By two-thirty the air in the street was sultry and dead. The only time it moved was when a car or a truck displaced it. The bowl of Lisbon trapped the steamy heat, and people stewed in it.
Julie's legs ached from standing. Her skin was sticky, and she felt as if she'd been wearing the same underwear since Christmas. Every few minutes she moved on and looked in the window of a different shop. She had become expert at watching the bank in the reflection. She had also developed a tremendous respect for cops' feet: they walked their beat for twice or three times as long as this, without complaining. But not without eating. She had a vision of a half-pound hamburger, medium-rare with onions, hot off the grill, so real she could taste it. She'd give a hundred bucks for that hamburger, and another hundred for a cold beer. Sweat briefly stuck her thighs together. She'd give a cool thousand for a cold shower.
Three o'clock struck and struck and struck. The shops which had closed for lunch began to reopen. Julie propped herself in front of a display of men's shoes and wondered gloomily how much Pan Am would give her back on her ticket. She watched a man in uniform who was standing outside the bank, and realised that he was a cop, and then realised that he was watching her. What's on your mind, buster'? she thought; and the answer presented itself quite obviously. Hang around a city bank for two or three hours and the law takes an interest in you. At once she turned and strolled away. The cop strolled with her, stopped when she Hopped. She did some more double-window-shopping until he made a move to cross the street, so she went inside the damn shop.
It was a bookshop. There was one spot near the front which gave her a good view of the bank. She opened a fat cookbook, frowned over the recipes, glanced up, and found the cop on the other side of the glass. He was young and intelligent-looking. Oh Christ, she thought, do they arrest for this sort of thing in Portugal? She changed the cookbook for a dictionary. The cop watched, and chewed his lip, and Luis Cabrillo came out of the bank.
She must have twitched, because the cop turned to look too. Despite a big hat and a small moustache there was no doubt; Luis's walk, his build, the way he held his head-- she recognised them all. He was walking away. She dumped the dictionary and darted out.
She followed him and the cop followed her. Luis turned the corner and headed north, away from the river. If traffic clogged an intersection he turned west for a block, then north again. He walked unhurriedly and unworriedly, never looking back.
Julie felt shaky with a blend of tension, hunger and anxiety. She was out of her depth, worried about the police-man, afraid of what she might get led into, yet driven by the simple excitement of it all. As they crossed the big square called the Rossio, it flashed through her mind that perhaps he knew she was there, and knew the policeman was following her; perhaps he meant to keep on walking until they both gave up; Lisbon was big enough, and he had that sort of determination. But no: halfway along a side-street, he went into an oldfashioned, severe-looking office building. She noted the number, 23, as she hurried past, pretending she was heading elsewhere. The street was quiet and the cop's footsteps sounded crisply. Her mouth felt dry but her body was sweating and one ear was singing as if from a change in altitude. She pounded on, too scared to stop but without the slightest idea where she was going; turned a corner, pounded some more, turned again, saw a taxi cruising by, waved, shouted, and got it. Small sensation of triumph.
'Alfama,' she said, the only place she could think of. He took off. She counted to ten, and looked out of the rear window. The cop was standing on one leg while he scratched the other and watched them go. He looked lonely and tired.
Her driver took a bewilderingly zig-zag route. After a couple of minutes she reckoned she was safe, so she stopped him, paid him, began walking back, and soon discovered that she was lost. This was obviously a moment for reason and commonsense. She knew Alfama was to the east. The sun, still glaringly hot, should by now be moving to the west. It was towards the north that she wanted to go. She re-oriented herself and set off again. But the streets kept curving and cheating, and ten minutes' hard walking left her looking at a dusty neighbourhood of grey, prison-like warehouses.
She plodded on and caught a bus. The idea that it might go anywhere near the Rossio vastly amused the conductor. He showed her where to get the right tram. She got the wrong tram and had to change again. When eventually she reached the Rossio it was 4.30 and her skull was throbbing to a headache. She headed for the side-street in a thoroughly foul temper. Nothing much had gone right this day. If anybody got in her way now she was in a mood to punch his teeth in.
Number 23 had been built to last, and that was a mistake. Everything about it was too big: hulking doorways, remote ceilings, a high-stepped staircase which climbed around a lift-shaft the size of a lion's cage. The lift was out of order. The hallway was empty and patrolled by three flies. Julie slashed at them and made them scatter. She looked for a list of tenants: nothing. The ground-floor offices had Nogueira-Ricardo Lda. painted on the door. Whatever business they did in there, they did it silently. As she went up the oversized steps, the three flies were back on patrol.
Next floor: Jodo Arouca, Antiguidades. Above him: Institute Folclorico. Julie trudged on. Vasco da Gama Ferreira, Engenheiro and P. G. Melo, dentista. Another flight. Lopes e Coelho Lda. faced Arte Rustica de Madeira Lda. She paused for breath. Somewhere far below, a man coughed, once, as if in his sleep. With each floor the smell of dust and defeat grew stronger. The sixth floor was the last. It was also the only office with no name on the door.
She held her breath and listened. Nothing except a certain pounding in her ears. She thought:' What if he is in there? What do I say? and then: What if someone else answers? Some total stranger? What if. . . She released her breath and rapped smartly on the glass before things got worse.
Nobody answered.
There was a letterslot. She crouched and peered through .: A big room, gaunt-looking, with an office table and a Typewriter. 'Hey, you in there!' she called through the slot.
One half of her had very cold feet and wanted to beat it right now, urging sensibly that everything possible had been done. 'Just shut up!' she snarled, and delivered another angry rap on the glass. It cracked. They were small panes, set in lead, and this one had cracked from edge to edge. The half of her with cold feet felt slightly sick.
She squinted through the slot again and saw a letter on the table. She stood up and thought about that.
The cracked pane resisted the pressure of her thumbs, rut eventually the lead channelling around it stretched and split. The glass fell inside and smashed.
Nobody heard. Nobody came. Her hand was trembling as she reached through and turned the handle.
It was her letter. Torn open and quickly read, by the look of it: the single sheet of notepaper hastily stuffed back in the envelope.
Right all along.
She felt some relief and a great amount of bitterness. He never told the truth. A cheat and a swindler. He used everyone for his own gain, without having the balls and the bravado to admit it. He lied and then he ran away. Here was proof.
It was a bleak sort of room, just a few thin books on a shelf, two scruffy filing cabinets, the table, the chair, the typewriter. It made her feel empty just to look at it: her determined hunting had brought her to this dusty nothingness. The typewriter had paper in it. She sat and read, and became steadily enraged.
To: TOMCAT From: ELDORADO
Subject: Allied Convoy Routes, North Atlantic I have today returned from further discussions in Liverpool with SEAGULL (whom I paid according to the rates agreed with you; he asked me to express his satisfaction) and also with a colleague of SEAGULL'S employed in the Liverpool oil-storage depot. They informed me that the British Admiralty is now so concerned about the sinkings of ships by U-boats that it plans to introduce a new convoy system.
The essence of this is the separation of fast and slow merchant ships into different convoys, so that the fast convoy may stand a better chance of getting through, while the slow convoy is to be more heavily defended.
SEAGULL'S colleague has information that slow convoys will include a very high proportion of oil tankers, thus making them an unusually attractive target for U-boat attack. SEAGULL himself has gathered details of planned convoy sailings in the next 4-- 6 weeks and I include these in his report, attached.
Morale among seamen, especially those who have experi
The ink faded as the ribbon ran out. Julie re-read the page,'not because the meaning was unclear but because it was too clear. She got up and searched the filing cabinets. There were files marked Convoy, Troop Movements, Air-fields, Naval Strength, Rationing, Civilian Morale; each holding carbon copies of typed reports which were dense with facts and figures. She heaved the cabinets shut and leaned on them. She would have liked to cry but crying would be an act of self-pity at a time when millions of others Deeded far more pity than she could ever create. Pity couldn't help them but maybe action would: destroying all his lousy stinking files, for a start. She tugged open a drawer and something rattled in the back. She opened the drawer completely. It was a gun. A large revolver. It had a lanyard-ring on the base of the butt and its cylinder looked as fat as a pineapple. She picked it up. Her hands were strong but her fingers barely reached the trigger. Out on the end of the barrel the foresight stuck up like a thumbnail.
She carried it over to the desk. It was very heavy, like carrying a mason's hammer. There were patches of rust, scratches, dents. Was it loaded? She shook it: nothing rattled. She despised her stupidity: bullets don't rattle, for God's sake. With enormous caution she broke it open. Six bullets filled six holes. She was holding a goddam six-shooter. She closed the gun and spun the cylinder, not knowing why but if Hollywood always did it there must be a reason; found the safety and thumbed it back.
She knew what to do. She found herself staring at the unfinished report in the typewriter, not seeing the words clearly because her eyes were filling with tears. The tears were for the unknown seaman and his tortured face. Her eyes were blurred but her mind was very clear. Nobody could be allowed to go on doing that sort of thing. Nobody.
Probably because of her tears she didn't hear the footsteps until they reached the last flight of stairs, but that was plenty of time. As the door handle turned she finished wiping her eyes and got a good grip of the revolver. When Luis Cabrillo came in she only had to pull the trigger and the gun went off with a roar like a quarry-blast. He fell as if his legs had been hooked. Julie didn't see him drop. She was on her back, and her wrist hurt like fire.
Otto Krafft met Wolfgang Adler on the way to the weekly review meeting. 'How's the old foot coming along?' he asked.
'They remove the plaster next week.'
'Oh, good.'
The two men covered half the length of the corridor without saying any more. Otto strolled while Wolfgang trudged.
'Look, Wolfgang: I know you've had rotten luck with your leg and so on,' Otto said, 'but can I give you some advice? Try and forget you ever met Eldorado, and for heaven's sake drop this one-man vendetta against him. You can't win.'
'It's not a matter of winning. It's a matter of the truth.'
'So you say, and that's all very noble, but you'll never persuade Christian to drop Eldorado, will you? He's doing too well out of him. I happen to know there's a promotion on the way, and the section budget's already gone up forty per cent.'
'I don't care.'
'Then you ought to. And please don't push your luck today. The old man's feeling a bit liverish. We can all do without your dyspeptic help, thanks very much.'
For most of the meeting, Wolfgang sat silent while the others went over the activities of what was now known as the Eldorado Network. Occasionally he cleared his throat and suggested a possible weakness or an omission, but these were few and nobody else considered them important. Christian cut the discussion short. 'That's all,' he said.
'Eldorado continues to show every sign of becoming one of the Abwehr's most successful operatives.'
Wolfgang sucked his teeth in a way that made the others look.
Christian said: 'An important factor in Eldorado's success is his adaptability. In this business it's dangerous to let yourself become inflexible. If an attitude gets you nowhere -- change it. That completes everything for today.' He stood, and the others gathered their papers.
'Nothing about America,' Wolfgang said.
Christian ignored him. When the lack of response became uncomfortably obvious, Otto said: 'What do you want about America?'
'How do I know? I'm not in England. But there must be something. The U.S.A. has given Britain fifty destroyers.'
'Not given,' Fischer said. 'Exchanged. Lend-Lease.'
'Which means America is in the war.'
'Rubbish,' Christian said. 'And furthermore Roosevelt has said--'
'Yes, I read it in the papers.'
'Well then.' Christian was annoyed at being interrupted.
'I read the papers in 1938 too,' Wolfgang said, 'when someone announced that he had no further territorial demands in Europe.'
That brought a considerable silence.
'Make your point,' Christian snapped. 'I haven't got all day.'
'My point is that Eldorado has failed to report any American intelligence of--'
'Yes, all right, put it in a memo.' Christian started banging open his desk drawers, noisily searching for something. Wolfgang sat stiffly for a moment, and then just as stiffly walked out.
The others followed, except Otto Krafft. Christian gave up his search and thumped the last drawer shut with his knee. 'Yes?' he barked.
'It may be nothing, sir,' Otto said, 'but I thought 'you ought to know I've had a rather unusual offer from someone in the Swiss Embassy.'