The Three Sentinels (9 page)

That was the point. Considering whether he had put it forcibly enough, Mat stood at his office window from which he could see nothing but tops of palms which prevented the
vulgarity of human beings from intruding. At least he supposed that was the intention. It seemed unlikely that the office was designed to prevent the General Manager idly watching movement on the
avenue. He would have preferred the headquarters building to be down at the port where it used to be. Bloody popular he would find himself if he suggested it! Such a move was the equivalent of
closing the London Wall office and sending Henry out to Bermondsey, bowler hat and all. Anyway how the various offices were distributed was, at the moment, about as important as the
contract—if there was one—for arranging the flowers in the entrance hall.

An idea! The boycott committee could ship flowers to the Capital and get some much needed cash. He was continually fascinated by the engaging lunacy of living off the communal lands. He had far
more projects for them—which he certainly was not going to tell to Messrs. Garay and Delgado—than for setting the oil flowing.

‘Who does the flowers, Pilar?’ he asked.

‘The gardeners. Several of them, I think.’

Evidently she took them for granted like the supply of stationery. Yet it tickled his perverse sense of romance to imagine those gardeners with earth between their toes padding into the building
when only cleaners were about and arranging—quite as delicately as any females rushing around London and pretending that ordinary good taste was an abstruse art—the harvest of their
coarse, copper hands.

‘That is what the slippers are for?’

‘What slippers?’

‘Under the ledge by the entrance.’

‘You’re always asking questions I can’t answer, Mr. Darlow.’

He suspected that she was exasperated by his collection of inessential details upon which imagination could go to work. Neatly arranged facts and a decision were what she seemed to like.

‘You answer a hundred questions a week, Pilar.’

‘About policy, yes, and routine and the staff.’

‘Well, that covers it.’

‘Not your private curiosities.’

‘April showers. Come on me suddenly.’

‘About such little things and never about things you ought to want to know.’

‘For example?’

She thought for a moment, trying to pin her accusation to a fact.

‘Yes, here’s one! Why do you never ask about Mr. Birenfield?’

‘At my age, Pilar, I could take a Birenfield to pieces and put all the bits back where they belonged.’

This time he had really annoyed her, and he could see that she was not going to let him get away with it. How old would she be? Twenty five, twenty seven years younger than he? He watched her
mouth. She had half a mind to argue, and the other half ready to walk out.

‘Then what was he doing on the old field all alone at night?’

‘Meeting somebody secretly whom he didn’t want to take home.’

‘Really, Mr. Darlow! You know there was a blank wall between him and the men.’

‘Then somebody from the Capital.’

‘He flew there nearly every week, so he didn’t need secret meetings here. Or do you think he had a girl?’

‘Not on the old field,’ he laughed. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I don’t. I only add up nothings like any other woman. You depend on your eyes, Mr. Darlow. We use our ears.’

‘Oil-wives’ gossip?’

‘If you like. But it’s not what they say; it’s what they don’t say and look as if they could. That’s a kind of slippers-under-the-ledge, too.’

‘Gave nothing away himself?’

‘Never, if he could help it. Didn’t you find that among your bits and pieces?’

‘Gateson probably knows what he was doing up there. I’ll ask him.’

‘Shouldn’t you know the answer yourself first?’

‘Oh, Gateson is all right. A bit jealous of course, but that’s natural.

‘Very natural.’

She held his eyes and, by God, she meant to! A splendid woman she was with a high-breasted body like that of a Greek Aphrodite, and the same, rounded, columnar middle instead of a hymenopterous
waist. That suspicion of hair on the upper lip had always attracted him. Well, no time and place for those complications now! One must live on one’s memories.

And, any way, he did not trust her. The ears she mentioned missed little. Birenfield was right to be secretive. She had too many right-wing relatives in high places who would welcome any leakage
of the new manager’s intentions. To set the oil flowing again was a mere half of his task; the ultimate value of Cabo Desierto had also to be considered, and that was bound to be affected not
only by what he did but how he did it.

He was even reluctant to give his handwritten letter to Pilar, leaving her to make up the mail for the company’s plane to the Capital; the security of an envelope was not enough. So he
relinquished the unprofitable office window and hastily scribbled a few more private letters to account for his time—he had some trouble in thinking of suitable recipients—and handed
them over. Then with Henry’s letter in his pocket he drove down to the port knowing that a launch was due to sail in the afternoon under the skipper who had carried him to Cabo Desierto.

He was sure of his judgment in dealing with a plain seaman, perfectly content to tell him to airmail his letter in the Capital next morning; he knew it would be done though he had spent only a
few hours with the man. He accused himself of blind prejudice against Pilar Alvarez merely because she was well-groomed and an aristocratic show-piece. How many times had he been told that he did
not understand women? Well, the wise course was to accept it as a fact and take no risks.

González, now. He must not be ignored. Politeness oiled his dirty wheels without washing them. He would be hurt if he learned that the General Manager had been hanging around the port
with no obviously urgent business and had not called on him.

He could not respect the police captain; the man was a coward and had little control over his men. Their comings and goings in the town were by tacit permission of the boycott
committee—with exception of those catastrophic and secret excursions to the shacks beyond the refinery. No, González was not fit to command a rabbit hutch. He should, Mat thought, have
been a plain-clothes security agent working on his own. Perhaps he had been, and too successful. It was conceivable that his weary eyes had seen more than was good for his health and that he had
quickly taken refuge in the uniformed branch.

Captain González dismissed a visitor with affectionate pats on the shoulder, shut the door, sent for coffee and produced a really excellent Havana. Faultless! He could do a lot more
execution with his excellent manners than the damned great gun in his lop-sided belt.

Mat received the usual lecture on the unnecessary risks that he was taking, and replied that there weren’t any, that the boycott committee considered him a simple, friendly fellow wasting
his time.

‘Far from simple, Don Mateo. And when they discover it there must be some temptation to have you out of the way.’

‘An unfortunate accident?’

‘That would be difficult to arrange convincingly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because your movements are unpredictable. Frankly I never know where you are going to be till you have left. If only you were not so impulsive! You are the despair of my
agents.’

Typical González! A most intelligent comment followed by a pretence of efficiency. He hadn’t got any agents. At Cabo Desierto everyone knew everyone else. Any local inhabitant found
chatting too confidentially with police posts or calling on González without good reason would be rolled through the door of the customs shed in a dirty oil drum. Mat was prepared to bet
that all the Captain ever did was to get himself telephoned by Pilar or Pepe or the doorman at Headquarters.

‘You have taken to driving your car yourself. Do so sometimes but not always!’

‘You distrust Lorenzo?’

‘Not at all, Don Mateo! He is faithful to his uniform. I merely say that it should never be certain whether you will be alone in the car or not.’

‘It’s true that I should be more careful not to hurt Lorenzo’s pride. Any other suggestions?’

González hesitated, fiddling with his papers as if somewhere among them might be a suggestion which had nothing to do with him.

‘It is always easier to arrange accidents than to prevent them,’ he said.

‘I thought you liked Rafael Garay.’

‘We are beyond likes and dislikes. If a rock cannot be moved it must be smashed.’

Like a rock. Where had he heard that before? Said it to Thorpe, of course! Not a very good illustration. Garay really was one. He himself felt more like a mud pool, reliably covering God knows
what. He reminded González that there would only be small souvenirs left of the police if Garay suffered an accident.

‘But let us suppose I could prove who was the criminal.’

‘Not me, I hope. The Company’s funeral fund doesn’t run to General Managers.’

‘Neither of us, Don Mateo. The Union. I have been told that if I take no notice of any agent of theirs they are prepared to pay.’

It was essential to preserve a mildly benevolent expression. Apparently he had the confidence of the dirty little rat, and that was to be valued even at the cost of being considered a possible
fellow gangster.

‘Garay is hated as much as that?’

‘One cannot throw union delegates into the harbour without making enemies.’

‘Why not Delgado, too?’

‘They are not afraid of him. Delgado is ambitious. But Garay—one can only compare him to a mad priest with the faithful at his feet.’

‘What have you replied?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know yet what they intend. Put yourself in my place! Where am I? Who am I? There is no one but you I trust.’

‘Your chiefs?’

‘A blind eye, Don Mateo! No doubt this was mentioned to them. No doubt they made the proper motions of disgust. And in parting they whispered that it would be best to try that little rat
González.’

The bitter coincidence that González, dropping all pride, should have quoted the very word which Mat in his own mind had found for him instantly aroused his pity for the man. What a
choice for the job—but possibly wise! The captain could be trusted to do as little as possible and keep up a facade of decency. A stronger man might play hell with the whole situation.

‘I will take your orders,’ González went on. ‘You have only to say what you want.’

‘What I want, friend, is Garay’s word or his signature, and a dead man cannot give it.’

‘Look, Don Mateo! Up on your hill and down here none of the rest of us count. Me, I am only a policeman in the first act of a play, there to make them all laugh a little and be afraid a
little. But in the third act you and Garay will be very much alone.’

‘Tragedy or comedy?’

‘Tragedy if you do not get rid of him.’

Well, that was cheerful. An interesting fellow, González. How could a man be so sensitive without any conscience whatever? His unexpectedly intimate conversation had certainly opened up
some new vistas.

Mat had left the Union out of all calculations as completely powerless, overlooking the fact that the pompous did not like being powerless. Certainly Dave Gunner didn’t. What was all that
about organised labour being the only hope of stability? While in the Capital he had dutifully called on the Secretary of the Union who rambled on about the excellent co-operation between
Birenfield and himself, hoping that it would continue. Exactly what co-operation there could be when the field had expelled the Union and been excommunicated in return it was hard to see, but the
man now appeared to have had something definite in mind—possibly, as González had hinted, strong-arm tactics directed against the uncontrollable leaders of the boycott. His hatred of
them had been obvious.

At home he was greeted by Pepe with the news that Mr. Thorpe had telephoned to ask if he and his wife could come round for a drink. What a day for cloaked motives on the back stairs! It would
have been more natural to invite the General Manager to call if he were free. He saw why they didn’t. His car standing outside the Thorpes’ bungalow would invite comment up and down the
executive ghetto, especially if no one else had been invited to meet him. Damn these women! But it was fair enough—even admirable—that they should all be jockeying for their husbands in
an emergency with an unforeseeable end.

He was reminded of Mrs. Bateson and her inexplicable question about Lorenzo. There was a very faint wisp of a smell. The police captain’s remark that he was faithful to his uniform was on
the face of it decisive. He meant neither more nor less, but it seemed to need expanding a bit. Mat held Pepe in conversation, hoping for something more revealing than Lorenzo’s file which
merely confirmed that he was reliable and that Birenfield had picked him from the mechanics’ pool to be his personal driver.

Didn’t Pepe and Amelia ever miss the Capital? No, Pepe said, Cabo Desierto was home and if the local cinema would only show films that did not disgust a man of experience he would have no
complaint.

‘And the Company? You are content?’

‘Very content. It has treated me well. Amelia and I—we have security and our economies for when we are old.’

How often was loyalty nothing more than the removal of all fear for the future? And any way why shouldn’t it be? Mutual trust was a fine thing whatever the reason for it.

‘Lorenzo, too?’

‘For him Mr. Birenfield was God.’

There was a shade of contempt in the answer. Pepe had already dropped hints of his feeling for Birenfield, so Mat put the direct question.

‘You did not like him?’

‘Neither I nor Amelia. A good man, very polite, very easy to work for. But never an enthusiasm! Life—he had no grumbles and no praise. I will tell you an absurdity. The first morning
you were here you had your papaya and after I saw your face I said to Amelia: “this one is no Birenfield. We shall enjoy giving him pleasure.”’

‘You do give it, Pepe, and a thousand thanks! But, to be fair, the world cannot go on without its Birenfields. I suppose that is why they bother to stay in it. What did this one have which
attracted Lorenzo?’