"She's a very clever girl, Felipe. And a confirmed fascist."
"She's only a rich puta, Mateo. The hell with her."
"She might be useful, Felipe. What happened to you today? Did you learn anything?"
Duarte shrugged his shoulders. He had little real information. "I saw Commander New. He looked down his nose at me during our whole interview, and then, like an English trader, he started to bargain with me. About the week, I mean. He said that a week was too long. He would only give me three days. Then—if I gave him no more information than you got from the puta today, he goes to the police."
"That's not so good."
"Who knows? The counsellor of the British Embassy spent the whole day going through Fielding's files with the widow. If they found those reports you saw that night, maybe the Intelligence officer will give us that full week."
"Did you find out anything about Harrington?"
"Commander New never heard of him, he says. Then I thought I would make a real surprise for you. Souza arranged with some smart boys to search Ansaldo's room with a fine comb. But they combed not a louse, Mateo. They found nothing of interest except that Ansaldo's maricón is a morphine addict."
Hall lit a black cigar from the Cuban's private collection. "Where the hell is my letter from Havana?" he said.
"Take it easy, chico." Duarte opened a fresh bottle of beer for his friend.