The Lisbon Crossing (3 page)

“Who’s next?” I said, and he paused, stole a glance in the rearview mirror.

“Senhor?”

“The Germans seem to think they should be running Europe,” I said. Alberto paused to think his answer through.

“We are fortunate in Portugal to have a strong and wise leader,” he said. “Dr. Salazar will keep the latest conqueror from our door.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, thinking they’d probably been saying something pretty similar in Paris not too long ago. Anyway, it put an end to my history lesson.

I felt like stretching my legs, so I told Alberto to pull up. He found a shady spot for the car and, anticipating the bonus of an unexpected morning nap, launched into a long-winded dissertation on the best route to the hotel while he sketched it out on the back of an old newspaper. He looked a little heartbroken when I told him he was coming along. Even if I could find my way based on his dubious instructions, I’d need a translator once I got there.

Alberto kept racing ahead, then stopping to let me catch up
before pulling in front again. I didn’t need a midday sprint through the July heat, so I kept my own leisurely pace. He led us off the main drag into Lisbon’s oldest district, the Alfama, a hilly maze of narrow lanes where traders in denlike shops and Arabs in open stalls bought and sold everything from fresh fish to the family silver. We could’ve been in Istanbul or Cairo.

It was the first time I noticed the refugees, who congregated here in the shadowy backstreets, where they could trade the contents of their suitcases for the hope of a future. They weren’t what I expected. Sure, they were tired and dirty and looked utterly defeated, but underneath all that you could see fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles who, until recently, had worked, lived, and died in the towns and villages built by their grandparents and great-grandparents. A few weeks ago, they’d been proud people and now they just wanted to be invisible, averting their eyes as you passed them in the street. Except the children, of course. They didn’t know enough to look away.

We found the hotel stuck between a dark funeral parlor and a fragrant cheese shop. It wasn’t exactly a dive but it was pretty damn close. You had to wonder why a guy on fifty bucks a day would choose to stay in a place like that, but I suppose he was just trying to make a dime on his expense account. Or maybe Grimes just felt more at home on the seedy side of life.

The lobby was small and dark, the only light emanating from a twenty-watt lamp standing on the small, curved reception desk. A large arrangement of decomposing white orchids—probably leftovers from next door—languished on a side table, overwhelming the room with a sickly sweet fragrance that didn’t mix too well with the faint aroma of aging cheese that wafted in from outside. The proprietor shuffled out from a back room and greeted us with a blank expression. Pushing seventy, with close-cropped white hair and a mustache to match, he looked at us through dark, weary eyes as he buckled his pants up. His wrinkled white shirt seemed to be several sizes too large.

“Boa tardes,”
he mumbled suspiciously, well aware that we weren’t
there to book a room. Alberto returned the greeting, established that no English was spoken, then explained the reason for my visit. The old guy glanced over at me, shook his head, and muttered something as he headed back to where he came from, probably to complete his siesta.

“He says he has answered all the question from the police,” Alberto explained.

I took my wallet out, removed a crisp ten-dollar bill, and placed it on the desk. “Sorry that I don’t have escudos,” I said. “Ask him how he feels about the Yankee dollar?”

The old man stopped in his tracks and, not waiting for the translation, picked up the note and folded it into his shirt pocket.

“I’d like to see the room,” I said. He nodded and removed a key from the wall behind him. I didn’t expect to find anything up there—the authorities would’ve been through everything—but I had to get away from the smell of dead orchids and ripe cheese.

The room wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. It was tidy and cheerful enough once the old man pulled the shutters back. The furnishings consisted of a double bed with a large crucifix hanging over it, a wardrobe, and a set of drawers. There was a sink in the corner and the toilet was just across the hall. Not exactly deluxe, but I’d seen a lot worse.

I took a look around, checking under the bed, on top of the wardrobe, and inside a few drawers, more for show than anything else. I told Alberto to ask the old guy how much he charged and how many days Grimes had paid for. I thought it might put him on the defensive, and it did. He claimed that the American had settled up daily, but you could tell he was lying, that he’d been paid in advance for a few of the nights that Eddie had spent underwater. I couldn’t have cared less, but I let him know with a look that I was onto him. People who’ve been caught in a lie tend to suddenly get a lot more talkative.

“Did he have any visitors?” I asked, and a lively dialogue ensued, the two men chattering back and forth like a couple of old ladies at the back fence. I gave them a minute before clearing my throat.

“Ah, senhor…
Desculpe,
” Alberto apologized. “The gentleman tells me some quite interesting facts about your friend.”

“He wasn’t my friend but go ahead.”

“It seems he had a big interest in the women.” Alberto gave me a knowing look. “He takes a different one each night.”

“Hookers?”

“Yes, senhor. Like that. Hookers. And not the nice ones. The kind of the street.” It was mildly interesting and it explained Grimes’s choice of accommodation, but as much as it amused Alberto, it didn’t help me any.

“Ask him if he remembers how many bags the American had.”

Alberto shrugged, wondering why I would want to change the subject to suitcases, but he put the question. After some additional discussion he said, “Just one. The one the police took away.”

“Did he see the American on the night of the accident?”

“Sim, Sim,”
the old man responded, providing another round of long details in Portuguese. He was being very talkative now, enjoying the gossip, and it occurred to me that Alberto might be useful to have around. I’d get Lili to hire him on for the duration.

“Yes, the American was here on that evening,” Alberto relayed. “He has arrived a few minutes after nine o’clock.”

“How does he remember the time so well?”

“Because the girl, she was waiting for him. She had been arranged to arrive at nine o’clock.”

“How long did she stay after Grimes arrived?”

“Not long,” Alberto answered without referring to the old man, having by now elicited the whole story out of him. “Five minutes only.” He made his face into a shrug.

“Five minutes?”

“Sim.”

“Was she that good or that ugly?” I said, which gave Alberto a good laugh. He translated for the old man, who managed something approaching a smile.

“No, senhor,” Alberto explained. “The reason she has left was because the second lady comes.”

“Second lady?”

“Sim.”
Alberto beamed.

“Who was the second lady?”

“This gentleman thinks that maybe she is the wife of the American.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Because the first girl—the hooker—she has run away in such a big hurry when the second lady comes. And then, a few moment later, the second lady is run away, too, and not looking very happy. Then the American, he comes after, putting on his clothes while he runs out the door. And, after…he don’t come back.” Alberto pantomimed the action of a car sailing over a cliff and hitting with a splash.

This was getting interesting. I reached for my wallet again, held it in my hand without cracking it. “Ask him if he spoke to the second woman,” I said to Alberto.

“Yes,” the old man said, eyeing up the billfold and dropping the pretense of a language barrier. “I speak her.”

“In what language?”

“She speak Portuguese.”

“She was Portuguese?” I asked, surprised.

The old man frowned and shook his head. “She speak a bad Portuguese. She German.”

I showed him the photo of Eva Lange. It was small and grainy and fifteen years out of date, but he dutifully studied it, holding it a couple of inches from his face and squinting hard, before returning it.

“He say it could be this lady, but it could be not,” Alberto explained. “He say she has a kind of red hair.”

I put the photo away and extracted another ten from my wallet. “I want to see the hooker that Grimes saw that night. Can you arrange it?”

The old man closed his eyes, meaning if enough currency appeared
when they opened, he could. I removed two more notes, held all three in front of his face.

“The Hotel Palacio,” I said. “Midnight.”

The old man nodded, so I folded the bills over and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

It looked like the search for Eva Lange might be over before it started. I wondered how I’d tell Lili that her overpaid private eye had, in all likelihood, driven her childhood friend over a hundred-foot cliff into the sea.

I decided to wait until I had a little more to go on.

“When’s low tide?”
I asked Alberto as we pulled onto the coast road heading toward Estoril.

“Oh, it comes, I think, about one hour ago,” he replied, checking the sun’s position in the sky.

“Are we going anywhere near this Boca do Inferno?”

“O Boca? Yes, she is very close the hotel.”

“Okay, let’s have a look.”

Alberto nodded and settled in behind the wheel. Maybe he sensed that I wanted quiet or maybe he was just talked out, but either way I was grateful for the lull. I smoked and stared out the window as the car rattled along the road heading out of the city, hugging the Rio Tejo until it disappeared into the deep blue waters of the Atlantic. We skirted a wide, sandy beach, empty but for a couple of old fishermen hauling the day’s catch out of a brightly painted wooden skiff, then the road sloped upward, winding its way to the top of the rocky cliffs that rose vertically out of the Atlantic. It was quite a sight.

We pulled up on the verge of a craggy headland jutting out into the open sea. Alberto yanked the hand brake and jumped out of the car.

“From here we must walk a little,” he said. By the time I stepped into the sea air, he’d already clambered down a shallow bank and was heading out onto the cliffs.

“This way, senhor!” He waved and shouted over the roar of the ocean crashing onto the rocks below. “I show you!” I slid down the incline and picked my way over the rocks until I reached the edge of the bluff, where Alberto was waiting for me.

“O Boca do Inferno,” he said almost reverentially, pointing further up the peninsula toward an underwater cavern at the base of the formation. “The Mouth of Hell.”

“How’d it get its name?” I asked.

“Because, like hell, you can believe you are a safe distance away, but the current is too strong. Once it catch you, you no can get away. It pull you in.”

“I know the feeling.”

Alberto shrugged. “I think there are many unfortunate souls at the bottom of this place.”

I scanned the water for any sign of Grimes’s car. I didn’t see anything at first, but then the sunlight glinted off some chrome trim near the cliff’s edge, and I could make out a taillight and the rear fender of a red car just under the surface of the churning waters. The vehicle had landed headfirst and stayed upright, lodged in the rocks. A hundred-foot drop from the road, it must’ve been quite a ride. No more than a couple of seconds, but it would’ve felt a lot longer sitting there watching your life flash before your eyes. It gave me the shivers.

With nothing more to see, we headed back to the car. I noticed a villa overlooking the site from a larger promontory to the east. We must’ve passed it on our way, but the estate was hidden from the road by a dense cluster of pine trees. A relatively new building, three stories high, with dormer windows on a pitched roof, wooden shutters, and a wraparound porch, it looked like a white stucco version of a Cape Cod. A gated wall surrounded the compound, which included a garden and swimming pool that overlooked the sea, as well as three
smaller structures, probably a garage and a couple of guesthouses. There was something forlorn about the place, but I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the remote position.

Alberto fired up the engine and we pulled away. It was late afternoon and the sun had dropped a few degrees, taking the heat out of the day. Lili would be wondering where the hell I was.

I
found her on the tennis court at the back of the hotel, serving up a junior diplomat from the U.S. Mission. His name was Richard Everett Allan Brewster III, which pretty much said it all. After Groton and the Yale debating society, he’d followed Brewster I and Brewster II into the State Department. At twenty-six, he was on top of the world, a real Brylcreem Boy with a mouthful of perfect white teeth and a great jawline, a guy who was going places and knew it. Lili was in the process of taking him apart.

“I was starting to think that you’d run off with somebody else’s wife,” she said when she spotted me.

“Just seeing the sights,” I said, and sat down on a bench facing the court. Lili stared down her opponent then wound up and sent her service wide. She looked at me like it was my fault.

“Didn’t mean to break your concentration,” I deadpanned. She grunted and turned her attention back to the boy wonder, blowing her second serve by him with ease. I enjoyed watching Lili embarrass him for a while, then it got monotonous. The light was fading and I needed a drink when she finally aced him for game, set, and match.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Brewster puffed as he sauntered over to check me out.

“You put up a good fight,” I lied.

“Don’t get much time for tennis, I’m afraid.” He flashed his dental work and offered up his hand. “Richard Brewster, assistant deputy to the ambassador. Call me Dick.”

“Jack Teller,” I responded.

“Yes, Lili was telling me about you…”

“I didn’t say anything nice!” she interjected as she pulled a sweater on over her whites and walked across court to join us.

“Shall we have a drink?” Brewster suggested.

“I’d love to, darling,” she said, lacing it with irony. “But I have a dinner engagement.” She shot me a withering look. “With a police captain.”

“Word travels fast,” I said, trying a smile.

“He sent two dozen roses to my room.”

Worse things could happen, I thought, but Lili didn’t seem to think so, so I didn’t push it.

“Thank you for the match, Mr. Brewster,” she said, propelling her hand forward. “Perhaps I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself before I leave Lisbon.”

“I’ll work on my game,” he answered lamely.

Lili offered him a strained smile, suggested that I not be late for dinner, then made a quick exit along the lush garden path that led back to the hotel. I was in the doghouse, but she’d get over it.

“Is she always like that?” Brewster asked, zipping a light cotton jacket against the cool evening air that was moving in off the sea.

“Like what?”

“A ballbreaker.”

“She’s a star,” I explained.

He gave me a patronizing look and started along the path, expecting me to follow. “Well, whatever she is, she certainly has pull. The secretary himself cabled instructions. We’re to provide any and all assistance.”

“Glad to see my tax dollars at work,” I said, making him wait while I took my time firing up a Lucky. He got his own pack out of a jacket pocket and I lit him up, too.

“Was Catela any help?”

“He said he’d have a look around.”

“I wouldn’t count on him if I was you.”

“I never count on anyone,” I said, and he nodded, like he was
concurring, but I didn’t think he was listening. I started up the path again, letting him trail behind this time.

“What do you know about this girl she’s looking for?” he asked. “This Eva Lange?”

“Not a lot.”

“Are you sure she’s in Lisbon?”

““I’m not sure of anything,” I said. “Eddie Grimes thought she was, though.”

“Did you know him?”

“Grimes?”

“Right. Grimes.”

“Just by reputation.”

“Which was?”

“Hollywood’s favorite dick.”

Brewster nodded again, as if I’d just said something important. “I was supposed to notify the next of kin,” he said. “But I couldn’t find any.”

“Then I guess no one’ll miss him.”

Brewster stopped at the end of the path, had a look around, and spotted a black coupe parked up the drive at the side of the hotel. The driver spotted him, too, and started the engine.

“Well,” he said, signaling the car to swing around and pick him up. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Actually,” I said slowly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Mention it to anyone.”

“Jack,” he said, sighing. “I know how to be discreet. It’s in the job description.”

“No, I mean, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do anything about it or discuss it with anyone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, getting edgy.

“I’d rather you just left it alone,” I said. Lisbon didn’t strike me as the kind of place where a junior diplomat with a nice smile would open doors.

Brewster looked me up and down, then put on a crooked smile that was supposed to let me know that he wasn’t too impressed. “Look,” he said stonily. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but the secretary of state explicitly directed me—”

“I don’t give a monkey’s tit what the secretary of state directed you.”

“Hold on, Teller. Just who in hell do you think you are?”

“The guy who holds your career in his hands, Dick. That’s who I am.”

It stopped him cold.

“You wanna explain that?”

“Sure,” I said, and paused long enough to make him uncomfortable. “You don’t think the secretary of state really gives a damn what happens with Lili Sterne and her childhood friend, do you? Of course he doesn’t. So why would he make such a fuss about it?”

“You tell me.”

“Don’t you read the gossip columns? You really should, you know. A guy in your position needs to know these things.”

He was all ears by this point. “Know what things?”

“You really don’t know?” I chuckled, just to rub it in a little more.

“Look, Teller, I’m—”

“Come on, Dick, think about it. Why would the secretary of state care about Lili Sterne?”

Nothing.

“Who does he answer to?”

It started to dawn on him.

“The—”

“That’s right. The guy whose picture hangs in your office.”

“I’ll be damned…” He was impressed. “Are they—?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, all the more reason—”

“All the more reason to do nothing,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, frowning. I was gonna have to spell it out for him.

“The only thing you care about is getting a good report card, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it…”

“Maybe you wouldn’t put it like that, but that’s the way it is,” I said. “So while I appreciate your offer, the kind of help I need right now is for you to forget the whole thing. If I need something from you—and there’s a good chance that I will at some point—I’ll let you know. And if you’re happy with that arrangement, I promise that you’ll get an A-plus on that report card. You happy with that?”

Brewster narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. I waited while he figured out where his interests lay, and it wasn’t long before he was smiling again. He produced an engraved business card from his billfold, turned it over, and scribbled something on the back. “My home number,” he said, handing it over. “Anytime.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The car pulled up and Brewster flashed his teeth one last time. “You know,” he said as he slipped into the backseat, “she looks a lot older in person.”

I decided to let him have the last word.

T
here was just enough time before dinner for a wash and a shave before donning my dinner jacket and heading downstairs. I considered stopping at the bar for a quick one, but I skipped it and went straight to the dining room. I needed a few minutes alone with Catela before Lili arrived.

Chances were pretty good that Eva Lange was dead. The old man at the Imperial might not have been the most reliable witness on the planet, but I had little doubt that she was the one who’d been to see Grimes on the night he drove off a cliff. The rest wasn’t hard to guess. Grimes had probably been in touch with her, maybe arranged a meeting at his hotel using Lili’s letter as bait. When Eva showed up at an awkward moment, accidentally walking in on whatever perversions he was up to with his two-dollar hooker, she did a runner and Grimes
went after her. He got her into his car, maybe against her will, and one way or another they took a nosedive into the Mouth of Hell.

It was the most plausible scenario, all right, but I couldn’t be sure unless I got Eddie’s car pulled off the rocks. Catela had dismissed that idea, but he seemed like the kind of guy you could do business with. I’d go with the tried and true—hard cash—and see where that got me. I was pretty sure Lili would shell out without asking questions, but if she did ask, I’d just say that I thought there might be something in the car that would tell us what Grimes knew about Eva. There was no reason to talk about my suspicions, not yet.

The dining room at the Palacio was every bit as formidable as the rest of the place—white marble floor, towering crystal chandelier, thirty-foot arched windows and straitjacketed waiters who didn’t talk much but who knew how to bow and scrape. I was led to a table in the back where I found Catela in the company of a uniformed German officer. My first Nazi.

Catela smiled when he saw me, the German didn’t. In fact, he looked a bit queasy, like he’d been drinking sour milk.

“Ah, Senhor Teller,” the captain welcomed me. “Please sit down. Allow me to present Major Ritter.”

“Hello,” I said, noticing the distinctive SS insignia on his lapel. Ritter offered a slight nod in response, making it clear that he didn’t welcome the intrusion.

“Major Ritter has arrived recently in Lisbon, as well,” Catela explained.

“On holiday?” I said, digging out my smokes.

Ritter allowed for a half smile. “Take one of mine,” he said, offering a polished silver cigarette case. “French.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t like the smell.”

“As you wish.” Ritter shrugged and offered one to Catela, who accepted, providing the major a light in return.

“Major Ritter has been in Paris,” Catela said as Ritter smirked.

“Hanging swastikas?” I asked, but Ritter already knew the speech he wanted to make.

“I was fortunate enough to accompany the Führer on his tour of the city,” he said, puffing his chest out. Major Ritter wasn’t a particularly imposing man. He was probably in his late forties, of average height and average build, with unremarkable features on an unremarkable face. The uniform was his only distinguishing characteristic.

“Quite an honor,” I said, and he nodded his head for a long, significant moment.

“When I have witnessed our Führer standing before the tomb of Napoléon…” He paused to look up at me and I thought he might start crying. “It was a moment full of poignancy. Full of significance. Full of…history.” He smiled to himself and rolled his French cigarette in the ashtray.