The Man from Lisbon, page 27
“Then there is no problem between us. Next step, Waterlow. …”
The weather in London was foul and Sir William was fed up with it. It had been raining and sleeting ever since Christmas, and now the Thames was bloody flooding! He couldn’t believe it. The roads entering Whyte Ways resembled nothing less than the Grimpen Mire. … And he’d had a nasty head cold for two weeks that had required constant ingestion of hot rum toddies, the one bright spot of his holiday season. On top of it all, his doctor had spent the morning telling him that the excessively empurpled coloration of his normally pink face was an indication of a dangerous rise in his blood pressure. And why not? he had thundered. Floods, illness, the vile Edgar! He should have died of apoplexy, given the burdens he bore …
Fortunately, the little men from the Bank of Portugal were on the day’s schedule, and that brought a smile to his face. Another nail in the coffin of Edgar’s miserable career! New business! He went to his private water closet and swallowed two high-blood-pressure pills and drained off a glass of water. Lots of fluids, his old Harley Street quack had said. And for this sort of advice he was required to pay coin of the realm! One day, while being attended by the doddering old butcher, Sir William knew he would be summoned to join the Choir Invisible—and his widow would be left to pay old Moggenthorpe’s final due bill! The man was obviously no better than a murderer on the loose, but he was reputed to be the most expensive and therefore the best in London. Which only went to show you the state of the healing arts as 1925 dawned. … Ah, well, thank God he was in his prime and soon to be the Lord Mayor of London! The largest printing firm in the world at his command. … Yes, the best was very definitely yet to be, as one of those simpering damn scribblers had written.
The Portuguese envoys—my God, the whole lot of them, including the German, the Dutchman and the two lackeys who never seemed to say anything, as well as Senhor Reis—arrived after lunch. Reis seemed quite a different man this time, much calmer, less transparent, which was good. Sir William loathed seeing the messy interiors of the minds of business associates. Keep up a damn good front, mind your p’s and q’s, keep an eye out for the main chance and business was a piece of cake … if, of course, you were a Waterlow. Breeding had a good deal to do with it, but you couldn’t expect a wog to understand that.
“The letter from Camacho,” Reis said, withdrawing two envelopes from a leather case, “and the designations to be printed on the banknotes I believe that should satisfy your needs in every way.” He smiled. “I am certainly not empowered to draw this out any longer. You will understand the view of my principals.”
“Of course, most understandable.” Sir William glanced at the letter from Camacho and rang for Cubbage. The faithful aide appeared on the instant. “Have this translated at once.” With a nod Cubbage departed. Sir William then inspected the envelope of numbering data, nodding his approval. “Fine, fine,” he rumbled. “All is in order.”
“Of course,” Reis agreed. “Now, if it is not too much trouble, we require a delivery date, Sir William.”
“Ah, yes, let us inspect the printing schedules.” He leafed through a heavy, clothbound ring binder. “Today is the sixth of January,” he muttered, running his finger down various columns, “and we can deliver ten thousand five-hundred-escudo notes on the first of February … and the remaining one hundred and ninety thousand notes on the tenth. Is that—”
“Perfectly,” Reis said, “perfectly acceptable. We will, however, pick up the notes, all of them, on the tenth.”
“Pick up, Senhor?”
“Take delivery. Here at Waterlow. We will then see to transshipment ourselves.” Reis pursed his lips. “And the cost, Sir William?”
“Fifteen hundred pounds.”
“On our acceptance of the notes.”
“If you wish, of course.”
“And we also need the measurements—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A stack of one thousand notes, we need to know the dimensions of such a stack.” Reis smiled distantly. “Today.”
“I see.” What the hell were they about, anyway? Sir William rang for Cubbage, who appeared with the translation of the director’s letter. “Cubbage, get me the dimensions of a stack of one thousand five-hundred-escudo notes.” Nodding, Cubbage retired. Sir William read the translation of Camacho’s letter.
“The letter, is, I trust, in order?” Reis inquired.
“Oh, yes, I say, certainly.”
“The director asked me to personally thank you for your aid, Sir William. And to caution you not to conduct any correspondence about this arrangement with him—except through us.”
“Yes, yes, secrecy and all. I have quite grasped that point.” He chuckled indulgently, but it made no impression on Senhor Reis’s cool stare.
“I should very much hope so, Sir William. There is, I assure you, far more to this arrangement than you have thus far glimpsed.”
“Is that so? Did the director himself say so?”
“Would I be telling you if he had not?”
Sir William could barely control his smile.
Cubbage reappeared. “The measurements, Sir William.”
“Read them, read them, man.”
Cubbage consulted the sheet of paper he was carrying.
“The one-thousand-note packets measure four and three-quarters inches. The packet weighs about five pounds, gentlemen.” Cubbage permitted himself a small smile. “I couldn’t resist calculating the value per ounce of such a packet.”
“And?” Sir William prompted indulgently.
“The packet is worth about sixty pounds an ounce, or three hundred dollars an ounce American. When you think that gold itself is selling for four pounds an ounce … Such a packet is worth fifteen times its weight in gold,” he said, chuckling. “Puts it in a new perspective, you might say.”
“Thank you, Cubbage. We see your point.”
“Thank you, Sir William.” Cubbage was gone in an instant.
“Good man, Cubbage. Head for figures, you see. Point well made, though. Take good care of your money, gentlemen.”
“Portugal’s money,” Reis corrected him.
“Of course.”
“And you need not trouble yourself as to our precautions.” Reis stood and shook hands. The appropriate goodbyes were observed, and they all trooped off down the worn staircase.
Musing later in the afternoon, Sir William enjoyed a tot of rum from a hammered silver flask in his desk and picked up the file that he had relabeled, changing “Banco de Portugal” to “Senhor Alves Reis.” Thank God he’d been able to shut up the absurd Smythe-Hancock! Obviously, Smythe-Hancock wasn’t half the man this Reis chap was, albeit he had to be counted a wog. … With the rum there came a confident warmth at the day’s work, the unexpected promise of more business conveyed from Camacho Rodrigues himself through Reis. … By God, it had been a good day after all.
This Camacho must be quite a fellow, carrying out such a little snatch of intrigue as this. He read the translation of the letter again, then went through the most important plate notations. Well, surely there should be some acknowledgment from the head of Waterlow to the head of the Bank of Portugal … nothing detailed, nothing to break the secrecy that was obviously an obsession of these people, but just a personal acknowledgment of the letter. Why, it would be a true breach of etiquette simply to ignore the man’s letter. …
The rain rattled steadily at the window, and Great Winchester Street lay bathed in yellow light. With a self-satisfied sigh, Sir William drew a sheet of his personal stationery from its shelf and dipped his pen in the pewter inkstand:
My dear Senhor Director,
I have the pleasure of acknowledging receipt of your confidential letter of 23rd December, the contents of which I have noted, and for which I am obliged.
Yours faithfully, William A. Waterlow,
Chairman of Waterlow and Sons Limited.
There, that should aid good will and what not. He rang for Cubbage.
“I say, Cubbage,” he said to the elderly man whose appearance never underwent a change during the long day required of him. “I’d like you to personally post this for me. See that it goes in the slot yourself. That’s a good fellow. Do it tonight in the City, when you leave, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Cubbage replied. “Without fail.”
At the conclusion of their business with Waterlow, the group dispersed. Marang returned to The Hague, where his other interests required his attention. José accompanied him with plans to see his brother Antonio and the intention of visiting the shadier districts in nearby Amsterdam in a carnal attempt to put the memory of Greta Nordlund to rest. Hennies set off for Berlin without offering any particular explanation: he had his deals to attend to and he was a close-mouthed man. Arnaldo accompanied Alves to Paris, where Alves intended to remain for a time.
“I must have the House of Vuitton build our cases for us. We’ll need them often. They should be made to last.”
“Alves, you don’t have to explain to me.” Arnaldo was drinking beer and nibbling on cheese and crackers. They sat in a depot restaurant. In a few minutes Arnaldo would board the Sud Express for Lisbon. “I understand why you must remain here, but, while you are enjoying yourself with her, please remember you have Maria at home. …”
“How can I forget? In any case, I may not even see Greta. Now, serious matters. Do you need some money?”
“No, I can get by on what I have. I’m rather worried about the way money is being spent. … Do you really have so much? Paris, all this traveling, it must be costing a fortune. …”
The train hissed and snorted like an anxious beast. Alves flinched at the sound. He glared at it, munched cheese.
“If you must know, after our discussion the first day in Paris, Adolf Hennies has become most cooperative about taking care of our various bills.”
Walking toward the black, throbbing train, Alves threw his arm around Arnaldo’s shoulders, stooped with the cares of his imagination.
“Now take good care of Maria,” he said huskily. “You know how she is … if she wants to look for a new apartment, humor her, go with her, let her rattle on, make her feel good. I know what she’s been through … and I know what lies ahead. Don’t worry. And before you know it I’ll be there.”
The two men embraced.
“I count on you,” Alves said.
“Yes.” Then Arnaldo swung aboard and was gone.
Returning by taxi to Claridge’s, Alves could think only of Greta. Where was she? Had she already forgotten their night together? Had it been a matter of curiosity satisfied? He had no experience of such a woman, whose life was so busy and full and, God knew, financially remunerative.
Once again there was no answer when he called her. Where was she? Fears of another man fled, faceless, before him. … He couldn’t bear the thought, yet he was frightened by his passion. It grew each day; she was always with him. …
After a quick lunch he strolled across the Champs-Elysées, turned at the corner pointed out by Claridge’s doorman and entered the House of Vuitton. He found himself a few minutes early and took the time to browse: the merchandise was irresistible. He chose a note case and a manicure set for himself, fondling the tiny gold mustache scissors, the miniature comb, file, cuticle tool. For Maria he found a case for stationery, designed for use while traveling. A wallet for Arnaldo. And for Greta a small purse: why not? he asked himself. He left them with one of the salespeople to be wrapped individually and picked up following his meeting with the manager.
The manager himself, pale, perfumed, minced forward, extending a small boned hand from a mauve cuff. He executed a mandarin inclination of his pointed foxlike face and put himself at Alves’ disposal. Yes, of course Vuitton would have no difficulty in supplying such an order by the appointed date. And how many cases would be required?
“Five identical cases,” Alves told him, feeling the power of command, giving the dimensions he had calculated to accommodate the stacks of banknotes. “Sturdy brass fittings and corners, triple-sewn handles … as indestructible as Vuitton can make them. By the twenty-seventh of January.”
“Certainly, without fail.”
“Fine,” Alves said, crossing his legs, enjoying the procedure. “Bill me personally at Claridge’s. If there is any doubt as to the extension of credit you may contact my bank in Lisbon, the management at Claridge’s, Antonio Bandeira at the Portuguese consulate in The Hague, Karel Marang at the firm bearing his name in The Hague—”
“Please, Monsieur, there will be no problem. It is an honor to build such cases.”
Alves rose and shook the Frenchman’s delicate hand. “By the way, there are a few small gifts I had wrapped downstairs …”
“Thank you, Monsieur. We feel that nothing conveys one’s appreciation and respect quite like a gift from Vuitton. They will be included on your final statement. There is certainly no need to pay for them now.” He bowed, tilting his narrow head above a floppy mauve tie.
“For accounting purposes,” Alves said softly.
“But of course, Monsieur. It has been a great pleasure serving you.”
Upon leaving Vuitton with his packages he returned to Claridge’s, left them in his suite and had the doorman hail a cab. There was nothing left but to visit Greta’s apartment. A drizzle clung like moss from the clouds. The wipers clacked erratically on the Citroen’s windscreen. Water ran in rivulets down the inside of the rear windows. The light was fading outside, and headlamps gleamed on the streets. He felt as if he were hunting for a wonderful party that kept eluding him, just out of reach.
“This is it,” he said, tapping the driver’s shoulder. Standing in the rain, he pressed bills into the driver’s hand. Patches of wetness stained the flat front of the building. The windows were shuttered, paint chipped and peeling, old and blistered by the centuries. The only door opened into a darkened courtyard, which he vaguely remembered. Up two steps to the right was an interior hallway where two electric lights shone dimly from what had once been gas brackets. He went in. An old woman in a heavy black sweater sat behind a counter. A radio muttered softly in the dark. The concierge stirred, eyes peering up like gleaming marbles.
“Monsieur?” she croaked. A cigar glowed in her ashtray. He smelled cooking odors, so old that he couldn’t identify them.
“Mademoiselle Nordlund,” he said. “Is she in?”
She cupped a hand to her ear, stuck the cigar into the corner of her mouth. He repeated his inquiry.
“No, she is not in, Monsieur.”
“When will she return?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged elaborately, dribbling ash into the folds of the shapeless sweater. “She is in the country. She did not say, a few days, perhaps … a week? Who can say?”
“I see. May I leave a message for her, then?”
“Certainly.” She slid a scrap of paper across the counter, extended a stub of pencil.
He dated the sheet. I am at Claridge’s, he wrote. Call me if it is convenient. Alves. There was nothing else to say, though it seemed a pitiful attempt at communication. But how could he put on paper the agonies he felt?
He laid two folded banknotes on the counter and went back outside. The street was still empty, rain dripping from the gutters, running in the sewers. He set off walking, the rain in his face, wandering from one cramped, ancient street to another. He saw the patisserie where he and Greta had breakfasted, ducked in and settled behind the same small table and drank two mugs of hot coffee, two fresh brioches. Greta filled his mind as much as if she’d been there beside him. He got up abruptly and went back into the street. Eventually he reached the Sorbonne with its cafés strung like beads on the Boulevard St. Michel fading away in the rain toward Notre Dame. Vaguely reassured by the crowds in the street and the steamed windows of the cafés, he entered another and drank two cognacs, engulfed in the constant babble of French on all sides of him. The cognac burned in his stomach, warmed him against the chill. Outside he found another taxi and nearly fell asleep during the ride back to Claridge’s.
For three days he was lone, prowling the streets, walking for hours down the endless corridors of the Louvre. He lit a candle for his grandmother in the foggy darkness of Notre Dame, then crossed the bridges and stared at the black wintry Seine. Each day he checked back with the concierge. Nothing.
On Alves’ fourth day of waiting in Paris the drama of Sir William’s letter to Camacho Rodrigues was being played to its climax within that faceless, gray building in Lisbon, the Banco de Portugal. Camacho himself had been under substantial pressure from both his stockholders and the government, the problem being, as it always was, the general state of the economy and the hopelessness of the Angolan situation in particular. A disagreeable early-morning meeting had concluded with one of the government ministers scowling at him—as if the problems were somehow of his making!—and whining loudly, “Show me a man who can get this nation out of the trough and moving forward again, economically speaking, of course, and I’ll show you a man who will have my support … to head the bank! No, by heaven, to head the government itself!” Clearly, in the minister’s eyes, Camacho Rodrigues was not the man. Leaving the meeting fairly well shaken, his mind engaged with the idea of public hangings for disloyal officials among whom he numbered the minister, he drove his black sedan directly into the side of a vegetable vendor’s cart, whose presence between the Praca do Comercio and the Banco de Portugal was never explained to his satisfaction. The cart was not going to be good for much in the future, and there were two noticeable dents in the sedan; the vendor was a raving lunatic, and settling the matter required two policemen and an hour of the director’s valuable time. He was in a rotten mood when he arrived at his office and began barking nastily at Antonia de Fonseca, his secretary, who had not herself put in a particularly pleasant morning.
The problem was no longer that she was in love with a man some years her junior of whom her parents did not at all approve. After all, at thirty-two Antonia de Fonseca was in no position to be overly demanding of any suitor and certainly not of a young and virile one. She had overcome her parents’ objections. Now the problem was substantially more desperate: she was pregnant. Although the father’s identity was reasonably certain, Antonia was unable to foresee a marriage being accomplished in time to hide the fact that she had been no virgin on her wedding day. She had managed to staunch the flow of tears by the time Camacho appeared, face like an ax murderer and shouting at her. His suit jacket, it seemed, had somehow become spattered with fruit stains and required immediate steaming and sponging. And, equally urgently, she would have to take several long letters to such mighty individuals as a pair of highly critical newspaper editors, several ministers who were insisting on specific answers to specific questions and a lengthy reply to the damnable economics professor who had written a lengthy article taking bank policy nastily to task … whatever his name was, academic sniper!
