with his friends if he but knew how to tell it properly.
When Hall had risen to leave the terrace, the Governor noticed that his cheek was twitching, but once he was alone in the reception room, away from the sight of the tracers and the target plane, Hall's face grew calm again. He sat down in the green armchair near the phone, picked up the receiver. "Yes, Tom," he said, "any luck?"
"Sure. I busted open a seat for you on the San Hermano plane for tomorrow at six."
"Was it much trouble, Tom?"
"Not much." Tom Harris laughed. "We had to throw Giselle Prescott off to make room for you. Know her?"
"God, no! But thanks a lot."
"I'll pick you up in the morning then. Good night, Matt."
Hall put the receiver back on the cradle. He sat back in the soft chair, oblivious of the crashing guns, the hum of the plane's engines, the others on the terrace. Only one thing was in his mind now—San Hermano.
It was some time before the young Puerto Rican lieutenant slipped gingerly into the room. "Mr. Hall," he said, softly, "everything O.K.?"
Hall smiled warmly. "My God," he asked, "you don't think the guns drove me in here?"
The officer blushed. "Fix you a drink?" he asked.
Hall shook his head, drew two Havanas from his jacket. "No, thanks. Cigar? It's from the one box I remembered to buy in Havana."
The boy was a non-smoker. He lit a match for Hall, waited until the older man relaxed with the burning cigar. Politely, he said, "I know you've been through plenty, Mr. Hall. I'm a soldier, but if ..."
"Plenty? Me?"
The lieutenant nodded. "The Revenger," he said, hesitantly. "I—I read your book."
"Oh, that," Hall said. "The Revenger." So The Revenger was plenty!
"If there's anything I can get you ..."
The boy's voice seemed to come from far away and Hall realized that he himself was staring into space and that the lieutenant must have sat there for a full minute waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry. I guess I just get this way once in a while."
"It's my fault," Braga protested. "I should have known how hard it must be for you to talk about—it."
"De nada," Hall laughed. "I made a lecture tour last year and spent five nights a week talking about it for months. It's just that I'm—well, that I just catch myself staring at nothing at the craziest times. Maybe I do need that drink. What's in the shaker there—Daiquiri? Good." He poured two Daiquiris from the jar on the sideboard, handed one to the lieutenant. "I know you don't drink, either," he said. "But I'm having this drink to toast victory—and you're a soldier."
When they touched glasses, the boy saw that amused look in Hall's eyes, the look he had seen earlier at the dinner table when one of the visiting officials had expressed such innocent amazement at the enormity of his first taxi bill in San Juan. "I'd better go back out there when I finish this drink," he said. "I'm glad nothing's wrong with you."
"You're a right guy, Lieutenant. Thanks for looking in." Hall returned to his chair as the boy walked out to the terrace. So The Revenger was plenty! And the kid, how old was he? Twenty? Not a day more. Which made him eighteen when the Nazi torpedo planes peeled off over the African skies and then roared in to send their tin fish into the guts of His Majesty's own Revenger. Which made him fourteen when the fighting began, fourteen when the German pilot officers clicked their heels and mouthed the new phrase "Arriba España" and flew the Moors from Spanish Morocco to the mainland and touched off the shooting stages of World War II. "Ay, Teniente," he muttered, "you've made me feel old as hell. Older."
Hall leaned back in his chair, tried to blow a series of smoke rings. He thought: But I'm not old. I've just seen things and done things and had things done to me. I'm not old at all.
After years of anonymity in various city rooms in the States, a brief turn as a byline correspondent in Washington, a still briefer career as a Broadway playwright, Matthew Hall had drawn an assignment as third-string man for the World Press in Paris. That was in 1935, when he was crowding thirty. The job had introduced him to Europe, and carried him to Geneva, to Belgrade, to Bucharest, to Stockholm. Paris was the journalistic capital of the Continent; when things happened outside of Paris, it was a Paris man who was sent to the scene to cover. There he would find that the office had adequate coverage in the permanent man, and if he had any curiosity or craftsman's pride he would try to get the story behind the story. Hall had both. They led him to the strange half-world of tipsters, hounded opposition leaders, minor officials of ministries who would talk and produce documents for a fee, candid and cynical free-lance agents, wise old frightened politicians who sensed the coming catastrophe in their bones, correct and stiff Nazi advance agents and politely lavish native fascists who mixed queer brews for foreign correspondents. They were the sources close to a key ministry, the influential elder statesmen, the prominent industrialists whose names cannot be used who figured so prominently in the inside-Europe dispatches of the era.
July, 1936, had found Hall in Nice spending a long week-end as the guest of a prominent refugee banker from Germany. The banker was the "inside" prophet of the month in Parisian newspaper circles. His gospel was the slightly shopworn one about German industry being fed up with Hitler and willing to settle on Goering, Danzig and a few worthless colonies in Africa as the price for eliminating the "extreme Nazis" and returning to the family of Europe. "He's a damned Nazi himself," Hall had declared when the invitation reached his office, but the bureau manager was missing no bets. "I don't care what he is, Matt. He's a story. He's news. He's what they want to read about in Washington and in London and in Paris."
Hall never wrote his story on the refugee banker (who later turned up as a Nazi economist overlord in Denmark). On a blistering Sunday Paris had called him by phone. Hell was popping in Madrid. The regular Madrid man was vacationing in the States. "Get to Madrid, Matt. Looks like you'll be busy there for a couple of weeks until it blows over."
Like many of his American colleagues, Hall traveled to Madrid during that first week of the war with the idea that in less than a month one side or another would have been installed in power and he himself would be back in Paris listening to the latest faker peddling the newest line of disguised Nazism from Berlin. But Hall was an honest man. What he saw interested and then intrigued and then enraged him. "This is no Spanish Civil War," he wrote to the Paris office in a confidential memo sent by courier. "This is the start of the second World War. It's the Germans and the Italians against the Spaniards. Maybe I'm crazy, but it looks to me like the British and the French are backing the fascists, while the Russians are trying to help the Republicans. How about sending someone in to cover the shooting for a week while I write a big story along these lines?"
He was answered in due time. "Stick to the military conflict between the Nationalists and the Loyalists. And don't send us any Red propaganda."
That was in October, when Caballero was preparing to quit Madrid in panic, and the Fifth Army was calmly preparing to hold the city, Caballero or no Caballero. Hall had long since lost his magnificent WP objectivity. Through the open mails he sent a letter of resignation to Paris. Antin in the Censura held the letter up, sent for Hall. The Spaniard hemmed and hawed and cleared his throat a dozen times and then he got up from his desk and embraced Hall and told him to sit down. Hall's Spanish was pretty good by then, good enough for Antin to speak to him in fluent Spanish rather than halting English. "The English I can read with
