The Portuguese Escape (15 page)

Hetta Páloczy stood at the railings in the bright morning sunshine with Mr. Melplash. Beyond the white surface of the airfield olive-trees stood out, shapely, silvered by the morning breeze, against a background of reddish soil shot over with the delicate green of growing corn; in a homely yet rich way the landscape had a certain beauty. But her mind was in a turmoil of excitement and anxiety. Mr. Melplash, eager to be helpful and thoroughly enjoying the situation, promptly pointed out to her the little motor affair, with its trailer for luggage, waiting out on the tarmac; there, he explained, the plane would come down. To Hetta it seemed appallingly far away; if Father Antal
was really wearing a beard could she possibly recognise him at that distance?' Where do they go then?' she asked anxiously.

‘In at that door, just to our right, where you see the police standing.'

The police were reassuringly close at hand. There, surely, she would know his face and his eyes—though how hard it was to visualise that beloved stocky figure in anything but a dusty black soutane rather green with age, and either with his thinly-covered silver head bare or with an equally ancient and dusty biretta perched, rather askew, on it.

A faint hum sounded and grew in the blue bowl of the sky, above the red earth, the rising crops, the sculptured silver of the olives—grew till it filled the bowl, the air, and hummed in the ears of the watchers. ‘There she is,' said Mr. Melplash, tilting his head, as a silver shape crossed overhead.

‘But it's going away!' Hetta said astonished.

‘No, only going out to turn over the Tagus—look, now she's coming in to land.' And in a moment or two more the great machine touched down, gently, with one or two easy bounces, taxied along the run-way, and came to rest by the luggage-trailer.

Hetta leaned forward, straining her eyes to see through the stars on her veil, as the door in the aeroplane's silver side opened and the mobile steps were run up to it. A figure in uniform appeared, then withdrew again into the machine; some officials stood by the steps. Now, at last, the passengers began to descend. Three men with briefcases, all too tall to be the priest; four ladies in mourning, heavily veiled; a man and a woman, apparently together, for she turned on the steps and spoke to him; three girls whose neat suits, clever shoes, and beautifully-dressed hair betokened Americans, followed by a tall man, also by the shape of his hat an American; two nuns. Then, one after the other, half a dozen men—all of medium height, all carrying the distended brief-cases which will hold pyjamas as well as papers, all wearing the light-weight slate-coloured rain-cloth overcoats which are practically a uniform among continental men travelling by air, brown
trilby hats and sun-glasses! Hetta's heart sank as she watched them crossing the apron towards her, in the bright sun; the stars on Richard's veil were maddening, she pushed it up, impatiently, and studied the faces, panting a little. None wore a beard, she noticed with thankfulness, but how could she ever make this Mr. Melplash know which one she meant, when all were so alike, even if she managed in spite of their goggles to recognise Father Antal herself?

That, however, she
must
do, and as these stereotyped specimens of
Homo sapiens europaeus
came nearer, their eyes concealed by the tinted glasses, she was inspired to study the backs of their heads under the trilby hats. Yes—all but one had hair, and darkish hair at that; as the colourless stubble on the sixth head approached the group of police, she recognised—she could not fail to—the blunt ugly nose, the stubborn chin, the wide, wise mouth that she knew so well. She pinched Mr. Melplash's arm.

‘That is he—the one whose hair is without colour.'

‘The bald-pate, d'you mean?'

‘What is bald-pate?' Hetta asked angrily—was this man's stupidity, or her lack of English, to spoil everything at the last moment?

‘Well, he is nearly bald, isn't he? Is that the chap?'

‘Yes! I said so. All the others have dark hair. Now
go
!' Hetta said, managing to speak in an undertone in spite of her fury with this silly little man.

‘All right, all right,' Melplash said, rather miffily. ‘There's no rush—they'll be ages in the hall.' What a tartar this Hungarian secret agent was, he thought, for all she looked rather pretty—what you could see of her through that veil. (Major Torrens had thus promoted Hetta into the ranks of counter-espionage; he preferred not to reveal her identity to his local colleague.)

The little secret agent, left to herself, stood for a moment longer at the rails. She was trembling a little from reaction; a few tears fell behind her veil. He was
there
, in that building within fifty yards of her!—and yet she must not approach him or speak to him. It was almost more than she could bear; she clenched her hands round the rails, as if to clamp herself in position, to control the
ferociously strong impulse to follow the detestable Melplash round into the building. But the crowd was thinning on either side of her, as it does after a plane has arrived; noticing this she sniffed, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, drew her veil down again, and walked back, very deliberately, to where the taxi waited on the parking-place.

‘Well?' Richard asked as she got in. ‘All right?'

‘Yes—but what a
stupid
person this Melplash is!'

The taxi-man started his engine.

‘Oh, can't we wait just one minute? We might see him again!'

Richard himself would have liked to wait, but he remembered Torrens' injunction to whisk his young companion away at once, and he was going to be appallingly late at the Chancery as it was.

‘No, Hetti—better not. Now, tell me what happened.'

She told him about the six short men in sun-glasses and raincoats, her terror lest she should fail to recognise the priest, and her final solution of the problem. ‘And then this
creature
used a word I cannot know! What is “baldpate”, if you please?' she asked indignantly.

‘Poor Melplash—he isn't exactly a ball of fire,' Richard said laughing. ‘You've done splendidly, Hetti. Those five or six ghastly little men in overcoats are always on every plane from Madrid. Anyhow,' he added easily, ‘now everything is all right.'

But in this he was unduly optimistic.

The British Embassy in Lisbon is in various ways an inconvenient place for entertaining, not least because the main entrance is in a rather narrow and extremely steep street; moreover, the house is built on the slope of the hill, so that to reach the principal rooms all visitors must climb a quite considerable flight of stairs, broad and dignified as these are. However, once on the main floor, dignity takes over entirely. A splendid portrait of Marshal Beres ford looks down on the guests even as they pant up the stairs to the wide hall; the long drawing-room is noble, with splendid views from its six windows; a glazed-in passage leads round a half-square to the great ball-room with its vast gilt mirrors, used for large receptions, and out into a small flagged court from which a flight of stone steps, overhung by the delicate sharply-cut foliage of a big pepper-tree, mounts up into the garden—immensely large for a town house—with its expanse of lawns, shady trees, and brilliant flower-beds. It is, in spite of its inconveniences, one of the most beautiful embassies in the world.

The drawing-room, fine as it is, is too long and narrow to receive in with any comfort—people fail to find their way out by the doors at the farther end, and get jammed in a solid block. Lady Loseley, who was as practical as she was short, neat, and pretty, therefore always awaited her guests in a smaller room, also with two doors, opening off the glass passage; this had a marble floor and marble tables, like mortuary slabs, against the walls—one of her predecessors had christened it ‘the morgue'; but it is too square for anyone to get jammed in it, and only a few steps from the long buffet in the great ball-room. Here the following afternoon Countess Páloczy, with Hetta in tow and deep satisfaction filling her heart, was for the first time received by the Ambassadress; Richard—looking very peculiar, Hetta thought, in morning coat and striped
trousers, a uniform with which she was unfamiliar—stood at Lady Loseley's elbow and introduced them.

‘So this is the young lady who is such a good cook!' Lady Loseley said, smiling, as she shook hands with the girl; Hetta liked her immediately for this sensible frankness but the Countess's eyelids began to flutter—what a reputation for her daughter. ‘Henry, I don't think you know Countess Páloczy—and this is her girl who has been in Hungary for so long,' Lady Loseley went on; the Ambassador turned away from a conversation with the Papal Nuncio to greet the two ladies. He was not tall, with gay blue eyes in a deceptively cheerful and open face; he had also a trick of picking at one thumb with the nail of the other, and did so as he said to Hetta—' I wish you would do me a
real
favour.'

‘What is that?' Hetta asked bluntly, entirely forgetting to say Your Excellency, as she had been told to do.

‘Teach my idiot of a chef how to make
Hasen-pastete
. We used to have it for breakfast at the Budays—I never ate anything so good. Can you?'

‘Yes—but hares will not be in season till September,' said Hetta seriously.

‘No more they will—though I doubt if that cretin in the kitchen would know a thing like that! All right—you'll come and make one in September.' He turned back to the Nuncio.

‘Countess, the buffet is round the corner, on your right,' Atherley said.' This house is such a jig-saw! Ah, M. le Duc,
quel plaisir
!'

Hetta and her mother perforce moved on as the Duke of Ericeira and his old sister approached their hostess.

Hetta was rather upset by seeing Richard in this formal role—she felt that he was cold, distant; not at all the person she knew. And she had wanted to talk to him, and ask him if he had any more news of Father Antal, and when she was to see him. She followed her mother out of the morgue in a slightly gloomy frame of mind.

It was a fine warm afternoon, and all the glass doors had been thrown open onto the courtyard, making it almost an extension of the house; most of the many guests were congregated there, and the Countess and Hetta
drifted out with the rest—a footman in livery brought up a tray of cocktails.

‘
Je préfère le Xérès
,' Hetta told the man, as her mother took a glass.

‘
Immédiatement, Mademoiselle.
'

‘
Really
, Hetti—' the Countess was beginning, when Mgr Subercaseaux came up and kissed her hand.

‘Good afternoon, Countess. What a lovely day! So you still prefer sherry, Hetta?'

‘Yes—I do not like cocktails.'

‘Wise child. Countess, isn't this a charming house? Have you seen the
azulejos
with the coats of arms of the former Ministers and Ambassadors? Oh, but you must— the whole diplomatic history of the English in Lisbon is here; it is unique! Permit me to act as cicerone.'

This particular feature of the Embassy in Lisbon is indeed unique, and rather decorative. Since the Moors, seven or eight centuries ago, taught them the art, the making of coloured pictorial tiles has become a Portuguese speciality; and some diplomatic genius initiated the idea of having the arms, crest, and name of each Minister— later of each Ambassador—emblazoned and set in the walls round the courtyard and up the steps leading to the garden. These the Monsignor now proceeded to point out to Countess Páloczy and her daughter. But the Countess was only slightly interested; living notabilities meant more to her than dead ones, and her attention strayed to the people about her. Not so Hetta.

‘Oh, look—this Legate was here under
three
Kings!' she exclaimed, as she read the Latin inscription on one plaque.

M. de la Tour, the French Ambassador, who was talking to the Monsignor and the Countess, overheard her.

‘
Tiens!
' he said, going up and poking his pince-nez over her shoulder towards the decorative panel—‘So he was. Do all young ladies in Communist countries learn so much Latin?'

Poor Hetta had quite forgotten who this busy friendly little man was.

‘Communists, Monsieur,' she said coldly, ‘know nothing and learn nothing.' She looked round, seeking an escape, and was delighted to be greeted by the old Ericeiras—she
remembered them from Mme de Fonte Negra's party, and elderly as they were she liked them. She thus escaped for the time being her mother's vexation that she should have addressed an ambassador as ‘Monsieur'; the Countess, however, apologised on her behalf to His Excellency— ‘She has had
no
advantages, poor child.'

‘Countess, if I were as well pleased with everyone's daughter as I am with yours I should be a happier man and a far happier priest,' Subercaseaux said emphatically; he bent a peculiarly benign glance on Hetta, who was working her way round the plaques with the Duke of Ericeira, pouring out Latin and lively comments. The Countess was startled by the priest's tone, and rather upset —she was not wholly pleased, either, to see her gauche daughter on such easy terms with someone whom she herself had never managed to meet. The priest gave her a fine, ironical smile as he moved away; he passed through the crowd, smiling and Dear-lady-ing right and left—Hetta, her tour of the diplomatic
azulejos
with the old Duke completed, observed him with distaste. Then she was fastened on by Townsend Waller.

‘Oh hul
lo
! How nice to find you here. Isn't this a fascinating house?'

‘I like this outside part,' Hetta said, temperately.

‘I saw you reading Latin aloud to the old Duque. What a lot you know—thanks to Mother Scholastica! Have you been round the garden?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, come on. Wait—I'll get you another sherry.'