Squaring his shoulders, the Mexican courier put the cigar in his mouth and started to climb the stairs to the headquarters of the Casa. He climbed slowly, afraid of receiving too enthusiastic a greeting when he reached the first-floor landing.
There was a light in the small meeting room at the end of the corridor. Hall stood near the door for a few minutes, listening for a familiar voice through the opened transom. Then, carefully, he knocked, and turned the handle of the door. It was open.
He stepped into a meeting of a small committee. Eight men were sitting around a long table. They were talking about the problems of getting help to the Spaniards in the French concentration camps in North Africa. All discussion stopped the moment the confreres saw Hall.
"I am looking," he said, "for Santiago Iglesias."
A tawny-haired Spaniard at the table looked up. "Viejo!" he shouted, springing from his chair and rushing over to confront Hall.
The right hand which rose to take the cigar from Hall's mouth also lingered long enough to hold an admonishing finger to his lips. "Hello, Rafael," he said. "I didn't know you were in Cuba."
Rafael was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Neither did Franco," he laughed. "Last week I found out for the first time that the fascists had jailed you and that you got out after the war. I thought you were dead, M..."
The look in Hall's eyes stopped him from pronouncing the rest of the American's name.
"Let's go outside," Hall said, softly. "I do not have much time."
They stepped into the corridor. "Where can we talk?" Hall asked. "Is anyone using Santiago's office?"