God, if I had known who his father was, I wouldn't have had him at the house for so much as a cocktail!
Goddamn the old man for not telling me who his grandson is!
That could have been innocent, of course. A natural reluctance to keep intimate family business private. But Clete should have said something; after all, he was a guest in my house! He should have known of course he knew that we would be interested to know who his father is. He didn't tell us until he had to! Why?
And I don't like the way he looks at Dorotea, either. Or the way she looks at him. How dare he call her "Princess"?
Well, he'll be gone tomorrow, or the day after, and after that, 1 will simply, tactfully, increase the distance between us.
Chapter Nine
[ONE]
Edificio Kavanagh
Calle Florida 1065
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1105 27 November 1942
El Teniente Coronel Martin found a pay telephone in a cigar-and-candy kiosk around the corner from the Edificio Kavanagh and called his office.
El Comandante Carlos Habanzo answered. It was not a Comandante's function to answer the phone; there were enlisted men and junior officers to do that. But in this case Martin decided to say nothing. For one thing, he was aware that he had been finding fault with just about everything Habanzo was doing; and for another, he wanted to speak to him.
"Habanzo, I need two good menwell-dressed, who won't look like whores in churchto be in the lobby of the Alvear Palace, with cameras, from eleven-thirty. They are to surveil a meeting between el Coronel Jorge Guillermo..."
"Mi Coronel, I regret that we have no one available at the moment"
"What do you mean, no one's available?"
"Mi Coronel, you reviewed and approved the assignment list this morning. I can, of course, call two men back from the pistol range, but there is no way they can reach the Alvear Palace by eleven-thirty."
"Comandante Habanzo, are you wearing a clean shirt?"
"S?, mi Coronel."
"The lobby of the Alvear Palace Hotel from eleven-thirty, Habanzo. Do not say hello to me. We'll dispense with photography."
"S?, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I could bring a camera."
"That won't be necessary. Just be there. You will be able to recognize young Frade?"
"Of course, mi Coronel."
[TWO]
1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz
Palermo. Buenos Aires
0945 27 November 1942
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade was already awake and out of bed, bathed, shaved, and sitting, dressed in a summer-weight red silk dressing robe, in an armchair reading yesterday's La Nation ( The most conservative of Buenos Aires' daily newspapers.) when Antonio, his butler, wheeled in the breakfast cart.
"Buenos dias, mi Coronel."
"I was wondering what happened to you," Frade said. He dropped the newspaper on the floor, walked to the cart, and lifted silver covers from several dishes on it.
"It is quarter to ten, mi Coronel," Antonio said, which was both an announcement of the time and a statement that breakfast was being served at the time it was supposed to be served.
Frade looked at his watch.
"So it is," he said. "I think melon and ham, Antonio, and a couple of eggs. Presuming they are neither raw nor hard-boiled."
"Four minutes exactly, mi Coronel," Antonio said. "I boiled them myself."
"That's what I was afraid of," Frade said.
Antonio began moving items from the breakfast cart to a table, as Frade picked up a chair and carried it to the table. He sat down and watched as Antonio poured orange juice and then coffee, and then began to cut the meat from a cantaloupe.
Frade picked up the orange juice.
"And what are we going to wear today, mi Coronel?"
"A suit. I have an important lunch."
"The double-breasted gray?"
"That should do," Frade said. "With one of the new shirts."
"S?, mi Coronel."
"And for a tie?"
"Lay several out," Frade said.
"S?, mi Coronel. And the black wing tips?"
Frade nodded.
"The Se?ora asks that you call when you have time," Antonio said. "At her home."
"Here? She's in town?"
"S?, mi Coronel."
"The Se?ora will have to wait. If she calls again, please tell her I will try to call her this afternoon. And while you're on the phone, call the Centro Naval (Literally, Navy Center. An officer's club serving both services on Calle Florida.) and tell them I may require my table for luncheon."
"For how many guests, mi Coronel?"
"One."
"S?, mi Coronel," Antonio said as he picked up a silver coffeepot and refilled el Coronels cup. "You will require the car when, mi Coronel?"
"My appointment is for twelve, at the Alvear Palace."
"Eleven-thirty, mi Coronel?"
"A little earlier, I think. I don't want to be late."
"S?, mi Coronel."
At ten forty-five, when el Coronel descended the wide marble staircase to the entrance foyer and looked out the window, his car was not standing before the door.
He turned and went down a corridor into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table with the housekeeper and one of the maids, drinking coffee.
"Mi Coronel, you said eleven-thirty," he said with reproof in his voice, as he stood up.
"It is not a problem," Frade said, walked past him, and passed through a door leading to the basement garage.
Enrico was there, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, polishing the hood of the Buick station wagon. He was carrying a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster.
"Antonio said eleven-thirty, mi Coronel," he said.
"Better to be early than late," Frade said.
"Where are we going, mi Coronel?"
"We are not going anywhere. I will not need you this morning, Enrico."
Mi Coronel?"
"I am going to the Alvear Plaza, and then to the Centro Naval. And I wish to be alone.'
Enrico was visibly unhappy with this announcement.
"Mi Coronel..."
"Are the keys in the Horche?"
'S?, mi Coronel. Mi Coronel, I can wait in the car."
"Open the doors like a good fellow, Enrico," Frade said, and then added, "Enrico, I will be all right."
Enrico expressed his displeasure with Frade by showing him a stony face as he opened the door to the Horche, then went to open the garage doors. Frade started the engine, let it warm a moment, and then drove out of the garage and headed downtown.
He decided to leave the Horche at his sister's house on Avenue Alvear. It was only two squares from the hotel, the walk would do him good, and inside her tall fence (there is no good reason I can't close the gates myself) it would be safe from both the idiot drivers on the street and the greasy hands of the curious. And with just a little bit of luck, she wouldn't even know it was there.
The Horche was important to him. He truly believed that he indulged himself in few personal luxuries; and if he was extraordinarily sensitive about his 1940 Horche droptop touring sedan, so be it. In his judgment, the Horche was the finest automobile in the world. Certainly better than the Cadillac or the Mercedes-Benz or the Rolls-Royce or the Packard, and far superior to every lesser car he had ever driven. His was one of the very last Horches to leave the factory, before the factory started to make trucks or cannon or whatever for Hitler's military.