“And why were you carrying a shotgun?”

“Because I’m a night watchman. My employer gave it to me.”

“The man whose name you have forgotten?”

“Right, digger.”

The Lieutenant said: “You must know that sawed-off shotguns are illegal here.”

“I’m just a simple employee, digger, I’m not about to argue with the man who gives me a job.”

“And then you decided to hide it in...in a...” He didn’t know the word, and I said:

“A vat full of yogurt.”

Histermann looked across at me speculatively. He was wondering just who I might be, or how come I hadn’t been eaten by those lobsters. He said smoothly:

“Well, it’s like this. As soon as that fellow shot himself, someone started breaking the door in, so I thought I’d better hide. I grabbed a piece of copper tubing, and got down under that stinking cream. It was very uncomfortable. Then someone blocked my air supply and I came up and attacked him, in self-defense.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t to know it was a copper, he wasn’t wearing any uniform.” He looked at me narrowly, and said: “If he is a copper, of course.”

The Lieutenant ignored the remark. He said: “You didn’t see me at the table, a few feet away? In full uniform?”

Another shrug: “I was too busy to see you, digger.”

“Why did you come to Portugal?”

“I told you, looking for work.”

“Did you enter the country illegally?”

He said promptly: “Legally. Flew in from Tangiers, used my passport, which I have now regretfully mislaid. And I don’t remember the exact date either, though it was sometime in the last year or so.” He was getting cocky, and that was a good sign.

Loureiro went on: “And where are you staying, Mr. Histermann?”

Again, there was the slightest pause. Then: “Been sleeping on the streets, mostly. A couple of nights in a couple of hotels, but I don’t remember the names of them.”

“Where did you learn to speak Portuguese?”

He shrugged and grimaced, and wasted a few seconds while he thought. “I picked it up on a ship I worked once.”

“Or perhaps in Angola?”

“Angola? Isn’t that in Africa somewhere? Never been there.”

I said, with a touch of irritability: “If I don’t get a cup of coffee soon I’m going to fall asleep on my feet. Been up all night, damn it.”

The Lieutenant smiled. “Of course, Senhor, forgive me.” He said to one of the policemen: “Bring some coffee, a big jug full, will you? And some cups.”

He went back to his questioning: “The last two years, where have you been working?”

Histermann shrugged. “Tangiers, mostly.”

“We can check on that, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, digger, you can’t. I’ll make a full confession, I usually move around without bothering much about papers, and in Tangiers...I didn’t have a work permit there either.”

“And before that?”

“Oh, just bumming around the world in general.”

“Tell me the name of your employer.”

“I told you, I’ve forgotten.” It was easier for him now, and he was getting just the right degree of overconfidence. He said: “A Portuguese name, but I’ve forgotten it.” He was getting very pleased with himself.

Fenrek sat there watching, a very faint smile on his face.

I said: “What about General Queluz, Histermann?”

“General...Queluz? Who’s he?”

“You know damn well who he is.”

The policeman came back with the coffee and passed it around. He said to the Lieutenant: “The prisoner too, Tenente?”

The Lieutenant said coldly: “No,” and I said: “Let him have a cup if he wants one.” I pushed a cup across to him and said: “Another cigarette?”

“Yes, I don’t mind if I do.” It was all so much a part of the pattern; get friendly with the prisoner and he’ll talk; I could see the thought forming itself in Histermann’s mind. He began to grin, and I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. He sipped his coffee and said: “They took my cigarettes away from me, so if you could fix me up with a pack...” He was hugely amused. I tossed him the cigarettes on the desk, the Lieutenant’s, and said:

“Two of us saw you in the Bocca with the dead body of General Queluz hanging there. And you tried to murder both of us.”

He said promptly: “Not me, digger. A case of mistaken identity.”

“Uh-huh.” He was beginning to think that we weren’t very good at this sort of thing, and I thought we’d better call a halt before he got suspicious. I said to the Lieutenant:

“Take a look at his forearm. His left, probably.”

The prisoner glanced at me quickly, wondering what was going on, and the Lieutenant got up and rolled back the sleeve over the skinny, malarial-wasted arm. I bent forward to take a look, and found the tiny mark of the hypodermic. Histermann laughed uneasily:

“It’s not drugs, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just an inoculation, that’s all.”

“Oh? For what?”

Again, there was the briefest hesitation: “For typhoid.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“I dunno, some doctor or other, I don’t remember.”

“Uh-huh.”