The Portuguese Escape (6 page)

‘Good afternoon, Monsieur de Kállay. I hope I see you well?'

‘My dear Richard, you know perfectly that nobody ever sees me
well
. As Maurice Baring once said—“I'm always worse, and
never
better!” However, thank you for the little phrase.'

Atherley laughed.

‘Moreover, your intention in greeting me is not in the least single-minded,' the Hungarian went on. ‘You simply wish to be introduced to Countess Hetta Páloczy. Very well—Countess Hetta, allow me to introduce Mr. Richard Atherley, First Secretary at the British Embassy, who in spite of this lamentable exhibition of double-talk is really my very good friend.'

Hetta, laughing, held out her hand. Richard Atherley was very good-looking in a rather neutral English way: that is to say, that although he was very tall he had hazel, not blue eyes, and mouse-coloured hair, and his skin, though clear and healthy, was by no means pink. But his face was intelligent and expressive, something one noticed long before the excellent modelling of the features and the brilliance of the hazel eyes; he looked gay and amusing and pleasant. He was all three. He bowed over Hetta's hand and kissed it, surprising her.

‘
Tiens!
We are going all Hungarian, are we?' said M. de Kállay. ‘Well
je m'absente
—which in American means “I'll leave you to it”.' He, too, kissed Hetta's hand, and hobbled away.

‘What a very nice man this is,' Hetta said, looking after him. When coaching her daughter for her first appearance in society Countess Páloczy's main injunction had been ‘Talk!'—she was now endeavouring to carry it out.

‘Yes, he's an absolute darling, and as clever as paint, too.'

To his immense surprise Hetta said—

‘Would you repeat that?'

‘Repeat what?'

‘This that you said about his being clever.'

‘I said he was as clever as paint, didn't I?'

‘Yes. Would you tell me what this means?'

‘Oh, just that he's very clever—it's an expression one uses. But why did you want it repeated?'

‘Mr. Waller told me I should say “Would you repeat that?” when I have not understood, instead of saying “Please?” It seems that “Please” has a disagreeable sound in English.'

Atherley gave his big laugh.

‘Oh, Townsend! What a man! You go on saying “Please?” as much as you like. Do you know, I believe I went to your house in Hungary once?' he went on.

‘Did you really? When? Mr. Waller said you knew Hungary.'

‘It was in 1939—I was staying with the Talmassys at Bula, and they took me over to lunch at Detvan.'

‘1939—oh, then I was only six, so I could not have seen you! Did you like it?'

‘Yes, I thought it a most charming place—dignified and yet so homely, with that great courtyard, and the farm buildings. And full of sun.'

‘Was it not? Oh, you have completely
seen
it!—this is evident.'

‘I liked the new chapel your father had just built, too. Of course it wasn't as perfect as the little old rococo one, but like that it was a part of the house, as well as being big enough for all the peasants to come to Mass in on Sundays, instead of trailing over to Bula.'

‘Oh, yes; that meant so much to them. Did you see the telegram?' the girl asked eagerly.

‘You mean the one from Cardinal Pacelli that hangs up in the porch, framed, giving the building his blessing? Yes, of course I did—your father showed me that at once. It seems they were friends.'

‘Indeed yes—he was often at Detvan; they were close friends. And now one is the Holy Father, and the other is dead,' Hetta said, on an elegiac fall of voice which struck Atherley with curious force.

‘I'd forgotten—of course Pacelli is Pope now,' he said,
conscious of a certain lameness in his words after hers. What a strange being she was!—that smart hair-do and pretty frock, and the eyes and voice of a priestess at some Delphic shrine. Feeling his own inadequacy in a way most unusual with him, Mr. Atherley decided to call up his reserves.

‘There's someone I want you to meet,' he said. ‘May I bring her over? I think you might like her.'

‘But please do.' Hetta was prepared to like any friend of the man who had been to Detvan and noticed how that long low house with its wide courtyard used to be full of sun—it was one of her own most vivid memories. She was still thinking how clever it was of him to have noticed the sun-filled quality of her home when Mr. Atherley returned with Julia Probyn, and introduced them.

Young women have mental antennae longer than lobsters', and as delicately fine as those of butterflies. Hetta's and Julia's antennae reached out and did whatever the lobster-butterfly equivalent of clicking is—in human terms, they took to one another immediately. There was a moment's check when Julia mentioned that she was a journalist, but Hetta's sudden expression of dismay was so obvious that it made the others laugh.

‘Don't worry—Miss Probyn won't bother you. She's only concerned with the royalties,' Atherley said.

‘Oh, this wedding.' Hetta's distaste for the whole subject of the wedding was so audible in her voice that Julia laughed again; as Hetta listened to that long slow gurgle a happy reassured expression came into her face.

‘You, too, think it funny that people should care so much, whether they go or not?' she asked.

‘Oh no—perfectly normal. There's surely more social snobbery in the Century of the Common Man than ever before in the world's history,' Julia said. ‘I
have
to go—it's my bread-and-butter.'

The party was thinning, and Atherley murmured to Julia that they ought to leave. He turned to Hetta.

‘Will you lunch with me on Thursday? So that we can talk about Detvan?'

‘With Mama?'

‘Of course if you say so—but Miss Probyn will tell you
that in the free world young ladies do lunch with young men without their parents.'

‘So? This too I do not know.'

‘Ask the Monsignor—he's your mother's spiritual adviser, so if he approves, she can't object,' said Atherley, smiling. ‘Anyhow Miss Probyn will be there.'

‘If Mama has no other plans for me, I shall be happy to come. Thank you,' Hetta said, with the composed decision that somehow had so much distinction.

‘She
is
out of the top drawer, isn't she?' Julia remarked to Atherley as they drove back to Lisbon.

‘Who, the young Countess? Yes. It's so curious, really, that little aristocratic air of hers, when she's been a convent school-girl for nearly two-thirds of her life, and cook to a rustic priest in Hungary for the rest.'

‘Oh, was she?'

‘Yes.' He repeated what Townsend Waller had passed on to him of Hetta's experiences.

‘Mmm,' said Julia, reflectively. ‘
She
can't be the frightfully important Hunk who was going to be got out to tell the world about conditions there, can she?'

‘What important Hunk?'

‘Oh well, I heard ages ago that one was to be got out, if it could be fixed.'

‘Who from?'

‘Just a friend, who does those sort of things,' said Julia airily, while the slight blush which always enraged her appeared. ‘But this girl would hardly be high-powered enough, would she?'

‘She seems fairly high-powered, but I gather the one thing she
won't
do is tell anyone anything,' said Atherley, ‘so I shouldn't say telling the world was really her line. Anyhow she came out quite openly, as the result of a piece of perfectly honest blackmail—didn't you read about Countess Páloczy's Press Conference?'

‘Oh, that—yes, of course I did, but I thought that was some poor little tot.'

‘Really, Julia, you are too vague to live! Well, now you've met the little tot.'

‘Yes. She's certainly small, but so is an atom bomb, I believe.'

‘Is that your impression of her?'

‘Oh well, I think all this convent life and cooking for country priests may simply have been smothering some sort of dynamite. Or developing it—did your American chum establish whether life was safe and easy for her in the People's Democracy, or risky and dangerous?'

‘Not for her, I don't think. The priest she cooked for took risks, he said.'

‘Oh,' said Julia. After a pause—‘Well I hope I
am
coming to lunch on Thursday, or whichever day it proves to be. I'd like to have a go at her myself.'

‘Of course you're coming.'

Two days later Mr. Atherley was sitting in his room in the Chancery, which looked out, not onto the Rua S. Domingos à Lapa, where the trams rattle up and down over the steep cobbles, but onto the green tree-filled space of garden behind, memorising phrases in that famous Portuguese lesson-book, a ‘must' for students of the language,
A Familia Magalhães
. (These seem to have been a family rather like the Dales, and presumably descendants of the gentleman who gave his name to the Straits of Magellan.) Atherley's studies were interrupted by the rather brusque entrance of a small man who bore the title of assistant Military Attaché.

‘Atherley, I've got one of our chaps downstairs— Torrens, from Morocco. I wonder if you'd see him?'

‘Good morning, Melplash. Why does the man from Morocco want to see
me?
' Atherley asked, rather repressively, putting a finger in the Magalhães family to keep his place.

‘He seems to think he may want backing-up at a higher level than mine,' Mr. Melplash replied, grinning cheerfully—‘so he wants to put you in the picture. D'you mind?'

‘What's it all about?' Atherley asked.

‘Some top-secret, top-priority Central European who's been got out, and's coming here,' Melplash said, in his usual hurried gabble.

‘Not a Hungarian, by any chance?'

‘Yes, I rather think it is—but he'll tell you all about it. May I bring him up?'

‘Very well,' said Atherley resignedly, putting the Magalhães family away in a drawer. H'm. That pretty Julia Probyn, whom he had met a good deal when she was with the Ericeiras, and had liked enough to take her along to Countess Páloczy's party two days ago—was she rather well-informed, or what?

Melplash reappeared with a tall red-haired man. Having introduced him, he said—‘Well, I'll leave you to it,' and scuttled away.

‘Now, what can I do for you?—or what do you hope I can do?' Atherley asked, pushing a gay Alentejo box of cigarettes across the table to his visitor.

‘Thanks. We might not want you to do anything—but then again we might,' said Major Torrens, grinning rather more subtly than his introducer had done. ‘May I hold forth?'

‘Please.' As he said the word Atherley was reminded of Hetta, and smiled a little.

‘We have just got someone rather important out of Hungary—' Torrens began.

‘How?' Atherley interjected.

‘He came out as part of the Hungarian film unit which arrived a few days ago for the Film Festival at Cannes; they're showing two films this year—both rather good, I hear. And as you know, some of the stars and so on usually go too, for prestige purposes.'

‘Is this individual a film-star?'

Torrens laughed.

‘Good God no! But he came out disguised as a technical director; one of the real stars is pro-West, and arranged with our man in Hungary to bring him along.'

‘Where is he now? In Cannes?'

‘No. Our people have got him out. Not too easy—the opposition were watching them all the time like lynxes; but the star organised
five
different parties on the same day; to La Turbie, Vence, Grasse, and what-have-you; that rather foxed the sleuths, and our man got down to the Vieux Port and on board a little yacht, and sailed away to Port Vendres.'

‘Where is that?'

‘The last port in France before the Spanish frontier—a
tiny place. He's in Spain now, on his way here.'

‘May I know why he's coming here? To live?'

‘No, he's going on to the States; primarily I suppose to boost the morale of the Hungarians there—you know there are something like 100,000 of them in and around Pittsburgh alone—and of course to give up-to-date information to the Free Hungary Committee, or whatever it's called. But I think the “Voice of America” people have their eye on him too, for broadcasts.'

‘Then why is he coming here? Just to take a plane? If so, I hardly see where the Embassy comes in, if his papers are in order—and I'm sure your people have seen to it that they are,' Richard said, in rather chilling tones.

‘Oh yes, his papers are all right—a German technician with a specialised knowledge of printing processes and types! I'm told he speaks faultless German.'

‘Does he know anything about printing processes?'

‘Seemingly he does, a great deal; but he isn't coming here for typography,' Torrens said, looking a little amused. ‘He has to make an important contact, which may take some time. If all goes well there will be no need to bother anyone—but if we run into any trouble it might be necessary for the Embassy to step in.'

‘The Ambassador would hate that,' Richard said, continuing to display the regular diplomatist's reasoned and wholesome distaste for any involvement in under-cover activities. ‘Have you any reason to expect trouble?'

For the first time his visitor hesitated. ‘Well?' Atherley pressed him.

‘I'm not sure, really. There was no difficulty whatever at Cerbère—that's the Spanish frontier post near Port Vendres; but on the way to Barcelona, by car of course, there was what
might
have been an incident, at a little pub where they stopped to eat. Another car drew up, several men came in, apparently tipsy, ordered wine, and contrived to start a general fracas, in the course of which our men got the impression that there was an attempt to slug the Hungarian. We had three people with him, and two of them were middle-weight boxers, so they slugged the sluggers, and got clear. But of course he would have been missed in Cannes well before that, and presumably
spotters spotted him as he crossed the frontier, and followed him.'