The Portuguese Escape (14 page)

‘This is quite marvellous !' he exclaimed, gazing at the vast dishes, the exquisite plates, and the tureens great and small. ‘It's even better than what they have at the Janelas Verdes.' ('The Green Windows' is the name habitually used for the Lisbon Art Gallery, once Pombal's palace.)

‘But naturally,' Luzia replied. ‘For the Museum they had to buy, here and there ; but this was all made for my great-great—well, I don't know how many greats!' the young girl said, laughing, ‘ but he was some sort of grandfather, and he was Governor of the Indies, like Albuquerque. These are our arms'—she indicated the coat so decoratively applied to all the larger pieces.

‘It's fantastic. What treasures you live among! Do you like them?' he asked, a little curious.

‘Yes—quite. I like the chapel better. Have you seen the chapel? '

‘No.'

‘Oh, it is down on the next floor—I don't suppose we have time. There is a wonderful Zurbarán, and some really good sculptures—a Pietà from Viseu which I think marvellous! We say the Rosary there every night after dinner.'

‘Do you indeed ! ' For some reason this casual statement of a daily fact increased his curiosity about Julia Probyn's pupil. ‘Why are your eyes grey?' he asked, suddenly rounding on her.

‘Because one of my grandmothers—I think my father's mother—came from the Minho, up in the North; there were many Celtic people there, and also Visigoths—and both, it would appear, had grey eyes. I do not know from which race my grandmother had them.'

‘From the Celts, undoubtedly—yours are Irish eyes,' he said carelessly, amused by this display of ethnographic knowledge in someone as young as the girl beside him. But she blushed so deeply at his words that he began to wonder if she were really so young, after all; he was rather
relieved to hear Julia's matter-of-fact voice calling— ‘ Luzia! Where on earth have you got to? '

‘Mr. Atherley wanted to see the
Compagnie des Indes;
he likes it better than the
Blanc de Chine
,' Luzia explained when Julia joined them. Back in the schoolroom he studied the paper which Miss Probyn handed to him.

‘Yes, that will do perfectly. It's very detailed. Did the imperial look genuine, or gummed on?'

‘My dear Richard, one really can't see if a beard is put on with gum-mastic at night, by headlights, when you've just been tipped out of your car! ' Julia said indignantly— Luzia, all eyes, nevertheless giggled again.

‘Well, never mind—thank you very much, Julia. That flat back to his head and the rolls of fat above the collar should be useful pointers, whether his beard is permanent or transitory—no one but Charles Laughton gums rolls of fat onto his neck, and that only for a film.'

Julia as well as Luzia giggled at this remark—Richard, rather upset, took Julia by the arm and drew her to one of the windows.

‘I say, is she all right? Little pitchers have long ears. Why on earth didn't you let Nanny take her away?' he muttered.

‘Oh, Luzia's as safe as houses—she's a wonderful child. And she was so longing to meet a diplomat! You've
quite
come up to her expectations,' Julia said, with her slow gurgle of pleasure—‘I can see that.'

‘Julia, I do wish you'd grow up! What Torrens sees in you I can't think,' Richard said irritably, pocketing the paper. ‘ Now, will you please get me out of this museum? Am I allowed to walk downstairs alone? '

‘Goodness no!' Julia replied, ringing the bell. ‘I'll start you, and Elidio will meet us on the way up.'

‘Goodbye, Luzia,' the young man said, shaking hands with the girl who was so soon to be beautiful—his vexation faded as those astonishing grey eyes, so eager, so candid, were once again fixed on his face.

‘Oh, goodbye. This has been a pleasure. Will you not come again, and look at more of the china? We have a great deal of Celadon,' the child said.

‘Yes, I will, if your aunt will let me,' Richard replied.

‘ Nanny likes you, and that is what matters,' said Luzia. ‘
Oh
—oh, but we go to the country on Saturday!' she exclaimed dolefully: her mouth on the ‘oh' was a rounded sculpture of woe. Where was that head of the Medusa that it reminded him of, Richard wondered—and why should a Portuguese schoolgirl have a face moulded on the splendours of classical antiquity? Oh well, the Romans had colonised Portugal, so she might easily possess Roman as well as Celtic blood, he thought, as Julia and Elidio between them took him downstairs and out of that labyrinthine house.

He dropped Julia's paper at Colonel Marques' office, and then drove quickly to the Chiado and bought a charming veil set with black velvet stars; it was no good to try and make Hetta look like a widow, and anyhow, he found himself thinking, this was his first present to her, and he wanted it to be a pretty and an expensive one. (It was certainly expensive.) Afterwards he dropped down to the Tagus, and raced out along the road to Estoril.

Experienced drivers like Richard Atherley are apt to find speeding rather conducive to reflection. The pace, the automatic reactions to the need to brake, or accelerate, or avoid other vehicles produce something faintly resembling the effect of fingering the beads of the rosary, also automatic—one thinks almost involuntarily. Richard, afraid of being late for his interview with Hetta Páloczy and therefore driving extremely fast, was soon thinking about her with an unexpected and almost unwanted clarity. He had not been wholly unaffected by having carried her in his arms the evening before, in that clinging garment; her shape, so revealed, was as sturdily slender as a sapling willow, and had a willow's resilience—in the night he had found himself, almost with dismay, recalling the very feel of her small supple muscular body twisting and wriggling in his grasp to free herself. All the subsequent events—the watcher in the rocks, Julia's car, and Torrens' pursuers had pushed these impressions to the back of his mind at the time; but in the small hours, when the mind is peculiarly defenceless, they had returned on him with troubling force. And the splendour of her swimming, and the vivid gaiety of her face and her talk at supper! She was rather
marvellous. Atherley, outwardly so much the conventional Englishman, and in addition heavily veneered with the watchful coolness of diplomacy, in his secret heart adored recklessness and
panache
—and this little creature, this convent schoolgirl turned cook, obviously possessed both to a high degree. But then her inexperience, her intolerance, the gaucherie which her prejudices engendered—how troublesome these were!

Hetta was in the little morning-room, alone; she was wearing a simple sleeveless cotton frock closely patterned in flame-colour and white, and white sandals; she looked as fresh as sunrise, and very pretty indeed.

‘How do you do? When does he come, do you know now? ' she asked at once. This neutral coolness should have put Richard at his ease; in fact, since his heart turned over at the sight of her, it suddenly irritated him. ‘ She can think of nothing but her wretched priest,' he told himself angrily. But he proceeded to the business in hand.

‘His plane gets in tomorrow morning at 9.40. I will call for you here at 8.30, and take you out to the airport. There are some railings there where a little crowd always collects—the public, who are not allowed onto the apron; you will stand among them and watch all the people who get off the Madrid plane, and when you recognise Father Antal you will point him out.'

‘But do I not speak with him?' There was something like desolation in her face, her voice.

‘Not there, no; it would not be prudent. Every plane from Madrid will probably be watched when it arrives here.'

‘Oh, by the Spitzel, of course—yes, I understand. But I shall see him properly later? '

‘Yes, you shall,' Richard promised recklessly, moved in spite of his irritation by the urgency of her tone. Damn it, Torrens could surely contrive that much, when she was so ready to help?

And so intelligently ready, as her next question showed.

‘And whom do I point him out to?' Hetta Páloczy asked. ‘To you?'

This quite flummoxed Atherley—somehow or other he and Torrens had entirely overlooked that particular point
when laying their plans. To whom
was
Hetta to indicate which of the passengers was the priest? Not to himself, if it was in any way avoidable—he thought gloomily of the Ambassador's justifiable reprobation if a member of his staff were to be involved in an affair like this, and anyhow he would not be having anything to do with the subsequent proceedings. It would have to be Torrens, or Melplash, or Julia—Torrens and Julia were of course both known by sight to ‘the opposition', after last night, but that couldn't be helped. He thought rapidly. One person would have to be in the long hall at the airport through which the passengers entered, and where the customs examination took place; a second must stand at the railings with Hetta to be given the identification, and nip round to contact whoever was in the hall. It was perfectly possible.

‘I'll tell you that tomorrow morning,' he said. ‘We haven't decided yet. But someone will be with you, and when you have pointed out Father Antal, he will go round and meet him.' He pulled the little parcel with the veil out of his pocket, and said as he gave it to her—‘ And you are to wear this.'

She undid the pretty flowered paper, drew out the veil, and shook it open.

‘Oh, how pretty! But why? I never wear veils—they are for older women, with bad complexions, are they not? '

Richard had to laugh. ‘Yes, as a rule. But tomorrow you must wear this. And put on some dark, inconspicuous clothes—something shabby, if you have such a thing! '

‘Oh, I have my
terrible
Hungarian suit; this is as ugly and shabby as possible! But please tell me why? '

He explained to her what Major Torrens had first made clear to him the night before—that she herself might well be in some danger, since her previous association with Dr. Horvath must certainly be known, and therefore she must not be recognised at the airport, if possible. Hetta jumped up, ran to a mirror, and held the velvet-starred veil before her face.

‘Oh, it
is
pretty! I think I look very nice! Do you know me? ' she asked, wheeling round on him.

‘I should know you anywhere, I think, you silly little creature ! ' Richard said, restraining a strong desire to get
up and hug her. ‘But, Hetti, this is serious—it isn't a game. You must be very careful for the next little while. Don't go out alone, except in the car.'

‘I do not.'

‘I thought you went swimming before breakfast.'

‘Oh, this—yes.'

‘Well you positively mustn't do that, for the present.' He spoke urgently—how appallingly easy it would be for her to be pounced on down on the beach, at an hour when nobody in lethargic Estoril was about. ‘Promise me,' he said.

‘I must go to Mass!'

‘No, you mustn't do that either, unless your mother's maid or someone can go too.' Then, as she looked mutinous, he was inspired to say—' Not till the Father is safe out of the country, anyhow.'

The mutiny died in her face. ‘ Oh, if it is for
him
. Very well—I promise. But
you
promise that I shall speak with him before he goes away? '

‘Yes, I have promised you that. You shall.'

They fell silent—a silence which to Richard became uncomfortable because of his own emotions. Hetta broke it with one of her characteristic switches to a fresh subject.

‘I believe that Yulia really works with Major Torrens. Doesn't she? You remember I told you when you drove me back from your luncheon that I think they are involved together in some way—now I think it is in espionage, not as fiancés. What do you think?'

‘I don't think about them at all,' the young man said, getting up. He had got to catch Torrens and organise the arrangements for the morning, as well as clearing up his work in the Chancery, and he had no desire whatever to discuss Miss Probyn's relations with the Major with Hetti —his own relations with her threatened to become of overmastering interest.

‘Goodbye, my dear,' he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Remember what I've said, and be ready tomorrow morning at 8.30. Down in the hall.'

The airport of Portela lies some distance outside Lisbon, farther up the Tagus; the drive to it is partly through
suburbs, partly through open country now becoming increasingly studded with Dr. Salazar's new housing estates —these are rather straggling, since each house must have its
bout de terre
. Richard took Hetti there in a taxi, rather to her surprise; he thought it wiser not to take his own car with its red-and-white CD. number-plate on this expedition. He had seen Torrens the evening before and they had settled that Mr. Melplash, who was small and suitably inconspicuous, should stand with Hetta at the railings, and then go round and tell the Major, who would be in the entrance-hall, which of the passengers was his man.

‘What did you tell your mother? ' Richard asked Hetta on the way out.

‘Nothing. She will think that I went to a later Mass, or spent long in the sea—she is not interested in what I do before midday.'

Torrens was there before them; Mr. Melplash was there too, and was introduced to Hetta; they went off to stand at the rails, where, early as it was, a small crowd had already gathered. Who these people are who have leisure to stand interminably watching the arrival and departure of aeroplanes is one of the standing mysteries of Lisbon life.

‘I'll wait in my taxi,' Richard said to Torrens—‘I've told her to come back to me there.'

‘Yes, whisk her away. I hope to goodness Melplash doesn't perpetrate some clottery!' Richard recognised one of Miss Probyn's favourite phrases, and grinned. ‘I don't see anyone with rolls of fat at the back of his head, do you? Perhaps they haven't got anyone here for this plane.'