On the dock there were the unmistakeable signs that the Marques de Avillar was coming in on time. Minor customs officials in their blue uniforms stood around in small, important looking knots, their hands filled with papers and bundles of official forms. The passenger gangplank, with the line's name splashed on its canvas sides in crimson and gold letters, had been hauled on to the pier and lay waiting like a rigid, outstretched hand for the incoming ship. A row of motley cabs were lined up facing the pier, their drivers dozing or reading the morning papers behind their wheels as they waited for the business from the ship. Pepe was not only one of these drivers, but through the transport union he had arranged to fill the cab line with trustworthy anti-fascist drivers.
Hall could see Pepe slouched behind the wheel of the LaSalle, his white cap pushed way to the back of his massive head. The cab strategy was Pepe's inspiration. It did away with the necessity of following any of the cabs which picked up passengers whose moves might be of interest to Hall. As a further precaution, Souza had arranged through members of his union to get an instant line on any of the Marques de Avillar passengers who registered at a San Hermano hotel that day.
A letter written in Spanish with purple ink in a fine, delicate woman's hand lay on the metal table between the butter pat and the carafe of water. Hall read it again as he stirred his coffee.
"Beloved Mateo," the letter began, and Hall chuckled at Santiago's current dodge, "Why did you leave me so suddenly without even giving me a chance to explain? It is you and you alone whom I love, cariño, and any thoughts that you have to the contrary you must banish from your dear head at this instant. Oh, cariño, since you left without a further word I have had no rest, no peace, no sleep...." He skimmed through the first two pages of such protestations, then carefully reread the casual lines: "You are so wrong; it is true that I did know the doctor before, but he was never my lover. I knew him only because he treated dear Carlos, but as a man I hate and detest him. How can I tell you again that you are wrong, that he is an abomination not only in my eyes but also in the eyes of my entire beloved family?"
Nearly three lachrymose pages of love frustrated followed these lines. "And so before I close my letter, I must beg you to drop everything if you love me and fly back to Havana, even if only for a day. Oh, my beloved, if you would only come back to Havana for one day, I am sure that I can resolve all the doubts that are in your mind, Mateo. In the name of all that we have shared, of all that is dear and sacred to us, please fly back to my arms, my love, my kisses—and then you will know!" The letter was signed, "Maria."
Hall folded the letter carefully and put it in his wallet. It told him what he wanted to know about Ansaldo. He treated dear Carlos—he is an abomination in the eyes of my beloved family. Santiago's style as a writer of love letters might be a little on the turgid side, but he knew how to make himself clear. And nothing could be clearer than his line on Ansaldo. An abomination. A man who marched with the men who put that fascist bullet through the throat of Uncle Carlos. A bastard.
The dock was growing more crowded. Over the near horizon, a ship pointed its high white face at San Hermano. A long throaty whistle came from its front funnel. Then five short blasts, and in a moment the tugs which had been getting up steam in the harbor were heading out toward the growing ship.
"The Marques de Avillar," someone at the bar said. A customs man at a near-by table gulped the remainder of his coffee and bolted to the pier. At the bar, a laughing longshoreman pushed a five-centavo coin into the nickeled red juke box, pressed the "Bésame" button. Johnny Rodrigues y su Whoopee Kids. Two guitars, a cornet, maracas, sticks and a lugubrious baritone. "Bésame, bésame mucho ..." the raucous blaring of a klaxon at the pier ... "la última vez" ... again the horn drowned out the words.
Hall looked up at the cabs, ignoring the Whoopee Kids' baritone. A slender young man in a green jacket and cream-colored slacks was standing near the foot of the gangplank. Pepe had taken off his white hat. Hall kept his eyes glued on Pepe until the man in the green jacket turned around, revealing himself as Dr. Marina.
One of the white sedans of the Ministry of Health pulled up at the pier. A doctor and two assistants, the three men wearing the light tan uniform of their service, got out and started to talk to a customs man. He pointed at the white ship being shoved toward the pier by the little tugs.