of the faces about her; the phrase ‘make a night of it’ left her completely at a loss, but once again she surprised a fleeting glance between Julia and Major Torrens, and her sixth sense— the particular sixth sense which becomes so strongly developed in countries where speech is never free, and spies always at one’s elbow—caused her, together with this sudden change of plan, to think to herself: those two are up to something! But why, in that case, was it she who was being taken away?
She learned very soon. After good nights and thanks the three of them got into Atherley’s car and drove off. To her surprise he did not switch on his headlights—‘You forget the lights,’ she said to him.
‘No, I don’t. I can see by this moon and the starshine— and there’s nothing on the road at this time of night.’ He spoke over his shoulder to Torrens. ‘No need to advertise ourselves, don’t you think?’
‘Undoubtedly not.’
After a mile or so Atherley slowed down, and began to drive at a snail’s pace. ‘Here we are,’ he said, suddenly swinging the car into a small side track; this wound inland between high heathy banks, and after some seventy yards a bend concealed the car from the road behind them— Richard stopped and switched off. ‘There,’ he said—‘I think that’s all right. You’ll have to con me out later, Torrens. Now, will you talk to the Countess, or shall I?’
‘You might begin, I think.’
‘Very well. Hetti, what was your Father Antal’s surname? Do you know?’
‘I do know—but it was not mentioned as a rule.’
‘I thought not. But would you tell it to me and Major Torrens?’
She hesitated. ‘I should like to know why you ask,’ she said—and Torrens, at least, recognised the ingrained caution of dwellers beyond the curtain. He decided to speak himself.
‘Countess, we need to know it because we may want you to help us, and him. I am in the British Secret Service,’ he added.
‘No! Oh how nice. Yulia too?’
This question caused Richard to laugh out loud.
‘Not altogether, no,’ Torrens replied, ignoring the laugh. ‘But will you tell me?’
Still she hesitated—for so long that Torrens finally said, rather brusquely—‘Is he not really Doctor Antal Horvath, the theologian?’
‘Of course he is—since you know it. But why then do you ask?’
‘Because we have to be certain—just as you do, back there. Good. Now please listen carefully—would you know him by sight, even if he wore a beard?’
‘He does not wear a beard.’
‘No, I know he doesn’t—but would you know him if he were wearing one as a disguise?’
‘His eyes I should know anywhere—but why?’
‘You’d better tell her what it’s all about, Torrens,’ Richard interjected. ‘You’re only muddling her.’
He thought that Torrens didn’t manage his explanation very well when he did embark on it.
‘He’s in Madrid just now,’ the Major began.
‘Impossible!’
‘Yes he is.’
‘But how can he come to Madrid?’
‘He was got out by our people—he’s going to America, to do propaganda work.’
‘Talking to journalists? This also I do not believe!’ Hetta said, with energy.
‘Suppose I have a go, Torrens?’ Richard said. ‘Listen, Hetti—there are thousands of Hungarians in the United States who are all longing to know how everything is at home, as well as a sort of committee which acts almost like a free government, to look after the interests of Hungarians everywhere. Those are the people the Father is going to see in the first place. He’s got as far as Madrid, and quite soon he’s coming on here to fly to the States.’
‘Here? He comes here? Oh!’ Her voice had that ring again. ‘Shall I see him?’
‘That’s exactly what we want you to do—see him, and recognise him,’ Torrens said, from the back seat.
Hetta ignored him completely.
‘Richard, please explain more,’ she said.
Richard—curiously pleased by her unexpected use of his name—proceeded to tell her both how the priest had been got out, and that it was essential that someone who knew him by sight should be at the airport to meet him.
‘Oh, of course I will go. Only what time? For me the morning is the best, because Mama does nothing in the morning—and of course it is best that she does not know of all this, isn’t it? In such cases, the fewer who know the better, I think.’
‘Perfectly right,’ Torrens said approvingly. ‘Don’t speak of it to anyone.’
‘Then when?’
‘We shall have to let you know that. I’ll make a signal to Madrid tonight, and tell them to arrange for him to come on a morning plane—then I can ring you up.’
‘If you ring up you should be most careful. Ought we not to arrange a form of words for the message, so that others do not understand?’
‘Good girl!’ Torrens said. ‘Yes, I think all we need do is to tell you which day. One of us will drive you out to the airport.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Richard. ‘If you let me know the day and time, Torrens, I’ll bring the Countess out to Portela.’
‘You can invite me for “drinks” when you telephone,’ Hetta said, with a sudden small laugh.
When this was settled Atherley reversed out onto the main road, Torrens walking to guide him; he continued to drive without lights till they were just entering Cascais, when he switched them on to pass through the town. Presently he was startled by some small strangled sounds beside him—they sounded like sobs. ‘Hetti, what on earth is the matter?’ Atherley asked.
‘Nothing. I am simply silly again. But to see him, after all these people here!—you cannot know what this is.’
‘Yes, I’m very glad. But cheer up now,’ Richard said—moved, and therefore embarrassed, he patted her shoulder rather awkwardly with his left hand.
‘Hullo, there seems to have been a smash,’ Torrens said. ‘Had we better stop and see if the people are all right?’
Richard, who had begun to drive rather fast once he was on the Tagus speed-way, braked; a little way ahead a car was tilted up against a bank hideous with the puce-and-whitewash flowers of mesembryanthemum, a revolting plant beloved of Portuguese road-planners. A man and a woman stood by it.
‘It is Yulia!’ Hetta exclaimed, as they came to a halt.
‘By God, so it is!’ Torrens said, jumping out. ‘Julia, what on earth has happened? Are you all right?’
‘Some bastards quite deliberately crowded us into the bank,’ Townsend Waller said. ‘Forced us in. Don’t know if they meant to tip us over, but they meant to stop us, because they pulled up just in front.’
‘They caught our wing,’ said Julia. ‘But Townsend’s quite right—they overhauled us after we got through Cascais, and crowded us in—they weren’t drunk, it was done on purpose. They came back and gave us the onceover, and swore in Spanish and drove away.’
Torrens and Atherley exchanged glances—the latter walked quickly back to his own car and switched off the headlights; then he returned to the group.
‘Was it an open tourer?’ Torrens was asking Julia.<
br />
‘Yes, it was—with three men in it.’
‘Was one of them a fisher-lad in a check shirt?’ Richard asked.
‘Oh, let’s leave all that, Atherley,’ Torrens said hastily. ‘Julia, I expect you got the number of the car?’
‘Naturally,’ she said, in her slow tones. ‘But I can’t read it to you, since Richard has plunged us all in darkness.’
‘No, don’t bother—you can give it to me later. I think we’d better get home. Have you got your things out, Julia— bag and coat and so forth?’
‘Oh no—I forgot my bag.’ She went and groped for it in the tilted car; then Torrens hustled them all into Richard’s Bentley.
‘I’ll sit in front, if you’ll forgive me,’ the Major said.
‘Richard, can you cope with the wreckage?’ Julia asked from the back seat as they drove off—again without headlights.
‘Oh yes—I’ll see that someone goes over tonight. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not. Do you realise that you’re driving without lights?’
‘Oh, so I am. Well I don’t really need them here with these arc-lights,’ Richard said easily.
It was only about a mile-and-a-half farther on that they came on an open touring car drawn up, also without lights, at the side of the great road. ‘Slow down,’ Torrens muttered to Richard. ‘Julia, is that the car?’ he asked, leaning back.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Julia surprised. ‘Goody! Shall we ram them?’
‘No. Step on it, Atherley.’
Richard pressed hard on the accelerator—the Bentley roared forward.
‘They’ll never catch this car—that’s only a Vanguard,’ he said.
In Monte Estoril he swung up to the left, and began to twiddle his way through the maze of small tree-shaded residential roads which link it to Estoril proper, switching on his sidelights as he did so.
‘Where are you going?’ Torrens asked in a low voice.
‘I thought we’d drop the little Countess, and perhaps Townsend too,’ Richard answered in the same tone.
‘A good idea.’
Atherley knew the two Estorils well, and presently pulled up outside the Casino, which overlooks the public garden—scores of cars were parked there.
‘Townsend, I wonder if you would take the Countess home; it’s only a few steps,’ he said, getting out and holding open the rear door.
‘Why of course—I shall be delighted.’
‘Will you not all come in and have drinks?’ Hetta, who was learning western ways, said as she got out.
‘Not tonight, Hetti, thank you so much. We had better get on.’ While Hetta was thanking Julia, Richard drew Townsend a little aside.
‘Take her right up to the apartment, and see that Dorothée or the maid is there before you leave her,’ he muttered.
‘But why,’ Townsend began—Richard interrupted him.
‘I’ll explain tomorrow. Do what I say now, there’s a good fellow. Would you mind making your own way home? So sorry, but I don’t want to hang about tonight. I should take the train if I were you.’
‘That’s pretty slow—I can get a taxi.’
‘All the same I should take the train. And don’t talk to anyone about this, whatever you do.’
‘All right. I shall look forward to the explanation!’ said Townsend, with his usual good-nature. Richard turned back to Hetta.
‘Good night. Sleep well.’
‘Thank you.’ Then she reached up to whisper in his ear.
‘No, he doesn’t—you’re quite right. And not a word to anyone else,’ Richard muttered.
‘But naturally.’
When the pair had walked off towards the Castelo-Imperial Richard turned the car and drove back on his tracks into Monte Estoril.
‘Where now?’ Julia asked.
‘Home, but via São Pedro da Cintra, I thought.’
The car was climbing a hill; it passed through a small square with a bus-stop sign, and in a few moments was out in open country.
‘It’s miles round,’ Julia protested.
‘It won’t take us long,’ Richard replied, opening the throttle and at last switching on his headlights; the great car roared through the night.
‘Well, now perhaps one of you will explain,’ Julia said, in slow resigned tones. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about these types who ditched us. What goes on?’
‘We’d better tell her everything, Atherley,’ Torrens said. ‘She’ll find out for herself if we don’t!—and she’s completely reliable. Anyhow it looks as if we may need to make use of her before we’re through, if things here are as hot as this already.’
‘Very well—you go ahead and tell her. The priest is your export drive, not mine,’ said Richard coolly.
Torrens proceeded to tell Julia the whole business of Father Antal; then of the watcher they had surprised among the rocks at the Guincho, and the car that had driven off.
‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s how you knew about the tartan shirt. I suppose they took Mr. Waller and me for you, Hugh.’
‘I imagine they were waiting for both cars—first ditch one and then the other,’ he replied, rather sombrely. ‘Only Atherley was too quick for them—in every sense of the word. You’re sure they swore in Spanish when they found you weren’t what they were looking for?’
‘Certain. Carajo and plenty more in the same strain. Quite like old times in Morocco, isn’t it?’
‘A good deal too like to please me.’
‘Well, what’s the next move?’
He told her of the plan for Hetta Páloczy to meet the plane, so that someone might recognise, indubitably, the Hungarian.
‘I don’t much like little Hetti getting mixed up in this,’ Julia objected. ‘Can’t you get someone else? Some of all these Hunks here are bound to know him by sight.’
‘We might use Dorothée!’ Richard put in, with his loud short laugh.
‘My dear Julia, she’s mixed up in it already,’ Torrens said. ‘Their spotter at the Guincho will certainly have seen her—she was sitting right by the rail of that balcony in a blaze of light. And besides, doesn’t it occur to you that they must know perfectly well that she’s here, after the roaring publicity of her getting out? If I know anything of them they will also know—nobody better—that she’s been living in his house in Hungary for the last six years. Your little Hetti is involved up to the neck, whatever we do or don’t do.’
‘Then you ought to warn her, Torrens,’ Richard said abruptly. He was disturbed—all these implications had not occurred to him.
‘Oh, she’ll know. These behind-the-curtain people can make rings round us,’ Torrens said—and Richard, remembering Hetta’s whisper to him about Townsend Waller, realised that the Secret Service man might be right. ‘No, she’s the person to do the plane job—it can’t make things any worse for her. But you might suggest that she wears a veil, Atherley. Pity she’s so short; it makes her terribly recognisable.’
‘Not here,’ said Julia. ‘No Portuguese women are tall. Oh, here we are at São Pedro—sharp right, Richard.’
They sat in silence for a little as Atherley drove down the familiar road towards the distant lights of Lisbon—all slightly uncomfortable. Torrens was reflecting that he would need to satisfy himself pretty thoroughly as to the hide-out arranged by Mr. Melplash; to be of any use it would have to be thug-proof indeed. Richard was worrying about Hetta. He recognised that what Torrens had said about her being already deeply involved was obviously true, but he didn’t like it any the better for that— and what on earth would the Ambassador say if he himself got still more mixed up in this affair? Julia was also worrying about Hetta—and about her press car. ‘How will you get my chariot mended?’ she asked presently.
‘Oh, I’m glad you reminded me—we’ll go to a garage on the way home and see about it. Where do you keep it?’
‘At the Ericeiras—in the stables. They’re vast.’
‘Yes, I’ve always understood that that establishm
ent is like a small town in itself, for all it’s in the middle of the city,’ Richard said.
‘Atherley,’ Torrens put in, ‘might it be a good plan if you got that car number from Julia, and mentioned it to the police? They might haul them in, or lay them a stymie, anyhow.’
‘I can’t have them hauled in simply for tonight’s performance, Torrens—that would be quite impossible, and particularly bad from your point of view, I should have thought.’
‘I didn’t mean that, naturally—that must be kept quiet. But couldn’t they be had up for something else?’
‘I’ll see. I daresay Colonel Marques of the Special Police could fix it; he’s very resourceful.’ He pulled up. ‘Give me that number,’ he said, and wrote it among the telephone numbers in his diary by the faint dash-board light—then he drove on through Bemfica, with its lights and tram-lines, and into the city itself, where he presently drew up outside a large garage. ‘Give meyour car-number,’ he said.
Julia gave it—XL61-91-91. Richard turned the figures into Portuguese aloud—‘X.L. seiz um nove um nove um.’ He went in, and returned after a moment or two.
‘They’re sending the breakdown van at once. I gave no name, just told them to report to me at the Chancery. They do most of the Chancery work, so they’ll fix it properly and ask no questions.’ He got in. ‘Now, Julia, we’d better drop you next—’ he stuck his wrist out towards the dashboard, and looked at his watch. ‘Good Lord, it’s after midnight! Have you got a latch-key?’
‘Heavens no—that’s not at all in the tradition,’ Julia said, with her slow giggle. ‘But I shall get in all right. An old old night-watchman sits just inside the front door, in one of those leather chairs with a high hooded back with brass nails in it—do you know?—to let in late-comers.’
‘Good God!’ Torrens said.
When they reached the Ericeira town mansion, with its barred windows in the vast baroque frontage giving on a high narrow street, Julia proved to be correct. She got out, lifted a huge bronze knocker on the great panelled double door, and gave two gentle taps; a sound of shuffling feet was heard inside, the door opened a crack, and the aged retainer appeared in the aperture.
