again. He began to say something about the British Consul and they swung him sideways across the road and sent him reeling. This time he landed inside a doorway in front of a desk where a man slept with his head on his arms. He woke up and shouted at Wormold – his mildest expression was ‘pig’.
Wormold said, ‘I am a British subject, my name is Wormold, my address Havana – Lamparilla 37. My age forty-five, divorced, and I want to ring up the Consul.’
The man who had called him a pig and who carried on his arm the chevron of a sergeant told him to show his passport.
‘I can’t. It’s in my brief-case at the hotel.’
One of his captors said with satisfaction, ‘Found on the street without papers.’
‘Empty his pockets,’ the sergeant said. They took out his wallet and the picture-postcard to Dr Hasselbacher, which he had forgotten to post, and a miniature whisky bottle, Old Granddad, that he had bought in the hotel-bar. The sergeant studied the bottle and the postcard.
He said, ‘Why do you carry this bottle? What does it contain?’
‘What do you suppose?’
‘The rebels make grenades out of bottles.’
‘Surely not such small bottles.’ The sergeant drew the cork, sniffed and poured a little on the palm of his hand. ‘It appears to be whisky,’ he said and turned to the postcard. He said, ‘Why have you made a cross on this picture?’
‘It’s the window of my room.’
‘Why show the window of your room?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s just – well, it’s one of the things one does when travelling.’
‘Were you expecting a visitor by the window?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Who is Dr Hasselbacher?’
‘An old friend.’
‘Is he coming to Santiago?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you want to show him where your room is?’
He began to realize what the criminal class knows so well, the impossibility of explaining anything to a man with power.
He said flippantly, ‘Dr Hasselbacher is a woman.’
‘A woman doctor!’ The sergeant exclaimed with disapproval.
‘A doctor of philosophy. A very beautiful woman.’ He made two curves in the air.
‘And she is joining you in Santiago?’
‘No, no. But you know how it is with a woman, Sergeant? They like to know where their man is sleeping.’
‘You are her lover?’ The atmosphere had changed for the better. ‘That still does not explain your wandering about the streets at night.’
‘There’s no law …’
‘No law, but prudent people stay at home. Only mischief-makers go out.’
‘I couldn’t sleep for thinking of Emma.’
‘Who is Emma?’
‘Dr Hasselbacher.’
The sergeant said slowly, ‘There is something wrong here. I can smell it. You are not telling me the truth. If you are in love with Emma, why are you in Santiago?’
‘Her husband suspects.’
‘She has a husband?
No es muy agradable
. Are you a Catholic?’
‘No.’
The sergeant picked up the postcard and studied it again. ‘The cross at a bedroom window – that is not very nice, either. How will she explain that to her husband?’
Wormold thought rapidly. ‘Her husband is blind.’
‘And that too is not nice. Not nice at all.’
‘Shall I hit him again?’ one of the policemen asked.
‘There is no hurry. I must interrogate him first. How long have you known this woman, Emma Hasselbacher?’
‘A week.’
‘A week? Nothing that you say is nice. You are a Protestant and an adulterer. When did you meet this woman?’
‘I was introduced by Captain Segura.’
The sergeant held the postcard suspended in mid-air. Wormold heard one of the policemen behind him swallow. Nobody said anything for a long while.
‘Captain Segura?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know Captain Segura?’
‘He is a friend of my daughter.’
‘So you have a daughter. You are married.’ He began to say again,’ That is not n …’ when one of the policemen interrupted him, ‘He knows Captain Segura.’
‘How can I tell that you are speaking the truth?’
‘You
Wormold said, ‘I am a British subject, my name is Wormold, my address Havana – Lamparilla 37. My age forty-five, divorced, and I want to ring up the Consul.’
The man who had called him a pig and who carried on his arm the chevron of a sergeant told him to show his passport.
‘I can’t. It’s in my brief-case at the hotel.’
One of his captors said with satisfaction, ‘Found on the street without papers.’
‘Empty his pockets,’ the sergeant said. They took out his wallet and the picture-postcard to Dr Hasselbacher, which he had forgotten to post, and a miniature whisky bottle, Old Granddad, that he had bought in the hotel-bar. The sergeant studied the bottle and the postcard.
He said, ‘Why do you carry this bottle? What does it contain?’
‘What do you suppose?’
‘The rebels make grenades out of bottles.’
‘Surely not such small bottles.’ The sergeant drew the cork, sniffed and poured a little on the palm of his hand. ‘It appears to be whisky,’ he said and turned to the postcard. He said, ‘Why have you made a cross on this picture?’
‘It’s the window of my room.’
‘Why show the window of your room?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s just – well, it’s one of the things one does when travelling.’
‘Were you expecting a visitor by the window?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Who is Dr Hasselbacher?’
‘An old friend.’
‘Is he coming to Santiago?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you want to show him where your room is?’
He began to realize what the criminal class knows so well, the impossibility of explaining anything to a man with power.
He said flippantly, ‘Dr Hasselbacher is a woman.’
‘A woman doctor!’ The sergeant exclaimed with disapproval.
‘A doctor of philosophy. A very beautiful woman.’ He made two curves in the air.
‘And she is joining you in Santiago?’
‘No, no. But you know how it is with a woman, Sergeant? They like to know where their man is sleeping.’
‘You are her lover?’ The atmosphere had changed for the better. ‘That still does not explain your wandering about the streets at night.’
‘There’s no law …’
‘No law, but prudent people stay at home. Only mischief-makers go out.’
‘I couldn’t sleep for thinking of Emma.’
‘Who is Emma?’
‘Dr Hasselbacher.’
The sergeant said slowly, ‘There is something wrong here. I can smell it. You are not telling me the truth. If you are in love with Emma, why are you in Santiago?’
‘Her husband suspects.’
‘She has a husband?
No es muy agradable
. Are you a Catholic?’
‘No.’
The sergeant picked up the postcard and studied it again. ‘The cross at a bedroom window – that is not very nice, either. How will she explain that to her husband?’
Wormold thought rapidly. ‘Her husband is blind.’
‘And that too is not nice. Not nice at all.’
‘Shall I hit him again?’ one of the policemen asked.
‘There is no hurry. I must interrogate him first. How long have you known this woman, Emma Hasselbacher?’
‘A week.’
‘A week? Nothing that you say is nice. You are a Protestant and an adulterer. When did you meet this woman?’
‘I was introduced by Captain Segura.’
The sergeant held the postcard suspended in mid-air. Wormold heard one of the policemen behind him swallow. Nobody said anything for a long while.
‘Captain Segura?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know Captain Segura?’
‘He is a friend of my daughter.’
‘So you have a daughter. You are married.’ He began to say again,’ That is not n …’ when one of the policemen interrupted him, ‘He knows Captain Segura.’
‘How can I tell that you are speaking the truth?’
‘You
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