Three hours and a few cups of coffee later, Bertie swaggered in with two other men. He ordered a beer and sat down with his chums. Quaffed half of it before he ran his hands over the stubble on his head. To a chorus of catcalls, he pulled out the empty chair next to me and sat down.
‘This seat free?’
He spoke in French, keeping in line with his alias, and flashed a rakish smile. Charm oozed from his battered face, and even with half-healed burns, he had a confidence that Lieutenant Neumann had yet to find.
‘And if it wasn’t?’
‘It isn’t now.’ Bertie chuckled, then lowered his voice. ‘You look good as a brunette, but if you wanted to see me, princess, you coulda left a calling card.’
I snorted. ‘It’s a hothouse in here. Let’s go for a walk.’
‘Ah.’
He grinned and helped me to my feet, winking at the two men, who were now calling out advice.
‘Well, that was discreetly done,’ I said.
‘Had to maintain my reputation, princess. What can I do for you?’
We stopped across the square at a tobacconist edged with a carved wood frame and blue tiles that featured a frog and a crane. I bought two packets of cigarettes and handed him one. Meandered a little farther before I spoke.
‘I need your help.’
‘An’ here I thought you wanted me for my good looks an’ charming personality.’
‘Of course.’ My voice was dry.
‘My rapier wit?’
‘That too,’ I replied, deadpan.
‘My body?’ he asked, throwing his arms wide.
‘Don’t push your luck.’
Dark clouds hovered over the Tagus, but the air remained still. I pulled a lace fan from my handbag and created the small breeze that Nature had withheld.
‘You have Nazi scum you want me to question? No? So if it’s not that, I’m guessing it’s the English diplomat you’re after. The one what was kidnapped yesterday.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He was the one what brought you in to question me. Reckoned you’d be around, sooner or later. Figured you’d want to find him.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Can you find him?’
He shrugged.
‘I think you can.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because,’ I said, pausing to light a cigarette, ‘I think he’s been taken to one of the quays.’
He hummed a response – looked interested.
‘One of the quays from where they smuggle wolfram,’ I amended.
‘Why?’
‘They’re remote. The security infrastructure is already in place. Do I really need to continue?’
‘Right. So assumin’ he was taken to a quay, d’you have any idea how many o’ those there are?’
‘Tens, hundreds. I don’t know. A lot. But they won’t want dock workers around while they question him. Find me a quay – another quay – that isn’t used often.’ Thought a bit, then clarified. ‘Or even better – find me one that closed recently. One that started to turn the workers away in the last day or two. It can’t be far.’
His face was carefully blank. He raised his index finger.
‘One condition.’
‘Yes?’
‘When I find out where your toff is stashed,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘I want in on getting him out.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Boredom.’
‘You’re willing to blow your cover for boredom?’
‘Listen, lady, I’ve been trained, same as you, to do more’n pass on gossip. You want to go in after him? Fine. But you’re not having all the fun. I’m going in with you. You got that, princess?’
I looked up at the grey clouds amassing on the horizon and wondered if it was a symbol. None of the men I knew trusted me to do this on my own, but I wasn’t stupid. Knew I couldn’t pull this off without help. Matthew Harrington had been missing for more than twenty-four hours, and each moment that slipped by took him farther away. I’d take help from whatever quarter I could find it, whether it was an Abwehr officer, a half-English thug, or anything in between.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The next day, the storm finally broke. Big fat drops bounced off the ground and slid off my umbrella.
‘Would you like to move inside, madame?’ The waiter’s once-crisp jacket stuck to his shoulders.
‘No, thank you, but another Pernod would be nice.’
Moored boats bobbed in the harbour, like toys on the steel-grey Atlantic. The atmosphere on shore wasn’t much friendlier.
Eduard had come to see me at midday. He had no news and I suspected his call was to make sure I was at home, rather than planning anything untoward. Inactivity wasn’t in my nature and after he left, I wandered through the shops and cafés, bars and restaurants, relying on the gossip mill to provide a clue as to Matthew’s whereabouts.
‘I heard he played cricket for Oxford,’ a woman sitting nearby said. ‘With that swing I believe it.’
Utter rubbish. Matthew, like my father, graduated from St Andrews.
‘I heard he was part of the Geneva Convention after the Great War,’ another said.
Hogwash, although he probably would have loved to play a part in it.
‘You’re both wrong,’ a third corrected. ‘He was in London, apprehending an East End gangster family.’
He was a diplomat, you old bat! Not a bobby.
Speculation was rife, and not limited to his career. A mistress in the Baixa. Another in the Algarve. Young, old, female, male. If a story could be conceived, it was attributed to my godfather. None had any substance. Whoever had taken him had paid the right people to be quiet.
The waiter set my drink in front of me as lightning split the sky. Ozone fizzled, almost tangible.
‘I love what you’ve done with your hair,’ Julian drawled, interrupting my thoughts.
The storm’s electricity had sent my hair mad. It was now secured in a twist, fastened by a well-placed pencil.
‘Go away.’
‘It suits you. Brings out an unexpected bohemian look.’
‘I’m armed.’
I picked up a butter knife from the table and waggled it at him.
‘Of course you are.’ He slid his drink to safety under the umbrella, and sat across from me. ‘Everyone is. Especially now. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a pea-shooter in your bag.’ He reached
