A Small Death in Lisbon. Robert Thomas Wilson
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Название: A Small Death in Lisbon
Автор: Robert Thomas Wilson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780007378142
isbn:
‘What happened to your friend? Edward, I think, Edward Burton.’
‘He had to go up north. He’s one of these Anglo-Portuguese from up there around Porto. The Allies use them a lot for buying things, you know, they understand the people. He told me it was all very important, but I think he might be a bit silly,’ she said, diminishing him for her nearer purpose.
‘Why did you ask him to help you?’
‘He’s young and good-looking and well-connected . . .’
‘But not with the lady in the American consulate visa office.’
‘He tried. She likes them young and good-looking.’
‘But with money.’
She nodded dismally and looked back at the gaming rooms. The band released Madame Branescu from the next number and she walked past Felsen and gave him a little roll of her eyes.
‘Who was that?’ asked Laura van Lennep.
‘Madame Branescu,’ said Felsen. ‘She runs the visa office in the American consulate.’
Something like love came into her face.
An hour later Felsen was removing the pearled stud from his throat and stripping away the collar from his shirt. He unthreaded his monogrammed gold cufflinks and put them on the dressing table next to a letter he’d written on Hotel Parque stationery for the attention of Madame Branescu. He undid a shirt button.
‘Let me do that,’ said the girl.
Her borrowed evening dress lay on the chaise longue where she’d thrown it with her small, tight purse. She knelt up on the bed in her black slip and stockings. He stood in front of her with the first tingle of adrenalin shivering up his legs in his voluminous black trousers. She undid his shirt, drew the braces down off his shoulders and tugged the tails out of the waistband of his trousers. He eased her towards him and felt her stiffen against his front. She undid his trousers which dropped straight to the floor. Her head trembled on her neck at the jib of his undershorts. She drew them out and over, and put her fingers to her lips. She was flushed crimson and not with whisky and soda.
In the bathroom she found something among the bottles of perfumes and unguents provided by the Hotel Parque that would suit her purpose. Jasmine oil. Back in the room Felsen stood in his opened shirt. Her careful and thorough lubrication of him brought out the desperation of a chased man. He frightened her as he pulled her round on the bed, rucked up her slip and tore at the already flimsy lace-edged knickers.
‘Careful,’ she said nervously, and stretched back a hand to try and slow him down.
He stood between her bald heels showing out of the holes of her overused silk stockings. She shouted out as he entered her and her elbows collapsed. Felsen grabbed at her haunches and pulled her back on to him. Her hand flailed behind. Her face was screwed up with pain, her throat contorted by the way her head bent under her as he drove in.
Felsen was shocked to find himself thrilled by her every wince, at her fingers stretching out to push him back, at the white knuckles of the other hand which gripped the rucked counterpane on the bed. He didn’t last long.
They lay on the bed in the light and cold air from the open windows. She was under the covers huddled and shivering and trying not to cry. This part always made her cry. The shame of it. How many times had this been in three months?
Felsen smoked. He’d offered her one but she hadn’t answered. He was irritated because he’d expected satisfaction, but in emptying himself he’d done just that, and found his head full of Eva.
He slept badly and woke early, alone in the room which was now freezing and damp from the sea air. He closed the window. The letter he’d written for the girl addressed to Madame Branescu had gone and the pair of gold KP cufflinks Eva had given him on his last birthday weren’t on the dressing table.
Later in the day he caught a lift into Lisbon and went to the Pensão Amsterdão in Rua de São Paulo. At the front desk they’d never heard of Laura van Lennep and no one answered to the description he gave of her. He worked the other pensions in the street and drew a blank. He went to the American consulate and walked the line of faces but there were no single women. Finally he went down to the shipping offices but they were closed and the docks were empty. The Nyassa had gone.
15th March 1941, Guarda, Beira Baixa, Portugal.
It had been raining in Guarda all night. It rained throughout breakfast and it rained during the strategy meeting Felsen had convened with his fellow-agents to decide on the necessary tactics if they were to buy and ship in the region of three hundred tons of wolfram per month for the rest of the year.
The size of his task had only just crystallized in his head on seeing the British Beralt mine in Panasqueira, near Fundão in the south of the Beira. The mine and buildings were extensive, the colossal slag already part of the landscape. To have created that quantity of slag there had to be a small city of hundred-metre-deep shafts and kilometres of galleries under his feet. There was nothing remotely comparable in the rest of the Beira. This feat of engineering was ripping two thousand tons of thick horizontal wolfram veins from the earth each year. All the other mines in the area were nothing but scratches and nicks on the earth’s crust by comparison. His only hope was total motivation of the people. The galvanizing of thousands to the task of gleaning the surface. And, of course, theft.
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