The Portuguese Escape (7 page)

Richard frowned.

‘Probably—that's common form, of course. Anything since?'

‘Not so far—but I only heard that this morning. We're holding him over in Barcelona for forty-eight hours before he flies to Madrid. We have a fairly thug-proof hide-out for him there.'

‘And from Madrid he comes here?'

‘Yes, and stays a bit to meet his contact before flying on to America.'

‘I see.' Atherley brooded. ‘You have an equally thugproof hide-out for him here, I hope?'

‘I think so. Melplash has it in hand.'

Atherley restrained a groan—he had never been inspired with much confidence by Mr. Melplash. But he let it pass.

‘Do you by any chance know a Miss Julia Probyn?' he now asked.

Torrens stared a little, surprised at the question.

‘Yes, I do.' He gave a sudden confidential grin. ‘She stood me up once, completely, out in Morocco.'

‘Oh, really? How amusing. When was that?'

‘Year before last.'

‘And you haven't seen her since?'

Torrens looked still more surprised.

‘Yes—I met her here in January, on my way home to report. But why?'

‘No reason on earth,' Atherley lied easily, pleased with the information he had picked up. ‘Except that I wondered if you would come to lunch on Thursday to meet her.'

Torrens was caught off guard.

‘Is she still here? I thought she went back to England in March.'

Then they
are
in touch, Atherley thought to himself, but not in very close touch.

‘She did, but she came back five days ago, to cover the wedding for some paper. So I hope you are free on Thursday. Little Countess Hetta Páloczy will be there too.'

‘Oh, really? The one who's just got out? Yes—thank you, I should like to come very much.'

‘Good—that will be very pleasant. Just the four of us, I thought—it will be easier for Countess Hetta. She seems a little inclined to find the West the
Wild
West,' Atherley said. ‘Not really so surprising, in a way.' He gave Torrens a card with the address of his house, and scribbled the hour on it. ‘Goodbye for the moment,' he said, rising to terminate the interview.

When his visitor had gone Atherley sat for a little while, reflecting on what he had heard. Torrens himself impressed him favourably: he was in quite a different class to so many of these S.I.S. types—like poor little Melplash, for instance. He rang up the Military Attaché—the Embassy had a private exchange, unconnected with the Lisbon telephone system except for outside calls—and asked a few questions. The M.A. did not know very much, but the little he did was satisfactory: a sound man; thoroughly reliable, and with a high reputation. ‘He was in the Scots Guards to begin with,' he said, with a certain finality.

‘That won't make H.E. like it any better if he drags us into some mix-up over a Central European,' Atherley said, rather sourly—and Colonel Campbell laughed down the telephone. ‘Let's hope he won't,' he said.

Atherley continued to reflect. Quite clearly it must have been from Major Torrens that the lovely Julia had picked up her rumour about the important Hungarian, presumably when he passed through Lisbon in January. Both his own impression of the man, and the Military Attache's account of his record led Atherley to decide that his visitor was not a person to talk recklessly about service matters; he would only do so to someone with whom he was involved in some way, usually emotionally. But not necessarily emotionally, of course, he thought; they might be working together. Press assignments sometimes covered other activities. H'm. Perhaps he had better try to find out from Miss Probyn a little more about her relations with the Major, past
and
present. When dealing with these Secret Service people—or indeed with almost anyone—it was impossible to know too much. He had actually reached
out his hand to the telephone on his desk when the instrument gave its low discreet buzz—he lifted the receiver.

‘Atherley,' he said.

‘Good morning, Richard.' It was the Ambassadors voice.

‘Oh, good morning, Sir. How is her Ladyship?'

‘Splendid, thank you—and the baby is putting on weight like anything! She get's up today, and I think we ought to have a cocktail-party next week; we seem to have been more or less
incomunicado
for some time. I thought of Friday—Helen should be thoroughly strong by then. But we should like you to be there. Are you free?'

‘Of course, Sir,' Atherley said dutifully, even while he felt in his breast-pocket for his engagement book, and thumbed it awkwardly with his left hand to find next Friday's page. Before he had found it—and his conscious mind told him that it was merely to gain time—he added —‘Shall you be asking Countess Hetta Páloczy? You know she's arrived?'

‘Oh yes, so she has. How interesting—I expect Helen would like to meet her. Must the mother come too? Yes, I suppose she must. Very well—I'll ask Miss Cuthbertson to send cards to them both.
What
is the girl called?'

‘Countess Hetta'—he spelt it out.

‘Yes. The surname is the trouble; but I expect Miss Cuthbertson knows how to spell it. I never can be certain whether Polish or Hungarian names are the worst! Well, we shall count on you on Friday.'

‘I shall look forward to it, Sir. And I'll see that Miss Cuthbertson gets the name right! Countess Hetta is an interesting girl—unusual,' Richard added; and then wondered why he had said that.

‘I imagine that she has led a rather unusual life, by our standards,' said the Ambassador a little drily, and rang off.

After a moment or two Richard lifted his receiver again and asked the bi-lingual telephone operator—the Portuguese wife of one of the English-born Chancery messengers —to ring up the Duke of Ericeira's house and get Miss Probyn for him. He then replaced the receiver, opened the drawer in his desk, and resumed his study of the life of the domesticated but so informative Magalhães family. When
that discreet buzz came again he once more took up the instrument as before, saying ‘Atherley.'

‘Really, Richard,' Julia's voice said indignantly—‘what a way to speak! Atherley indeed! Have you become a Duke, or something?'

‘No, it's simply common form—it avoids confusion,' Richard said. ‘Can you come round to my house for a drink this evening?'

‘Party?'

‘No, you and me. Yes—No?'

‘Yes'—rather hesitantly. ‘Yes, I think probably. Could I call you back presently and let you know? What time?'

‘By all means. Sevenish—or whatever suits you.' As he put back the receiver he added aloud—‘According to what time your dinner with Major Torrens is, dear Julia!' The Major, he decided, had been uncommonly quick off the mark after learning that Miss Probyn was in Lisbon; indeed, unless he had telephoned from the Embassy he could hardly have done it in the time—he had left Atherley's room under half an hour earlier. Curiosity prompted Richard to find out about this.

‘Mrs. Tomlinson, did a Major Torrens put a call through from the Chancery this morning?' he asked the operator.

‘Yes, Mr. Atherley, he did—about twenty minutes ago, from Mr. Melplash's room. Mr. Melplash spoke to me first.'

‘Quite all right, Mrs. Tomlinson. It was to the Duke of Ericeira's, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, Mr. Atherley. To the same young lady that you spoke to just now.' There was a certain smugness, Richard thought, about the operator's voice. ‘Thank you,' he said.

Julia rang back later to say that she would be with Richard at 6.45—‘I've a dinner engagement.'

‘Do you want fetching?' the young man asked.

‘No no—I have my own car; got it yesterday.'

‘I'm glad the firm's so rich,' he mocked.

Julia was looking very lovely when she came into his drawing-room that evening, in a short full-skirted sub-evening dress of very rich dark-green brocaded silk.

‘Goodness, Julia, what a frock!'

‘It's my wedding dress. Do you really like it?'

‘It's
quite
beautiful,' Richard said. ‘But I am afraid you have probably put it on more for Major Torrens than for me.'

The detested blush dyed Julia's cheeks to the tone of a fully-ripened apricot set against a sunny wall.

‘What do
you
know of Major Torrens, pray?' she asked, rather tartly.

‘He came to see me this morning, and I very kindly told him that you were here, which he didn't know. You owe this dinner to
me
, dear Julia.'

She laughed. ‘Oh well.'

‘Poor liaison, I thought,' Richard pursued. ‘You didn't know he was here either, till he rang you up at 11.15 a.m., or as near as no matter.'

‘Richard, how
do
you know all this?'

‘Never mind that, for the moment. But as a reward for my valuable services, will you now tell me exactly how you stalled him in Morocco last year? Come on—I have a feeling that it's a good story.'

It was rather a good story—how she had gone to Tangier to look for her missing cousin Colin Monro, and in the course of her search for him had stumbled on Major Torrens' current activity of shipping a new and rare radioactive mineral out of Morocco; how her enquiries, quite without her intention, had raised so much dust that the operation had to be closed down. However, they had got all they needed for tests by that time, Julia said airily, so it didn't matter—‘and now Morocco is such a muck-up that nobody can do anything there anyhow. I was blown up by a bomb!' she added, rather proudly.

‘Good Heavens! Not that affair at Marrakesh? Wasn't some Duke blown up too?' Richard asked, quite driven off his usual careful-casual line.

‘Yes, Angus Ross-shire. But nothing like as bad as me— here's my scar.' She lifted her lion-gold hair to display a narrow white line running down her forehead.

‘Golly! And did you ever find your cousin?'

‘Oh yes; he was working for Hugh—for Major Torrens,' she corrected herself hastily—‘running the stuff on his little smugglers' yacht.'

‘Is he still with Torrens?—though I expect I shall soon be calling him Hugh myself,' Richard said.

‘Oh, rather—though he isn't here just now.'

No, dear girl—I expect he and his little yacht have been scooting from Cannes to Port Vendres with a Hungarian, passenger on board, Richard thought to himself. He gave his beautiful guest another drink, and when they parted it was on terms of greater intimacy and liking than before—Julia even, finally, vouchsafed laughing that at one point Major Torrens had suggested employing her.

‘Oh, you would do them a treat—I can't think why they hesitate for a moment,' Richard said, standing at his door, while she climbed into her rather large hired car. The bright Lisbon evening was soft and full of stars; lights from houses shone, warm and yellow, along the built-up sides of the ravine. ‘See you Thursday,' he called as the girl drove off.

That was on a Tuesday. On Wednesday evening, just as he was locking the drawers in his desk prior to leaving the Chancery Richard's telephone buzzed. It was Major Torrens, who asked if he could come round to see him.

‘How soon?' Richard asked, without much enthusiasm —he was dining out.

‘Immediately.'

‘How soon is that? Where are you?'

‘Oh, where I am! But I can be with you in eight minutes.'

‘Very well,' the Head of Chancery said resignedly; he unlocked one of his drawers and took out the
Familia Magalhães
, who kept him company till Torrens arrived.

‘Any trouble?' Richard asked.

‘A little. The opposition seem to be rather active in Spain.'

‘Really? They haven't copped your man?'

‘No—but it was only by accident that they didn't. I told you about the little hold-up between Cerbère and Barcelona—owing to that he missed the plane he was to have taken to Madrid. But
that
plane had engine failure and made a forced landing right out in the country somewhere on the upper Ebro—and the moment it landed a number of murky-looking types, who certainly weren't all innocent peasants, swarmed round it and made a rather thorough inspection of the passengers.'

‘Um. Cause of engine-failure known?'

‘Yes. Sugar in the petrol-tanks—the Iberia people are quite solid on that.'

‘Did Iberia report the murky types?'

‘No. One of our people from Madrid was on board, and mentioned them—he'd gone to Barcelona to meet our party, but had to get back at once.'

‘And where is your man now?'

‘On his way to Madrid by train, I hope.'

Richard considered. ‘Have you any idea who “they” are, in Spain?—the actual operators? Spaniards?'

‘I fancy so; leave-overs from the Civil War. Funny how little people in England realise what a Communist-dominated affair that was! A lot of them fled to North Africa—Morocco was full of them when I was there; but I suppose they are sent back to Spain as required. They would be more suitable than anyone else for the job. I gather some East Germans are in it too—Spain is full of German business men just now, doing an export drive, and nothing is easier than for an East German to masquerade as a West German.'

‘Well, that's all most interesting,' Atherley said, glancing furtively at his desk clock. ‘But where do we come in?'

Torrens laughed.

‘You don't, yet. I really only wanted to warn you that if they are as busy here as they seem to be in Spain, we might have to call on you. But I hope not.'

‘So do I, I assure you!' Richard said, with considerable fervour. ‘Well, I shall see you tomorrow.'

The cards for the cocktail-party at the British Embassy arrived the day before Hetta set out for Mr. Atherley's luncheon. Hetta was always up early—lying late, let alone breakfast in bed, formed no part of her pattern of living; she usually went to Mass at half-past seven in the big church just across the gardens, and then ran on down to the sandy
plage
for a quick swim before walking back, glowing and contented, to breakfast—the water was still very cold, but she liked that. On this particular morning a letter lay beside her plate—apart from the note which Townsend Waller had sent with his flowers, it was the first that she had received since she arrived in Portugal. ‘Who should write to me?' she muttered, as she tore open the stiff envelope.