Part 29 (1/2)

Florry, from his vantage, looked across the fountain and the street, through the leafy trees and to the hotel on the corner. It was an elegant old place, rather Parisian in appearance. It had been his job to keep it watched, while Julian sported about with Jerry.

”Nothing,” he said. ”A few Condor chaps. It seems to be unofficial Jerry headquarters,” he said.

”The Moseley brutes will love it. What utter swine. To give up their own country to rub b.u.ms with German Java men tarted up in Sigmund Romberg uniforms. I loathe traitors.”

Florry kept his eye on the hotel.

”Sieg heil,” Julian suddenly blurted, as two more officers suddenly came by in gleaming black jackboots. Julian suddenly blurted, as two more officers suddenly came by in gleaming black jackboots.

”Handsome chaps,” Julian said after they pa.s.sed. ”Pity they're all such pigs.”

”There,” said Florry suddenly, squinting in the sunlight.

He could see them in front of the picturesque doors of the hotel, a short, squat, and blunt fellow who must have been Harry Uckley and another who must have been his companion Dyles. It was the uniforms that gave them away: they wore their silly Moseley black s.h.i.+rts and jodhpurs and black riding boots.

”What charming uniforms,” said Julian. ”So refined.”

Florry felt a queer roar in his mind. No matter what, he'd have at Julian.

”All right,” said Julian. ”Time for some real fun now, eh?”

But the fun did not start for quite some time. They followed the two down the wide, tree-lined Avenida de Carlos III at what seemed a prudent distance, perhaps two hundred paces, until at last they reached their appointment: an office off the Calle San Miguel, near the cathedral, which wore the proud banner of the Falange Espagnole, the violent right-wing Spanish brotherhood that, like the POUM, supplied its own militias to the fighting.

Florry and Julian found shelter down the street at a bench under a tree and waited. By 4 P.M P.M. Julian grew bored and went for a walk. For a time he browsed in the shop windows while Florry sat furiously, vulnerable and absurd, awaiting his return. He was gone about half an hour.

”I say,” he said when he returned, ”look what I've bought. Rather spiffy, eh?”

He opened a small sack and removed a tie.

”I've always loved this pattern,” he said. It was a dark green and dark blue arrangement of diagonal stripes. ”But it's the Fourteenth Lancasters.h.i.+re Foot, and if Roddy Tyne ever caught me with his regiment's tie, he'd have a b.l.o.o.d.y kitten.” kitten.”

”It's quite nice,” said Florry. ”I've never paid much attention to ties.”

”Nice? Chum, it's magnificent. Don't you think it goes well with this suit.” He held it against the gray pinstripe.

”Julian, I'm trying to keep an eye on-”

”It does, doesn't it?”

”Well, yes, I suppose it does.”

”Good, thought you'd agree.”

He quickly untied the tie he was wearing-a solid burgundy thing-and rethreaded his collar with the regimental tie, quickly put a small, elegant Windsor knot into it, and pulled it tight.

”There. Really feel much better. This awful pink pink thing”-he held up the burgundy like a rotting fish-”has been bothering me all day. Can't think why I bought it. Is the knot centered, old man? It's a beastly thing to do without a mirror.” thing”-he held up the burgundy like a rotting fish-”has been bothering me all day. Can't think why I bought it. Is the knot centered, old man? It's a beastly thing to do without a mirror.”

”Julian! Look!”

Harry Uckley and his chum Dyles had emerged in a crowd with a group of Falangists and stood chatting and lounging about two hundred paces down across the street.

”About b.l.o.o.d.y time,” said Julian.

It had taken almost forever: Uckley and Dyles went off to eat with the Falangists at a large, unruly restaurant down the way. The dinner lasted for hours, and more than a little wine was consumed. Then it was time to sing, and Florry and Julian heard the ringing words of the Spanish National Anthem, the b.l.o.o.d.y Horst Wessel song, some Italian Fascist ditty, on and on until quite late. When the party broke up at last, it was close to midnight and a light rain had begun to fall. The two Englishmen separated with a last round of hearty good-byes from the Falangists, and headed off down the street. Across the way, from the shadows, Florry and Julian watched as they ambled along, talking animatedly, their boots snapping on the pavement.

Uckley and Dyles pa.s.sed by directly across from them, and for the first time Florry could see them clearly. Harry Uckley had a thick-set, loutish grace, that pugilist's carriage that took him forward to the b.a.l.l.s of his feet as he walked. He laughed at something the thinner, more ascetic Dyles had said, and it was an ablative little percussion of a laugh.

”I see it now,” said Julian, in a whisper. ”The cathedral. They're off for a bit of praying.”

Of course. Harry Uckley would be Catholic.

”Come on,” said Julian. ”While I was off, I spotted a quicker way.”

They dashed across a cobbled street, cut down an alley. The rain was really beginning to fall now. As they moved, they threw on their Burberrys, crossed another street, and then saw it.

It was a Gothic thing and first seen in the dimness looked immense and almost prehistoric, an awesome great hunk of gaudy, lacy stone, its spire climbing toward G.o.d himself above.

”Here. We'll stop them here,” said Julian, slipping inside the gate. Florry watched his hand disappear inside his coat to emerge with the small automatic pistol.

And I'll stop you, Julian, Florry thought.

”Put this b.l.o.o.d.y toy to work at last,” Julian said, throwing the slide of the pistol.

Florry felt the Webley somehow come to fill his hand. His thumb climbed the oily cold of the revolver's spine, curled around the hammer, and drew it back, and he could feel the cylinder align itself in the frame. The hammer locked with a tensile click.

”Here they come now, our lovely Eton boys,” said Julian. It was so. The two men, hunched against the rising chill and the fall of the rain, came across the square in the white cold light of the moon, hurrying to make midnight ma.s.s.

Florry stepped beyond Julian, his revolver leading the way. ”Beg pardon,” he said, with absurd civility, and stepped from the gate into the moonlight. The two men saw him and seemed to halt for just a second. The street behind them was deserted. From inside the cathedral came the sound of chanting.

”Harry Uckley,” Florry said.

”Who's that, eh?” called back Harry, still coming on. His voice filled with the sudden cheer of a man who recognizes a companion. ”A mate? Christ, Jimmy, that you, blast it all?”

”No it isn't, old sport,” said Julian.

Harry understood in an instant, much more quickly than poor Dyles. He seemed to make a sudden lurch for his own pistol, but it was all feint, and as Florry, fifteen feet away, brought the Webley up to fire, Harry instead gripped his companion by the arm, catching the poor man in utter surprise, and with a strong thrust whirled him at Florry and Julian in a crazed spin.

Julian's little automatic fired almost instantly, the sound a tap lost quickly in the vastness of the night, and the man sagged wretchedly as Florry ducked at the collapsing apparition that was between himself and his target and made to re-aim, but saw it was no use. Harry, fleet as the devil, had turned to flee and ran zigzagging like a footballer across the cobblestones in the shadows. Florry took off after him, cursing the man for his cleverness, and got close enough to see Harry hit the stone wall of the graveyard ab.u.t.ting the cathedral and get over it in a single, clawing scramble. He himself careened toward the gate, raincoat flapping like a highwayman's cape behind him, and slid through it, low.

d.a.m.n you, Harry Uckley. If you get away, it's all up, d.a.m.n you.

Florry knew he should have just done the job of murder. Just shot him cold; that's what the job required. But he could no more shoot even sc.u.m like Harry Uckley cold than Julian Raines.

Bourgeois decadence again, the soft, yielding custard center of the middle-cla.s.s man, the slight pause at the moment when pauses were fatal. Florry, you have not learned the lesson of your century: you have not learned to kill.

Florry studied the maze of the graveyard. He could pick out no forms remotely human in the baroque, marble confusion and the weird colors from the stained-gla.s.s of the cathedral above it. It was all jumble and shadow. A few candles flickered.