by Ann Bridge
‘But why is she with you?’ Julia asked weakly.
‘Because when the car she was in rammed my taxi and we all got out, I saw her lying in the back, with a gag in her mouth, and I was worried. I peeped, you see,’ said Mrs. Hathaway, in a satisfied voice. ‘So I got them to let me have her carried up to my room in the hotel, and made that nice police official, who speaks such good English, get a doctor. I really couldn’t let her be left to the police.’
‘Well!’ said Julia—all other words failed her.
‘Oh, here’s the police officer again—I think I must ring off,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘I’ll ring you up later.’
‘No, wait, for goodness’ sake!’ Julia protested. ‘I must—’
But Mrs. Hathaway, implacably, had rung off.
Julia sank down again on the wine-case. After a moment she got up. ‘Hugh must hear this,’ she murmured as she walked towards the hall; and then, ‘How like Mrs. H.!’ She was all astray, between relief, astonishment, and uncertainty; but Colonel Marques could soon settle whether it was or was not Hetta Páloczy whom Mrs. Hathaway was, so improbably, nursing in her room in the Lucrezia.
‘Anyhow if it is her, that’s Father Antal’s Mass,’ Julia said out loud, as she stepped into the hall.
Chapter 14
Mrs. Hathaway, descending from the sky at Portela airport on that Monday afternoon, soon registered that her young friend Julia Probyn, at whose instance she had decided to visit Portugal at all, was not there to meet her. Resigned and calm, she submitted quietly to the inquisitions of the Portuguese Customs, and presently, by air-line bus and taxi, found herself at the hotel recommended by Mr. Consett. There she lay down and rested in - the double-bedded room which the management, untruthfully, said was all they had free; later she took a bath, and went down and had a very good dinner. Afterwards she caused the hall-porter to ring up the Ericeira Palace— which created a great impression—and learned that the Duke with all his party had left for Gralheira two days before. Still resigned, she decided to start looking at Lisbon by herself, and told the porter to order a taxi to be at the hotel at 9.15 next morning to take her to Belém to see the Tower, the Jeronimos Church, and the Museum of the Coaches; she also ordered petit déjeuner for half-past eight. Then she went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just and the sensible.
The taxi was a little late, and Mrs. Hathaway first bought a camellia from a man on the pavement with a tray of them, for what seemed to her nothing, and then stood at the door of the hotel watching with interest the brisk morning bustle of traffic in the street: cars and taxis shooting by in the bright sunshine, women in black mantillas returning from Mass, and, what completely charmed her, the varinhas, the women fish-sellers, striding up barefoot from the river-side markets with shallow oval baskets of fish balanced on their heads, their shoes perched casually on top of the fish. The Lisbon City Fathers wage an unequal contest with the varinhas over this matter of shoes: they hold that barefooted women in the streets of a capital create an impression of poverty and backwardness, and insist on shoes; the fishwives, who have always walked barefoot and prefer it—and anyhow how much more economical!—conform to the point of having shoes with them; but they habitually carry these objects not on their feet but on the fish, a charming piece of individualism in our regimented modern world.
When the taxi finally arrived the hall-porter handed Mrs. Hathaway into it with the deference due to someone who telephoned to the Duke of Ericeira’s, gave the requisite instructions to the driver, and slammed the door; Mrs. Hathaway drove off, full of the happy anticipation of the intelligent sightseer in a strange city on a fine morning.
She did not get very far. Less than a hundred yards from the door of the hotel a large grey car, shooting out of a side turning, collided with her taxi; both vehicles were slewed round sideways by the force of the impact and came to a halt, partly blocking the steep and crowded street. Three men in grey overcoats leapt out of the car, cursing and gesticulating at their driver—their fury surprised Mrs. Hathaway; her taxi-man got out too and examined the damage, shrugging his shoulders phlegmatically. Cars started to hoot angrily; a little crowd gathered round the accident, and a small, neatly-uniformed policeman came up and began to ask questions.
It was at this point that Mrs. Hathaway, realising that she would certainly not reach Belém in this particular taxi, got out of it. The calm demeanour of the little policeman impressed her, but she was struck afresh by the fury, almost desperation, of the three men when the policeman produced a note-book and began, obviously, to demand names and addresses, while two more of his colleagues appeared from nowhere. It was probably this curious display of emotion, combined with her natural curiosity, which caused the good lady to ‘peep’ into the other car; there to her immense astonishment she saw, lying across the back seat, what she at first took to be the corpse of a young girl, white and motionless.
After that there was of course no holding Mrs. Hathaway. She opened the door to examine this corpse more closely; took a wrist and felt a very faint pulse—moreover, she then noticed, projecting from one corner of the pallid lips, a piece of material. Rather gingerly she pulled at it; the lax jaws allowed her to draw out a sizeable piece of some rough, coarse, rather dirty rag, sodden and disgusting. Mrs. Hathaway stared at it incredulously; then quietly put it in her handbag, from which at the same time she drew out her Portuguese phrase-book, and stood for a moment ruffling the pages, looking for words which would enable her to say—‘There is a young lady who has been gagged in this automovel.’ Unfortunately phrase-books seldom contain information of that sort, and after a few seconds of fruitless search Mrs. Hathaway decided to rely on English and on herself, and went to tackle the policeman.
By now the crowd had concentrated round this worthy, his colleagues, and the three furious men in the grey overcoats; the group was joined by an elegant slender man in a green uniform at the very moment when Mrs. Hathaway, tall, grey-haired, and imposing, lifted up her voice and said—‘Does anyone here speak English?’
‘I do, Madame,’ said the man in green. ‘Can I help you? Or you have information to offer?’
‘Yes, a little information. But I think you should put those three men under control immediately—the ones in grey.’
Police in all countries, but especially in the Latin ones, make a regular practice of stalling in any emergency; as she spoke Mrs. Hathaway saw incredulity appear on the face of the official in green.
‘Oh very well; never mind. Just come here’—and taking the elegant man by his green elbow she propelled him firmly towards the grey car and opened the door. ‘Look there.’ While he stared in at the helpless form on the back seat Mrs. Hathaway opened her handbag and drew out the piece of rag. ‘Please look at this, too,’ she said—‘I myself pulled it out of her mouth not two minutes ago.’
The official in green picked the horrid object up in gloved fingers, and examined it.
‘You say this was in her mouth?’
‘Yes. I saw it and pulled it out. My taxi was run into by this car,’ Mrs. Hathaway stated in explanation, ‘and I thought the behaviour of the men in it so very odd that I looked and found this girl—gagged. To me it seems rather abnormal; but of course I am a stranger to Portugal.’
The man threw her a shrewd glance.
‘This is abnormal in Portugal also, Madame, believe me,’ he said.
‘Well, what are you going to do? Oughtn’t she to have attention? She’s alive, I felt her pulse; but I think she’s very ill. Can’t I take her into my hotel and look after her while you make your enquiries? I think a doctor should see her.’
Mrs. Hathaway saw the expression of official obstructiveness reappear in the man’s face.
‘Where is your hotel, Madame?’ he asked.
‘The Lucrezia—it’s just up there.’
‘This young lady is known to you?’
‘Not in the least! I’ve just found her. But she’s ill, and needs help. Isn’t that sufficient?’
‘Of course not,’ Mrs. Hathaway replied, as smoothly as he. She took her passport from her bag and handed it to him. ‘Naturally this tells you nothing but that I am an English visitor,’ she pursued, still smoothly. ‘If you want further credentials I suggest that you ring up Gralheira, the Duke of Ericeira’s country-house; my friend Miss Probyn, who is staying there at present, can tell you all about me—I have come to Portugal at her invitation.’
This told. Mrs. Hathaway saw the green-clad official prick up his ears at the mention of the Duke’s name, though he said nothing except to ask how to spell PROBYN while he jotted down notes in a pocket-book.
‘Thank you, Madame,’ he said politely. ‘This shall be done.’
‘Yes, but what about this poor girl? You can’t just leave her lying in a car in the street while you telephone; it’s monstrous! Do let us get her into bed, and call a doctor. I certainly shall not run away, and she can’t.’
Mrs. Hathaway’s mixture of commonsense and imperiousness might have prevailed anyhow; combined with the Ericeira connection they did—though slowly. The official summoned yet another policeman to watch over the grey car, and invited Mrs. Hathaway to wait in it, which she did; he asked for her room-number at the hotel, and went away. From the car window Mrs. Hathaway saw the three men in grey being led off in custody; then she waited. At last a stretcher was brought and the unconscious girl placed on it and carried to the Lucrezia, accompanied by the man in the green uniform and Mrs. Hathaway; she noticed that a policeman now stood at the entrance to the hotel, and when they reached her bedroom another was standing outside the door.
‘Oh, excellent,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘Will he stay?’
‘Yes, he will stay,’ the official replied, with the hint of a smile.
Mrs. Hathaway had the unknown girl placed on her own bed. ‘I know this is aired,’ she said. ‘Can you arrange to have a doctor sent immediately?’
‘I will. And will you, Madame, be on the look out for any marks or labels which might identify this young lady? —and if she speaks note down what she says?’
‘Of course. The Doctor must speak French,’ Mrs. Hathaway added firmly. ‘I know no Portuguese.’
‘He shall,’ the official said, now smiling openly. ‘Au revoir, Madame; I shall return soon.’
One of the Portuguese words Mrs. Hathaway had carefully memorised on the plane was boracha, which means hot-water bottle; she used it freely now, while she took off the girl’s overcoat and suit and removed her shoes, stockings, and suspender-belt; and soon several borachas, carefully wrapped in towels, had been disposed all round the figure in the bed. It was during these operations that Mrs. Hathaway’s attention was caught by the beauty of the monograms with H. P. on the delicate underclothes. She had only just finished when the doctor arrived, a tall man with an intelligent square face who spoke, not French, but extremely good English. He felt the pulse, lifted the eyelids, put a stethoscope to the heart, and turned to Mrs. Hathaway.
‘Drugged!’ he pronounced.
‘What with?’
‘I don’t know.’ He drew back the bed-clothes again, examined the bare arms, and showed a tiny pink spot to Mrs. Hathaway. ‘An injection here, do you see?’
‘Well, what do I do?’
‘You order black coffee, very strong, and when it comes make her drink it. I will give an injection; I am guessing, but it is probably a barbiturate.’
While the doctor prepared his injection Mrs. Hathaway rang the bell; when a servant appeared she said, ‘Doctor, will you order the coffee? They may not understand me.’ The doctor gabbled vigorously in Portuguese, and then asked Mrs. Hathaway to turn the helpless body onto its side —she did so, and he jabbed a needle into the buttock; then he turned the girl back onto the pillows and washed his instruments. As he was finishing the coffee appeared, brought by a waiter. Mrs. Hathaway tasted it.
‘Yes, that’s quite strong, but I shall want someone to hold her up while I get it down,’ she said. ‘Will you have a chambermaid sent, please?’
Like the police official, the doctor smiled.
‘Madame, you are a hospital in yourself! Perhaps you have nursing training?’
‘Certainly not—just commonsense,’ said Mrs. Hathaway rather repressively, as she pushed the bell. When it was answered the doctor demanded the manager, and on his appearing, nervous and troubled by all these goings-on, the doctor asked him to send ‘a strong and discreet’ chambermaid, to assist the Senhora Inglesa in carrying out his treatment. ‘Let her bring a small basin,’ he added. Then he bowed over Mrs. Hathaway’s hand.
‘I shall return in an hour or two, but continue with the coffee; give it over and over again,’ he said. ‘It is the best of all antidotes. If she is sick, so much the better—that will help to clear off the poison.’
Only those who have actually undergone the experience of trying to restore a drugged person to life—fortunately they are few—can realise what Mrs. Hathaway now went through. To begin with it was all quite new to her—far more than the doctor she was ‘guessing’—and moreover she had to carry out this unwonted task labouring under the terrible sense of helplessness engendered by being in a country where one cannot speak the language, a thing quite extraordinarily defeating. When an elderly chambermaid with a severe and rather negroid face appeared, carrying a small enamel bowl, Mrs. Hathaway had to indicate to her by signs that they must lift the inert figure up to drink the coffee, which she had already cooled in the wash-basin; but an unconscious person is astonishingly heavy and clumsy to handle, and though when Mrs. Hathaway pushed the flaccid lips open and held the cup to them the girl gulped and swallowed automatically, a lot was spilt—the maid clucked in dismay at the dirtied sheets.
‘Bring the bath-towel,’ Mrs. Hathaway said, but of course the woman didn’t understand; she went and fetched it herself, but by the time she returned to the bed the flabby body had collapsed again. Patiently Mrs. Hathaway heaved it up once more and placed the maid’s hands under the clammy armpits—‘Hold her so,’ she said, with an emphasis which transcended language, while she spread the bath-towel in front of the girl and placed a soft shawl over her bare shoulders. Then she applied the cup again.
They kept on at it for what seemed like an eternity to Mrs. Hathaway. Before the first lot of coffee was exhausted she sent for another; half-way through the second brew the girl was sick—Mrs. Hathaway held out the basin almost in time, but not quite; the maid clucked again, but very intelligently hustled out and returned with fresh bath-towels, shortly followed by a waiter with yet more coffee. So they went on: the girl gulping down, being sick, gulping down again. At last the vomiting ceased, and it seemed to Mrs. Hathaway that the swallowing was performed more consciously; still guessing, she decided that they had done enough for the moment, and shook her head when the chambermaid held out the coffee-tray questioningly. The pulse seemed to her stronger; quite definitely the hands were getting warm, and that chilly perspiration had stopped. She put another blanket over the girl, and drawing an armchair up to the bed sat down in it; she suddenly felt extraordinarily tired.
But she had only been resting for five minutes when she was summoned by a page to the telephone. The Hotel Lucrezia has one of these on each landing, and edging out past the small policeman Mrs. Hathaway took the call from Julia Probyn already recorded; in the middle of it the official in green reappeared, and Mrs. Hathaway, ignoring Julia’s protests, rang off.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Better, I think. Come in,’ Mrs. Hathaway said, once more by-passing the policeman, who raised his hand in salute to the officer.
‘She has not spoken?’ the man said, after glancing at the figure on the bed.
‘No—and as she seems to be sleeping fairly naturally I think she should be left al
one. But I rather think, from what I heard on the telephone just now, that she was abducted by Communists.’
The official suddenly became very alert.
‘May I know to whom you were telephoning?’
‘I wasn’t, at all. My friend Miss Probyn rang me up from Gralheira. But she said that they had been out half the night chasing after a girl who had been carried off by Communists; so I asked if she was short and dark, and whether her initials were H. and P.? And Miss Probyn said she was, and they were,’ Mrs. Hathaway said, not very lucidly.
‘These are the initials, H. P.?’
‘Yes, they’re on all her underclothes.’
‘No papers in her pockets?’
‘Oh really, Senhor, I didn’t look,’ Mrs. Hathaway protested. ‘I have been trying to revive her! I’m not a detective! Do by all means search her clothes yourself.’
The official slid a practised hand into the pockets of M. Lilas’s trim little suit and the pretty matching overcoat, and drew out a rather grubby handkerchief, and a tiny copy of St. Thomas à Kempis; the hanky bore the monogram H. P., and on the fly-leaf of The Imitation of Christ was written—‘P. H. from H. A., Easter, 1953’.
‘So!’ the green-clad official said thoughtfully. ‘H. A.— or A. H., perhaps. The other initials are reversed also.’ He put the little book in his pocket. ‘Please excuse me if I leave you now. I must make a report.’
‘No,’ Mrs. Hathaway said firmly. ‘I see you have learned something. Do you think that this is the girl Miss Probyn was hunting for last night? If so, I think you ought to tell me what you found out?’
At this the green-clad official laughed out loud.
‘Madame, you are impayable! In strict confidence I may tell you that we believe the three men we hold to be what you suspect.’
