The Portuguese Escape (28 page)

Julia laughed, and then frowned, over this missive. Damn! Of course it would have to happen that her precious Mrs. Hathaway must needs arrive in Lisbon in her absence, and while she was so tied up with Hugh's affairs that she couldn't race back to look after her old friend. However, once they had got Hetta safely tucked in at Gralheira she might get away tomorrow; anyhow she would ring Mrs. H. up tonight. She slung the orange suède jacket, which so delightfully matched her tawny-blonde hair and apricot complexion, over her shoulders and left her room.

In the corridor she encountered Luzia.

‘Oh, Miss Probyn, you are going out! I saw the car coming up to the door—I thought so.
Can't
I come too? I am so dull; and I
hate
cutting out aprons for Tia Maria Francisca's wretched lost girls to sew, which is what she will make me do if I am at home. I have hardly seen you today—you have been all the time with Torrens, or the priests!
Do
say Yes,' the girl implored, twining an arm cajolingly through that of her ex-governess.

Julia, laughing and releasing her arm, decided instantly that she would say Yes. To drive into São Pedro do Sul, not only in the Duke's car but accompanied by the Duke's daughter was an excellent bit of cover for their errand.

‘All right, you can come,' she said. ‘Go and get a coat —but hurry.'

Torrens, who had only come that way when it was practically dark, was especially pleased to see the countryside. Passing through the pinewoods clothing the slopes of the Serra they crossed ravine after ravine, each of which was spanned by small curved terraces on which spring crops were growing—they looked like whole strings of bright-green horse-shoes, suspended on silver threads of water between the dark pines.

‘They don't waste an inch, do they, these people?' he said.

São Pedro do Sul is a pleasant unpretentious little town, lying, as its name implies, on a southern slope facing the sun. As the car drove into the curious raised square immediately below the Igreja Matriz, the Parish Church, Torrens' eye was caught by two things: the spectacular front of the Reriz Palace, with its huge impending cornice and innumerable balconies of wrought iron-work, and the exquisite little façade of the Misericordia Church, whose baroque window-frames of dark granite are set, not as usual in pale plaster, but in aqueous blue-and-white
azulejos
which cover the whole surface of the building.

‘Julia, do for goodness' sake let us stop for five minutes and look at all this!' he exclaimed. ‘We're well on time, and some of these things are fantastically lovely.'

‘Oh very well'—Julia tapped on the glass and told the chauffeur to pull up.

Torrens sprang out at once, and strode off across the square towards the Misericordia, followed much more leisurely by Julia; Luzia got out too, but with her adolescent acuity decided to leave her companions to themselves —they get few enough chances in our house, she thought. She pottered contentedly about the little square in the warm sunshine, taking note of the various cars parked round its edges. Her eye was caught suddenly by the red-and-white number-plate with ‘CD.' and six figures, which
in Portugal makes diplomatic cars unmistakeable—she walked over to it. The car was American; it was empty.

‘
Tiens!
' Luzia said to herself. Diplomatic cars were not a very common sight in São Pedro do Sul, especially out of season. She looked about her. As always in Portugal one or two beggars were sitting sunning themselves outside the parish church and she went up to them, feeling in her purse for small coins as she did so—at her approach they held out dirty hands and began their customary gabble.

‘There, O Santinha! There, O Santinho!' the girl said, dropping money into the outstretched palms of a very old woman and a crippled man. In northern Portugal it is the delightful custom to honour poverty by addressing beggars as ‘Little Saint'; moreover, the giver thanks the beggar for affording him the opportunity of an alms-deed. Automatically Luzia did so now—‘
Muitissimo obrigada
' (most greatly obliged) she said; then she briskly addressed the cripple, who looked the more intelligent of the two.

‘What quality of persons came in this
carro diplomatico?
' she asked. ‘Did you see them?'

‘
Sim, sim, Minha Menina
,' the old man said. ‘There was a Senhor, who appeared to be an Americano, and a Menina —very dark, she was.'

‘And where have they gone?'

‘The Menina went into the Igreja—she gave me
silver!
' the beggar quavered excitedly. ‘And the Senhor?'

‘He went to drink wine in that small shop across the
praça
. While he was within another big
carro
drove up, with four Senhores; they looked at the
carro diplomatico
, and as the Menina has done one of them asked us where the
pessoas
in it were. So I told him; but he gave me no money!' the old man said angrily.

‘And then?' Luzia asked.

‘Then they drove the car close up to the entrance of the Igreja Matriz, and three went in, while one waited at the driving-wheel; and presently they came out with the Menina.'

‘Well?' Luzia pressed him.

‘They put her into the car, and drove away all together.'

‘Without the Americano?'

‘
Sim
—without him. Curious, was it not?' the cripple said detachedly.

Julia had not bothered to mention to Luzia the reason for their drive to São Pedro do Sul—for one thing she was confident that the girl would have heard of Hetta's impending arrival from Nanny anyhow, and she had a firm trust in her pupil's tact and discretion. Her confidence was well-founded: Nanny had of course told Luzia that ‘we' were expecting a young lady—‘Hungarian; a Countess it seems, and a great friend of Dom Francisco's. She's driving up from Lisbon today.' It had not taken Luzia long to connect this fascinating fact with their expedition that afternoon, and when she saw the car with a diplomatic number-plate it took her exactly one second to leap to the conclusion that it had probably brought the Hungarian young lady to their remote district—hence her questions to the beggar. But she had heard, and guessed, enough of what was going on to be thoroughly disturbed by what the cripple said.

‘How did the four Senhores look?' she asked, as casually as she could.

‘Foreign—the one who talked with me spoke Portuguese very badly!' the old man said.

Luzia reflected quickly, then tried a further question.

‘Had one of them a beard, and rolls of fat at the back of his neck?'

‘
Sim, sim!
They wore grey,' the beggar added.

The grey conveyed nothing to Luzia, though her mind recorded the fact, but the beard and the fat neck frightened her very much.

‘And did the
Menina
go willingly with these Senhores?' she asked.

‘
Não, não!
She struggled, and the bearded one put his hand over her mouth before they thrust her into the car. Was this not also curious?'

To Luzia it was not so much curious as horrifying. She gave the creature another coin, to stimulate his wits, and asked what the
carro
of the four foreign Senhores was like?

Black, large, shining, and closed, she was told.

‘And by which road did it leave?'

São Pedro do Sul is the junction for four main roads: north to the valley of the Douro; south-east to Viseu and Guarda, but also to Coimbra and Lisbon; due west to Aveiro and the Atlantic; north-west—a poorish road—to Vale de Cambra and Oporto. But about this the cripple was less clear. The car had driven away very fast; and precisely at that moment a rich, a charitable lady had come up to him, and in speaking with her he had failed to notice which road the big black car took.

‘Did you see its
numero?
' Luzia asked, without much hope.

‘Ah no,
Minha Menina
—I cannot read numbers.'

‘Is the Americano still in the wine-shop?'

‘
Não, nã;o
—when the big car has left he comes out, he goes into the church, no
Menina
!—he comes out again, he runs here and there looking for her; I think he is gone to the
Policial
.'

Luzia wasted no more time on the beggar except to thank him politely—she ran like a deer to the Misericordia Church, outside which Julia and Major Torrens now stood, admiring the delicious little narrow balcony—such a curious feature for a church front—immediately above the copper-green door. The girl caught Julia by the arm.

‘They've got her! They've taken her away,' she said.

‘Who's got whom?' the Major asked. Julia was quicker.

‘D'you mean Hetta Páloczy? How do you know?'

‘It must be her. Come this way,' she said, propelling Julia a few steps towards the square. ‘Do you see that diplomatic car? A dark girl came in that, with an American man; she went into the Matriz Church, he went to drink. And then'—she repeated the beggar's story of the men in grey pushing Hetta into the car. ‘One put his hand over her
mouth,'
she said, staring at Julia, her eyes immense with horror. ‘It can only be her.'

‘How did you learn all this?' Torrens asked.

‘From a beggar by the church. Beggars watch everything—what else have they to do? But do not waste time on him; I have sucked him as dry as a lemon! What must we do?' the young girl asked urgently.

‘Ring up the Colonel, don't you think?' Julia said to Torrens. ‘They're pretty certain to make for Spain, and he
can have the frontier watched—closed, if need be, can't he?'

‘I suppose so.' He looked worried. ‘Did your observant beggar get the number of the car?' he asked Luzia.

‘No. He can't read. But it was a big black saloon. Oh, and I didn't tell you—one of the men had a beard, and rolls of fat at the back of his neck. Surely this is the person who smashed your car?' Luzia said to Julia, causing Torrens to gape at her—Julia nodded briefly.

‘Well, that sounds like it,' the Major said, rather slowly, to Julia. ‘But of course we're not certain it is the little Countess at all—Luzia doesn't know her by sight. Or do you?' he asked the girl.

‘No—but who else would be forced, struggling, into a car? To me, it all fits. Do telephone!' she urged Julia.

‘We'd better do that from the
Policia
, Julia said. ‘Where is it, Luzia?'

As Luzia led them towards the police-station a frantic figure came hurrying from that direction, staring about him as he ran; his hat and the cut of his overcoat blazoned him as American, in that European setting.

‘Oh, there's Townsend,' Julia said calmly. ‘Let's ask him about this. Oy! Townsend,' she yelled—the Bostonian heard her, and raced towards them across the open space.

‘Have you seen Countess Hetta?' he panted as he came up. ‘Julia, it's good to see you! D'you know where she is? She went into a church to pray, and I went to have a drink, and now I can't find her!'

‘Relax, Townsend. We're looking after this,' Julia said kindly. ‘Come along with us.'

‘But where
is
she?' the American asked.

‘We think she's been abducted,' Torrens said brutally. ‘By Communist agents. Why on earth did you let her out of your sight?'

‘Oh shut up, Hugh,' Julia said. ‘It's all our fault for keeping him in the dark.'

‘Communist agents?' the Bostonian asked, aghast. ‘Were they at the bottom of that business of crashing your car after the Guincho, Miss Probyn?'

To the surprise of the others, Luzia answered. ‘One
man, at least, was the same both times,' she said. Townsend, for the first time, noticed her.

‘This is Luzia Ericeira, Townsend,' Julia said, using the customary Portuguese form of identification. ‘But come back to the
Policia
—we want to telephone about this at once.'

As they walked on Townsend's distress was painful to see.

‘Shouldn't we go after her?' he asked. ‘Communists do frightful things to girls!'

‘We might, if we knew where they'd gone,' Torrens replied. ‘But we don't know the number of the car.' He took Julia by the elbow and muttered in her ear. ‘For God's sake detach him somehow! We don't want him fretting round while we're telephoning to the Colonel.'

‘There—that is the
Policia,'
Luzia said. She turned to the American. ‘I think you are quite right—we should go after her. Will you come with me while they are telephoning? I want to arrange something.'

Julia didn't know whether Luzia's extraordinarily sharp ears had overheard Torrens' aside to her, or whether the girl was simply using her customary astuteness and tact, but she was thankful to be relieved so painlessly of poor Townsend's presence.

They got through to Lisbon rather fast—Colonel Marques' name and telephone-number seemed to act as a talisman. The local police, deeply impressed and much excited, stood round while one of them sat at the telephone; meanwhile Julia and Torrens examined a large map of northern Portugal which hung on the wall—she showed him the various routes from São Pedro do Sul into Spain.

‘It just depends whether they choose a fast road, with a big, efficiently-manned frontier-post on it, or a slower route to some dud little place where they might get through more easily—I don't suppose Hetta has her passport with her,' she said. ‘Look—Fuentes de Onoro is fairly small; it's'—she worked out the distances with a pink-tipped finger—‘nearly 200 kilometres, via Viseu and Guarda; the road's good all the way, but it's frightfully curly. Then, going' north, there's Barca d'Alva—that's only
just over 140 kilometres, and it's a
tiny
place, but the road's appalling; they'd have to turn off the Guarda road at Celorico, and trickle through Pinhel and Figueira de Castelo Rodrigo. And I don't know whether the bridge has been rebuilt yet.' She turned and questioned the policemen. ‘They're not sure,' she told Torrens. ‘So I think we can count that out.'