Lisbon Crossing, The

by Tom Gabbay

  “Let me see her passport,” I said.

  I’d checked it out the first time, but I wanted to take a closer look. A fake passport wouldn’t have presented a problem for Popov—the forgery business was booming in Lisbon and he certainly would’ve had his greedy fingers in that pie—but if it was a phony, it was a damn good one. It was one thing to be fooled by a heavily made-up corpse lit by a few candles, but the photo I’d seen sure as hell looked like the girl Lili had photographed in a boat fifteen years earlier. If the passport was for real, the conclusion was inevitable—Popov had actually found Eva and I’d been outbid by Ritter. If that was true, she would already be on a train to Berlin, or worse.

  “Senhor?” Baptista looked perplexed.

  “The passport.”

  “I’m sorry, senhor,” he trembled. “I…I…I…”

  He got stuck as I moved closer and placed a helpful hand on his shoulder. I hadn’t had to strong-arm anyone for quite a few years, but Senhor Baptista made it easy, almost fainting at the mere suggestion of physical coercion.

  “I…I…I…” he continued.

  “Take a deep breath,” I said. He took my advice and it settled his nerves enough to allow him to continue.

  “I no longer have the passport, senhor.”

  “You no longer have it?”

  “Yes, senhor…I mean, no, senhor…I…I…I no longer have it, senhor.”

  “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  “I promise you…”

  “You lied before.”

  “Yes, senhor…”

  “So why should I believe you now?”

  “I lied before…But not now.”

  I was pretty sure that he was telling the truth. Catela would’ve taken Eva’s passport in order to hand it over to Major Ritter, but I wanted to be positive, and besides, the undertaker deserved to be roughed up, just a little. I grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and pulled him into an easy half nelson.

  “Please, senhor!” he screamed. “I tell you the truth!”

  “Are you sure?” I tightened the grip.

  “Sim, Sim!… I give passport to Senhor Popov!…Please! I can give to you money, senhor! Please, it hurts! Aiiee!”

  I released him. “What did you say?”

  He gave me a pained look and nursed his arm. “I say I give you money.”

  “Not that…”

  “Senhor?” He brightened.

  “You said that you gave the passport to Popov.”

  “Sim, senhor…”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Baptista shrugged. “Is part of the agreement.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said. “Didn’t Popov give you Eva Lange’s passport?”

  “Sim… Yes.”

  “Then you gave it back to him?”

  “No, senhor. Capitão Catela takes this passport.”

  “Catela took it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you say you gave it to Popov?”

  Baptista furrowed his brow. He was as confused as I was. “I give to Captain Catela the passport of Eva Lange,” he explained. “I give to Senhor Popov the other passport. The one of this dead lady…” He gestured toward the woman in the coffin.

  “Popov took her passport?”

  “Yes, senhor…It has been most important to him to have this.”

  I was feeling upbeat as I headed out into the night air to rejoin Alberto. It was clear now that Eva was still alive, and that Ritter didn’t have her. There was even a reasonable chance that, with the right kind of help, I could get my hands on her before she could make her exit. I was so buoyant, in fact, that I almost missed the Buick sport coupe with a cracked windshield that was parked a bit further up the road. On first glance, the car looked empty, but upon closer inspection, I could see that my would-be killer was hunkered down behind the wheel. Waiting until I passed, no doubt, so he could step out and shoot me in the back.

  I ducked into the nearest doorway, which landed me in a gloomy little tavern called Paraiso. The barman, who looked like he hadn’t seen daylight in a while, gave me the once-over as I stepped up to the counter and ordered a bourbon. It was a dank, cheerless place, empty but for me and my sullen host. The wall calendar was stuck on March 1934.

  I was sipping my drink and considering my options when the answer walked out of the back room, looking for a fresh bottle of whiskey. He was big and ugly, and had a tattoo of a giant python running up one arm, across his shoulders, and down the other arm. He gave me a look—like the one you’d give a slug while you were deciding whether or not it was worth stepping on—then he took possession of the booze and disappeared back to where he came from. I followed.

  The snake man was just sitting back down at a table, where a serious game of cards was in progress. He and his fellow players—three equally ugly hulks—wouldn’t have looked out of place unloading cargo on the Jersey docks, so I approached with caution.

  “Boa tarde,” I said, and got a round of grim looks in return. I decided to get right to the point. “Anybody speak English?”

  The snake man, who had started dealing the hand, placed the deck back down on the table, lifted his head, and narrowed his eyes at me. I thought he was about to stand up again, so I quickly reached into my pocket, removed a hundred-dollar bill, and tossed it into the ante. The snake man gave me a second look, then reached across the table to pick it up, giving it a thorough inspection before returning his gaze to me.

  “I speak English,” he rasped.

  “Good!” I smiled. “Ever hear the expression easy money?”

  The grayish piece of soap that sat on the side of the sink wasn’t too inviting, so I made do with a splash of cold water on my face. The greasy hand towel wasn’t very appealing, either, so I dried off on my sleeve and headed back downstairs, arriving just in time to see my stalker being airlifted onto a bar stool by my newly hired employees. A couple of them held him in place while Ramiro—which turned out to be the snake man’s name—patted him down and came up with a .38 Smith & Wesson, which he handed over to me.

  I couldn’t help laughing when I got a look at the guy—he was a two-bit hood, straight out of central casting. The only thing missing was the toothpick.

  “What’s the big joke?” he said. Christ, he was out of central casting. Then the penny dropped…Of course!

  “The joke is that with all the money in the world, and with all that power, you’re the best that Charlie Wexler could come up with.”

  “Charlie who?” He sneered. I shook my head and turned my attention to the .38.

  “You know,” I said. “A pistol like this is no good from a distance. You’d have to get pretty lucky to hit somebody three stories up.”

  “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You have to get in close. The closer the better.” I pushed the barrel up against his nose and cocked the hammer. “Like this.”

  “Hey, listen, pal…I…I’m just doin’ a job. This is between you and Wexler.”

  He was right, but I enjoyed watching him sweat a little. Once he looked sufficiently chastened, I uncocked the hammer and removed the gun from his nostril. “I guess I should consider myself lucky that Wexler doesn’t know the difference between a real killer and a dime-store hood. What’s your name?”

  “Joe.”

  “Joe what?”

  “Joe Bolognese.”

  I laughed. “Is that your real name? Joe Bolognese?”

  “What about it?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s perfect.”

  I asked for a phone, which the barman produced from under the counter. Bolognese started to look worried when I told him I was going to talk to my friend, the deputy chief of the National Police.

  “What’re you gonna do?” he said.

  “It’s not what I’m gonna do, Joe, it’s what you’re gonna do. I thought two years—no, on second thought, let’s make it three. One for every time you tried to kill me. And I wouldn’t count
on time off for good behavior. They don’t go in for that sort of thing around here. In fact, they might just forget all about you in there. It’s not like home, you know, where they keep track.”

  Bolognese looked a bit sick to the stomach as the party broke up. The boys decided they’d call it a night when they heard that Catela’s men were on their way, so I left the barman holding the gun on Joe and said my good-byes.

  Climbing the hill to meet Alberto, I composed the wire that I decided to send off to Wexler the next day, explaining why he hadn’t heard back from his hit man. I thought I’d end the telegram by asking him to convey my very warmest regards to the missus.

  I found Brewster in a dark corner of an out-of-the-way bistro, sharing a table with a stunningly attractive blonde—a woman of a certain age who sparkled with diamonds from every angle.

  “Hiya, Dick,” I said, sliding onto the banquette beside her.

  “Teller…?” He almost dropped his fork. “What the hell…?!

  What are you doing here?” He was more amused than angry, which was a pleasant surprise. The lady, on the other hand, was a long way from amused.

  “Some coincidence, huh?” I turned to her and smiled, but the icy response told me not to bother. Brewster was starting to look a little less jolly himself.

  “I’m kind of busy at the moment, Jack, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did notice,” I said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “She doesn’t speak English.”

  “That’s convenient,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I can tell you to get rid of her without hurting her feelings.”

  Brewster squinted across the table at me. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Your butler.”

  “Luiz?”

  “I didn’t get his name.”

  “I’ll have to have a word with him.”

  I shrugged. “He tried to tell me that he didn’t know where you were, but it was obvious that he did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I scared him a little, that’s all. Nothing serious.”

  “You really take the cake, Teller, you know that.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your country needs you.”

  “My country will have to wait until tomorrow morning, in my office.”

  “Your country needs you now, Dick.”

  “Get the hell out of here, Teller,” he said. I thought I noticed a hint of a smile on the ice queen.

  “You mean that?”

  “From the bottom of my heart.”

  “Okay,” I said, getting to my feet. “I can take a hint. It’s just that you seemed so eager to help, that’s all. Can’t say I blame you, I guess. I’m sure it’ll be worth it.” I looked the lady over. She didn’t mind, but Brewster did.

  “Well, thanks for stopping by,” he said.

  “Sure. And I wouldn’t worry. You can always get a job as a banker…or in the insurance business. It can’t be as boring as it sounds.”

  He gave me a long, desolate look. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Would I be here if it could?”

  He sighed. “What do you want?”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “My driver will pick us up in an hour.”

  “You’ll have to call her a taxi, then.”

  “Jack…” He shook his head, tossed his napkin onto the table, and excused himself in French. I followed him into the restaurant’s small lobby.

  “She’s a Hapsburg,” he whispered loudly.

  “No shit?” I said. “A Hapsburg?”

  “That’s right. And Hapsburgs don’t take taxis.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m serious, Jack.”

  “Look, Dick…I don’t care if you put her in a goddamned golden carriage drawn by six white stallions. Just get rid of her.”

  He wanted to punch me, but he swallowed his pride. “This better be damn good. I’ve been working on her for two months.”

  A few minutes later, Brewster slid into the backseat and offered me a smoke. I already had one going. “So what the hell’s so goddamned urgent?” he said.

  “I need to find someone.”

  “Sure, Eva Lange. So what else is new?” He lit himself up.

  “I’m looking for somebody else now.”

  “What happened with Eva?”

  “She’s dead,” I said. “At least officially.”

  He blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. “Just tell me what you want, Jack.”

  I gave him the bare bones of the story, about Popov’s ruse with the dead girl and Lili’s quick-thinking performance that fooled Catela. I also told him that I thought it had been set up to get the heat off Eva for Kleinmann’s murder.

  “Okay,” he said. “So she’s off the hook. What’s the big emergency?”

  “She’ll try to leave Lisbon before anyone can figure it out,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But what makes you think you can find her now when you couldn’t before?”

  “I know what I’m looking for now.”

  “And that is…?”

  “Lisa Foquet.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  “The lady at the funeral parlor.”

  “What lady?”

  “The dead lady,” I said. “Thirty-two years old, medium height, short, dark hair, carrying a Belgian passport.”

  Brewster thought about it for a moment. “You think Eva Lange is going to use it?”

  “So you’re not just a pretty face, after all.”

  He shrugged it off. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What?”

  “Popov had two good buyers for Eva—you and Ritter. Why would he go out of his way to help her escape?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t care about the why. What I need is the when and the where.” Brewster impatiently flicked an ash onto the floor. “I need passenger lists. Ships, planes, anything that’s leaving the country. Can you manage that?”

  “Sure. First thing tomorrow.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Just what the hell did you think I could do at”—he checked his watch—“nine forty-five on a Wednesday night?”

  “Make some calls.”

  “Make some calls? At this hour?” He snickered. “It doesn’t work like that, Jack.”

  Strangely enough, I didn’t really dislike Brewster, but I was moving in that direction. “Let me explain it to you again, Dick,” I said, trying to keep cool. “I’m handing you a golden opportunity here. A once-in-a-lifetime offer.”

  “Knock it off, Jack…”

  “I’m serious. This is your chance to get noticed by the top guy. How often does an opportunity like that come along? Give me a couple hours tonight and you can save years of kissing ass and scheming your way up the ladder. Come on, Dick, be smart. Once you’re on top, you can fuck all the princesses you want.” I let it sink in for a minute. “So how about it? You can either sit here all night, listing the reasons why there’s nothing you can do, or you can use your brain and make something happen.”

  There was a fairly long silence before Brewster cleared his throat and said, “There is one guy I could call.”

  I leaned against the back of the car and peered into the darkness.

  There wasn’t much to see. The black sedan carrying Jesós Chaves, a fat detective in Catela’s Guarda Nationale, had pulled up some time ago. I’d watched from my perch above the docks as he and the two uniformed cops he’d brought along approached Brewster, who’d been waiting alone on the quay. After a short conference, they’d all boarded the SS Avoceta, whose departure had already been delayed for an hour.

  It hadn’t been easy—or cheap—to find Detective Chaves. A sergeant at Guarda headquarters had been willing to provide his home address in return for twenty bucks. Mrs. Chaves directed us to the local bar fo
r five, and the bartender there soaked us for ten just to bring the detective’s brother, Jorge, into the discussion. Jorge made out with fifty bucks for taking us to an apartment around the corner, where we finally found our man sharing a bathtub with his triple-D-cup mistress. It took a hundred to convince him that it was worth drying off and heading into the office to check the passenger lists. We’d agreed that if he found Lisa Foquet on one of them, he’d phone Brewster at his apartment.

  After two whiskey sours, served by the wary Luiz, the phone rang. Lisa Foquet was on a list all right, but, of course, she wouldn’t come cheap. The Avoceta was scheduled to sail for Liverpool in roughly twenty minutes and Chaves felt that stopping her was worth five hundred. I only had two bills left on my roll, which was scoffed at, but Brewster got him to accept three as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and donated the extra hundred himself. Brewster was all right, in the end.

  I checked my watch—almost midnight. My name was too bound up with Eva Lange’s to tag along, so I’d decided it would be better to stay in the background, a decision I was starting to regret. They’d been on board the better part of forty minutes. What the hell was taking so goddamn long? She was in a first-class cabin. All they had to do was knock on the door, grab her, and bring her ashore. Five minutes, in and out. What could go wrong?

  Someone called out. A man’s voice, deep and resounding, echoing around the wharf. Then all hell broke loose—the ship’s engine burst forth with the rumbling explosion of vibrating metal, heavy chains scraping against the ship’s hull, men yelling back and forth across the darkness…

  I took a step forward, straining to see any movement. Nothing at first, but then I saw them, coming down the ramp. Three, four men and—yes, another silhouette, a woman’s figure, hidden behind one of the larger figures. As they stepped onto the concrete berth and passed under a dim lamp, I got my first shadowy look at her. I couldn’t make out much more than the short black hair of her disguise, but there was something about the way she walked—the way she held herself—that made me know it was Eva. There was a grace about her that just fit, though I couldn’t say why.

  I thought she looked up at me, but they were still a good hundred yards away and I was standing in total darkness. She couldn’t have known that I was waiting there.