Quentin felt a strong desire to reach out and turn her over his knee. He came further into the room and shut the door. “Maybe I had better introduce myself. I’m Quentin of the New York Post.”
He saw her suddenly stiffen, but she didn’t turn from the window.
He went on: “I’m down here because my paper expects trouble. All Americans, except the residents, have cleared out. The residents have gone over to the consul’s house under guard. I guess you’re about the only white woman foot-loose around this town. If you’ll pack, I’ll take you over to the consul myself.”
For a moment she hesitated, then she turned and faced him. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she said sharply. “What trouble? What can happen here?”
Quentin grinned sourly. “Plenty,” he said. “Maybe you don’t know anything about Cuban politics?” He came and joined her at the window. “A grand-looking joint, ain’t it?” he said, looking across the flaming flower-beds, the green lawns and across the bay. “Sure, it looks all right, but underneath it is a mass of seething misery. The graft that goes on here would make Chicago look like a virgin’s tea-party. The President in power right now is one of the meanest guys alive. All the punks who work under him run their own little graft on the side. This has been going on some time, and I guess the natives are getting tired of it. The trouble came to a head last week over transport dues. The guy who handles that has put a tax on every truck, pushing up the freight rate. Everyone knows that it will go into his own pocket, so they’ve got wise to him. They’ve come out on strike. These higher-up guys are crafty, and they guessed what would happen, so they’ve laid in a good stock of food and are sitting pretty. The rest of Havana is going without. No boats bring stuff in, no trains, no lorries, no nothing. Food is running short. It won’t be long now before the natives get mad. When those guys get mad, they’re likely to cause a heap of trouble. Now that’s why you ought to get out or at least go over to the consul’s place.”
The girl had stood very still while he was talking, watching him closely. When he had finished speaking, she seemed to relax and the frown disappeared. “I’m afraid you must have thought I was very rude,” she said, “but I’m in rather a difficult position.” She paused, looked at him rather helplessly, and then turned to the window again.
Quentin felt her embarrassment. “I heard you missed the ship,” he said casually. “I suppose you left all your things on board—clothes, money and so on, huh?”
She turned eagerly. “Yes, I did. I’ve got nothing to wear except this. I’ve got no money—what—what do you think I can do?”
“You’ll be all right. I’ll get a car and drive you over to the consul. I guess the manager of this joint has got a car. The consul’ll fix you up for dough. It’s his job.”
She looked relieved. “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Quentin,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m afraid I was very rude just now.”