Eventually (Carriscant took the ledger from the exasperating boy himself) he calculated that if the General Blanco had left Manila three days ago it would very likely be back within the week. That was the information he was after. So, if he could see Axel within the next few days he could set things in motion. He stepped down the stairway from the harbourmaster's office, his head full of dates and conflicting future plans. He had no real sense of what he wanted to do: once again it was a question of having something in place, a stratagem he could propose to Delphine. He had no doubt that she would come with him, if only he could work it out satisfactorily. No doubt in her at all. He strode out of shadow into eye-dazzling early morning sunlight and progressed round to the front of the customs house where there was a rank of carromatos. Axel was the right fellow for a job like this. He would find out exactly what the man – 'Carriscant! Dr Carriscant!'
Carriscant halted and turned, his eyes still watery from the sun's glare. The cry came from the water's edge. A shimmering steam launch at the jetty. He squinted and shaded his eyes. A blob detached itself from the dark blobs around the launch and took on the lineaments of a figure as it came to greet him.
'Fancy finding you here,' Sieverance said, jovially. 'Just set foot on the dockside and there you are. Delighted to see you.'
'How are you?' Carriscant managed to say, feeling the skin crawl on his skull. A berserk shriek of despair seemed to echo in his head. 'I thought you-I mean the Mindanao posting was for-'
'To hell with Mindanao,' Sieverance said, leaning forward confidentially. 'I've been promoted. Full colonel. They've given me a desk in the War Department. Just got the news yesterday. I was lucky to catch the steamer.'
'The War Department?'
'Yes, thank the good Lord. We're going, Carriscant. Back to the good old US of A.'
From the corner of his eye Carriscant could see Sieverance supervising the unloading of his trunks. He leaned forward and said to the carromato driver: 'Calle Lagarda, opposite the Palace. As fast as you can, please.'
The little cab set off at a fair pace but they were held up as usual by the mass of traffic on the rise up to the Bridge of Spain. Once over that it was a swift drive down the Calzada de Vidal and on past the low wooden huts of the First Reserve hospital before recrossing the Pasig via the Avila bridge and on through San Miguel to the Calle Lagarda.
The maid who opened the door did not recognise him, he was glad to observe, but when he asked if Senora Sieverance was in he was told she was out. He groaned inwardly: he had to reach her before Sieverance did. But at least this absence meant she could not have known her husband was due to return from Mindanao. La Senora, he was told, was playing bridge at the house of Senora Oliver in Ermita. Carriscant ran back down the path to his cab, not leaving his name.
The Olivers' house in Ermita was secluded in large walled gardens. Carriscant paced around outside the gate desperately trying to pummel his brain into producing a convincing reason why he, Dr Salvador Carriscant, should be interrupting a ladies' bridge game, mid-morning, in Ermita. He could think of nothing. He walked down a narrow grass-choked path beside the garden wall, vaguely thinking that if he could gain the garden he might secretly be able to attract her attention somehow. But, supposing he could achieve this, what could she do then? And in any event, even if he scurried from shrub to shrub like some demented franc-tireur, he would probably be spotted. All the same it was his only solution and he reached up to the top of the wall and pulled himself up to peer over.
The garden was large and well tended, lush from the rains and with a dense close-cut lawn. Just in front of him was an ornamental summerhouse, the walls made of bamboo set in a herringbone pattern and crowned with a thick thatch of woven palm leaves. He hauled himself over the wall and dropped down on the other side. Some way across the garden by a chicken run he could see what he took to be a couple of gardeners. He moistened a finger and held it up to determine the direction of the wind – it would do. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and, striking a match, held the flame to a corner. When the cotton was well ablaze – he could see the hairs on his left hand beginning to singe, the flames were almost invisible in the sunlight – he tossed it up on to the roof of the summerhouse. He hoped the thatch was dry enough to take and looked up into the milky, hazy sky – no chance of rain. He shimmied up and over the wall and, back on the street, told his cab driver to go down to the barracks at Malete and tell the guard there that there was a fire at number fourteen, Calle de la Galleria. American ladies were in danger.
From his vantage point on the road he soon saw the smoke from the summerhouse roof and was gratified to note that the breeze did in fact blow it directly towards the house. But then he became a little anxious when the fire took real hold, with six-foot flames shooting from the crackling thatch, with dense drifts of smoke beginning to engulf the house. Still there was no cry of alarm. What were those gardeners doing? Then he heard shouts and a few screams and, right on time, the clanging of the bell on the barracks fire pump. He walked down the road towards the front gates telling two curious urchins that there was a big fire and that they should run and get help.
The gleaming scarlet fire pump, manned by half a dozen negro soldiers, and pulled by four vigorously trotting ponies, wheeled smartly into the driveway as the house gates were flung open and Carriscant, along with some worried and curious neighbours, augmented by an increasing flow of helpful locals, followed it to see if they could be of any assistance. Hoses were being run out from the pump and the household seemed to have gathered on the back lawn, at a safe distance, to watch the really rather spectacular blaze, Carriscant had to admit. Chinese servants grinned and gaped as a crouching intrepid gardener threw a useless bucket of water on to the roaring palm thatch. Half a dozen American ladies stood by the rear steps of the house. The bridge party. Carriscant removed his hat as he approached.
'Mrs Oliver? I'm Dr Carriscant. I was passing. Can I be of any assistance? Is everything all right. Anyone hurt?'
'Oh, Dr Carriscant, yes of course. No, no injured. We're just shocked. How could it have happened?'
'Sometimes thick vegetation, the thatch, the heat of the sun, it can combust spontaneously,' he invented. 'It happens here from time to time.'
'Really? But we've had so much rain. Good Lord.' She shouted at the gardener who was returning with a second bucket. 'Pu Lin, stop that, please!'
Carriscant turned. Delphine stood on the verandah, staring at him in some amazement.
'Morning, Mrs Sieverance. I was passing, saw the smoke and flames.'
She came down the steps to join him, her eyes now narrow with suspicion. By now hoses were primed and water was being played on the flames. The small crowd began to applaud.
' Salvador, did you have anything to-'
'He's back. I just met him at the docks. Back from Mindanao.'
Her face changed: she looked sick, a hand went to her throat. How he loved her for that.
'But how -'
'It's worse,' Carriscant said, turning to check their conversation was attracting no attention. 'He has a new posting. Back home. Back in America.'
'Oh my God.' Despite herself she clutched at his arm, then released it immediately. Just at that moment the summerhouse roof caved in with a damp sigh, sending great billows of white smoke across the lawn, dispersing the coughing onlookers.
Carriscant drew her to one side. 'Listen to me,' he said, urgently, 'you must go home. You have to tell him you think you're pregnant.'
'Oh, Jesus Lord, I don't think -'
'You must.' She was in real distress, he could see, but he pressed on. 'When was the last time you and he were, I mean, were…'
She put her hands to her temples, massaging. 'Ah, about a week, I think, a week before he left. Yes.'
'Four months? A bit more?'
'Yes.' Her voice was small, frightened. 'I think so.'
'So don't forget. You're four months pregnant. Four. Send for me and I'll confirm it to him. All right?'
' Salvador, I -'
People were drifting back from inspecting the drenched ashy remains of the summerhouse. He moved round behind her, his hand on the brim of his hat as if he were taking his leave. 'We'll be free soon. I've got an idea. A brilliant plan. Everything is under control. We'll be safe.'
He bade a cordial goodbye to Mrs Oliver and walked out of the garden to his waiting carromato.
