forged passports and fake identification papers. Several shipments of documents have been smuggled into this country, to help establish false local identities when the time comes.”
“Do you know the names of the key men behind this end of the operation?”
“Yes, I can give you a dozen names,” she replied. “Some of them are living here under false identities; others have taken over the identities of men who’ve been quietly killed. Some of this has been going on for several years.”
She recited the twelve names.
One of them the Avenger recognized.
CHAPTER XXVI
Some Conclusions
“The soup isn’t very good,” apologized McClurg to the others in the consulate dining room.
“It ain’t so bad,” Smitty said. He was enjoying his second bowl.
“Thank you, senhor,” said Escabar, who was serving the dinner.
“That will be enough,” McClurg told him. “I hadn’t intended a native menu, but he—”
“Cast aside your qualms,” said Cole, “the meal has been excellent so far.”
“Wait until the empada arives,” said Escabar with a smack of his lips.
“You can go to the kitchen until the next course is ready.”
“Sim.” He bowed out of the dining room.
McClurg waited until the white door had closed on him. “Has Miss Bentin been able to remember anything?”
“Yes, I have all the information she was entrusted with in Europe.”
“Was it worth all this fuss?” asked the temporary consul after trying another spoonful of soup.
“Colonel Heberden will have to decide that,” answered Benson. “I sent him the information in a coded wire this afternoon.”
Pushing his dish away, McClurg said, “Things are just about cleared up here, then. I’ll have to see about getting transferred. I really don’t like Mostarda much.”
“Why, mon, ’tis nae a bad town,” MacMurdie told him. “Not as brisk and lively as New York City, but ever’ city can no be New York.”
“New York,” said McClurg, pushing the soup dish even farther from him. “I haven’t been there since before the war. I knew a girl who lived in Gramercy—well, that’s neither here nor there.” From the breast pocket of his light suit he took several sheets of folded paper. “Let me get to the business I have to discuss with you before you leave. You’re departing . . . when?”
“Tomorrow,” said Benson.
“I wish I could say the same.” He spread the papers out in front of him. “Let me see now . . . sometimes I can’t even read my own writing. Our agents and the local police have gathered in ten people who were working with this Bulcão and Ensolardo. From what you told us, that’s the entire lot in this area.”
Smitty reached for the soup tureen and ladled himself a third helping.
“Now,” continued McClurg, “I have some material pertaining to Mrs. Andrade. Her fingerprints don’t match those on Amelia Andrade’s working papers. That’s as far as we’ve taken it so far. The FBI in Washington, or possibly OSS, may come up with more on who she really was. A very ruthless woman, whoever she was. What she did to poor Rodney—”
“Ye forget the lad was in cahoots with them,” reminded the Scot. “He gave them information which mot have gotten Richard killed.”
“Yes, I realize that,” said McClurg. “It’s just that sometimes a brutal crime like . . . well, that’s neither here nor there, is it? Let me see . . . what else do I have to pass on? Oh, yes, the President of the United States has sent you all his congratulations.”
“Very thoughtful of him,” said Cole.
McClurg leaned back. “That about does it . . . Oh, there is one thing, Benson,” he said, turning to the bottom sheet of paper. “Before all the unpleasantness, you asked me to find out about a Professor Antonio Bouchey.”
“Yes, that’s right, I did.”
“Probably of no earthly use to you now, this information. But anyway, he’s got a clean bill of health. Been with the University of Barafunda for decades.
“Do you know the names of the key men behind this end of the operation?”
“Yes, I can give you a dozen names,” she replied. “Some of them are living here under false identities; others have taken over the identities of men who’ve been quietly killed. Some of this has been going on for several years.”
She recited the twelve names.
One of them the Avenger recognized.
CHAPTER XXVI
Some Conclusions
“The soup isn’t very good,” apologized McClurg to the others in the consulate dining room.
“It ain’t so bad,” Smitty said. He was enjoying his second bowl.
“Thank you, senhor,” said Escabar, who was serving the dinner.
“That will be enough,” McClurg told him. “I hadn’t intended a native menu, but he—”
“Cast aside your qualms,” said Cole, “the meal has been excellent so far.”
“Wait until the empada arives,” said Escabar with a smack of his lips.
“You can go to the kitchen until the next course is ready.”
“Sim.” He bowed out of the dining room.
McClurg waited until the white door had closed on him. “Has Miss Bentin been able to remember anything?”
“Yes, I have all the information she was entrusted with in Europe.”
“Was it worth all this fuss?” asked the temporary consul after trying another spoonful of soup.
“Colonel Heberden will have to decide that,” answered Benson. “I sent him the information in a coded wire this afternoon.”
Pushing his dish away, McClurg said, “Things are just about cleared up here, then. I’ll have to see about getting transferred. I really don’t like Mostarda much.”
“Why, mon, ’tis nae a bad town,” MacMurdie told him. “Not as brisk and lively as New York City, but ever’ city can no be New York.”
“New York,” said McClurg, pushing the soup dish even farther from him. “I haven’t been there since before the war. I knew a girl who lived in Gramercy—well, that’s neither here nor there.” From the breast pocket of his light suit he took several sheets of folded paper. “Let me get to the business I have to discuss with you before you leave. You’re departing . . . when?”
“Tomorrow,” said Benson.
“I wish I could say the same.” He spread the papers out in front of him. “Let me see now . . . sometimes I can’t even read my own writing. Our agents and the local police have gathered in ten people who were working with this Bulcão and Ensolardo. From what you told us, that’s the entire lot in this area.”
Smitty reached for the soup tureen and ladled himself a third helping.
“Now,” continued McClurg, “I have some material pertaining to Mrs. Andrade. Her fingerprints don’t match those on Amelia Andrade’s working papers. That’s as far as we’ve taken it so far. The FBI in Washington, or possibly OSS, may come up with more on who she really was. A very ruthless woman, whoever she was. What she did to poor Rodney—”
“Ye forget the lad was in cahoots with them,” reminded the Scot. “He gave them information which mot have gotten Richard killed.”
“Yes, I realize that,” said McClurg. “It’s just that sometimes a brutal crime like . . . well, that’s neither here nor there, is it? Let me see . . . what else do I have to pass on? Oh, yes, the President of the United States has sent you all his congratulations.”
“Very thoughtful of him,” said Cole.
McClurg leaned back. “That about does it . . . Oh, there is one thing, Benson,” he said, turning to the bottom sheet of paper. “Before all the unpleasantness, you asked me to find out about a Professor Antonio Bouchey.”
“Yes, that’s right, I did.”
“Probably of no earthly use to you now, this information. But anyway, he’s got a clean bill of health. Been with the University of Barafunda for decades.
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