Valencians.”
“I’m sure you’ve done everything possible, sir.”
Tejada thought that the sergeant’s tone implied that someone else would have done more and better. He told himself that he was imagining things. “So am I,” he said dryly, as they stepped out into the street. “Goodness knows, I’d have more time for trying to find them if I didn’t have to keep worrying about space,” he added, hoping to force Márquez to express some sympathy.
“You’re moved in all right?” Sergeant Márquez succeeded in misinterpreting the comment in such a way as to imply that Tejada was neglecting his duties to take care of personal business.
“Yes,” the lieutenant said shortly. To justify himself he added, “It’s only common sense to have some place to hold prisoners. And we’re comfortable at the Montalbáns’.”
Márquez nodded. “Yes, sir. You explained that when you moved.”
“Besides, I thought it would be a good way to keep an eye on the fonda ,” Tejada said, wondering why Márquez always went out of his way to be hostile.
“Good thinking.” From the sergeant, this was high praise. “At least you’re there nights. And probably no one who’s actually wanted would come into town in daylight.”
Tejada’s mouth twisted, recognizing what Márquez was not saying. The guerrillas in the hills obviously were receiving a good deal of support from the townsfolk. Passing messages along would still be possible. Sergeant Márquez had eloquently refrained from comment when his commander had dropped the surveillance of the Montalbán house. Márquez was not easy to work with, but the lieutenant felt that his subordinate deserved some explanation. “My wife is there during the day,” he said, hoping that he would not have to amplify the statement. Elena had strenuously resisted all pleas to help with what she referred to as spying and Tejada preferred to think of as simply keeping her eyes open.
“I hope she’s comfortable.” The sergeant was unusually solicitous.
“She seems to be settling in all right,” Tejada said.
“A little town like Potes must be quite an adjustment, after the capital.”
Tejada turned toward his colleague, startled. “We’d been living in Salamanca, not Madrid.”
“Of course.” Márquez was wearing a faintly malicious smile. “But I meant before her marriage.” His smile widened a little at Tejada’s raised eyebrows. “I was the interim ranking officer, remember, Lieutenant? I read your files, in Lieutenant Calero’s place.”
“Naturally.” Tejada forced himself to smile back, although he wondered a good deal what the Guardia’s files said about Elena. Not that there’s anything incriminating , he told himself firmly. No one could think that a girl alone in Madrid at the outbreak of the war could have done anything except go along with the Reds, for her own safety. I hope .
They had reached the incongruously impressive administrative headquarters of the directorate for Devastated Regions. The director’s office was in the Torre del Infantado, the squat medieval tower that sat in the center of Potes’s as yet unbuilt plaza. The tower’s businesslike crenellations and narrow window slits bore witness to its history as a fortress. Its red-gold stones had been scorched by fire many times, and the devastation of 1937 was imperceptible here. The tower’s facade was broken at ground level by only one massive wooden door. Tejada rapped on the rusty hinges as he spoke. He was too preoccupied to notice that they bruised his knuckles.
“Of course it could be awkward if—” Márquez began. He stopped as the door swung backward and a man in a ragged overcoat greeted them with a resigned expression.
Tejada, discomfited by the topic and by Márquez’s unusual tendency to talk, cast a sharp glance at the sergeant, but it was too late for further conversation. The director’s assistant
“I’m sure you’ve done everything possible, sir.”
Tejada thought that the sergeant’s tone implied that someone else would have done more and better. He told himself that he was imagining things. “So am I,” he said dryly, as they stepped out into the street. “Goodness knows, I’d have more time for trying to find them if I didn’t have to keep worrying about space,” he added, hoping to force Márquez to express some sympathy.
“You’re moved in all right?” Sergeant Márquez succeeded in misinterpreting the comment in such a way as to imply that Tejada was neglecting his duties to take care of personal business.
“Yes,” the lieutenant said shortly. To justify himself he added, “It’s only common sense to have some place to hold prisoners. And we’re comfortable at the Montalbáns’.”
Márquez nodded. “Yes, sir. You explained that when you moved.”
“Besides, I thought it would be a good way to keep an eye on the fonda ,” Tejada said, wondering why Márquez always went out of his way to be hostile.
“Good thinking.” From the sergeant, this was high praise. “At least you’re there nights. And probably no one who’s actually wanted would come into town in daylight.”
Tejada’s mouth twisted, recognizing what Márquez was not saying. The guerrillas in the hills obviously were receiving a good deal of support from the townsfolk. Passing messages along would still be possible. Sergeant Márquez had eloquently refrained from comment when his commander had dropped the surveillance of the Montalbán house. Márquez was not easy to work with, but the lieutenant felt that his subordinate deserved some explanation. “My wife is there during the day,” he said, hoping that he would not have to amplify the statement. Elena had strenuously resisted all pleas to help with what she referred to as spying and Tejada preferred to think of as simply keeping her eyes open.
“I hope she’s comfortable.” The sergeant was unusually solicitous.
“She seems to be settling in all right,” Tejada said.
“A little town like Potes must be quite an adjustment, after the capital.”
Tejada turned toward his colleague, startled. “We’d been living in Salamanca, not Madrid.”
“Of course.” Márquez was wearing a faintly malicious smile. “But I meant before her marriage.” His smile widened a little at Tejada’s raised eyebrows. “I was the interim ranking officer, remember, Lieutenant? I read your files, in Lieutenant Calero’s place.”
“Naturally.” Tejada forced himself to smile back, although he wondered a good deal what the Guardia’s files said about Elena. Not that there’s anything incriminating , he told himself firmly. No one could think that a girl alone in Madrid at the outbreak of the war could have done anything except go along with the Reds, for her own safety. I hope .
They had reached the incongruously impressive administrative headquarters of the directorate for Devastated Regions. The director’s office was in the Torre del Infantado, the squat medieval tower that sat in the center of Potes’s as yet unbuilt plaza. The tower’s businesslike crenellations and narrow window slits bore witness to its history as a fortress. Its red-gold stones had been scorched by fire many times, and the devastation of 1937 was imperceptible here. The tower’s facade was broken at ground level by only one massive wooden door. Tejada rapped on the rusty hinges as he spoke. He was too preoccupied to notice that they bruised his knuckles.
“Of course it could be awkward if—” Márquez began. He stopped as the door swung backward and a man in a ragged overcoat greeted them with a resigned expression.
Tejada, discomfited by the topic and by Márquez’s unusual tendency to talk, cast a sharp glance at the sergeant, but it was too late for further conversation. The director’s assistant
Similar Books
