We drove off, very slowly, across the broken ground, grass-tufted and sweet smelling. And a few minutes later we were on the highway, heading for Guincho. Slowly, very slowly.
I said to Estrilla: “Where’s that horrible little bug of yours?”
“That excellent little car of mine is parked on the highway two miles east of the Bocca. Do we need it?”
“No. I just wondered.”
I glanced sideways at Fenrek as we went over a pothole in the road. He didn’t even wince, The Jensen’s a well sprung car, perhaps the only European car that rides as softly as its Detroit counterpart; but the softness of the ride is illusory, the bumps are there even if you don’t feel them much, they have to be if the car is going to be safe at the kind of speed Jensens are usually driven at. It felt strange, crawling along now and watching for potholes; not a thing I usually pay much attention to.
We found the first of the police six miles up on the coastal road, just beyond the lighthouse. A barrier had been set up there, a barrier of red-and-white striped wooden bars with a coil of barbed wire beyond it, just lying across the road and ready to do a lot of damage to anyone who thought he could drive his way through all that lumber. An earnest young policeman flagged us down, took one look at Fenrek, at the deep red gash in his forehead and the white, strained look to his face, and said quickly:
“There is an ambulance, Senhores, in the lighthouse yard, I will get it...”
He began to move off, but Fenrek said: “No, hold it. You know who I am?”
“Sim, Senhor Colonelle, yes indeed.”
“Good. What’s the disposition now?”
The policeman pointed: “Another barrier, like this one, twelve kilometers east of here on the main road. One on the inland road directly north of us, that’s two and a half kilometers, with another one eight kilometers east of that.”
“There’s a track through the pine trees behind us. Where does that lead?”
“Nowhere, Senhor Colonello. A builders track, they are constructing a house there. If there is anyone moving east or west or north of the Bocca, they must use one of the two roads, unless they are all on foot.”
“One man now, only one left. The man Loveless. Tell the ambulance men there are two dead bodies on the beach, they’d better be removed.”
I said: “One of them was an archer, so if anyone gets interested in his arrows—they’re tipped with strychnine, make sure they’re handled carefully.”
He was puzzled. “An archer, Senhor?”
“A toxophilist, a bowman, an arqueiro. The heads on his shafts are razor sharp, and all it needs is a scratch, so watch out.”
Fenrek said: “The command post, has it been moved?”
“No, sir, still there in the forest.”
“Good.” He turned to me and said: “This is where it’s going to hurt, turn right into the woods.”
“If it’s not too far you’d be better off walking.”
He said patiently: “Why do you always want to argue, Cain? Turn right into the woods here. If this car of yours can take it, so can I.”
I pulled the wheel over and crawled at zero miles an hour over the broken pine strewn floor of the forest, squeezing between the trees, looking for smoother surfaces and finding none. In a few minutes we saw the tent they’d put up, a green canvas tent with long black telephone cables snaking off in all directions. A small fire was burning there, with a pot of coffee on it; it looked like a picnic. But Lieutenant Loureiro was there, running out to meet us.
He stared at Fenrek, but before he could speak, Fenrek said: “Later, Lieutenant, we’ve got work to do. Any report from the men at Guincho?”
“Nada feito, nothing doing there yet, Senhor Colonello.”
“Cascais? Estoril?”
“Nothing, Senhor Colonello.”
Fenrek looked at me. “He’s gone to Lisbon after all. If that damned nonsense about a telegram wasn’t just a bit of bull.” Fenrek speaks with a markedly Hungarian accent, and the idioms always sound strange. He saw me smile, and said: “He may have been bluffing.”
“No. We decided that’s what he’d do, and then I heard him tell Histermann he was going into Guincho, At that time, he’d decided one of two things. Either he could trust me, in which case there was no need to hide his intentions; or that I was going to be killed off, in which case it didn’t matter much if I knew what he was doing. No, he’s gone to Guincho, and even on foot he must have been there by now. What is it they’re looking for out there?”
He looked surprised. “Why, for Loveless, of course! Three good men who have an excellent description of him.”
I said, turning to Estrilla, who knew this part of the world so very much better than any of us: “In a place the size of Guincho they’ll have, what, half a dozen customers a day at the post office?”
“There are three hotels out there, it might be a little more. But not many.”
I said to Fenrek: “And with three men watching the place, he’s spotted them. One would have been better.”
“Not if he chooses to fight.”
“You’ve got a point there” I swung open the car door and got cut. “Let’s make some phone calls.”
The Lieutenant, very anxiously, helped Fenrek out, put a solicitous arm round his waist, and eased him to a canvas chair in front of the tent. The smell of coffee was ripe and tempting, and I said to Loureiro:
“Now’s the time to take you up on that offer of yours again.”
It was very pleasant and restful under the tall green trees. A folding table had been set up with a police sergeant handling the radio there, and seven or eight policemen were standing around, waiting for something to happen. One of them wiped the sandy dust off some coffee mugs for us, and Loureiro, beaming, poured while I found one of the telephones and asked for the post office at Guincho. I asked to speak to the Superintendent, and when she came on the line I passed the receiver to Loureiro and said:
“Just make it official, will you?”
He nodded: He said into the phone: “Police business,” Senhora, Lieutenant Lotreiro, Alfama Police, code thirty-seven, Speak here please.”
