“Well, I don’t think they—”
“So I repeat: why do you think this commission will be coming here?”
“For no definite reason. It’s just...” Michel paused, seemingly attempting to be completely candid in his reply. “Well, you must admit that one might consider your friend Senhor Echavarria could well be interested.”
Camargo pounced. “Senhor Echavarria? Why?”
“Because,” Michel said slowly, his black eyes fixed without expression on the other man’s narrowed glare, “he seemed to me the type who would appreciate advance notice of any — well, any danger...”
There were several moments of charged silence; then Orlando Braz Camargo folded his newspaper and set it aside in the manner of one stripping down in preparation for struggle. He seemed to be relieved to be joined at last in a battle he had not only anticipated, but the inevitability of which he had known for several minutes. He leaned over the table, tapping the checkered cloth with a thick finger for emphasis, speaking with deadly purpose.
“Morell, let me tell you something. And I want you to listen carefully and understand me completely. Senhor Echavarria is a friend — not only of mine, but of several very big people in our government. And we do not bother our friends. Is that clear?”
“Nor even warn them?” Michel’s voice was amusedly disbelieving. “Then whom do you usually warn of danger? Your enemies?”
Camargo studied the thin, sardonic face before him a moment, trying to read the true purpose behind the enigmatic, mocking eyes, although he was sure he already knew the answer. “Warn him? Of what dangers?”
“Of the dangers of an investigation, of course.”
Camargo nodded slowly, convinced his suspicions had been correct. His tiny eyes drilled into the other. “I don’t think you understood me before, Morell. Not only do we not bother our friends, but we also do not threaten them.” His voice grew even heavier. “Nor blackmail them.”
“Threaten? Blackmail?” Michel stared at him, shocked. “You haven’t understood me, apparently, but if that’s the way you feel, forget the entire matter! I thought I was doing you a favor, because you seemed to be friendly with the man, and because you were kind enough to present me to him.” His voice was coldly disapproving, resentful of the other’s implications. “If you mean, do I intend to call the commission’s attention to him, I do not. You may believe me or not, but that is the truth. It is simply that I don’t believe you appreciate the thoroughness of this commission. If any article of artistic worth has been sold, or even discussed in art circles, by dealers, or collectors, or anyone — if anything on their long list is even suspected to be in the area, well, that area will be investigated. Thoroughly, and by trained people. And this commission comes with more authority than you might think.” He shook his head forcefully; his black eyes were almost hypnotic. “When I say danger, I mean danger. And, believe me, it has nothing to do with me. I know what happened in other countries.”
Orlando Camargo was still far from convinced of the purity of the other’s motives. “And just what form of gratitude were you expecting for your — ah — your friendly warning?”
“Apparently it makes no difference since you choose to disregard it,” Michel said stiffly. He glanced across the street to a clock set in a tower there, verified his findings with his pocketwatch, and then came to his feet. Every inch of his small body proclaimed his just resentment at the innuendos he had suffered. He stared down at the tablecloth a moment, thinking, and then heaved a deep sigh, raising his eyes, forcing a smile. “Ah, well, there’s no point in making it a big issue among ourselves. There’s no purpose in arguing, you and I. It’s getting late. Shall we go to work?”
Camargo brought himself erect ponderously. He tossed some coins on the table and then paused.
“You go ahead,” he said slowly. “I have some errands to do first.”
Michel nodded. His black eyes once again noted the time across the street. “I’ll see you at the office later, then,” he said, and for some reason Camargo had the feeling that the stern mien Morell was presenting hid some secret amusement. “Até logo.”
“Até logo,” Camargo said slowly, and watched the smaller man saunter off down the street, his thin body skirting with almost balletic skill the boxes of debris set out each morning for the rubbish collectors. The large man stared down at the table and the copy of France-Soir that Michel had left behind, almost as a calculated testament to his honesty. For a moment Camargo considered calling after the other to remind him of the forgotten paper; then he leaned over and picked it up, folding it, tucking it into a pocket of his tight jacket. His tiny eyes came up, thoughtfully considering the foreshortened figure now moving almost jauntily down the sunny street, approaching the nearest corner.
Damn that Morell! he thought bitterly. How many more people will Gruber pay before he decides it’s just too much? I should never have taken Michel to that dinner party in the first place; I should have known he’d eventually get bright ideas and try to be cute! Anyone who professes honesty and dedication to the law the way he does is the last one on earth to be trusted. Especially with his history. His wife a suicide? What a joke! Damn him, damn him anyway! I wonder how high his price will be to keep his mouth shut? And will Gruber pay? Or will it have to come out of my pocket...?
6
The house which Senhor Enrique Echavarria — ex-General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber — had chosen for his exile was located at the end of a slightly curving, long avenue in the Bairro da Boa Vista, at the northern edge of the Parque Florestal de Monsanto, one of the more exclusive — and therefore safer — sections of Lisbon. The house itself was neither exceptionally spacious nor particularly grand, but it was a well-built home of weathered stone and proven shingled roof, and it did offer the seclusion of extensive gardens and thick stands of trees. It was further protected by a high stone wall that ran around three sides of the rectangular property and was topped by several strands of barbed wire, discreetly hidden in the ivy. While such added security was rarely seen in this new days of universal brotherhood and trust, it was still quite satisfactory to his neighbors, since they, too, preferred privacy. In all honesty it was a quite adequate abode in a carefully selected neighborhood, chosen well before the actual need for it had arisen, and Gruber never failed to congratulate himself on his foresight in having arranged it.
A short driveway ran from the side of the house, ending in a large wrought-iron gate which, Camargo knew, was always kept locked. He noted the automobile of ancient vintage pulled to one side, and the absence of the small sports car that usually shared the driveway; so the Senhora was out, but the person he wished to see was available.
He parked his car, descended, searched for and found the old-fashioned bellpull set in a tangle of vines on one post, and tugged at it impatiently. There was a movement at one of the windows, the hint of a curtain being drawn aside and then replaced, and a few moments later a heavyset man dressed in the leather jacket and apron of the Portuguese man-servant came from the house. He recognized his visitor and unlatched the gate, stood aside almost at military attention while the other entered, locked the gate once again, and then led the way into the house without a word.
In the hallway the servant paused long enough to tilt his head abruptly in the direction of the library, and then disappeared toward the kitchen in the rear. Camargo moved down the carpeted hallway and turned into the library. He paused a moment to adjust his eyesight; despite the bright morning sunlight outside, the room was shadowed by a stand of leafy trees that hugged the windows, bending low as if attempting to peer within. A man arose from a desk at the far end of the room and moved forward.