Estrilla da Gloria, Portugal’s famous woman racing driver. She looked more like a fashion model off the front page of Elle, and it was hard to imagine her at the wheel of a Formula 111 Cooper, but I’d seen her lap 1:48 in Monaco, in the wet, and anyone who can do that deserves a second glance.
I said: “I’m honored, Senhora, I saw you giving them all a very bad time at Tobacconists’ Corner last year. So what in the world are you doing working for Colonel Fenrek?”
She said: “It’s a dull life, racing cars. I like a little excitement once in a while. And, come to that, what are you doing working for him?”
I said: “But I’m not. As a matter of fact, at this precise moment, I’m sort of working against him. Before, we were just on parallel courses. Have you ever driven a Jensen FF?”
Her eyes were gleaming. “No, I haven’t.”
I swung open the door and stepped into the road. I opened the driver’s door of her little bug and said grandly:
“Why don’t we trade cars, and then we won’t have to race anymore.”
Her eyes widened, and she said nothing. She stepped out quickly with a lithe, easy movement that seemed to rob her of her plumpness (and now I saw there was nothing wrong with the shape of her hips) and slid in behind the Jensen’s wheel. She pushed the button, listened approvingly to the murmur of the big mill and said: “Fuel injection?”
“No, Carter four-barrel. And four-wheel drive, so it goes where you point it with a certain amount of alacrity.”
“Red-lined at forty-five? That can’t be right.”
I said patiently: “At forty-five on the tach you’re hitting a hundred in third, and you’ve got two more gears to fool around with. I’m going to the Alentejano, but calling in first at Fenrek’s hideaway, you know where that is?”
It was a bit blatant, I suppose. She laughed and said: “Yes, I know where my own house is. I’ll have drinks ready by the time you get there. Try not to break my half-shafts.”
She slipped the gear lever into first, shot away at speed, and before I even managed to find a way of getting my frame into that dammed bug, she was out of sight. I followed the road for a mile, pushing up to ninety or so till I saw her tail light far ahead of me, then cut the lights at the next bend, dropped down to twenty, took the side track that led to the sea down the side of the cliff, and headed towards the Bocca do Inferno.
In the darkness, I bumped on over the sandy track and down to the beach. I parked the bug under an overhang of the cliff, and had to run for nearly a mile, moving very fast, before I found the fishermen’s phone I was looking for, and I called the number of the house where Astrid was staying. I let it ring twice, rang off, and called again immediately, to let her know that it was official. This time, she picked the phone up instantly.
She said: “Uncle? I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
“Not uncle,” I said, “it’s me.”
“Ah, Cabot! My dear, where are you?”
I said carefully: “A rather good-looking racing driver will be there shortly.”
“Oh good, how nice.”
“Give her my regards, and ask her to take you over to the Alentejano...”
“Her, did you say?”
“I did. That’s her house you’re staying in. Her name is Estrilla, and she is one of your uncle’s men. She’s driving my car, and she’ll be in a flaming temper, no doubt. But you are to stay with her at all times until I get there, all right?”
“Which will be when? And I suppose you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?”
I said: “A, in a couple of hours or so, and B, you suppose correctly. The less you know, the less your uncle knows, the better. You’ll probably see him soon after Estrilla calls him to say she lost me, and he’ll no doubt be in a flaming temper too. So, by and large, there’ll be a few cuss words floating around tonight. But don’t let them get you down. I’ll be with you in a couple of hours, and then well have a perfectly marvelous time together.”
I heard her sigh at the other end: “All right. I’ll wait for you till midnight, but not a second longer.”
“I’ll be there long before then. Remember, stick with Estrilla till your uncle gets there. And then, stay with both of them.”
Another long sigh. She said: “A hell of a love affair this is turning out to be.”
“Good-bye now.”
I rang off, and wondered about the weather; it had become a problem, and a serious one. The wind had swung round to the southwest, and it worried me considerably. This time of the year it’s supposed to die down at dusk, and instead, it was beginning to blow quite a bit. Not hard enough to be called a gale, but hard enough to keep the Bocca performing unseasonably, which I didn’t like at all. Even at this distance I could hear the roar of the waves pounding their way into the cave more than two miles along the beach there. I used the phone again to call the Meteorological Service, a very good one on this rocky, dangerous coast where there’s a lighthouse every few miles. There was one of their posts in the lighthouse at Cabo Raso.
The voice said: “Cabo Raso.”
I said: “I’m speaking from the west of Cascais. What’s with the wind tonight?”
“Southwest, Excellency.”
Everybody is excellent to the courteous Portuguese. I said: “Yes indeed, but isn’t it supposed not to blow after dark?”
“Ah, Excellency, tonight it is blowing.”
I sighed. “For how long? When can I expect it to die down?”
“A disturbance out at sea, Excellency. We expect it to drop before midnight, but we cannot be sure.”
“An educated guess?”
“Sim, Excelencia, if you wish to call it that.”
I said: “Thank you very much indeed. Tell me one more thing, has my brother already checked with you on the wind? He is setting out from Cascais in a small boat, going to take a look at the Bocca, and with this unusual condition...I wonder if he called you?”
The answer came back a trifle tolerantly: “We have had several inquiries, Excellency.”
