by Tom Gabbay
“Boca do…?”
“The Mouth of Hell,” he translated. “A rock formation at the base of a one-hundred-foot drop into the sea. Apparently, your detective drove over the cliff sometime during the night.”
“That’s unlucky.”
“Yes. A tragedy, of course.”
“I meant for me,” I said.
The captain smiled. I asked him if he was going to recover the car.
“You haven’t seen o Boca do Inferno, senhor. Time and the sea will save a great deal of effort.”
“Can I talk to the witness?”
“Witness?” he said, looking surprised. “No, there was no witness.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, but that doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“In what way does it not?” he said breezily.
“You said you identified Grimes through the car’s plates.”
“Correct.”
“How did you get the number if the car went into the water? How did you even know it went over the cliff?”
“You don’t seem to trust me, Senhor Teller.”
“Like I said, I’ve got this thing about authority.”
The captain smiled cagily. “The back portion of the vehicle is visible at low tide. A local fisherman reported it shortly after dawn…Why should I keep anything from you?”
It didn’t really matter. Even if Grimes had a notebook with him, it wouldn’t do me any good after a couple of weeks in the drink. I contemplated my options, which weren’t many.
“I guess that leaves me with you,” I said.
“Putting me in a very good position,” Catela grinned.
“Looks that way,” I said. “So how would you feel about joining Miss Sterne and myself for dinner tonight?”
“I would prefer it without you…”
“I’ll try to fade into the background,” I said.
He leaned forward. “How can I help?”
“Eddie Grimes was hired to locate a friend of Miss Sterne’s. A woman named Eva Lange.” I considered showing him the photo that Lili had given me, but he’d want to keep it, so I didn’t.
“Eva Lange…” he ruminated. “German?”
“That’s right. A refugee.”
He chuckled.
“Is that funny?”
Catela gestured in the direction of the outside world. “Lisbon is filled with refugees. Tens of thousands and more arriving each day. They roam the streets, worn and dirty, trying to beg, borrow, or steal passage on anything going to America…What is your country’s expression? ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your…’ How does it continue?”
“‘Huddled masses…’ Or something like that,” I said.
“Yes. These people, they actually believe it.” He shrugged. “I suppose they have no choice. There’s no place left for them to go. A few with money might be fortunate, but most will sell the last of their possessions to buy a ticket on a ship that doesn’t exist. So they steal in order to eat and I am obliged to put them in jail. Others choose a more permanent solution. Do you know that in the past month we have had over one hundred suicides in Lisbon?” He stubbed out his cigarette. “But you must pardon me. These are my problems. Please continue with yours.”
“That’s about it,” I said. “A few hours before Grimes drove off the cliff, he phoned Lili—Miss Sterne—and told her he’d traced the girl to Lisbon. Said she’d been trying to get passage to London.”
“London?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Not the best place to go if you wish to escape the Third Reich. I would certainly be looking west, across the sea.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “But Grimes thought she was broke anyway, so there’s a good chance she’s still in Lisbon.” In fact, I thought the chances were a lot better that she was long gone, but there was no point in telling him that.
“Think you can locate her?”
“Perhaps,” Catela said cautiously. He narrowed his eyes, gave me a penetrating look. “Do you know why this woman left Germany in the first place?”
“Maybe she didn’t like the long winters,” I said. “What difference does it make?”
“If she is a fugitive, she will be traveling on false papers,” he replied.
“I don’t know why she left,” I said, which was true. I stood up abruptly, taking the captain by surprise. “But I’ve taken enough of your time.”
He rose to his feet. “It may be very difficult to locate one individual…As I said, there are tens of thousands…”
“Miss Sterne will be very grateful if you can tell us anything. We can discuss it over dinner.”
He performed a shallow formal bow. “You’re staying at the Palacio.”
“Have you been spying on us already?”
“Everyone who is anyone in Lisbon stays at the Palacio. I myself often spend the evening at the casino there.”
“And I bet you win.”
“No one can win every night,” the captain smiled, coming out from behind his desk and leading me to the door. “But in the end, I always seem to come out ahead.”
The route to the Imperial Hotel took us through the market district of the Baixa, a grid of expansive boulevards that was built in the aftermath of the massive earthquake and subsequent tidal wave that flattened Lisbon in 1755. I got an earful on the subject of the country’s long history from my good-natured driver, Alberto, a barrel-chested chatterbox with legs too short for his body and the furriest arms I’d ever seen. He spewed forth with unstoppable enthusiasm as we drove through the crowded streets, covering two thousand years in about ten city blocks, from the Phoenicians, through the Greeks, the Carthaginians, Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire, to, finally, the Moors, who were defeated by the Christians in the twelfth century after a four-hundred-year siege. When he took a deep breath and started to launch into Napoléon, I decided to fast-forward.
“Who’s next?” I said, and he paused, stole a glance in the rearview mirror.
“Senhor?”
“The Germans seem to think they should be running Europe,” I said. Alberto paused to think his answer through.
“We are fortunate in Portugal to have a strong and wise leader,” he said. “Dr. Salazar will keep the latest conqueror from our door.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, thinking they’d probably been saying something pretty similar in Paris not too long ago. Anyway, it put an end to my history lesson.
I felt like stretching my legs, so I told Alberto to pull up. He found a shady spot for the car and, anticipating the bonus of an unexpected morning nap, launched into a long-winded dissertation on the best route to the hotel while he sketched it out on the back of an old newspaper. He looked a little heartbroken when I told him he was coming along. Even if I could find my way based on his dubious instructions, I’d need a translator once I got there.
Alberto kept racing ahead, then stopping to let me catch up before pulling in front again. I didn’t need a midday sprint through the July heat, so I kept my own leisurely pace. He led us off the main drag into Lisbon’s oldest district, the Alfama, a hilly maze of narrow lanes where traders in denlike shops and Arabs in open stalls bought and sold everything from fresh fish to the family silver. We could’ve been in Istanbul or Cairo.
It was the first time I noticed the refugees, who congregated here in the shadowy backstreets, where they could trade the contents of their suitcases for the hope of a future. They weren’t what I expected. Sure, they were tired and dirty and looked utterly defeated, but underneath all that you could see fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles who, until recently, had worked, lived, and died in the towns and villages built by their grandparents and great-grandparents. A few weeks ago, they’d been proud people and now they just wanted to be invisible, averting their eyes as you passed them in the street. Except the children, of course. They didn’t know enough to look away.
We found the hotel stuck between a dark funeral parlor and a fragrant cheese shop
. It wasn’t exactly a dive but it was pretty damn close. You had to wonder why a guy on fifty bucks a day would choose to stay in a place like that, but I suppose he was just trying to make a dime on his expense account. Or maybe Grimes just felt more at home on the seedy side of life.
The lobby was small and dark, the only light emanating from a twenty-watt lamp standing on the small, curved reception desk. A large arrangement of decomposing white orchids—probably leftovers from next door—languished on a side table, overwhelming the room with a sickly sweet fragrance that didn’t mix too well with the faint aroma of aging cheese that wafted in from outside. The proprietor shuffled out from a back room and greeted us with a blank expression. Pushing seventy, with close-cropped white hair and a mustache to match, he looked at us through dark, weary eyes as he buckled his pants up. His wrinkled white shirt seemed to be several sizes too large.
“Boa tardes,” he mumbled suspiciously, well aware that we weren’t there to book a room. Alberto returned the greeting, established that no English was spoken, then explained the reason for my visit. The old guy glanced over at me, shook his head, and muttered something as he headed back to where he came from, probably to complete his siesta.
“He says he has answered all the question from the police,” Alberto explained.
I took my wallet out, removed a crisp ten-dollar bill, and placed it on the desk. “Sorry that I don’t have escudos,” I said. “Ask him how he feels about the Yankee dollar?”
The old man stopped in his tracks and, not waiting for the translation, picked up the note and folded it into his shirt pocket.
“I’d like to see the room,” I said. He nodded and removed a key from the wall behind him. I didn’t expect to find anything up there—the authorities would’ve been through everything—but I had to get away from the smell of dead orchids and ripe cheese.
The room wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. It was tidy and cheerful enough once the old man pulled the shutters back. The furnishings consisted of a double bed with a large crucifix hanging over it, a wardrobe, and a set of drawers. There was a sink in the corner and the toilet was just across the hall. Not exactly deluxe, but I’d seen a lot worse.
I took a look around, checking under the bed, on top of the wardrobe, and inside a few drawers, more for show than anything else. I told Alberto to ask the old guy how much he charged and how many days Grimes had paid for. I thought it might put him on the defensive, and it did. He claimed that the American had settled up daily, but you could tell he was lying, that he’d been paid in advance for a few of the nights that Eddie had spent underwater. I couldn’t have cared less, but I let him know with a look that I was onto him. People who’ve been caught in a lie tend to suddenly get a lot more talkative.
“Did he have any visitors?” I asked, and a lively dialogue ensued, the two men chattering back and forth like a couple of old ladies at the back fence. I gave them a minute before clearing my throat.
“Ah, senhor…Desculpe,” Alberto apologized. “The gentleman tells me some quite interesting facts about your friend.”
“He wasn’t my friend but go ahead.”
“It seems he had a big interest in the women.” Alberto gave me a knowing look. “He takes a different one each night.”
“Hookers?”
“Yes, senhor. Like that. Hookers. And not the nice ones. The kind of the street.” It was mildly interesting and it explained Grimes’s choice of accommodation, but as much as it amused Alberto, it didn’t help me any.
“Ask him if he remembers how many bags the American had.”
Alberto shrugged, wondering why I would want to change the subject to suitcases, but he put the question. After some additional discussion he said, “Just one. The one the police took away.”
“Did he see the American on the night of the accident?”
“Sim, Sim,” the old man responded, providing another round of long details in Portuguese. He was being very talkative now, enjoying the gossip, and it occurred to me that Alberto might be useful to have around. I’d get Lili to hire him on for the duration.
“Yes, the American was here on that evening,” Alberto relayed. “He has arrived a few minutes after nine o’clock.”
“How does he remember the time so well?”
“Because the girl, she was waiting for him. She had been arranged to arrive at nine o’clock.”
“How long did she stay after Grimes arrived?”
“Not long,” Alberto answered without referring to the old man, having by now elicited the whole story out of him. “Five minutes only.” He made his face into a shrug.
“Five minutes?”
“Sim.”
“Was she that good or that ugly?” I said, which gave Alberto a good laugh. He translated for the old man, who managed something approaching a smile.
“No, senhor,” Alberto explained. “The reason she has left was because the second lady comes.”
“Second lady?”
“Sim.” Alberto beamed.
“Who was the second lady?”
“This gentleman thinks that maybe she is the wife of the American.”
“Why does he think that?”
“Because the first girl—the hooker—she has run away in such a big hurry when the second lady comes. And then, a few moment later, the second lady is run away, too, and not looking very happy. Then the American, he comes after, putting on his clothes while he runs out the door. And, after…he don’t come back.” Alberto pantomimed the action of a car sailing over a cliff and hitting with a splash.
This was getting interesting. I reached for my wallet again, held it in my hand without cracking it. “Ask him if he spoke to the second woman,” I said to Alberto.
“Yes,” the old man said, eyeing up the billfold and dropping the pretense of a language barrier. “I speak her.”
“In what language?”
“She speak Portuguese.”
“She was Portuguese?” I asked, surprised.
The old man frowned and shook his head. “She speak a bad Portuguese. She German.”
I showed him the photo of Eva Lange. It was small and grainy and fifteen years out of date, but he dutifully studied it, holding it a couple of inches from his face and squinting hard, before returning it.
“He say it could be this lady, but it could be not,” Alberto explained. “He say she has a kind of red hair.”
I put the photo away and extracted another ten from my wallet. “I want to see the hooker that Grimes saw that night. Can you arrange it?”
The old man closed his eyes, meaning if enough currency appeared when they opened, he could. I removed two more notes, held all three in front of his face.
“The Hotel Palacio,” I said. “Midnight.”
The old man nodded, so I folded the bills over and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.
It looked like the search for Eva Lange might be over before it started. I wondered how I’d tell Lili that her overpaid private eye had, in all likelihood, driven her childhood friend over a hundred-foot cliff into the sea.
I decided to wait until I had a little more to go on.
CHAPTER 3
“When’s low tide?” I asked Alberto as we pulled onto the coast road heading toward Estoril.
“Oh, it comes, I think, about one hour ago,” he replied, checking the sun’s position in the sky.
“Are we going anywhere near this Boca do Inferno?”
“O Boca? Yes, she is very close the hotel.”
“Okay, let’s have a look.”
Alberto nodded and settled in behind the wheel. Maybe he sensed that I wanted quiet or maybe he was just talked out, but either way I was grateful for the lull. I smoked and stared out the window as the car rattled along the road heading out of the city, hugging the Rio Tejo until it disappeared into the deep blue waters of the Atlantic. We skirted a wide, sandy beach, empty but for a couple of old fishermen hauling the day’s catch out of a brightly painted wooden skiff, then the road sl
oped upward, winding its way to the top of the rocky cliffs that rose vertically out of the Atlantic. It was quite a sight.
We pulled up on the verge of a craggy headland jutting out into the open sea. Alberto yanked the hand brake and jumped out of the car.
“From here we must walk a little,” he said. By the time I stepped into the sea air, he’d already clambered down a shallow bank and was heading out onto the cliffs.
“This way, senhor!” He waved and shouted over the roar of the ocean crashing onto the rocks below. “I show you!” I slid down the incline and picked my way over the rocks until I reached the edge of the bluff, where Alberto was waiting for me.
“O Boca do Inferno,” he said almost reverentially, pointing further up the peninsula toward an underwater cavern at the base of the formation. “The Mouth of Hell.”
“How’d it get its name?” I asked.
“Because, like hell, you can believe you are a safe distance away, but the current is too strong. Once it catch you, you no can get away. It pull you in.”
“I know the feeling.”
Alberto shrugged. “I think there are many unfortunate souls at the bottom of this place.”
I scanned the water for any sign of Grimes’s car. I didn’t see anything at first, but then the sunlight glinted off some chrome trim near the cliff’s edge, and I could make out a taillight and the rear fender of a red car just under the surface of the churning waters. The vehicle had landed headfirst and stayed upright, lodged in the rocks. A hundred-foot drop from the road, it must’ve been quite a ride. No more than a couple of seconds, but it would’ve felt a lot longer sitting there watching your life flash before your eyes. It gave me the shivers.
With nothing more to see, we headed back to the car. I noticed a villa overlooking the site from a larger promontory to the east. We must’ve passed it on our way, but the estate was hidden from the road by a dense cluster of pine trees. A relatively new building, three stories high, with dormer windows on a pitched roof, wooden shutters, and a wraparound porch, it looked like a white stucco version of a Cape Cod. A gated wall surrounded the compound, which included a garden and swimming pool that overlooked the sea, as well as three smaller structures, probably a garage and a couple of guesthouses. There was something forlorn about the place, but I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the remote position.
