Page 42 of A Small Death in Lisbon

  'Like an old taxi, except it didn't have a green roof.'

  'Yes,' I said. 'I liked those old taxis, black with a green roof.'

  'They were Lisbon,' she said. 'These beige things ... I keep thinking I'm getting into someone's private car by mistake. Still, that's Europe for you. When we joined in 1984 my husband said by the year 2000 we wouldn't be speaking Portuguese.'

  'So far it's only the taxis.'

  'And McDonald's. My grandchildren won't eat pastéis de bacalhau'

  'McDonald's are American.'

  'It's the same thing,' she said. 'We eat them and they eat away at us.'

  I went to the bar and ordered another water, too much caffeine in my system already—life coming at me too bright and sharp for comfort.

  'Do you remember me?' I asked the barman. 'And the girl. You remember the girl.'

  He nodded.

  'You said she was on her own when she came in here.'

  'And I'm still saying that now.'

  'And nobody came in after her?'

  'No.'

  'The place was completely empty.'

  'Apart from her,' he said, indicating the old lady. 'She was just getting up to leave.'

  'What's her name?'

  'Dona Jacinta,' replied the old lady, still hearing pretty well.

  'She's got her hearing aid turned up,' whispered the barman.

  'Yes, I have,' she said. 'And the girl came in on her own and nobody came in after her on that particular Friday ... last Friday.'

  'What does that mean, Dona Jacinta?'

  'That's what happened last Friday. The previous Friday was different. I was here. That couple who are always arguing about their dog were sitting in the corner. You were here, Marco, weren't you?'

  'I was here,' he said, a little bored.

  'The girl came in. And a man stood outside on the pavement for a few moments before coming in after her.'

  'That's right, Dona Jacinta,' said Marco, suddenly revitalized, 'and he sat down on that chair right behind her. He was looking at her legs ... so you see I'm not the only one, Inspector.'

  'Did he do anything?'

  'He ordered a coffee over her shoulder. I think they looked at each other in the mirror.'

  'He was big and fat,' said Dona Jacinta, 'and bald with a moustache and an expensive suit.'

  'And his tie,' said Marco. 'His tie...'

  'What about his tie?'

  'He bought his tie in the same shop that you bought yours,' said Dona Jacinta.

  'My daughter made it for me,' I said automatically.

  'Then your daughter also made this man's tie,' she said.

  I sat down slowly on the edge of a chair.

  'Drink your water,' said Marco, holding it out to me.

  'You saw the tie as well?' I asked.

  'I saw it.'

  I opened my wallet and took out the picture I'd just torn from VIP magazine. I smoothed it out on to the bar and tapped the face of Miguel da Costa Rodrigues.

  'Shit,' said Marco. 'That's him. Show it to Dona Jacinta. That's him.'

  I drank the water and went to the door. Dona Jacinta had her glasses out. She took the picture and nodded.

  'That's the same tie, too,' she said.

  I folded the picture back into my wallet.

  'Nobody says anything about this. Not one word.'

  A man in dark glasses came into the bar. He looked at the three of us and backed out.

  I ran down to Saldanha. I was sweating in seconds. I picked up a taxi and told him to go to the Rua da Gloria and he gave me a knowing look. I sat in the back, astride the drive shaft of a despised beige taxi, and sweated, supporting myself on two hands. The traffic was heavy heading down to the Praça Marqués de Pombal and the driver cut down the back streets around the hospitals of Miguel Bombarda and Santa Marta.

  I sprinted up the blue lino to the Pensâo Nuno reception. No Jorge. I slapped and hammered on the counter. Dinged the bell. Jorge came down the stairs, his flip-flops slapping the heels of his feet, taking the steps one at a time leaning on the bannister.

  'That leg doesn't look too good, Jorge.'

  'It isn't,' he said, with instant aggression. 'What do you want?'

  'I've come to balance you out.'

  He stopped on the stairs.

  'Look,' he said, 'I told you I'd been sick...'

  'Are you going to answer my questions?'

  'Ask them first. I'll see.'

  'Catarina,' I said, 'the girl who was killed. You said she'd been in here before ... Friday lunchtimes.'

  'I did.'

  'What about the Friday lunchtime before last?'

  'She was here.'

  'Where?'

  He hesitated, sensing I knew something more this time. I came up the stairs at him.

  'You can stay down there,' he said. 'I just need to think.'

  'Show me the room.'

  'It was the same one as last time.'

  'Show it to me.'

  He turned and shuffled round on the step, aged twenty years in as many hours. I followed his flip-flops, his feet blue at the ankle.

  'Who was she with, Jorge?'

  He didn't answer, his breathing laboured. At the top of the stairs he leaned over the bannister rail. There were noises coming from the room, wild ecstatic noises of the sort a working girl learns with her first customer.

  'Who was she with, Jorge?'

  'Could have been a tap salesman from Braga for all I know.'

  'Let's take a look in the room next to it, see if that'll jog that memory of yours.'

  'She wasn't in that room.'

  'I don't feel like interrupting, so we'll go in this room.'

  'It's occupied.'

  'It's very quiet in there for a room that's occupied.'

  'I told you.'

  'Open the door.'

  'It's locked.'

  'Get it open.'

  He knocked on the door as if he didn't want to wake a princess.

  'You can do better than that, Jorge.'

  But the door opened. A small man in a cheap suit with a neat little pot belly stood in the darkened room.

  I nodded him out and he shot down the stairs quicker than a pickpocket. I turned the weak light on. The room was empty. No girl. I checked the cupboard, its door already hanging open from the slope of the floor.

  'Interesting, Jorge.'

  I checked the unrumpled bed. There was a single dent close to the foot of the bed, opposite the mirror. I sat on it. It was uncomfortably warm. There were two thumbprints on the mirror. I lifted the mirror off the hooks. There was a view into the next room of a guy doing his very best with a girl handcuffed to the bedstead.

  'Who was in here last Friday lunchtime, Jorge?' I shouted. 'And the Friday before that and all the other Fridays, for all I know!'

  The guy in the next room stopped and looked over.

  'Come on, Jorge!'

  The guy eased himself off the girl and came over to the mirror. The girl followed him with her eyes. I tapped on the back of the mirror and the guy leapt back as if he'd seen his wife at the window, and started ripping into his clothes, didn't even take the condom off. I took out the picture of Miguel Rodrigues and held it up to Jorge.

  'Was this the guy who was in this room last Friday lunchtime?'

  He nodded.

  'Out loud, Jorge.'

  'It was him.'

  The guy from the next room appeared in the doorway, looking murderous.

  'If you want to help with a police investigation leave your address at reception,' I said.

  He thundered down the stairs without a word. The girl, framed in the hole left by the mirror, looked from one chained wrist to the other.

  'How long have you known him, Jorge?' I asked. 'You must be old pals by now.'

  'Thirty-five years or so.'

  'Thirty-five years or so,' I said. 'Early sixties. A very old pal.'

  I looked him up and down—this tired, ruined man.

  'I think I need
a cigarette, Inspector. Mine are downstairs.'

  I gave him one and lit it for him, his hands trembling now. He lowered himself on to the end of the bed.

  'You and Miguel,' I said, 'it looks like your trains got separated, went off on different tracks.'

  'He had some advantages that I didn't.'

  'Family?'

  The room was stuffy, airless. Jorge sucked on the cigarette, pulled his shirt off the rolls of empty skin around his belly. His face, already grey and broken-down, began to take on a green tinge in the weak forty-watt light. His eyes, unshifting, stared into a deep waterless hole, silted with bitterness.

  'His father owned a bank.'

  'Banco de Oceano e Rocha?' I asked, and he nodded. 'Is that where you met?'

  'No, no. We met in Caxias ... in Caxias prison.'

  I looked at the torn-out picture of the sleek Miguel da Costa Rodrigues at his charity function at the Ritz.

  'You don't look like communists,' I said. 'I mean he doesn't.'

  Jorge shook his head.

  'Were you crooks?' I asked. 'That'd be more like it.'

  'We were with the PIDE,' said Jorge brushing some ash from his fly. 'We worked in the interrogation centre...'

  'Wait a second here, Jorge,' I said. 'His father owned the bank? Fifteen years ago. I remember it. It was a big thing. It got into the newspapers all over the world. The owner of the bank was killed in a car crash on the Marginal. The whole family was killed. I don't remember the name but it wasn't Rodrigues.'

  'It was Abrantes. His name is Manuel Abrantes.'

  'Why did he change his name?'

  Jorge dumped his cigarette in the sink. It hissed and stuck.

  'You've come this far, Jorge.'

  'He did some things, Inspector. We all did some things. Manuel Abrantes did some bigger things than most. He was an Inspector de Polícia, how about that?'

  'What sort of things are we talking about?'

  'He killed a woman in Caxias prison. It was an accident, I think. She miscarried. I don't know. Maybe he kicked her ... anyway, after that he was promoted to chefe de brigada.'

  'That sounds like pretty regular stuff for PIDE. I'm sure there are a lot worse...'

  'He was the leader of the squad that shot General Machedo in Spain.'

  A drop of sweat travelled the length of my spine.

  'Now you see,' said Jorge, 'how you have to be careful.'

  I lit myself a cigarette this time and the hand was not so steady.

  'I'm finished with him now. I've protected him over this thing. This girl. And now I'm done with him. Look at me, Inspector,' he said, and I turned my eyes away from the floor, not really wanting to look at him. 'Do I look like someone who's ever eaten at Manuel Abrantes' table?'

  I started out of the room and looked back at him from the door. A collapsed human being, he stared into the niche above the sink without seeing further than his own head.

  'Don't rush it, Inspector,' he said. 'It's not over by a long way.'

  'Don't worry, Jorge. I'm not ready yet ... but if anything happens to me, I'll know where to come looking.'

  'You don't have to worry about me.'

  'Where does he live? Abrantes.'

  'Somewhere in Lapa. Where else? He took over his brother's old house. I don't know the address.'

  There was a faint cry for help from next-door. Jorge's eyes suddenly registered what he was looking at. He shook his head and hauled himself to his feet.

  I ran down the stairs two at a time. It was after five o'clock now. I called Olivia and asked for Miguel da Costa Rodrigues' address in Lapa. I called Carlos.

  At a quarter-to-six we were standing outside a house in Rua Prior, leaning up against an old wall on the other side of the street.

  At 6.15 p.m. an old guy opened up the gates to the house. One of two garage doors opened electronically and a black Mercedes C200 backed out into the street. I could smell the petrol engine and the registration number was 18 43 NT, but it did not have tinted windows. Lurdes Rodrigues was clearly visible through the glass. She parked up in the sunny street and got out. She went back into the house and returned with an envelope. In those few minutes the windows turned to black.

  Chapter XXXIX

  20.30 Wednesday, 17th June, Luísa's apartment, Rua Actor Taborda, Lisbon

  We were lying on the bed. She was at right-angles to me, with her head on my stomach. We were both naked, not even a sheet over us. The windows were open and the faintest cool breeze and late light were coming into the room. We smoked and shared a heavy glass ashtray which sat in one quarter of the bed and a glass of whisky which lay in another. We stared at the ceiling. I'd spent the last forty minutes telling Luísa Madrugada everything I knew about the murder of Catarina Oliveira. We hadn't exchanged a word for the last quarter of an hour. I fingered a small pool of whisky spilt between her breasts and put it in my mouth.

  'I've been interested in the Banco de Oceano e Rocha for the past couple of months,' she said.

  'Don't open an account there.'

  'I've been trying to find a link between them and Nazi gold.'

  'Leave your money under the mattress like a good peasant.'

  'Listen to me.'

  'I am listening,' I said, fingering more whisky into my mouth. 'Why are you looking at Nazi gold?'

  'Because it's a hot topic. All these commissions are forcing banks to open up their archives all over the world. It'll look good in my thesis if I can pull something off here in Portugal. And anyway, a study of Salazar's economy without looking at wartime gold transactions would be a serious omission.'

  'Carlos read a piece out to me on Sunday about our reserves going up sevenfold during the war.'

  'On the back of sales of wolfram, tin, sardines, olive oil, blankets, hides ... you name it, we sold it. To both sides.'

  'Some people see a problem in that, or are surprised by it,' I said. 'To me, it's just the way business works. There's no morality in money.'

  'My theory is that all Salazar's public building works—the motorways, the roads, the 25th April bridge, the national stadium, all the urbanization in and around Lisbon—I think it was funded, not: just by his successful playing of the market during the Second World War, but also by his acquiescence towards the end of the war in allowing the Nazis to move their loot out of Europe. And somewhere in all that is the Banco de Oceano e Rocha.'

  'That could be a dangerous conclusion,' I said. 'Maybe you should tell me how you got there.'

  'Just on the other side of the Banco de Oceano e Rocha building, near the Anjos Metro, in Rua Francisco Ribeiro, is a very ugly building belonging to the Banco de Portugal. In there they have all the bank and company information, all the statutes from all the companies registered in Portugal since the nineteenth century. If you're a really boring, sad person you can go in there and leaf through all the statutes of the Banco de Oceano e Rocha and you'll find that the three original directors of the bank were Joaquim Abrantes, Oswald Lehrer and Klaus Felsen.'

  'When was this?'

  'During the war,' she said, taking another sip of whisky. 'By 1946 there were only two directors—Joaquim Abrantes and Klaus Felsen with a fifty-one/forty-nine split in the shareholding.'

  'I thought they confiscated all German assets in Portugal after the war.'

  'They did. But Joaquim Abrantes' share was fifty-one percent. He was the owner. It was a Portuguese bank,' she said. 'Another interesting thing is that I've been looking through an old archive which belonged to a Belgian businessman. I'm a friend of the granddaughter. Guess whose name turns up there?'

  'Klaus Felsen.'

  'He was a wolfram exporter.'

  'So you think you've nearly got something,' I said. 'What happened to Klaus Felsen after the war?'

  'He's there in the company statutes right up to 1962 when he disappeared for good ... never to rise again. So I asked my father if he'd ever heard of the name, and he said it was a bit of a scandal in the Lisbon business community. Christmas E
ve 1961, Klaus Felsen shot dead a German tourist in his home and he spent nearly twenty years in the Caxias prison for murder.'

  'Interesting.'

  'And do you know who the company lawyer was?'

  'I think I do,' I said. 'Dr Aquilino Oliveira.'

  'He completely rewrote the statutes of the bank ... excluding our friend Klaus Felsen.'

  'How long was he their lawyer for?'

  'Until 1983.'

  'And then what?'

  'He stopped being their lawyer. These things don't go on for ever, but maybe it had something to do with the fact that Pedro Abrantes, who'd taken over from his dead father, died in a car accident.'

  'Even I remember that. Those children.'

  'And Miguel da Costa Rodrigues became the new Director and major shareholder of the bank. Things change when that happens. Lawyers for one.'

  'There's something, but I'm not really seeing a connection here. I'm not seeing a motive for killing Catarina. I don't see how this can...'

  'You want to question Miguel da Costa Rodrigues?'

  'I want to hit him hard and fast so that he doesn't have time to hide behind his big friends, so that he has to come down to the Polícia Judiciária and face me and a tape recorder.'

  'Then you have to get public opinion behind you.'

  'Through the media,' I said. 'But I haven't got a story. You should see this guy Jorge Raposo, he's ex-PIDE and the most pathetic, seedy human being in Lisbon.'

  'But what about Klaus Felsen?'

  The guy's got to be a hundred and ten years old.'

  'Eighty-eight in fact.'

  'He's still going?'

  'And there was an address in the old company statutes. So I did the easiest thing first. I looked in the phone book to see if he still lives in the same place. Klaus Felsen, Casa ao Fim do Mundo, Azóia, and you see that piece of paper on the bedside table? That's his phone number.'

  'Have you called him?'

  'I didn't really know what I wanted to ask him about. I thought I'd have to do a lot more work to be able to have a decent conversation with him.'

  'And now?'

  'I think we should both see what he's got to say.'

  'Ah,' I said. 'Now I've got it.'

  'What?'

  'This is your launch story isn't it?'

  'Could be.'

  'No, no, no.'

  'Why not?'