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Padillo turned on the smile he used to charm old ladies and snakes. “In such affairs, Madelena, the fewer who know, the less the chance for future recriminations and shattered friendships. I promise you — at the earliest opportunity—”

“Ach! Michael, you have made your promises before, but the facts I’ve had to read in Die Welt or The Times or Le Monde. By the time you return, the news will be old. You know I like the details — the grisly parts that never get printed.”

“This time I swear to you—”

“I will do as you say. I will be in touch with Price, Dymec and Shadid. Since you know who they are, you know what they are, and I do not have to warn you. It is an exceedingly strange combination. Do they know each other?”

“I have no idea,” Padillo said.

“You are the common denominator then?”

“Yes.”

“And I should not mention one to another?”

“No.”

“Consider it done.” She rose. “I shall see you to the door.” She paused by Padillo and put her hand on his arm and turned to me. “Mr. McCorkle, the persons that Michael wishes me to reach are most dangerous and, I should add, most untrustworthy.”

Padillo grinned. “What she’s trying to say is that they’re crooks who would peddle their aunts. Mac doesn’t know anyone like that, Madelena. He lives among those of noble thought and kindly deed.”

“His face makes you out a liar, Michael,” she said looking at me with clear dark eyes. “You have to travel a far distance to acquire a face like that.”

I bowed over her hand again and Padillo said: “I am in your debt.”

“And I in yours, my young friend. Do not forget your promise this time.”

“I could not,” Padillo said.

The maid opened the door for us and I asked her to call a taxi.

“Goodbye, Mr. McCorkle,” Senora Romanones said. “I like your suit.” I turned to say goodbye and the light caught her just right. She was wearing a simple blue dress and her face was shadowed so that lines had disappeared. It was a remarkably well-boned face with full lips and eyes that seemed almost Eurasian. She had been stunning at one time. Then the light started to change, and she began to pull the doors together. They closed before the illusion of young beauty vanished.

We waited outside for the cab. “She’s getting old,” Padillo said. “It’s funny, but she’s one person who never seemed to age during all the years I’ve known her.”

“Does she know all the people she says she knows?”

“She knows everybody.”

“Maybe that’s why she’s getting old.”

Six

I told the cab driver that we wanted to go to Mac’s Place and for once I wasn’t asked the address. That brightened the morning. We took Connecticut Avenue all the way and Padillo had a fine time trying to spot a familiar landmark. He didn’t find too many. “There used to be a church there,” he said at the corner of Connecticut and N. “It was ugly as sin, but it had a lot of style.”

“First Presbyterian. There was some talk about having it classified as a national monument or something, but nothing came of it. The offer was too high for the elders to ignore.”

“Predestination, I suppose.”

“Something like that. Maybe God intended it to be a parking lot.”

I told the driver to let us off across the street from the saloon. “You can drink it all in,” I told Padillo. We got out and he gave it a long appraising stare. “Nice,” he said. “Real nice.”

It was a two-story building of vaguely Federal lines that had been built a century before. It was constructed of brick that I’d had sandblasted to its original texture. Black shutters flanked the windows which were criss-crossed with moulding that held small diamond-shaped panes of glass. A grey and black canopy ran from the door across the sidewalk to the street. The name, “Mac’s Place,” was white on black at the end of the canopy in appropriately discreet letters.

We crossed the street and went through the two-inch thick slab door. “We’re still saving on electricity,” Padillo said when we were inside.

It was dim all right, but not so dim that the thirsty couldn’t find their way to the bar that ran down the length of the left-hand side of the room. It was a good bar to sit at or to lean on. There were the usual tables and chairs and carpeted floor, but the tables were far enough apart so that the diners could wave their elbows around and talk above a whisper without being overheard.

“What’s upstairs?” Padillo asked.

“Private dining rooms. They’ll hold from six to twenty people.”

“That’s a good touch.”

“It’s paying off.”

“What’s the nut?”

I told him.

“What did you do last week?”

“About fifteen hundred above it, but it was an exceptional week.”

“Is Horst here yet?”

We walked over to the day bartender. I introduced him to Padillo and then asked him to find Horst. The thin, ascetic man marched quickly in from the kitchen where he probably had been holding fingernail inspection. He blinked and almost lost a step when he saw Padillo, but recovered quickly.

“Herr Padillo, it is very good to see you,” he said in German.

“It’s nice to be back, Herr Horst. Things go well for you?”

“Very well, thank you. And with you?”

“Quite well, thanks.”

“Herr Padillo will resume his active partnership, Herr Horst,” I said. “Would you inform the rest of the staff?”

“Of course, Herr McCorkle. Permit me to say, Herr Padillo, that it is very good to have you back.”

Padillo smiled. “It’s good to be with friends again, Herr Horst.”

Horst beamed, and I prayed that he wouldn’t throw us a Nazi salute. He settled for a stiff military bow and an almost imperceptible clicking of the heels. He had been a captain in the German Wehrmacht during World War II. He was Prussian and I suppose he once had been a party member, but neither Padillo nor I had ever inquired. He was an excellent maitre d’ with a phenomenal memory for names who provided a continental touch and kept the help properly awed.

Padillo asked me where Karl was. “Up on the Hill,” I said. “He’s fallen for Congress. He comes on around five and spends his days keeping a box score on legislation.”

Padillo looked at his watch. “It’s eleven-thirty—”

“I was just going to suggest it,” I said. “Would you do the honors?”

Padillo went around the bar and said: “What’ll it be, pal?”

“A martini.”

“Extra dry, pal?”

“Extra dry is twenty cents extra,” I said.

“Another good touch. What do we charge for a regular martini?”

“Ninety-five cents — ninety-eight cents with tax.”

“What’s it do to the tips?”

“Builds them. There aren’t as many dimes and nickels around, so they usually leave two-bits. The two cents’ change is a sting to conscience.”

Padillo mixed and poured the martinis and slid mine across the bar. It was brimful but none was spilled. I tasted it. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

Padillo came around to the customer’s side and we sat at the end of the bar and watched the early drinkers arrive. They were the ones with luncheon dates at twelve who arrived fifteen minutes early for a couple of quick ones.

By twelve-thirty we were taking up valuable space so I led Padillo back through the kitchen, introduced him to the chef, and then we went farther back to the small room that I called the office. It had a desk and three chairs and a filing cabinet. There was also a couch that was fairly comfortable about three o’clock in the afternoon.

I sat down behind the desk. “I’m going to call Fredl’s office and tell them she won’t be in for a few days. Can you think up any good excuses?”