“Don’t miss,” I said.
“Ta-ta.” He winked and wove his way toward the exit. Likable guy, I thought. For a reporter.
“W
ould you like to play, senhor?”
I wasn’t sure that I’d understood the man in the elegant gray suit. He spoke in a polished, but almost inaudible baritone voice.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Would you like to draw chips?” he clarified. I was about to politely decline when he added, “You may sign for them on Miss Sterne’s account.”
“In that case,” I said, “why not?”
“Will one thousand be sufficient?”
“A thousand?”
“Yes, senhor. Will that be sufficient?”
“I guess it’ll get me started,” I said.
“Very well. What is your preference?”
“Sorry?”
“Your game. Which game do you prefer to play?”
“Oh, I guess I’ll try my luck at the wheel.”
He nodded and placed a voucher and a gold pen on the bar.
“Sign there and I will have the chips ready for you at this table.” He nodded toward a table in the far corner, and I signed on the dotted line.
“I wish you good luck, senhor,” he said as he pocketed the chit and disappeared.
I polished off my drink and wandered over to find an empty chair and two neat piles of fifty-dollar chips waiting for me. There were six players around the table. An old broad dolled up in a Victorian evening
gown was the only one to acknowledge me with a nod and a wisp of a smile. She must’ve had ten grand sitting in front of her, and twice that decorating her earlobes. I guessed she was a local and a regular customer. Next to her was a banker type—bald, midfifties, fat, and boring. He had a sour look that said he was losing big-time. Not much of interest there, aside from the five-star bimbo he had waiting in the wings. On my left was a fidgety fellow who stayed on his feet, leaning across the board, dropping chips like they were too hot to handle. To my right was a man in sunglasses who was leaning back in his chair, ignoring the action. Asleep maybe, but I wasn’t sure. A more-than-middle-aged Russian countess, or so I imagined, rounded out the group.
I lit a cigarette and dropped a couple of chips on numbers twenty-one and twelve, for no particular reason. I soon remembered why I never spent time at the wheel. It’s a guessing game, no better than playing the numbers. My chips started disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared, and by the time Lili snuck up behind me, I was down seven hundred and change.
“First you abandon me to Don Juan, then you throw away my money like it’s pennies from heaven. Tell me again why I brought you with me.” She’d apparently consumed enough Dom Pérignon to get me out of that doghouse.
“Must be my irresistible charm.”
“I’m managing to resist.”
“Lover boy go home?” I asked. Lili raised an eyebrow and tossed her head back over her shoulder to have a peek.
“I think I lost him.” She ignored the man in sunglasses, who was awake now and ogling her.
“Shall we go out the back way?” I suggested.
“You’d know all about that, I suppose.”
“It has its advantages.”
She picked up a chip, fiddled with it. “What about Eva?”
“Nothing definite,” I said. “I might know more tomorrow.” She gave me a look that I ignored, then handed me the chip.
“Put it on twenty-seven,” she said, and I did.
The croupier spun the wheel and gently released the ivory ball onto its track. There was some activity at the door—a party of six or so entering the casino, heralded by a discreet buzz of excitement that spread rapidly across the floor. I immediately recognized the couple at the center of the commotion. Three and a half years earlier he’d been king of England, Scotland, and Wales, crowned head of the British Empire, defender of the faith, and emperor of India. He had a reputation for being charming, urbane, witty, and he wasn’t half bad-looking, either. With those kind of credentials, it’s safe to assume there was no shortage of females flinging themselves at his feet, for marriage purposes and otherwise, but he fell head over heels for an American, of all things, and from Baltimore, of all places. Not exactly queen material, either, since she’d been married twice already. And not what you’d call a great beauty. More like one of the evil sisters than Cinderella. Who knows? Maybe that was the attraction. Anyway, she must’ve had something going for her because he gave it all up so he could marry her, and as a result he became one of the most admired men on the planet.
Edward and Mrs. Simpson, love story of the century. I wondered what the hell they were doing in a casino in Portugal.
“They’re waiting for a boat back to England,” Lili whispered in my ear, as if she’d read my mind. I noticed a look on her face that I’d never seen before. Even she was impressed.
“Numero vinte-sete!”
the croupier called out. “Twenty-seven black.”
“What d’you know,” I said. “Looks like you’re a winner.”
“Let it ride,” Lili purred.
“It’s only money,”
Lili shrugged as a small fortune in chips went back to the croupier’s side of the table. It wasn’t so much the stupidity of the comment that pissed me off as the stupidity of the bet. I’ve never had much sympathy for a loser who’s just thrown in a winning hand.
“Yeah, easy come, easy go,” I said, but she wasn’t listening. Captain Catela had spotted us and was making a beeline for the table.
“Where’s that back door?” she said.
“Too late.” I smiled. “You’re trapped.”
“I despise you.”
“I’m heartbroken.”
She shot me one last scolding look before Catela descended on her. He seemed to be in a state of considerable agitation and couldn’t straighten out his tongue for a minute.
“Calm down, Captain,” Lili sneered. “Take a deep breath.” Funny enough, Catela took her advice and it seemed to work.
“The Duke and Duchess of Windsor have asked to meet you,” he exhaled in a whisper. “They are awaiting us…” Lili raised an eyebrow and pretended to look bored, but I could tell she was a long way from bored.
“Why not?” she said indifferently. “How often do you get to meet a man who’s given up everything for a woman?”
“Every day,” I said. “They’re called husbands.”
“You’re a hopeless cynic, Mr. Teller,” Lili scolded as she took the captain’s arm and led him away.
“Isn’t everybody?” I said, but I was talking to myself by that time. I didn’t mind not being invited to the command performance, but I would’ve paid a lot of money to be a fly on the wall when Lili Sterne came face-to-face with Wallis Simpson. I had another drink and went to work on losing the last couple hundred of Lili’s dough. It didn’t go as planned, and when I found myself ahead I decided to take my own advice and quit before the streak came to an end. Besides, I was beat and ready to call it a day.
The cashier counted out twelve crisp one-hundred-dollar bills which I folded neatly into my pocket. As I turned to go I collided with the skittish fellow who’d been playing at my table.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t see you.”
“Please…Is my fault.” He spoke in an accent that I couldn’t quite place. Russian or Polish or something along those lines. He was a slight man, with angular features and deep-set dark eyes. His smile, if you could call it that, was tentative and edgy.
“I have not been looking where I am going,” he apologized, backing his way toward the exit.
“Jack Teller,” I said, offering my hand.
“Pleased to met you,” he replied tentatively, eager to move on.
I held his hand for a moment, which seemed to make him more than a little anxious. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Popov,” he said. “Roman Popov…”
“I can’t quite place your accent.” I was still clasping his hand.
“Belgrade.” He pulled out of my grip. “Please again accept my apologies…I wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Sure, a pleasant evening,” I said. “And by the way…Roman, wasn’t it?”
“Yes?”
“I put my winnings into my pocket, so you might as well give me back my wallet. It’s empty, but I’d like to have it back all the same.”
Popov put on a blank face. “Your wallet?”
“That’s right. The one you lifted when you bumped into me.”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken,” he said. “You have misplaced your wallet.”
“That’s possible, of course,” I conceded. “I could be mistaken. But I don’t think I am.”
“That is unfortunate, but—”
“How are we gonna find out?”
“Please, you must excuse me now.” He tried to slip away, but I blocked his path to the door.
“I know what we can do. I’ve got this friend. His name is Captain Catela—you probably know him. We just had dinner together. Why don’t I call him over and he can help us figure out what happened. I’m sure he’d be happy to.”
Popov was silent for a long moment, then he shrugged, smiled sheepishly, and produced the wallet. “I’m having a bad night,” he explained.
“It might’ve just got a lot worse,” I pointed out.
“So you won’t inform Catela?”
“No.”
“You are a gentleman.”
“Just tired,” I said, heading for the door. Popov caught up with me.
“May I walk with you?”
“Suit yourself,” I said, and he followed me out into the soft night air. The sky was inky black and teeming with stars that melded on the horizon with the lights of Casçais, the little fishing village that sat on a bluff a bit further up the shoreline.
“May I tell you the truth?” Popov said out of nowhere. Somehow I didn’t think the truth was what I was about to hear, but I said sure, go ahead.
“It was not my intention to steal your money.”
“You were just gonna borrow it, right?”
“In a way, yes, that is true.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Roman, but where I come from that’s called bullshit.”
“Yes, I quite understand. I would be somewhat of the same belief if it was I in your position. But I tell the truth nonetheless. Let me explain.”
“I’m all ears,” I said wearily.
“It was my intention to follow you out of the casino and return to you your billfold, acting as if it had fallen from your pocket.”
“Well, thanks for explaining that. I feel a whole lot better now.”
“I understand your doubt, of course. But, you see, my purpose was not to steal from you. It was to meet you.”
“You a Lili Sterne fan, too?”
“Of course, who could not be? But this was not my reason. I have wanted to speak with you, not Miss Sterne.”
“Maybe you’d better cut to the chase.”
“Excuse me?”
“What d’you want, Roman?” I was getting tired of this.
“I want nothing. Only to help you.”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“Everyone needs some help of one kind or another.”
“And what kind do you think I need?”
“You’d like to find this Eva Lange, would you not?” I stopped walking and faced him.
“How do you know about Eva Lange?” He smiled cagily and waited. He had my attention now and he was gonna milk it.
“This is Lisbon,” he said, somewhat cryptically.
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“I can find out.”
“Roman…”
“Yes?”
“Are you selling information or services?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Everything has its price,” he finally said, avoiding the question. “But I’m not a greedy person. I’m certain we will come to an acceptable agreement regarding my fee.”
I forced a smile, but my patience was wearing thin. “If you think you’re gonna go on some sort of payroll on the off chance that you come up with something, you can forget it,” I said.
“And if I have already some information?”
“Then you’d better give it to me. If it leads somewhere, I’ll make sure you get well paid.”
“Why do you wish to find this girl?”
“None of your business,” I said. “Now don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little chat, but it’s late and I’m tired.”
“Please excuse my intrusion.”
“Sure,” I said, and turned toward the hotel entrance. I think Popov stood there for a minute, watching me go in, but I didn’t look back. I headed for the desk, where I could ask the concierge to arrange for Alberto to pick me up in the morning. He’d given me the number of a neighborhood bar where messages could be left.
“Yes, Mr. Teller, I can phone him, of course, but…” The concierge coughed uncomfortably and nodded toward a bench in the corner where he’d installed a young girl who was wearing too much lipstick and not enough skirt. She was no more than sixteen, probably less. “She claims you are expecting her,” he said.
I looked at the clock behind the counter—twenty minutes after midnight. I’d completely forgotten about my appointment.
“That’s right,” I said, not interested in explaining myself. “Does she speak English?”
I stood my ground while I was treated to an extended look up the man’s nostrils. He finally gave up and beckoned the girl with his index finger. She skulked over to the desk.
“Fala inglès?”
the concierge demanded.
“Pouco,”
she whispered softly.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Fabiana,” she said, turning big brown eyes on me.
“Okay, Fabiana,” I said. “Come with me.”
I thanked the concierge for his help and felt the sting of his look in the back of my neck all the way across the lobby to the elevator.
F
abiana was well practiced in her routine. I hardly had the door closed before she was in the bedroom, unclipping her bra and stepping out of her skirt. She was confused and a little concerned when I stopped her, and led her back into the suite’s small living room.
“I just want to talk to you,” I said.
“
Sim,
senhor,” she replied, sitting down to await further instructions. She really was just a kid, and I hated to think what kind of further instructions she was used to getting.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Do you understand?”
“
Sim,
senhor, I understand.”
I took the newly acquired roll of bills out of my pocket, peeled a hundred off the top, and showed it to her. She looked at me like I was crazy, probably wondering what the hell she was expected to do to earn this.
“Just some questions,” I said. “About the man at the Imperial Hotel. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Sim…o Americano.”
“That’s right. Do you remember what happened that night?”
“Sim. A senhora entra—”
“In English, please.”
“Sim.”
She nodded and collected her thoughts. “The lady comes in.”
“That’s right. And what happened then?”
She shrugged. “I go.”
“You left?”
“
Sim…
I left.”
I handed her the photograph of Eva. “Is this the lady?” Fabiana took the picture in her hand and studied it very carefully for quite some time.
“Sim…Creio que sim.”
She gave the photo back. “I think yes, this the lady.”
“Did she say anything to the man?”
Fabiana thought for a moment. “She say to stop…”
“Stop what?”
“What he does…”
“What was he doing?”
Fabiana looked down at the floor, embarrassed.
“Never mind,” I said, getting the idea. “Let’s skip over that part. What happened next?”
“I go.”
“Did the lady say anything else?”
“No, senhor.”
“Did the man say anything?”
“He tells me to go…‘get lost,’ he say.”
This didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but I thought I might as well get my money’s worth.
“Did the man say anything to the lady?”
She thought about it again. “No…”
That seemed about all there was to tell. Nothing new, but at least I could be slightly more certain that it was Eva who had visited Grimes on the night he died. I was about to dismiss Fabiana when she offered something more.
“I think he is too afraid to say something.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes…
assustado.
”
“Why would he be afraid?”
She hesitated. “Because,” she said. “Because the…um…” She formed a V shape out of her thumb and forefinger and pointed it at me.
“Gun?” I said.
“Sim. Pistola. A senhora tem uma pistola.”
“The lady had a pistol?”
“Sim…”
“Are you sure it was the lady and not the man who had a pistol?”
“Yes, I sure. The lady, she point it to the man and so he is afraid. Then he say to me ‘get lost’ and I go.”
She looked up to see if that was going to earn her the hundred. I put it in her hand and sent her on her way, hoping it might mean she wouldn’t have to screw any more creeps like Eddie Grimes for a while, even though I knew it didn’t. I called down and told the concierge to put her in a taxi and to put it on my bill.
I poured myself a nightcap and examined the picture of Eva. It was hard to imagine the pretty young girl in the boat with a gun in her hand. Must’ve been quite a surprise for Eddie Grimes when he looked up to find her standing there holding a pistol in his face.
The gun was an interesting twist, all right, but it didn’t really change anything. A sensible precaution on her part, that’s all. She’d been running since Berlin, keeping a half step ahead of the Nazis, probably traveling under a false name. Naturally she would’ve been alarmed when, almost home free, some jerk showed up out of the blue asking questions about her and trying to arrange a meeting. The fact that she wanted some insurance in hand when she confronted him just showed that she’d developed good survival instincts.
No, the gun didn’t change anything. From the sound of it, she burst into Eddie’s room, and once she’d figured out who he was, she turned around and took off, with Eddie in pursuit. The odds still favored an unlucky accident on a dark road in the middle of the night.
Of course, if you could always count on the odds, it wouldn’t be much of a game, would it?