"I'd prefer to be here, mi Coronel, when you speak with the suspect," the Capitan said.
"First of all, he is not a suspect. Secondly, he has refused to answer your questions. Perhaps he will answer mine."
"I respectfully protest, mi Coronel."
Martin shrugged.
"And when you have put the Norteamericano on the elevator, Habanzo, please telephone to el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, apologize for waking him at this house, and tell him that I consider it very important, in a matter of Internal Security, that he come here immediately."
S?, mi Coronel."
"Thank you, Comandante," Martin said.
He had a second thought.
"Where is the .45 automatic, did you say?"
"In my possession," Habanzo said.
"Can you give it to the Norteamericano and have him bring it up here?"
Habanzo's face registered surprise.
"Presumably you unloaded it?" Martin asked.
"Yes, mi Coronel."
"Then I don't think he will try to hold me at gunpoint, do you?"
"His fingerprints will be all over it!" the Capitan protested.
"Since el Comandante Habanzo has told us the Norteamericano was carrying the pistol when he opened the door to him, his fingerprints are already all over it," Martin said, with sarcastic patience. "Please have him bring the pistol."
S?, mi Coronel."
When Cletus Howell Frade stepped off the elevator, Martin was somewhat shocked at his appearance. He was naked, except for a pair of bloodstained white boxer shorts and cowboy boots. His face, chest, and legs were bloodstained, and there were finger marks where he had tried to wipe them. And he was carrying the .45 automatic by lopping a finger through the trigger guard.
"Teniente Frade, I am el Teniente Coronel Martin of Internal Security. We have met. Do you remember that?"
Clete nodded. He handed the pistol to Martin.
"This is the weapon you used to do that?" Martin asked, nodding toward the two bodies.
Clete was silent.
"We must talk seriously and quickly," Martin said. "Let me begin by saying I know you are an intelligence officer of the OSS. I am presuming that you are a very good one, or otherwise your government would not have sent you to Argentina."
Clete met his eyes but did not reply.
That was a shot in the dark, Teniente Frade. And, while I am not very good at judging reactions by watching people's eyes and other body signals, I'm not all that bad, either. I would wager three-to-one now that you are an OSS agent.
"I like to think that I am also a competent intelligence officer. A good intelligence officer does not choose sides. He simply gathers information and passes it to his superiors for their decisions. That luxury is no longer available to me. Because of who you are, I must either choose to offend your father... which may prove very costly to me in the future, I'm sure you know what I mean ... or I must ally myself with him. I have decided to ally myself with your father."
Clete said nothing.
"You have no response?"
"Could I go in the bathroom and wash myself?" Clete asked.
"Not just yet," Martin said. "What I want from you now is for you to tell me what happened here tonight."
"Mi Coronel, I think I would prefer to wait until my father can find me a lawyer."
"You don't have that luxury," Martin said. "We need a credible story, and we need it before the Chief of the Polic?a Federal arrives. He's on his way. Just tell me what happened. We're alone, and you can deny anything you tell me now later."
Clete said nothing.
"I'm sure this doesn't frighten you, but I think I should tell you that unless we can come up with a credible story for el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, he will insist that you be taken to police headquarters for interrogation. They won't kill you, but they will make you very uncomfortable, and it may be days before even your father can get you released."
What the hell have I got to lose?
"I was at the home of my uncle, Humberto Valdez Duarte, following the funeral of my cousin. Later, I drove my father home, then returned here with Se?ora Pellano. I came up to my apartment. The blinds had not been raised, and it was very hot in here. I took a beer and went out onto the servants' balcony on the rear. I heard noises, came in here to investigate, and found two men, armed with knives. They attacked me, so I shot them. I went downstairs and found Se?ora Pellano with her throat cut. There was a pounding at the door, and I opened it. A man who said he was Comandante Habbabo ..."
"Habanzo," Martin corrected him.
"... was standing there with a gun. I gave him the automatic. He tried to question me. I refused to answer until I had a lawyer, and we argued about that awhile, until the police came. I was then locked in the library and was there until just now."
"Do you know the men whom you shot?"
Clete shook his head no.
Do you have any idea why they wanted to kill you?''
"No."
Where did you get that stolen .45 automatic pistol. Is it your father's?"
Clete was silent.
"All right. Now I will tell you what I believe happened," Martin said. "You returned from your uncle's home, and did not raise the blinds because you thought there might be an attempt on your life. You believed this because you earlier met the German, el Capitan von Wachtstein, at the Alvear Palace Hotel. For reasons I cannot imagine, he warned you that the Germans would try to have you killed. That also explains why you went out on the servants' balcony with a pistol.
When the attempt was made, you killed one of the men and wounded the other. You went looking for Se?ora Pellano, found her with her throat cut in the kitchen, lost your professional detachment, and returned here and shot the other man, who had by then dragged himself into the bathroom. The bullets ricocheted off the tile of the bathtub, which explains the blood on your body. And the human flesh, which I think is brain tissue." Clete said nothing.
"Killing the one and wounding the other was self-defense. Coming back here and killing the wounded man was murder... unless, should the matter reach trial, your lawyer pleads a crime of passion, based on your close personal affection for Se?ora Pellano."
"Those bastards didn't have to kill her," Clete heard himself saying. "She never hurt anybody in her life."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Martin said. "Of course they had to kill her. It was at no cost to them. They were going to kill you, and they can only hang you once for murder. Killing her removed a potential witness against them."
"You're a cold-blooded bastard, aren't you?"
I am beginning to suspect that I have more experience in these matters than you do," Martin said. "Professional judgment does not make me cold-blooded."
Clete exhaled audibly.
"This is the story we will tell," Martin said. "On your return from the Duarte mansion, you came to your apartment. You were surprised by armed robbers. You managed to put your hands on the old Colt and killed them both with it. Since the six-shooter was empty, you picked up the robbers' gun, the automatic, went downstairs, and found Se?ora Pellano murdered in the kitchen. At that point, Comandante Habanzo knocked at the door. You let him in and gave him the robbers' gun."
"There's a couple of large holes in that story," Clete said. "For one thing, the Colt has not been fired. And what about the automatic?"