“And where is she now?”
“In Lisbon. When I went to fight there, she went with me. But she did not return with me.”
“I should say not,” the redhead interjected. “Two’s company, three’s a headache.”
“You mean you ditched her there?” I asked Mendes.
“Certainly not, Señor. I am a gentleman.”
“He’s lying in his teeth,” the redhead told me. “He left without even paying her hotel bill. We laughed about it all the way back to Madrid.”
“Some gentleman,” I observed.
“Please, Señor.” Abruptly, Mendes’ manner changed. “You are upsetting me. I must face El Toro this afternoon and already you have upset my stomach. If there are no more questions, will you please leave now? I must release the tension.”
“Not on your life!" the redhead told him. “Not with me, anyway. Not after the way you practically made a present of me to this man.”
“Then with someone else.” Mendes shrugged. “The town is crawling with American redheads."
“Do you have any idea where I might find Barbara Thomas in Lisbon?” I asked Mendes.
“No.”
“I do,” the redhead said. “When a foreign gir1’s down and out in Lisbon and good-looking, her first stop‘s apt to be a joint run by a neuter they call Madam Svitch-Hittinga.”
“How do you know that?” Mendes was startled.
“Because I worked there before I latched onto you, sucker!”
“And you let me think you were just an innocent American tourist girl,” Mendes said in an injured tone.
“You got your money’s worth."
“Typical!” Mendes muttered. “Crass American commercialism."
“And you can stop knocking my country, too,” she told him.
On that patriotic note, I bowed out. The hotel cop outside the door was startled to see me emerge, still dripping water and soapsuds. But I didn’t stop to answer any questions. I simply waved the gun in his face, and he sat back down and stayed put while I sprinted for the staircase.
Two hours later, wearing a fresh, dry suit, I boarded the plane for Lisbon. The flight was uneventful. I slept the entire trip. I didn’t even get up to go to the john once. Remarkable, considering that Captain Flagella wasn’t even the pilot this time.
It was a maddeningly slow flight, though, with five stops en route at as many Spanish cities. Night had fallen by the time we set down in Lisbon. My first sight of the city was like something out of an old Orson Welles movie-—crumbling architecture, half Moroccan, half Gothic, narrow, winding alleys, a brief flash of Coney Island neon lost in the haze of smoke rising from an occasional cafe. And then the airport, disconcertingly modern against the background of the medieval world beyond it.
I checked my bags and hailed a cab. “Do you speak English?” I asked the driver, since I speak no Portuguese.
“Of course I do, old chap,” he answered in a perfect Oxford accent.
Startled, I took a closer look at him. His face was wizened and he was very, very old. “Are you an Englishman, then?” I asked him.
“Would you believe that I was?” he asked in the same impeccable accent, beaming at me toothlessly.
“Yes. Why? Aren’t you?”
“No,” he cackled. “I am Dutch.”
A Dutchman, 108 years old or thereabouts, speaking with a perfect Oxford accent and driving a Portuguese taxicab! Well, I’m as curious as the next man. Despite my hurry, I took time to query him. “How long have you been in Lisbon?” I asked.
“Since the end of the war.”
“The end of the war? Twenty years. That’s a long time.”
“Not that war!” He dismissed World War Two with an impatient wave of his gnarled hand.
“You mean since the First World War?”
“Of course not. I mean the Boer War. I've been here since the Boer War.”
“But why haven’t you ever returned to Holland?”
“They forgot about me.”
“They?”
“Yes. The Netherlands Intelligence Service. They sent me here as a spy when the war started."
“I see. And the British accent is because--”
“I am impersonating an Englishman. Correct.”
“Well, don’t you think you should drop it by now? I mean, after all, the Boer War has been over for three generations.”
“I am trying to. But up until recently it was necessary that I keep it.”
“Why was it necessary?”
“I told you. They forgot about me. They just left me here to spy when the war ended. And they paid my salary right through last year. So, naturally, I had to keep up the accent. After all, that’s what they were paying me to do.”
“And what happened last year?” I asked.
“They passed some kind of bill forcing all spies over sixty-five to retire. They offered me a pension, but of course I refused it. I have my pride, you know. And I’d saved a little money, so I used it to buy this taxicab. But I still spy on the side, anyway. After all, I am a patriotic Hollander. And you never can tell when those limeys will start stirring up trouble with the natives again.”
“No, you never can tell,” I humored him. “Look, do you know of a house of ill-repute run by someone they call Madam Svitch-Hittinga?”
“But of course. Get in and I will take you there. You are very fortunate that you got my cab,” he told me as we got under way, “rather than the one behind me.”
“Oh? Why?”
“The driver is a Russian spy."
“A Commie?"
“Of course not. He is a White Russian. One of the most insidious spies in all Lisbon -- except when his rheumatism is bothering him. He has been here since the Russo-Japanese War and he particularly preys on Americans like yourself. He would have talked you out of going to Madam Svitch-Hittinga’s establishment. He would have steered you to the place run by Mexicali Cisco. It’s part of an arrangement he’s had with the Mexicans since the Pancho Villa border dispute. All the girls there are trained to pump information from loose-mouthed gringoes.”
“Thanks. I’ll stay away from there,” I told him. And then, as an afterthought: “Sounds like this White Russian is moonlighting,” I observed.
“Well, it is very difficult to make ends meet when you are a spy. And particularly so when you are a spy for a government which no longer exists. Mind you, I don’t condone his ethics, but I understand them.”
“That’s very decent of you.”
“Well, we spies have to stick together."
“And what’s the spying specialty at Madam Svitch-Hittinga’s?” I asked him.
“Italian. The Mafia is behind it.”
My heart sank as I heard that.
“They started out specializing in milking information from Ethiopians,” he told me. “But when the Mafia rebelled against Mussolini, the whole scope of the operation was enlarged. Today they sell what information they acquire to the highest bidder.” He swerved into the curb and braked the car to a stop. “Here we are,” he told me.
“Thanks. This has been interesting,” I told him as I paid him.
“It is Lisbon, old chap,” he replied. “Some cities depend on the tourist trade to survive. Lisbon depends on spies. And by the way, sir, if you don’t mind my asking, which government are you working for?”
“It’s a secret,” I told him, “but I don’t mind telling you. I represent the Iroquois nation. I’m here to make a munitions deal with a representative of the Sioux so that the French can be thrown out of Louisiana.”
“Then I fear we are on opposite sides of the fence,” he said stiffly. And, without so much as a backward glance, he drove away.
I entered the bordello. A maid led me down the long, dimly lit foyer to the main room. It must have been a slow night. Three or four girls were scattered lackadaisically about on the brightly colored velvet couches like so many pieces of slightly soiled fruit left over from a feast the night before.