The Honorary Consul (18 page)

       "Aquino," he called, "Aquino." Aquino came reluctantly and suspiciously in. "No more whisky," he said.

       "I want to use the lavatory, Aquino."

       "I will tell Miguel to go with you."

       "No, please, Aquino... I'll never get a proper shit with that Indian sitting outside waving his gun at me. He's longing to use it, Aquino."

       "Miguel means no harm. He is interested in the gun—that's all. He has never had one before."

       "He frightens me just the same. Why not take the gun yourself and guard me, Aquino? I know you wouldn't shoot unless you had to."

       "He would not like anyone else to hold his gun."

       "Then I'll damn well shit in here."

       "I will speak to him," Aquino said. It's difficult for most men to shoot a friendly man in cold blood—Charley Fortnum's plan was as simple as that.

       When Aquino returned he was holding the submachine gun. "All right," he said, "go ahead. I know I have only my left hand, but remember no one needs to be a marksman with one of these. One bullet will always go home."

       "Even a poet's bullet," Charley Fortnum said, raking up a smile. "I wish you would give me a copy of that poem. I'd like to keep it as a souvenir."

       "Which poem?"

       "You know the one I mean. The one about death."

       He walked through the outer room. The Indian did not look at him. He was watching the gun with anxiety as though something very dear had been put in untrustworthy hands.

       Charley Fortnum talked all the way to the shed among the avocados. His watch had stopped during his coma and he had no idea of the time, but he could see how long the shadows were. Under the trees heavy with dark-brown fruit it was already night. He said, "I've nearly finished that letter. It's a damned difficult one to write." When he got to the door of the shed he turned and tried a smile out on Aquino. If Aquino smiled back it would be a good sign, but Aquino didn't smile. Perhaps he was only preoccupied. Perhaps he had drunk the wrong measure.

       Charley Fortnum waited in the hut for a reasonable time, screwing his courage up. Then he came quickly out and turned sharp right to put the hut between them. It was only a matter of yards and under the trees the darkness waited. He heard a short burst of fire, a shout, an answering shout, he felt nothing. He cried out, "Don't shoot, Aquino." At the second burst he fell on the very edge of the dark.

PART FOUR

1

The day began badly for Sir Henry Belfrage at breakfast. For the third time running the cook had fried his egg on both sides. He said, "Did you forget to tell Pedro, dear?"

       "No," Lady Belfrage said, "I swear I didn't. I remember distinctly..."

       "He must have picked the habit up from the Yankees. It's a Yankee custom. Don't you remember the trouble we had once at the Plaza in New York? They've got a name for 'fried on one side.' Can you remember it? Pedro might understand."

       "No, dear... I don't think I ever heard it."

       "Sometimes I sympathize with those chaps who write about Yankee imperialism. Why should we have to eat our fried eggs like this? Soon he'll be giving us maple syrup with our sausages. That was a terrible wine we had last night at the American Embassy, darling. Californian, I suppose."

       "No, dear. It was Argentine."

       "Ah, he was trying to curry favor with the Minister of the Interior. But the Minister would have preferred a good French table wine like we serve here."

       "Not a very good wine all the same."

       "The best we can afford with our miserable expense allowance. Did you notice that he served Argentine Scotch?"

       "The trouble is, dear, he doesn't drink anything himself. Do you know he was quite shocked because Mr.... poor Mr. C... you know our Consul, Mason isn't it?"

       "No, no, the other chap. Fortnum."

       "Well, poor Mr. Fortnum apparently brought two bottles of Scotch with him when they went to the ruins."

       "I don't blame him for that. Do you know the Ambassador travels with an icebox full of Coca-Cola? I wouldn't have drunk so much of that bloody wine if he hadn't watched me with those New England eyes of his. I felt like that girl in the book who had a scarlet letter A on her dress. A for Alcoholism."

       "I think it was Adultery, dear."

       "I daresay. I only saw the film. Years ago. They didn't make it clear."

       The day which had begun miserably enough with the badly fried eggs got steadily worse. Crichton, the Press Attache, came to see him to protest that he was being driven up the wall by telephone calls from the press. He complained to Sir Henry, "I keep telling them that Fortnum was only an Honorary Consul. The reporter on La Prensa can't understand the difference between Honorary and Honorable. I wouldn't be surprised if they make him the son of a peer."

       Sir Henry said soothingly, "I doubt if they know enough about our titles for that."

       "They seem to think the whole affair is so very important."

       "Only because it's the silly season, Crichton. They have no Loch Ness monster here, and the flying saucers go on all through the year."

       "I wish we had some tranquillizing statement we could make, sir."

       "So do I, Crichton, so do I. Of course you can say I spent several hours last night with the American Ambassador—you needn't say I have a damn bad head as a consequence."

       "The 'Nación' has had another anonymous telephone call—from Córdoba this time. Only four days left."

       "Thank God it's no longer," the Ambassador said. "Next week it will all be over. He'll be either dead or freed."

       "The police think that Córdoba is a blind and he may be in Rosario—or even here by this time."

       "We ought to have retired him six months ago and then none of this would have happened."

       "The police say the kidnapping was a mistake, sir. They wanted the American Ambassador. If that's right surely the Americans ought to be grateful to us and do something."

       "Wilbur," Sir Henry Belfrage said, "—the Ambassador insists that I call him Wilbur—refuses to admit he was the intended victim. He says the U. S. A. is very popular in Paraguay—Nelson Rockefeller's tour proved that. No one threw stones in Paraguay or set fire to any offices. It was as quiet as it was in Haiti. He calls Rockefeller Nelson—it had me confused for a moment. Do you know I really thought for a moment he was going to invite me to call Rockefeller Nelson too?"

       "I can't help being sorry for the poor devil."

       "I don't think Wilbur needs any of our sympathy, Crichton."

       "I didn't mean him—I meant—"

       "Oh, Mason? Damnation, my wife has started calling him Mason and now I'm doing the same. If Mason gets into an official telegram, God knows where it will end up in London. They'll think it has something to do with the Mason-Dixon line. I shall have to say to myself Fortnum, Fortnum, Fortnum, like that raven which said Nevermore."

       "You don't think they will really kill him, sir?"

       "Of course I don't, Crichton. They didn't even kill that Paraguayan Consul they took a few years back. The General said he wasn't interested, and they let the fellow go. This isn't Uruguay or Colombia—or Brazil, for that matter. Or Bolivia. Or Venezuela. Or even Peru," he added apprehensively as the field of hope narrowed.

       "We are in South America, though, aren't we?" Crichton said with incontestable logic.

       A few tiresome telegrams came in during the morning. Somebody had started another Falkland Islands scare: the islands cropped up, like Gibraltar, whenever there was nothing else to worry about. The Foreign Secretary wanted to know as a consequence how Argentina was likely to vote in the latest African issue before the United Nations. The Chief Clerk had issued a new directive about entertainment expenses, and Sir Henry Belfrage could see the time rapidly approaching when he too might have to serve Argentinian wine. There was also a question about the British entry at the Mar del Plata film festival—a Conservative member of Parliament had described the British entry by some man called Russell as pornographic. There had been no directive at all about Fortnum since the previous day when Belfrage had been ordered to see the Foreign Minister and afterward to act in concert with the American Ambassador—the British Ambassador in Asunción had received the same instruction, and Sir Henry hoped he had an American to deal with who was a little more dynamic than Wilbur.

       After lunch his secretary told him that a Doctor Plarr was asking to see him.

       "Who's Plarr?"

       "He comes from the north. I think he wants to see you about the Fortnum case."

       "Oh bring him in, bring him in," Sir Henry Belfrage said, "let them all come." He was vexed at losing his siesta—it was the only time of day when he could feel a private person. There was a new Agatha Christie waiting by his bed, fresh from his bookshop in Curzon Street.

       "We've met before somewhere," he said to Doctor Plarr, and he looked at Plarr with suspicion—everyone in B. A. except the Army people seemed to have the title of Doctor. A thin lawyer's face, he thought; he never felt at ease with lawyers; he found himself shocked by the heartlessness of legal jokes—a convicted murderer was no more to them than a patient with incurable cancer to a surgeon.

       "Yes—here at the Embassy," Doctor Plarr reminded him. "A cocktail party. I rescued your wife from a poet."

       "Of course, of course, I remember now, my dear chap. You live up there. We talked about Fortnum, didn't we?"

       "That's right. I'm looking after his wife. She's having a baby, you know."

       "Oh, you are that kind of doctor, are you?"

       "Yes."

       "Thank God! One never knows here, does one? And you really are British too. Not like the O'Briens and the Higginses. Well, well, it must be an awful anxiety for poor Mrs. Fortnum. You must tell her we are doing everything in our power..."

       "Yes," Doctor Plarr said, "of course, she realizes that, but I thought I'd like to know a little of how things are going. I flew down to B. A. this morning, because I felt I had to see you and learn a little, and I'm flying back tonight. If there were some definite news I could take back with me... to comfort Mrs. Fortnum..."

       "It's an awfully difficult situation, Plarr. You see, something which is everybody's responsibility is always nobody's responsibility. The General is down here in the south fishing and refuses to discuss the matter while he's on holiday. The Foreign Minister says it's a purely Paraguayan affair, and the President can't be expected to bring pressure on the General, when he's a guest of the nation. Of course the police are doing their best, but they've probably been told to act as discreetly as possible. For Fortnum's own sake."

       "But the Americans... Surely they can bring pressure on the General. He wouldn't exist twenty-four hours in Paraguay without their help."

       "I know all that, but it makes it the more awkward, Plarr. You see the Americans take the sensible view that these kidnappings have to be discouraged—even if it means, well, how shall I put it? a certain danger to life. Like that German Ambassador they killed—where was it? Guatemala? In this case, to be quite frank... well, an Honorary Consul is not an Ambassador. They feel it would be a bad principle if they interfered. The English are not very popular with the General. Of course if Fortnum were an American he would probably take a different view."

       "The kidnappers thought he was. So the police say. They think the kidnappers were looking for a diplomatic car in the dark and CC is awfully like CD."

       "Yes, how often we've told the damned fool not to fly a flag or show CC plates. An Honorary Consul hasn't the right to use them."

       "Still a death sentence seems a bit severe."

       "What more can I do, Plarr? I've been twice to the Foreign Ministry. Last night I spoke unofficially to the Minister of the Interior. He was having dinner with Wilbur—I mean the American Ambassador. I can't do a thing more without instructions from London, and London has a remarkable sense of—well—unurgency. By the way how is your mother? It all comes back to me now. You are 'that' Plarr. Your mother often has tea with my wife. They both like sweet cakes and those things with 'dulce de leche'."

       "'Alfajores'."

       "That's the name. Can't stand them myself."

       Doctor Plarr said, "I know what a nuisance I must seem to you, Sir Henry, but my father is in one of the General's jails if he's still alive. Perhaps this kidnapping is his last chance. That makes me suspect to the police, so I feel personally concerned. And besides there's Fortnum. I can't help feeling responsible a bit for him. He's not a patient of mine, but Mrs. Fortnum is."

       "Wasn't there something odd about that marriage? I got a letter from up there, from some old busybody called Jeffries."

       "Humphries."

       "Yes. That was the name. He wrote to me that Fortnum had married an 'undesirable' woman. Lucky man! I've reached the age when I never meet anyone of that sort."

       "It did occur to me," Doctor Plarr said, "that I might be able to make contact with the kidnappers. They may telephone Mrs. Fortnum if they find they are getting nowhere with the authorities."

       "A bit improbable, my dear chap."

       "But not impossible, sir. If something like that did happen and I had some hope to offer them... Perhaps I could persuade them to extend their time limit—say for a week. In that case surely there might be a chance to negotiate?"

       "If you want my honest opinion you would only be extending the agony—for Fortnum and Mrs. Fortnum. If I were Fortnum I'd prefer a quick death."

       "But surely something could be done?"