by Tom Gabbay
Not surprising that Churchill would be worried about his rear flank. Sure, the Brits were defiant now, but “blood, toil, tears and sweat” might not sound so good when the panzers were rolling through Kent. Even if the British people were willing to fight on, you could be sure that there’d be more than a few Honourable Members of Parliament—not to mention Lords and Ladies—who would happily jump ship rather than go down with it. Churchill would be out the door as quickly as he’d come in and the great British public would wake up to find their morning papers featuring snapshots of Herr Hitler sightseeing in Piccadilly.
I poured a second cup of coffee and put the paper aside. Like pretty much everyone back in the States, I saw the war in Europe as tragic and crazy but, most of all, far away. And nothing to do with me. The tragedy was a bit closer now—the faces of those refugees had done that—but it was still crazy and it still had absolutely nothing to do with me. I was sorry that Europe was going to hell in a handbasket but they’d have to make the trip without me.
I knew a kid named Andy Dent, a horse wrangler on the Warner lot, who went over to Spain in ’36 to fight the good fight. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, a nice, quiet cowboy from Wyoming and nothing short of a genius with horses. I don’t know if he wanted to save the world or if he was just looking for adventure, he never said, but all he got was shot in the head the second week he was over there. Not much of an adventure and the world didn’t get saved. Sure, I thought Hitler was a nutcase and every time I saw him in a newsreel I shook my head, but the bottom line was that it wasn’t my fight. And if I’d learned anything in my first twenty-five years on this crazy planet, it was that only suckers get involved in somebody else’s fight.
That was how it looked to me that morning, anyway, as I sat alone in the bar at the Palacio, drinking coffee and contemplating the fate of the world.
The wind had picked up by midmorning, pulling the sea onto the rocks, making the job of the small fishing boat next to impossible. Catela wasn’t on the scene yet when we arrived, so I joined Alberto on the hillside with a loaf of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a basket of fruit that he’d brought from home. Across the way, I noticed that the Cape Cod–style villa on the promontory overlooking the cliffs looked a bit more lived in today. The shutters were open and there were a number of cars parked in front of the main building.
Below us, a couple of teenage boys were making dives into the Mouth of Hell, trying to attach a line to Eddie’s car, which was lying just below the surface. Once the line was secured, the idea was to float the car with buoys and let the navy trawler that was waiting offshore tow it a couple of miles west to the beach at Casçais, where it could be hauled ashore. That was the plan, anyway. The divers were having a tough time of it, though, disappearing under the waves for long periods of time, only to surface twenty or thirty yards away, dangerously close to the rocks. They’d fight their way back to the boat, clamber aboard, and, after a few minutes’ rest, go through the whole routine again.
I was beginning to have my doubts about the whole operation when a long black car pulled up behind us, accompanied by a half-dozen motorcycle cops. After a moment, Catela stepped onto the road, followed by a very somber-looking SS Major Ritter. I’d been wondering if he would make an appearance and wasn’t surprised that he had.
“Seig Heil,” I muttered to Alberto, who gave me a very nervous look as we stood up to greet the uniforms.
“Good morning, Senhor Teller,” Catela offered with a strained smile. “A fine day, yes?”
“If you’re going sailing,” I said, looking out to sea. The sky was clear cerulean blue and there were whitecaps as far as you could see.
“Do you enjoy sailing?”
“Not particularly.”
“I see,” Catela said curtly, confirming that the small talk was over. “Major Ritter has expressed an interest in seeing o Boca do Inferno, so I suggested that he accompany me this morning.” Ritter hung back and eyed me suspiciously.
“Sure,” I said. “Plus he wants to find out if his missing diplomat is down there with my missing detective. That right, Major?”
Ritter cracked a smile that I thought might crack his face. “You have adapted to the ways of Lisbon in a short period of time, Mr. Teller.”
“Information is power, isn’t that what they say?”
“My interest is strictly casual.”
“I would’ve thought a missing state secretary would rate more than a casual interest.”
“You misunderstood me,” Ritter said with a patient sneer. “I’m quite interested in locating Dr. Kleinmann, of course I am. What I meant to say was that I have no reason to believe that he has been involved with your detective. I am, however, obliged to investigate every possibility. I’m certain you understand.”
“Sure, I understand,” I said. I understood he wasn’t out there on a hunch any more than he was on a sightseeing tour. I wondered what connection he thought there was between Eddie Grimes and Dr. Kleinmann, and if Eva Lange had anything to do with it. I considered mentioning her name in passing to see how he’d react, but decided against it. If it turned out she was still alive, then she was in hiding and this was the guy she was hiding from.
Catela excused himself in order to dispatch one of his motorcycle cops along the bluff, presumably to threaten the men in the fishing boat, but I could see that they’d already spotted Ritter’s car and didn’t need any additional incentive. A couple of the older guys were already stripping off, ready to make the dive.
“Well, I hope your man’s not down there,” I said, which was true enough. Ritter was staring intently down at the boat and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me. When he finally looked up, he smiled.
“And I hope also that Eva Lange is not down there. For Fräulein Sterne’s sake, of course. I understand they have been lifelong friends together.” He let it hang for a moment and I didn’t say anything, only because I didn’t know what to say.
“Captain Catela is always very forthcoming with me,” the major added.
“I’ll have to remember that,” I said.
“You needn’t worry. I have no interest in this woman,” Ritter stated flatly. “Unless, of course, she has knowledge of Dr. Kleinmann’s whereabouts.”
“Why would she?” I said.
He shook his head slowly. “I can see no reason that she would.”
Catela reappeared and assured Ritter that he wouldn’t have to wait long. He was right because the new divers had the car secured and floated in a matter of minutes.
An hour later, we stood on the beach in Casçais as they pulled Eddie Grimes out of his rented red coupe and laid him out on a blanket in the sand. I’d seen dead men before, but Eddie was worse off than most. Swollen by two weeks in salt water, his skin a shriveled pasty white, he looked more like a beached walrus than a human corpse. A long open gash across the top of his head revealed a shattered skull and there were so many broken bones that his limbs twisted around like a plate of fat spaghetti. Most of his front teeth were missing and his eyes were open but rolled up inside his head. But as bad as he’d been knocked around in the fall, Eddie wouldn’t have felt a thing because it was obvious that he’d been very dead before he took the plunge. Two nice neat bullet holes in his chest testified to that.
There was no Eva Lange in the car, and I wondered how long it would take Catela to get the story of the lady and the gun out of Fabiana. I also wondered how much it would take to buy him off. It should be easy enough, I thought. No one was gonna raise a fuss if Eddie Grimes was quietly laid to rest in an unmarked grave, and with Lili working on him, maybe it wouldn’t even cost a fortune.
Ritter, who’d been standing back, chain-smoking his French cigarettes while he kept an eye on the proceedings, came up behind me.
“Curious,” he blurted out.
“What?”
“That this woman would shoot the very man who has been sent to save her. It has been this man’s mission, has it not? To
save Eva Lange?”
“What makes you think she shot him?” I said.
“Who else?” Ritter’s eyebrows flitted up.
“There are some pretty desperate people around here,” I said. “An American driving around in a flashy car. Maybe somebody looking for money.”
“What is your view, Captain?” Catela stood up from his inspection of the body, carefully folded the handkerchief he’d been holding over his nose, and placed it into his pants pocket.
“He was murdered,” he shrugged, stating the obvious.
The major scowled. “And your suspect is Eva Lange?”
Catela looked at me apologetically. “I’m afraid it must be.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed, wondering if this was the opening of negotiations. “There’s no evidence that she—”
“She did threaten him with a gun,” Ritter interjected. “Is that not correct, Captain?”
Catela shrugged a powerless yes. “It’s a matter between our two governments,” he apologized, nervously adjusted his sidearm. “A missing diplomat is a serious matter and I have been instructed to offer every possible assistance.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the gun?” I said.
Catela frowned. “Please, Senhor Teller…”
“What?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The young whore has surely told you about the pistol when she visited your room last night…” He paused for a smirk. “That was the purpose for her visit, was it not?”
Here I thought I’d been a step ahead and it looked like I wasn’t even in the game yet.
“Capitão!”
One of Catela’s men waved us over to the water’s edge, where the car was being examined. Several cops were staring into the open trunk, and a moment later, so were we.
Dr. Kleinmann was in pretty much the same shape as Eddie was, except for the fact that instead of getting two in the chest, he’d been killed with a single bullet to the brain. The hole was almost exactly in the center of his forehead.
CHAPTER 7
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Eva wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t be capable of it.” It was said with such finality, as if that should be the end of it, that I thought I’d better drive the point home.
“She was seen pointing a gun at Grimes on the night somebody put two slugs in his heart. If I was Catela, I’d think she did it, too.” I was trailing Lili around her suite, watching her pull the place apart in an increasingly desperate search for smokes, billowing beige silk pajamas fluttering in her wake as she swept from one room to another.
“We could probably buy her out of that,” I continued, “…if it wasn’t for the dead German in the trunk.” She stopped in the middle of the bedroom, put a hand on her hip, and made a sour face.
“I can understand why she’d want to shoot a Nazi, but why Eddie Grimes?…Help me find my damned cigarettes, will you?” She resumed the search.
“Want one of mine?” I said, and she threw a look of disdain over her shoulder. I shrugged and pretended to look around the bedroom while she checked out the en suite. I heard bottles of perfume and whatever else being ruthlessly shoved aside, then she reappeared in the doorway, smokeless.
“Who was it?”
“Who was what?”
“Who saw Eva? With the gun?”
“Oh. A girl Grimes had in his hotel room. Eva paid him a surprise visit and found them together.”
“A prostitute?”
“Right.”
“The girl you had in your room last night?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘had.’ Is everybody keeping tabs on me?”
“You weren’t exactly discreet, darling. Monsieur le concierge had a big stick up his ass this morning.” She eased across the room and picked up the phone on the bedside table.
“I’ll bet he enjoyed that,” I said, and she couldn’t help giving up a smirk.
“Send up ten packages of Rothmans,” she said into the receiver, hanging up without further ado. “Have you eaten?”
“I could use a coffee.”
“It’s probably cold.”
I followed her through to the lounge, where an untouched feast of a breakfast was laid out on the table. Lili poured a coffee and handed it over. I added sugar.
“What are the options?” she said. It was a good question and I wished I had a better answer.
“We could try the bribe, anyway, but I don’t think it’ll fly. Not with Kleinmann involved.”
“Who’s Kleinmann?”
“The dead German.” She was right about the coffee, it was stone cold. I put it down and dug out my smokes. “Sure you don’t want one?” I said as I lit up.
“Well, I’m not going to stand here and watch you,” she scowled. I obliged and lit her up. She took a huge lungful of smoke, which seemed to settle her, then she flopped onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted. She flicked an ash into a flowerpot and looked out the French window toward the sea. We didn’t speak for a long minute.
“We have an engagement this afternoon,” she finally said, offering up a jaded smile. “Tea with the duchess.”
“We?”
“I’m not going alone, and I’m certainly not going to take the Latin lover. Don’t worry. You won’t have to curtsy.”
“If you say so.” I wasn’t being coy and I wasn’t worried about which fork I should use, either. Meeting the former king and his new wife might be entertaining, but if I was going to have any chance of staying ahead of Ritter, I couldn’t afford an afternoon with the chattering classes.
“Be downstairs at three,” Lili said, effectively dismissing me. “Your driver can take us over.” There was no point arguing, so I nodded and headed for the door. I hesitated on the way out.
“Is there something else?” Lili said.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you put the chain on your door at night.”
“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
“Probably. But do it anyway.”
I took her silence to be acquiescence, and started out the door again. She called after me.
“Jack…”
“Yeah?”
“What can we do about Eva?”
“Find her. Before anybody else does.”
“And then?”
“Let’s find her first.”
“Easier said than done, old chap.”
Harry Thompson was looking down the barrel of a tall gin and tonic, the first of the day. I’d located him at the central bar in the sleepy town of Casçais, soaking up his early-afternoon breakfast, pen and blank notebook set out on the table in front of him, ready for inspiration when it came. Dark sunglasses hid the worst of the damage, but the wrinkled white suit gave him away.
“I thought you might be able to point me in the right direction.”
“What made you think that?” He dug the lime out of his glass and squeezed it out onto his tongue. It made my back teeth cringe.
“You seem to know things.”
He gave me a long look. “You’re right about that. How’d you know where to find me?”
“You don’t exactly keep a low profile. I asked over at the casino.” He grunted and looked longingly into his empty glass. I signaled the barman for another.
“I have to come up with something in…” He looked at his pocketwatch. “Christ. Less than two hours. I hate my life. No, I hate my editor.” The G&T arrived and Harry helped himself to a healthy dose.
“How about an interview with Lili Sterne?” I said.
“Are you serious?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not front page, but at least it’s something,” he ruminated. “It’d keep them off my back for a few days, anyway. Would she do it?”
“No chance,” I said.
“Oh, well, then…up yours.” He saluted me with his glass and threw it back.
“You write what you want, and as long as she c
omes out looking okay, there won’t be a problem.”
“Jack, boy, if she gets onto the paper, they’ll have my nuts for lunch.”
“No problem,” I assured him. “I’m signing off on it.”
“Can you do that?”
I shrugged. “She won’t see it anyway.”
He weighed the idea. “I suppose I could do the ‘good German’ angle. She could say lots of nasty things about Hitler. Repulsive little man with a Napoléonic complex, that sort of thing.”
“There you go,” I encouraged him. He picked up the pen and scribbled the thought onto the pad.
“Be a good chap and order another one, will you?” he said, pushing his empty glass across the table. “I write much better when I’m sloshed and I’m not even close yet.”
I signaled the barman and waited while Harry sketched out his article. It only took a couple of minutes.
“How’s this for an opening?…‘Teutonic film legend Lili Sterne was in Lisbon last night and this reporter was privileged to sit down for an exclusive chat with her, not about her towering film career, but about the state of the world and, in particular, the way in which Herr Hitler and his—quote—band of brutish bullies—unquote—have brought ruin and disgrace to her former homeland.”
“Is that one sentence?”
“Sure. Editors like that. Makes it look like you worked on it.”
