Duarte knew about the Phoenix Garage before Hall returned to the Mexican Embassy. "Commander New dropped in while you were at the fire," he explained. "He told me."

"Does he know anything else about it?"

"Not about the fire. But he does know a little more about Fielding. He says that Fielding's files have been cleaned out. There wasn't a single copy of any of Fielding's reports when the British officials opened the files."

"But the British have all the dope, Felipe. Fielding's reports—at least the ones he showed me—were all carbons of the reports he made to his Embassy."

"I know that. But if his reports are now in the hands of the Falange, the Axis knows it too. It will give them time to cover their traces. It will also put the finger on you. One of the things they did find in the office was a note Fielding had made reminding himself to prepare copies of certain reports for you, Mateo. That might explain what happened to you in that Falangist cafÉ on the waterfront the other day. Fielding had already been killed when you were drugged."

Hall lay down on the couch in Duarte's office, took his shoes off. "I'll be all right in a few minutes," he said. "I just need about ten minutes of this."

"I'll get some cold beer."

"No. I don't need it. Listen, Felipe, do the British know that I was drugged?"

"I don't think so. I didn't tell them, anyway. I wouldn't, without your permission."

"Maybe you should tell them. It might do some good. But what are we going to do now that we know about the fire? I still feel like a drunk on a merry-go-round."

Duarte laughed. "You can always get off and go home," he said.

"No. It feels worse when I get off."

"I did something this morning, Mateo. I sent word to General Mogrado through one of our diplomatic couriers."

"Mogrado? Of the Spanish air force?"

"He's living in Mexico City now. I asked him to rush everything he could get on Ansaldo. The largest Spanish Republican colony in the hemisphere is in Mexico, you know. I figured that surely there must be one man among the exiles—a doctor, a former Army officer, someone—who could give us the dope on Ansaldo."

"Sounds like a possibility."

"We'll see."

"Don't let me fall asleep here. I've got things to do."

"Then get some rest. I've got to complete my report." Duarte turned to his typewriter, glanced at what he had written on the sheet in the machine. "Mateo," he said, "I'm meeting Dr. Gonzales in an hour. We're going to try to reach Lavandero with your Havana information on Ansaldo. Will you join me?"

"No. I have some unfinished business myself. I think that before the night is over we'll know a lot more about Ansaldo."

"What are you going to do?"

Hall stifled a yawn. "I'm going to take a chance and shoot the works on someone who can talk. It might work."

"Be careful, Mateo. You look very tired."

"I'll turn in early. Let's have breakfast at your place tomorrow, eh?"

Hall found a phone booth in a tobacco shop near the Embassy. He called Jerry.

"I knew it would be you," she said. "I was waiting for you to call, you dog."

"I hope you're hungry," he said. "I'm taking you to dinner."

"I'm famished. Where are you?"

"I can be at the Bolivar in about fifteen minutes. Meet me in the lobby?"

"All right. But hurry. And just in case you've forgotten what I look like, I'll be wearing a red carnation."

He became part of the growing multi-directional parade in the streets. Nightfall had brought colored torches to the hands of many of the Hermanitos, and hundreds of new huge portraits of the four leaders of the United Nations. There was a new pattern to the street festivities. Now whole groups of Hermanitos, each marching behind a picture of one of the four statesmen, made their way through the crowds to the embassies of the United Nations and then to the Plaza de la Republica, where they paraded their signs and their sentiments in front of all the government buildings and the Presidencia. After that, the marchers joined the milling groups of celebrators who just seemed to move around in slow circles, singing, cheering, loudly wishing a long life to Anibal Tabio and the United Nations.

The darkened Plaza was packed, torches in the hands of hundreds of the crowd bringing more light to the ancient square than had been seen there since the nation had been forced to begin conserving its fuel. Hall cut through the crowds toward the Bolivar, too excited to sense his fatigue. This is a night I shall long remember, he thought, this is the night I will tell my children about if I ever have any children. This is the night that I saw the power of the common people, the night I saw democracy take to the streets of a nation's capital and tell the world that fascism's day of cheap triumphs is done. This is the night of the meek who shall yet inherit the earth.

Through the shoulders of the crowd, he could see Jerry's red hair. As he drew closer, he saw that she had two little girls in her arms. The children were crying wildly, the tears choking in their throats and coursing down their contorted faces.

"There, there," Jerry was saying to them, "everything will be all right. You're only lost. We'll find out where you belong." But the strange foreign words only added to the terror in the frightened hearts of the girls.

"What happened?" Hall asked Jerry.

"They're lost. I was afraid they'd get trampled or something, Matt."

He spoke to the kids in their own language, soothing, silly words. Then he took them in his arms while Jerry dried their tears with a perfumed handkerchief. Between sobs, the little girls told Hall that they had slipped out of the house to see the fiesta and had been having a swell time until the crazy lady swooped them up, talking crazy words and keeping them from going on their way.

"Do you know where you live?" he asked them. They pointed toward their own house. "We will take you there. And don't call the seÑorita a crazy lady, little ones. She is your friend."

"Are they lost?" Jerry asked.

"Hell, no. Just tourists. Let's get them home, first."

The girls lived nearly a mile from the Bolivar. They watched the paraders in silence while Hall carried them to their house, but when he reached their block the girls insisted that they could walk the rest of the way. "No," he laughed, "I'm taking you right to your door. And I'm waiting in the street until you come to your window and throw me a kiss."

The girls, who had less than a dozen years between them, giggled and hid their heads in his shoulders. "We won't throw you a kiss," the older of the sisters said, shyly. "You aren't our novio."

"These little devils!" he laughed to Jerry. The girls began to squirm in his arms. "No, little ones," he told them, "I won't make any more crazy talk like the seÑorita."

"This is our house."

He put them down on the first steps. "Now hurry," he said. "Upstairs with you, and be quick!"

They scrambled up the stairs. "They're sweet," Jerry said. For a brief moment, the faces of the two little girls appeared at the open window on the first floor. Then the ample figure of a woman in a white cotton dress loomed behind them.

"Let's scram before they catch it," Hall said, but he was too late. The shrill cries of the girls, as their mother flailed their behinds with a righteous hand, followed Hall and Jerry down the street.

"Me and my Good-Neighbor policy," Jerry said. "It's all my fault."

"They deserve it. What would you do to your kids if they joined a stampede?"

Jerry had to laugh. "The same thing, I guess. But what's all the celebrating about? Is it the local Fourth of July?"

"No. But I have a funny feeling that in years to come it might be. Your patient started it."

"Tabio?"

"President Anibal Tabio. He decided not to die today. He got out of bed and addressed the opening session of the Congress and called for war on the Axis."

"You're kidding me again, Matt."

"The hell I am. I was there. I saw him myself."

"But he's paralyzed, Matt."

"He spoke from a wheel chair." He told Jerry about the speech, and as they walked through the dense crowds toward a restaurant, he translated some of the signs carried by the people who swarmed on all sides of her.

"Abajo el Eje—that's down with the Axis. And that one says Long live the United Nations. Mueran los Falangistas—death to the Falangists."

"What are they, Matt?"

"The Spanish fascists. Hadn't you heard of them before?"

Jerry shook her head. "I still don't see how he got out of bed. He must have done it on nerves alone. I was at the lab all day with Marina and Tabio's X-rays."

"He delivered a great speech, Jerry."

"I'll bet he did. I guess nothing can stop this country from joining the democracies now, Matt."

"No," he said. "Nothing but Gamburdo—if Tabio dies."

They had to wait on a street corner while a line of students carrying red torches snake-danced across their path.

"Where are we eating?" she asked.

"I know a wonderful place facing the sea wall. It's very plain, but the food is stupendous. We'll have to walk, though."

"I'm game. It's fun walking in these crowds tonight. It's almost like New Year's Eve in New York."

The restaurant was packed. The waiter had to put an extra table on the sidewalk for Hall and Jerry. "It's better from here anyway," Hall told her. "We can see the ocean and get away from the din inside."

A hundred happy men and women jammed the interior of the restaurant, singing to the music of the small orchestra, toasting the slogans which were all over San Hermano this night. Hall invited the waiter to drink a toast in sherry to Don Anibal, and then he ordered lobster salads and steaks for Jerry and himself.

"I missed you," he told Jerry and, hearing his words, he was startled to realize that he meant them.

"You're just lonely. But I like to hear you say it."

"No. I really missed you."

"What's wrong, Matt? You look all in."

"Nothing," he said. "I've had a long day. What do you think of this lobster salad?"

Small talk. Make small, polite talk about lobsters and cabbages, talk about the weather and your neighbor's garden, talk about anything before you start talking love talk and then you'll forget why you have to talk to her at all. "You're beautiful tonight," he said, softly.

"I'm ignoring you, Hall."

Good. Banter. Nice cheap cafÉ-society banter. Have to play the game as she is played; silly brittle talk about nothing. Break her down, keep her off guard, keep your own guard up. Talk about the lobster. Talk about the steak. Make vacuous wise-cracks over the coffee. Now she's pleased with the guava pastry. Be the man of the world. Talk about guava.

"You're talking down at me, Matt. I told you once before. I'm not really stupid."

"God, I'm sorry," he said. "I must have been groggy all through dinner."

"You sounded it."

"Can you walk?"

"I'm too full."

"Let's sit on the sea wall. It's the pleasantest spot in town."

Hall bought a paper from a passing newsboy. They walked along the sea wall for a block, and then he spread the paper out on top of the wall and lifted Jerry to the broad ledge. They sat facing the sea, not saying much of anything.

"The beach looks so clean," she said. "Do you think ..."

He leaped to the sand. "Take my hand," he said, "and bring the paper with you." He spread the papers on the sand, laid his jacket over the papers, and sprawled on the makeshift pallet. Jerry sat near him, took his head in her lap.

"Poor Matt! You're so tired. Want to tell me about it?"

"About what?"

She stroked his face with soft, gentle hands. "About what's bothering you, darling. Something terrible is happening to you."

"There's nothing wrong."

"You're such a bad liar, darling. I can see it in your face."

"Only that?"

"It's enough. That is, when you care for a guy."

"You're sticking your chin out, baby."

"No, I'm not. You're really a very gentle person. But you want to be hard as nails, don't you, Matt?"

"I don't know what I want to be, baby. I'd like to see the world a good place for little guys who like republics. I'd like to kill the bastards who are fouling up such a world. It sounds very big, I know. But I'm not big. I'm a little guy and I like the world of little people. Or don't I make sense?"

"I think I understand you, Matt."

"Later I'll read you Tabio's speech. Or at least the high lights, in English. You'll get a pretty good idea of the things I believe in."

"What was it like on the other side, Matt? In the war, I mean. Or don't you want to talk about the war?"

It's now or never, he thought. Tell her about the war, tell it to her straight. If she's ever going to see it, she's got to see it now. "I don't like to talk about it," he said, "but I will. I guess I owe it to you to talk about it. I was there when it started, and I kept hollering that it had started, but no one would believe me."

"In Poland?"

"Hell, no! In Madrid. The summer of '36. I reached Madrid in the fourth week of July, and by September I'd seen enough of the Nazis and the Italians to know it was World War Two." The words came easily, the whole fabric. Tabio had told the story as a historian. This was the other way it could be told, the way of the eyewitness, of the partisan. He told her everything, about the fighting in Spain and about the slaughter of the innocents; about the grotesque ballets of death and disintegration on the green tables of Geneva; about the arrows of Falange, reaching out from the festers of Spain to the New World. Everything but the role of Ansaldo.

"Now," he said, "I think you can guess why I'm so bothered about this war, why I sometimes act as if I have a very personal stake in it. Please try to understand what I mean, Jerry."

She was silent for a long moment. "I think I do," she said. "For the past few days I've been thinking about the war. Ever since—oh, you know since when. I've been thinking that if I don't do anything else, maybe I'll join the Army as a nurse when we leave here."

"You've got it bad, haven't you?"

"I don't know what I've got, darling. All I know is that I don't have the right to be a Me Firster any more. Do you think I'm right about that?"

"Baby, listen to me. You don't have to go to Bataan to get into the war. It's spread everywhere. The front stretches from Murmansk to Manila to San Hermano. And it's the same front."

"But what can I do here?"

Hall drew a deep breath. "Let's both have a cigarette," he said. "This is going to take some telling." He sat up, faced the girl, took her hands and held them firmly. "Now, what I'm going to say might sound harsh, Jerry. But you'll simply have to believe me."

"What is it, Matt?"

"How much do you know about Dr. Ansaldo?"

"Only that he's a nice guy. He's never made a pass at me, he behaves like a gentleman, and he's one crack surgeon. Don't tell me he's no good, Matt. I just won't believe it."

"You'll have to believe me," Hall insisted. "What do you know about Ansaldo's past? Do you know where he was during the Spanish War?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Do you know?"

"Sure, I do. I saw him." Hall described his first meeting with Ansaldo. As he spoke, Jerry abruptly withdrew her hands. Trembling, she backed away from him, started to get up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I wish you hadn't made love to me," she said, simply. "Now I feel cheap—and used."

"Don't say that. I ..."

"You know it's true. You're not just another newspaperman. And you don't give a damn about me. It was Ansaldo you were interested in from the beginning. That's why you were on the same plane with us on the way here. And that's why you ..."

"You mean I'm a G-man? Don't be absurd."

"Don't make it worse by calling me a fool. I liked you. I liked you a lot. Don't make it worse now, Matt."

"But you're dead wrong." He tried to put his arms around her. She shook him off. "Believe me," he said, "I'm not government. You were right—but only partially—about my original interest in your party. But tonight I wish to hell it were only Ansaldo who interests me. It would make things a lot easier all around. The other morning I was watching Marina when a Spanish ship came in. Someone didn't want me to watch. I was drugged. That's why I disappeared for a few days. It damn near finished me. I've got something on Ansaldo—before I'm through I hope to have enough to hang him. I mean it literally. I'm trying to have him fitted for the same grave he thought I'd have. And it's going to be simple. What won't be simple is convincing the authorities here that you were an innocent bystander in the whole affair. Do you think I would talk to you this way if things were as you suspect they are with me?"

"I don't know what to think, Matt."

"Don't stop liking me," he said.

"Take me back to the hotel, please. I'm all confused. I want to believe you. Honestly I do. But what am I supposed to do? You give me the choice of matching one line against the other, and all the time I'll be wondering if both lines aren't fakes."

"Listen to me, baby ..."

"Don't 'baby' me. You've got sand on your jacket. No, don't, Hall. Just take me back to the hotel, please."

They walked to the sea wall in silence. Hall made a step for Jerry with his hands, boosted her to the top of the wall. "I'll try to find you a cab," he said. "But before we turn in, I'm telling you again that I'm not government. I'm exactly what I said I am. Believe me, Jerry. Please believe me."

"I don't know what to believe any more."

"But you do believe what I said about Ansaldo, don't you?"

"I don't know," she said, miserably. "Haven't you asked enough questions for one night? Show me your badge and subpoena me or something to the American Embassy and I'll tell you all I know. Which is nothing. I don't know any more than I've already told you."

Hall was flagging every passing car. "They're all private," he muttered. "We'll never get a cab tonight. And for God's sake, stop sniffling. Even if I am a G-man I won't bite you."

"You shouldn't have played me for a sucker, Hall."

"I didn't play you for anything."

"Don't say any more, Hall. Please don't."

Her attitude infuriated him. Furiously, he flagged a passing car, biting his lips in anger and frustration. He fought against yielding to his anger. "Jerry," he said, "there's one thing I'll have to ask you to do. I'm asking as a private citizen. But whatever you think I am, you'll have to do this one thing. I must insist that you don't tell Ansaldo anything about our conversation or about my having been in Spain."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes," he roared. "Yes, damn you, it's an order!"

One of the cars he had flagged slowed down, pulled over to where he stood with Jerry. But it was not a taxi. It was a small chauffeur-driven town car. The young Marques de Runa sat alone in the back seat.

"Good evening," he smiled. "Can I give you and your young lady a lift? You'll never be able to get a public car tonight."

"Thanks." Hall took Jerry's elbow, pulled her toward the door. He made the introductions, then climbed in after Jerry and shut the door. "We were just going to the Bolivar," he said.

"Were you trying to escape from the mobs?" the Marques asked.

"No. The lady has a bad cold. We thought the sea air might do it some good."

"You should try the mountain air," the Marques said. "I always take to the mountain air when I have a cold, SeÑor Hall. Don't you think the mountain air is better?"

Hall let the question go unanswered. He was looking into the mirror over the driver's seat, studying what he could see in the small glass of the chauffeur's face.

"The mountain air, SeÑor Hall."

"Oh, yes. Very dry. Perhaps the lady will try the mountain air. What do you think, Jerry?"

"No, thank you," she said, sharply. "I have hallucinations on mountain tops."

The Marques thought this was very funny. But not too unusual, he hastened to add. "For example," he said, "once when I was on a skiing week-end in Austria, three members of our party saw an apparition." He chattered amiably about the experiences on that and other skiing trips, directing his words solely to Jerry. Hall ignored them both. He was still staring at the mirror, and, after catching the chauffeur's eyes for the second time, he knew definitely that the man at the wheel was the little dog who had trailed him to the Ritz and then driven off after Ansaldo's limousine with Androtten as his passenger.

It was only when the car was less than a block from the Bolivar that Hall spoke again. "It's too bad," he said, his eyes trying to focus both on the mirror and on de Runa, "it's too bad about the Phoenix Garage blowing up today."

The chauffeur and the Marques started.

"But—why?" the Marques asked.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just that an officer in the British Embassy was telling me just the other day that the Phoenix Garage was one of the most fascinating establishments in San Hermano. I was planning to visit the garage myself tomorrow. I'm interested in garages, you know."

The chauffeur stopped the car in front of the Bolivar with an abrupt slamming of his brakes.

Hall laughed. "Your chauffeur was daydreaming, I think."

The Marques laughed, or tried to laugh, as if Hall had just made one of the funniest remarks ever heard in San Hermano. "That's what he is," the Marques laughed, "a man who dreams by day. Very good, SeÑor Hall. Excellent."

Hall got out of the car, helped Jerry to the street. "Thank you again for picking us up," he said. "And do something about your driver before he starts driving into people in his sleep."

The car was in gear and on its way down the street before the Marques could make his answer heard.

"What was so funny about your crack?" Jerry asked.

"I'll tell you tomorrow. Are we still friends?"

"Stop it, Matt. Just leave me alone tonight."

"Sure," he smiled. "Sleep on it. But please to keep the mouth shut, yes?"

"I'm going to my room, Matt."

"May I phone you in the morning?"

Jerry ran into the hotel without answering. Hall stood in the street for a moment, watching the receding crowds in the Plaza. They started to become a blur in his heavy eyes. He entered the lobby. Souza was going over a bill with two guests. Hall nodded to the night clerk, then went into the small bar of the Bolivar to have a drink while Souza got rid of the strangers.

Only one of the four tables in the bar room was occupied. Androtten and a San Hermano coffee dealer sat at this table, three open copper canisters between them. The Hollander was driving a hard bargain for two types of Monte Azul bean.

"Mr. Hall," he smiled, "delighted to see you healthy again. Delighted as hell."

"Healthy again?"

"Damn rumors have been spread about the hotel that you were ill, Mr. Hall. Not seriously as hell, I hope? Why don't you join us? Mr. Rendueles has been trying to make a deal with me on some fairly choice bean."

Hall downed his double Scotch. "No, thanks. I'd better get some sleep."

"Yes. You look sleepy, Mr. Hall. I wonder if we'll ever find time for—you know—my damn story. Eh?"

"One of these days," Hall said. "We'll get the complete story, Androtten. All the facts, in complete detail. Good night." He paid for his drink and went to the desk in the lobby.

"Your key," Souza said. "I have it right here."

"Thanks. What's new?"

"Oh, nothing, seÑor. Nothing at all." Souza was being profoundly impersonal. "I hope you are feeling better, seÑor. Oh, yes, message in your box."

The message was from Souza himself, and the ink was not yet dry. "I can't speak now," it read.

"Thank you. Good night." Hall put the message in his pocket and went to his room.

He flung himself across the bed, yielding to the fatigue that was tearing at every nerve and muscle in his body. In the dark, he managed to get rid of his shoes and his suit, letting them drop to the floor when he had taken them off. He tried to think of all that had happened that day, of what he would have to do tomorrow. The fading shouts of the crowds in the Plaza grew fainter. The bed grew softer. He fell asleep.

The phone bell woke him in a few minutes. Souza was calling. "SeÑor Hall, the drinks you ordered are on the way upstairs," he said. "I am sorry for the delay, but we have a new waiter, and he is not accustomed to our system yet."

"Oh, I get it." The cabrÓn of a night waiter was gone. The invisible, detested cabrÓn whom Hall had never seen. He half expected Miguelito or Juan Antonio to be standing in the hall when he heard the knock on the door. Instead, there was a short, swarthy man in his forties, balancing a tray of brandy and soda in his right hand, a professional waiter down to his flat feet and his bland smile.

"Shall I bring it in, seÑor?"

"Please. Set it down here, on the little table."

The waiter closed the door, put the tray down. "CompaÑero Hall," he said, the bland smile gone, "permit me to introduce myself. I am Emilio Vicente, delegate of the Waiters' Union." He shook Hall's hand, then gave him a calling card. It was Major Segador's private card.

"Turn it over, CompaÑero Hall."

The short message on the reverse side indicated that Hall was to trust Vicente.

"I am happy to know you," Hall said. "Will you have a drink with me?"

"Some other time, compaÑero. Tonight I have a message. Major Segador suggests that should you need any assistance in a hurry, you can call upon me. I am at your orders."

"Thank you."

Emilio Vicente picked up his tray. "CompaÑero," he said, "it might seem a little dangerous, but the Major assured us that you do not lack for cojones."

"What?"

"Good night, CompaÑero Hall. You look as if you could use some sleep."