"With Ansaldo."

"When are you going back to the Bolivar?"

"In an hour."

"Tell her that I telephoned to say that I would be out of the city tonight. I was to see her for dinner. What about the priests from the boat? Are they all really priests?"

"Who knows? Perhaps I shall know more when I return to the city."

"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"

"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need food and another day's rest."

The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hot soup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first, some brandy. Three gla.s.ses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory of Lazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind his back. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photograph of Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.

"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.

Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and the stew, and then sipped mate through a silver straw. "He's going to be well in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to start cursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But your Spanish curses were enough for me."

"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.

"What didn't you curse, senor? Franco, _putas, maricones_, Hitler, Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."

"G.o.d! Who heard me?"

The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant and myself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about the soldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."

"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."

"You are among friends," the doctor said. "Souza has told us about you."

"I owe my life to you," Hall said.

"From what I have learned," the doctor laughed, "you are not an easy man to kill."

"When can I get out of bed?"

"Tomorrow. That is just as well, senor. The garrison tailor is cleaning your suit now. Would you like more mate?"

"Could I have another brandy?"

"Of course. But then you must sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"I am prepared for that." The doctor called for the corporal, ordered him to prepare a hypodermic syringe. "You must get some sleep, senor,"

he said.

In the morning, the doctor p.r.o.nounced Hall well enough to leave the commandant's bed. Hall's clothes, the suit cleaned and freshly pressed, the shirt washed and ironed, the shoes polished to a glow, were laid out on a chair near the bed. "We do things thoroughly in the army," the doctor said.

"I see."

"The commandant would like to join you for breakfast."

"In the officers' mess?"

"No. Here."

"Please tell him that I would be honored."

"Good. Can you dress yourself?"

"I'm all right, thanks to you, Captain. I feel as if I'd had a week's rest on some quiet beach."

"I'll get the commandant, then. The corporal will show you the way to the washroom. I've laid out my razor and shaving things for you."

It was good to stand on steadied legs again, good to walk erect like a man. The razor had a nice edge. It sliced through the stems of the two-day beard without snagging. For some reason, the efficiency of the razor delighted Hall beyond measure. He studied the results of the shave in the wall mirror, then looked for signs of his illness. Two days were lost, he thought, two days of which he could account for but a few hours. The doctor could fill in most of the second day. The first night was something Hall himself could remember. It was like a bad dream one longs to forget, but he could remember the bus, the field, the ditch, the rock pile. He could remember staggering, crawling, getting sick, pa.s.sing out and crawling and pa.s.sing out again. But there were at least ten hours that remained a total blank; that portion of the day between the time he blacked out in the cafe near the Spanish line's pier and the moment he became aware of the kid in the bus.

An enlisted man was cleaning up the commandant's room when Hall returned. "The major will be here in five minutes," he told Hall. "And in the meanwhile, he sent you these." He handed Hall a flat tin of American cigarettes.

Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in the leather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio's photograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and in freedom--Anibal."

"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "I think I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.

A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.

"Come in," Hall shouted.

The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carried correctly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major Diego Segador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shook hands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait of Tabio.

"I am grateful to you for--everything," Hall said.

"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, I was sorry we could not do more."

"What more could you have done?"

The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "We could have killed the _cabron_ who drugged you, _companero_."

"You know who did it?"

"It could have been anyone in that cafe. What's the matter with Delgado?

Didn't he know it is owned by a dirty Falangist?" Color rose to the major's dark cheeks. He was a man of Hall's own years, shorter, but with a pair of powerful hands capable of hiding the hands of a man twice his size. The hands were gripping the arms of his chair now, the knuckles white as the major fought to control his rage. Hall knew the feeling, sensed the fires that burned in the major's head. He called me _companero_ a moment ago, he thought, he knows what I'm after.

"Pepe is all right," Hall said.

"He should have more brains." The major opened the locked middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a sealed brown envelope. "Your papers," he said.

"Please examine them and see if everything is present."

Hall tore open the envelope, shook the contents to the desk. Pa.s.sport, wallet, not more than fifty pesos missing, a book of travelers' checks, some sheets of blank paper, a small leather address book, wrist watch, the Bock cigarettes. Except for the fifty pesos, everything else which belonged in the wallet was there, money, pictures, cards, the letter from Havana.