Читать книгу Unneutral Murder - Footner Hulbert - Страница 5

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Early on the morning of the ninth day, the Dom Joäo III steamed grandly past the noble tower of Belem on the Tagus. An enormous huddle of palaces, churches, convents and hovels followed, rising from the river as on steps and crowned by a hoary old Moorish fort with square towers. Along the quays at the water’s edge spread the markets of the town, and moored to the quays, bow foremost, stretched an endless rank of picturesque fishing boats with lateen sails. In front of the city the narrow river spread out in a wide, placid lake with ferry-boats crossing to and fro.

“So this is Lisbon!” murmured Lee. “What’s it going to do to us, William?”

“Whatever it does, we can take it,” growled William.

The ship was moored to her dock. After the formalities of the custom-house had been concluded, Lee and William taxied to the hotel with their luggage. They crossed fine squares each with its noble monument in the centre, and each surrounded by handsome buildings. Since this part of the city was levelled by an earthquake in 1755, it all bore the formal stamp of the eighteenth century.

The Lisboa Palace was an immense and too-ornamental pile, typical of the European de luxe hotel. Since it was half a century old, its magnificence had become a little old-fashioned and faded, but it still had an air. Like others of its kind, the entrance was deceitfully modest; a revolving door, a small room with four chairs, the “bureau” on one side and the head porter’s desk beyond; stairway and lift on the other. All the magnificent public rooms, lounge, restaurant, etc., were above.

“The restaurant is said to be the best in Lisbon,” said Lee. “That’s why I came here. I am told they serve salt codfish in forty-one styles, all delicious.”

“They can keep it,” grumbled William.

Lee registered under his own name, and secured a corner suite on the third floor. The door was opened with a big brass key. On one side their windows gave them an oblique view of the Roçio, the principal centre of Lisbon, and on the other side they glimpsed a corner of the huge Central Railway Station. The furniture of the suite was upholstered in red velvet with antimacassars over the backs of the chairs and sofas; old-fashioned lace curtains hung at the windows; but the service was such as could not be equalled in America. The smiles of the porter in his striped vest, and the buxom chambermaid, suggested that they had known and loved these Americanos for years. Lee knew how to make these smiles permanent.

William immediately set out to find a couple of rooms from which they could conduct their affairs inconspicuously.

“Must be central,” suggested Lee, “yet a little retired ... Try to find a place that has a way out at the back,” he added dryly.

William had also to set lines in motion towards finding a trustworthy Portuguese messenger or servant. He had a couple of addresses furnished by Westerholm. “Offer good pay,” the Consul had suggested, “but not too good or the Portuguese will make up his mind that you are wicked fellows. Almost any Portuguese will serve you faithfully—unless the enemy gets at him with a bigger offer.”

Lee taxied to the U.S. Legation in the western part of Lisbon to pay a courtesy call. His driver, like the previous one, tore through the streets sounding his horn continuously. All the other taxis were doing the same. He could speak English after a fashion, and he explained to Lee that if there was an accident, unless he could prove that he had blown his horn he was liable to be convicted of manslaughter. So to be on the safe side he blew it all the time.

At the Legation, Lee, who appeared to be expected, was shown directly into the Minister’s private office. He was received by a tall, lanky gentleman, grey-haired, handsome, whose slightly derisive American grin instantly recommended him to Lee’s affections. What a pleasure, after all the Latin faces in the streets! He said:

“Welcome to Lisbon, Mr. Brown! I have been advised of your coming. I know who you are, of course. In fact, I have read one of your books.”

“That didn’t improve your mind any,” said Lee. “Better address me as Mappin, and have done with it.”

“But I might when others were present make a slip.”

“It wouldn’t matter. My presence in Lisbon is already known to the enemy, and I decided to register under my own name. It’s more dignified and not a bit more dangerous.”

“But how will you account for your trip to Lisbon and your stay here?”

“Amos Lee Mappin has come to Lisbon to gather materials for a book. I won’t get far with that, of course, but it will do for a talking point.”

The Minister looked at Lee ruefully. “I suppose it has not occurred to you that your stay here adds to my difficulties.”

“How come?” asked Lee.

“Well, I’ve been advised that the Legation must not under any circumstances give countenance to your activities in Lisbon. I haven’t been told what those activities are, but I can guess.”

“I’ll tell you ...” began Lee.

The Minister quickly held up his hand. “Don’t! If you get into trouble with the Portuguese authorities I will have to go on the stand and swear I know nothing about it. It’s a game we all have to play, this neutrality.”

“I knew that before I came,” said Lee, “but what ... ?”

“Here’s the rub; a broad hint has been conveyed to me that your person is dear to the State Department and to the Administration generally, and that if anything should happen to you in Lisbon, it will be the worse for me.”

Lee laughed. “You’re a good fellow!”

“Same to you,” said the Minister.

“I know quite well,” said Lee, “that in Lisbon I am, so to speak, a man without a country. If I get in a jam I shall not call on you. On the other hand, I intend to keep out of jams if it is humanly possible.”

“Does the enemy know the nature of your business here?” asked the Minister.

“Not yet. But of course they will know as soon as I get busy.”

“You will be in grave danger, Mappin.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“You will need a bodyguard. I employ several Portuguese agents. Let me lend you a couple of them.”

Lee shook his head. “Better not,” he said. “I’ve already learned that working as a secret agent for one of the Powers is a leading industry in Lisbon. Your agents must be known to all the other agents, and if they followed me around, the trail would lead direct to you. Let me find my own bodyguard.”

“Lose no time about it,” said the Minister earnestly.

“Here’s a thing you can do for me,” said Lee: “Advise the British Ambassador of my presence in Lisbon, and say what you can in my favour. You might suggest to him that he recommend me to the British consular agents throughout Portugal. They have so many and we have so few.”

“I’ll do that,” said the Minister.

Lee stood up. “One question before I go. Is it proper for you to tell me if you have received any instructions respecting Friedrich Erbelding and his family?”

“No, Mappin. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you if I had.”

“You know who he is, of course?”

“The famous author, certainly.”

“The admirers of his books are making a concerted effort to get him out of Germany,” said Lee.

“Difficult, Mappin; he makes no secret of his scorn for the government.”

“All the more difficult because he has a wife and several small children. He can’t leave them behind.”

“I had heard he was in a concentration camp?”

“He was. Where he is now I don’t know. I have to find out.”

“Even if he has escaped from Germany,” said the Minister, “he would have to cross occupied France and Franco’s Spain in order to reach neutral Portugal. And encumbered with a family, I should say it was a sheer impossibility, Mappin.”

“Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that he does reach Lisbon,” said Lee. “What would you do for him?”

“I’d issue him a temporary United States passport,” said the Minister promptly. “A man like that is a citizen of the world.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be enough?”

The Minister shook his head. “Before he could board a ship or a plane, he would have to have a Portuguese exit visa.”

“Any difficulty about that?”

“It depends. Suppose Germany represented to Portugal as a friendly nation, that Erbelding was a dangerous criminal and asked for his detention?”

“What would Portugal do?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. But I know what they would like.”

“What is that?”

“They would like to have the Erbeldings smuggled out of the country without their knowledge.”

“I see,” said Lee. “Thanks for the tip.”

“But Mappin,” the Minister continued, “it is useless to talk about diplomatic usage and passports and visas in this case. The Germans will be panic-stricken if Erbelding escapes them. They have good reason to fear what he would write in a free country. If he should reach Lisbon he will never get as far as my office. The Gestapo is here in force. They have had the nerve to hire a hotel.”

Lee took out his notebook. “I’d better have that address.”

“Hotel Excelsior, Rua Azorrague, 38.”

Lee turned towards the door.

“What are your plans?” asked the Minister anxiously.

“I don’t know ... yet,” said Lee. “But I have promised not to drag you into it. If you hear anything I suppose you’ll let me know.”

“Surely! And good luck, Mappin!”

“Thanks. Reckon I’ll need every bit of it.”

The days that followed were busy ones. The Dom Joäo III, having discharged her cargo, sailed for New York. William found two rooms in the Rua Cachimbo, 23, that seemed to suit their purpose. It was a street of no special character on the edge of the business district, lined with third-class hotels, small business offices, cheap apartments, and neighbourhood stores at the street level. Number 23 was supposed to be a business building; consequently it had no concierge, and the street door was always unlocked. One could enter or leave at all hours without observation.

“That has its disadvantages as well as its advantages,” remarked Lee.

“I shan’t leave you alone in that building,” said William.

“Nonsense! You can’t play nursemaid all the time. You have other work to do.”

William set his lips obstinately. “The back door of the house opens on a narrow passage or alley,” he went on, “that finds its way out to another street.”

“Good! That may prove useful.”

“Only for a short time,” William pointed out. “As soon as they discover that this house is our hangout, they’ll watch both entrances.”

“We must have other hangouts or hideouts in reserve,” said Lee. “What about the house of Pedro Chavez, the fisherman, that Westerholm recommended to us?”

“That address is in the Alfama,” said William, “the ancient Moorish quarter, a sort of rabbit warren on the slopes that lead up to the castle. I’ll visit it to-morrow.”

William reported next day that Pedro Chavez’ house seemed ideal for their purpose. Teresa Chavez, the wife, lived there alone when her husband and son were away fishing; a woman of character, William said, who enjoyed the respect of her neighbours. A tiny house in an out-of-the-way lane, it contained only three rooms, but Teresa was glad to rent a room to William. Her son could sleep in the kitchen when he came home, she said. There was a secret way out through the garden. The fishermen were expected to return in two days. Lee subsequently visited the house, and approved of the arrangements.

William rounded up a Portuguese youth named Manoel to be their messenger and general utility man. He was a student of the University at Coimbra, but assured his new employers that he had plenty of time on his hands. A typical, happy-go-lucky product of Lisbon, with a black cape slung over his shoulder, he was forever singing, whistling or dancing.

“I hope his head is not as empty as it sounds,” said Lee.

They determined to keep Master Manoel under observation for a few days before entrusting him with any confidential work.

To receive their mail and telegrams, Lee engaged a lock box in the General Post Office. “I do not believe,” he said, “that the enemy has succeeded in getting his tentacles into the Portuguese Post Office. If our letters get as far as Lisbon, they will get to us.”

In due time William found Pedro Chavez aboard his boat, the Enguia, moored to the Cais do Sodré. His report was favourable. “A simple, honest fisherman, strong as an ox, ignorant, but shrewd; looks on our enemies as his. By paying him something in advance, I have persuaded him to lie in port for a week while he overhauls his engine and mends his nets. He will sleep at home and we can get in touch with him at any time. His boy, Carlos, is eighteen years old and cast in the same mould as his father.”

So far, neither Lee nor William had been followed in the streets. They were prepared for it as soon as the enemy became organized. They used taxicabs when they had anything to conceal. It is difficult to trail a taxi through traffic, and in a taxi you can find out at once if you are being trailed by another taxi. They wanted to keep the secret of the Rua Cachimbo as long as possible, and it was absolutely essential to keep their connection with the Chavez family a secret.

For several days now Lee had been established in his “office.” William had put in a desk, a few plain chairs, and a cheap couch. The previous tenant’s telephone was still connected. Otherwise the rooms were bare. The entrance door was at the head of the first flight of stairs. From the stair hall you entered an inside room without windows, through which you had to pass in order to reach the front room, which had two windows looking down on the noisy street.

Here Lee, by interview, by wire, and by post, had started gathering together the threads of an organisation that stretched across Spain and central France to neutral Switzerland—and beyond. Here he received oddly-contrasting visitors; a fisherman in a stocking cap, a banker in a silk topper, a railway guard, a Portuguese waterfront bum and others. There was no sign on the door of the office, only a number.

Lee’s first great task was to instruct his agents in the new code, and to make sure that it was passed from one to another. It was not to be written down. His predecessor in this job, in travelling between two stations of the underground, had simply disappeared and been heard of no more. Lee therefore had been instructed by his employers not to leave Lisbon, but to let others do the travelling.

So far the enemy had made no overt move, but Lee and William neglected no precautions. At the Lisboa Palace they had a sitting-room and a bedroom beyond, which could be entered only through the sitting-room. William insisted on sleeping on a day-bed in the outer room, though there were two beds in the bedroom.

“Surely they would never dare to stage a show in this flossy joint,” said Lee.

“I don’t know,” said William. “This old hotel has so many corridors, so many pairs of stairs, so many entrances, so many servants who might be bribed, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Finally they discovered that they were followed whenever they left the hotel. It was not far to the office, but they always used a taxi for the journey. When they were followed they went somewhere else, and after a while started out again.

Ronald Franklin and Kate McDonald had both booked at the Lisboa Palace—separately. From time to time they ran into Franklin around the hotel. He was always polite, but betrayed no interest in their movements. After a few days Miss McDonald checked out. She had taken the plane for England, a clerk told them. On the sixth day after their arrival in Lisbon, Franklin ostentatiously bade them good-bye. He was flying to Switzerland, he said; would be back in time to catch the next ship for New York. Manoel, sent to the air field to watch, reported that Franklin had actually boarded the Swiss plane.

Meanwhile, Lee had found a little restaurant on the Largo do Socorro that suited him to a T. It was called the Macaco Branco, a modest place where the proprietor was a Cook, as Lee put it, the greatest prize a stranger could stumble on in a foreign land. They saw the same people there every night, and soon cultivated a bowing acquaintance with all. Stout, middle-class Portuguese, it was by observing them through the windows that Lee had first been led into the place.

Every night, after returning to the hotel by taxi, they walked to the restaurant, indifferent as to whether they were followed. Lee sampled the Portuguese dishes, one after another, and fell in love with the native vinho verde, which is not green at all, but red and sparkling. It had a bouquet, Lee said, as delicious as spring flowers. Afterwards they would go to some little cafe to hear the fado singers.

In spite of all precautions, Lee discovered after a week that their hangout in the Rua Cachimbo had been spotted. From the front windows all day he could see men walking up and down the other side of the street, watching the door. They frequently relieved each other. “Well,” said Lee with a shrug, “sooner or later it was inevitable,” Next morning, for an experiment, he and William entered from the back street. So far, that door was not watched.

Disquieting news arrived from underground sources. News had leaked out in Germany that Friedrich Erbelding and his family had escaped the country, and Gestapo circles were violently aroused. For a week nothing had been heard from the Erbeldings. Lee’s Swiss agents were silent.

“I wish you could fly to Bâle and make your way across the border as you have done before,” Lee said to William. “We have good friends in Munich. Perhaps you could trace the Erbeldings from there.”

“My first duty is to you,” said William, scowling. “I couldn’t leave you here alone without a guard, without even an interpreter.”

“Manoel will do till you come back,” said Lee.

“A boy of eighteen!” said William scornfully.

Next morning there was a message from the agent in Grenoble, France, that the Erbeldings had arrived safely and had been passed on to the South.

“Crossing the Spanish border is the greatest risk,” said William. “The Gestapo is watching every road.”

Four days later, more news came, and it was the worst that could be. Lee’s agent in Barcelona reported that, at the request of the German authorities, Friedrich Erbelding had been arrested. The charge was travelling on a forged passport.

Lee carried this to the United States Minister, who promptly telegraphed to the consul in Barcelona, asking him to investigate. In due course there was a reply saying that the Spanish authorities in Barcelona asserted Friedrich Erbelding had escaped from prison, and that his present whereabouts and that of his family was unknown. Nothing further from Lee’s agent.

“A likely story!” said Lee bitterly.

“Probably led out by the Gestapo and shot,” said the Minister.

Lee flung up his hands and let them fall. “Those little children!”

Lee had no sooner got back to the office than the telephone rang. He heard the cautious voice of the American Minister asking: “Is that you?” Both men had in mind the danger that the wire might be tapped.

“It’s me,” said Lee.

“I want to see you.”

“Okay, I’ll be right over.”

As a matter of precaution, Lee and William went out the back way. Consequently they were not followed to the Legation. Lee had recognised from the tone of the Minister’s voice that they were not going to hear good news. They found him pacing the floor of his study.

“Thank God! I was able to find you!” he said. “The Gestapo has it all fixed to do away with you to-night.”

“So soon?” said Lee in an even voice.

The Minister stopped and stared. “Is that all you have to say?”

Lee smiled crookedly. “Well, maybe I’m not so cold-blooded as I’m trying to make out.” He dropped in a chair and wiped his face.

“It was only by the merest accident that I learned of it,” the Minister went on; “that’s what makes me tremble ... Do you eat at a restaurant called the Macaco Branco?”

Lee nodded.

“I thought so! Two agents of the Gestapo who look like Portuguese, but God knows what their real nationality may be, will be dining there to-night. They plan to pick a quarrel with you in the course of which you’ll be knifed. In the confusion they expect to escape through the kitchen.”

Lee had recovered himself. “Fancy that!” he said. “How did you hear of it?”

“These agents are a pretty worthless lot,” said the Minister. “Many of them, including my own, congregate in a bar near the Cais do Sodré. One of my men happened to hear a whispered conversation in English there. No doubt the thugs thought they were safe in speaking English. You weren’t named, but if you eat at the Macaco Branco, of course you’re the one they referred to. Keep away from that place as you value your life!”

“But it’s an excellent restaurant,” protested Lee. “The sole with mussels is as good as it ever was in Paris. In all Lisbon, I doubt if I could find a restaurant that would suit me so well.”

The Minister stared. “Surely you’re not in earnest, Mappin!”

Lee considered the situation. “If we stop going to that restaurant, they’ll find us somewhere else. We’ll never know when to expect an attack. But if we beard them there, it will demoralize them. They’ll never dare attack us in that place again, and I can at least continue to eat well.”

“Consider the risk!”

“William and I will be armed,” said Lee in his mild way, “and guns are quicker and more deadly than knives.”

“Well, you know your own business best,” said the Minister with many shakes of the head.

Lee turned to William. “Am I not right?”

“Yes, sir,” said William promptly. “If we let them get us on the run we’re done for.”

An hour later, Lee and William were entering the Macaco Branco, which faced on the tiny square bearing the fine name of Largo do Socorro. There was a long, narrow room with a double line of tables, each set for four. The walls were decorated with tropical scenes, and down at the end wall, looking down the lines of tables, a handsome white monkey sat in an ilex tree. A long time ago these pictures had been painted by a poor artist in payment for his meals. With the passage of years, they had become rather dingy, but the worn table linen was snowy and the thick glasses shone like crystal.

It was early, and the tables were not all filled. Lee and William bowed to all the regulars and paused to pass the time of day with the Senhora at the counter. Her broad face was wreathed in smiles. These were the only Americanos among her guests. She approved of them highly, and hoped they might be the first of many. The table they usually occupied was close to the kitchen door.

“This would be just in line with the plans of our friends,” remarked William.

“Let us hope that they will not get to carry out their plans,” said Lee.

Lee, keeping the tail of an eye on the street door, studied the lista de comida. He ordered a galhina branca for the main dish, and with it chose to drink Colares, another fragrant local wine that he favoured. He and William were sipping it when two burly men entered the restaurant.

“Here they come,” said Lee, putting down his glass.

The Senhora, seeing new customers, bustled out from behind her counter. She offered them a table near the door, but they ignored it, and came slowly back, looking from side to side as if to choose the places that were most to their liking.

“It’s a mistake to suppose that assassins give themselves away in their faces,” Lee said to William softly. “Look at these two, with their smooth mugs and their neat and sober clothes. If you didn’t know better, you would swear that they were respectable tradesmen or minor professional men. They are, however, just a little too un-self-conscious; they are taking too much pains not to look at us.”

William’s eyes behind the thick glasses were like points of ice.

The newcomers, having chosen the table next to the Americans, seated themselves and ostentatiously shook out their guardanapos. One asked for the lista.

Lee took another sip of wine. “Well,” he said, “let’s get it over with,” and pushed his chair back. Facing the two at the next table, he said with slightly exaggerated politeness: “Good evening, gentlemen. I understand that you speak English.”

The two men gaped at him like clowns. This was out of line with their well-rehearsed programme. Their yellow faces turned slightly greenish. Their team-play was broken up. One tried to make believe that he was insulted; the other stammered:

“No, sare! No Angleez! No Angleez!”

The tall William with his glittering blue eyes stood close beside Lee with his right hand thrust significantly in the pocket of his jacket.

Lee continued in his pleasant voice: “I am told that it is your intention to provoke a quarrel here and in the end to stick a knife in me. I only want to warn you that we are ready for you.”

Their mouths fell open; their two faces made a picture of comic dismay. They leaped up so suddenly that their chairs crashed over backward. Snatching their hats, they charged blindly for the door, knocking against the tables, colliding with the waiters. In a flash they were gone. Lee and William looked at each other and laughed.

“Qué há? Qué há?” demanded the distressed Senhora, clasping her hands.

“Scoundrels? Assassins! Malefactors!” said Lee with gestures.

She got it. A new flood of Portuguese poured from her lips.

“What’s she saying?” asked Lee.

“Just thanking you for running them out of the place,” said William.

“Tell her the pleasure’s mine!”

They resumed their seats and the galhina branca appeared from the kitchen, lovely under its blanket of snowy sauce. “Now we can enjoy our dinner,” said Lee. “They won’t bother us again in this place.”

On the following morning at the office there was a letter from Manoel in the mail. Freely rendered into English, the boy said “with a thousand regrets” that they would not see him any more. He had been warned that it would be extremely unhealthy to work for “O Senhor Mappin.” He was young, he said, and he wanted to have some fun before he was liquidated.

“Well, we must try again,” said Lee.