CHAPTER 19

Horatio Alger (Harry) Antonelli, skinned and bruised, recalcitrant man-child and general troublemaker, is stashed in the Booths’ suite by orders of David, who has apologized himself hoarse on the telephone to various grandees, plenipotentiaries and wallahs, lying out of both sides of his mouth, citing mistaken identity when he thinks he can get away with it. When he can’t, he argues that the skirmish was instigated by others who had provocatively displayed a large photograph of Adolf Hitler in a private establishment, in this, the city of Lisbon, nouveau City of Light, capital of neutral Portugal. Furthermore, lighting fire to the poster unreasonably stretches the definition of arson as it occurred under duress and out-of-doors.

Yes, he has conceded to embassies and consulates, it is not right and proper for a fugitive American to savagely beat a German tourist in Lisbon on holiday, nor his friends, nor government police officials. Although as a major appliance sales manager without portfolio, as a friend of Portugal and a supporter of Prime Minister Antonio Salazar’s policies, David Booth will leave no stone unturned in his search for this individual, a demonstration of the best intentions.

The savagely-beaten German tourist is unnamed and unavailable. There has been no mention of Reinhard Heydrich by any party.

Harry has never been so proud of David Booth. He’s showing a slippery, conniving, lying, devious side Harry has never before seen. He wisely keeps the kudos to himself.

Before the Booth siblings retire, they warn Harry to stay put.

“I talked myself hoarse, Antonelli,” David says. “Entirely on your behalf. Do not go near that door.”

Like confining a misbehaving child to his room.

“But it wasn’t my fault,” is Harry’s rejoinder, as it was in childhood from the time he was old enough to speak.

David’s cold rebuttal is silence and a bedroom-door slam behind him.

Harry does try to be good, but curled up on the Victorian sofa, Harry is unable to sleep. This Judas goat business is a mess and they’re no closer to the deadly uranium. If there is any of the stuff.

Lisbon’s population is approximately 750,000 plus tens of thousands of refugees. If any one of them know of a secret weapon, they ain’t making a peep to anybody in any language. If Harry’s gonna save the world, he can’t find a haystack needle while on restriction.

He’s thirsty, but the ice box contains only soda pop and a pitcher of water, not the thirst-quenchers he has in mind. Dying for a cigarette too, he gets off the torture device and stretches. The door locks by itself when one leaves the suite. He doesn’t have a key and is smart enough not to ask for one.

Harry hears a scratching at the door, as if somebody’s puppy has gotten loose. He opens it a couple of inches, to a whiff of halitosis and stale alcohol, and a hand with a lock pick in it.

“Harry, blimey, you are the dickens to find,” Peter Owen says. “I was going to surprise you.”

Fingertip to lips, Harry lets him in.

“People are sleeping,” he whispers.

“Indeed. Most everybody but us are at this late hour.”

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Not easily, I assure you. Ever since you ran out on me at the rear door of the pub and the fascists ripped apart me flat, I’ve been concentrating in making meself hard to find also, moving about like a bloody gypsy.”

Harry points to an armchair. “Have a seat and keep your voice down. The room has a hidden microphone and my hosts are grouchy. And answer my question.”

“Very well. I have nothing to conceal. I stopped at the Canção for a libation and witnessed the aftermath of a mad scene. I swear, every PVDE roughneck in Lisbon was in and about, spiriting a mugging victim off in the direction of the new airport they’re building. An extremely important foreigner, I gather. I made inquiries of bystanders and fabricated a picture. Bystanders who were adequately calm to speak, that is. There was gunfire. A man fitting your description was taken away in a car to this general area. It wasn’t difficult to narrow it down to you, Harry.”

“Where’s Maria Fernanda? How is she?”

“I didn’t see her. Bystanders told of a woman being accosted, who was fortunate enough to escape a rapist’s clutches. Her?”

Harry changes the subject. “The corks? A dead issue? I know the answer, but I have to ask. The dough would come in handy.”

“Not a dead issue to the authorities who seized them. We can be sure of that. An income supplement, the items are, Harry.”

Harry says nothing, thinking of the small fortune in his pocket. Even if he knew where to peddle it, he knows that he’ll be in even hotter water if he tries.

Peter says, “I brought a treat, a peace offering if you remain in a snit and it sounds as if you are, believing incorrectly as you do that the songstress and I are a romantic duo. I swear, that bird and I are platonic friends.”

Peter brings from behind his back a bottle of port.

“Nary an instant younger than twenty years, from Porto’s finest winery. The grandest there is.”

A mollified Harry finds two glasses and a corkscrew.

“A toast,” Peter says after Harry fills their glasses.

Harry clinks Peter’s and drinks, afraid to ask what they’re toasting.

“Harry, what are you doing here with those people?”

“What people?”

“The bird and chap who have been seen around this hotel. They bear a family resemblance to each other,” he says, pointing at the bedroom doors. “Are we hushing ourselves on their account?”

“Oh, them. They’re old friends from my hometown who’re touring parts of Europe Hitler hasn’t gobbled up yet. They relieve my homesickness. By doing so, they’re helping me to stay out of jail and out of the morgue. He’s a major appliance sales director too, you know, trying to gain a foothold in Lisbon. He represents all the major brands. Westinghouse and GE and others.”

Peter nods. “Highly laudable goals. Your General Electric and Frigidaire machines are respected worldwide.”

“They’re selling like hotcakes too,” Harry says. “He can’t get them shipped here fast enough.”

“I recollect your mention of a German questioning you on the subject of gold. What became of that situation?”

How does Peter know? Did Harry let it slip? He’s taken so many poundings lately that he mistrusts his memory.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know about gold and it was a bulletin that he knew about you.”

“If you have power, Lisbon is a small town, Harry.” He reaches into a pocket. “This is the ultimate power.”

Peter gives Harry a gold ingot the dimensions of a playing card, though thicker. Stamped on it: the German eagle, DEUTSCHE REICHSBANK, and a serial number. It’s a double of the ingot in his pocket.

“Pure gold, Harry. Pure as the driven snow. Don’t be put off by the swastika. It can be melted down. Gold is gold. In wartime, gold is a delectable concoction of guns and butter.”

Harry hefts it. The ingot is properly heavy.

Playing innocent, he says, “Peter, where the hell did you find this?”

Fingertip to lips, Peter Owen says, “Quiet. Your people are sleeping.”

“Peter. Where. The. Hell. Did. You. Get. This?”

“Ever hear the fable of Pandora’s box?”

“Sure. I busted it open long ago.”

Peter gets up. “Available for a little trip?”

“Where?”

Peter says, “To where this lovely metal is stacked to the ceiling.”

Save the world or make some money?

Two dead birds, one stone?

When they leave, Harry is careful to shut the door quietly.

Outside the hotel, Harry turns to ask Peter where this cornucopia is.

Peter isn’t there, but a tan Buick is, racing toward him.

That’s when the lights go out.