As Quentin turned to leave the room, the door was thrown open and two Cuban soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets slid in, taking up positions each side of the door.
The manager went very white and sat petrified. Anita’s big eyes opened and a tiny scream fluttered at her mouth.
Quentin said coldly, “What the hell’s this?”
In the passage, just outside the door, stood a thin little man, dressed in the white-and-gold uniform of a Cuban general. His coffee-coloured face reminded Quentin of a vicious, startled little monkey. One claw-like hand rested on a revolver strapped to his waist.
The manager said faintly, “Can I be of any service, General?”
The little man didn’t even look at him. He was staring at Quentin very thoughtfully. Then he walked into the room and one of the soldiers carefully shut the door.
The little man introduced himself. “General Fuentes,” he said, clicking his heels. “Who are you?”
“My name is George Quentin of the New York Post. This is my colleague, Mr. Morecombre, of the New York Daily. This is a very fortunate meeting.”
The General raised his eyebrows. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said tartly. “What are you doing here? I understood all visitors had left the town.”
“You’re probably right,” Quentin returned, “but we are on business here.”