Even in that gaucho suit, Clete thought, that kid looks more like an Eng-lishman or a German-or maybe a Pole or some other kind of Slav, a Latvian or something-than a Spaniard or an Italian.
He remembered his father telling him there was a massive immigration of Germans at the turn of the century, and another wave of immigrants after World War I-Germans running from the postwar depression in Germany, and Lithua-nians, Latvians, Poles, and Russians fleeing the Russian Bolshevik revolution.
Antonio was also waiting for him to return.
"Are Se¤or Duarte or Se¤ora Carzino-Cormano here?"
"No, Se¤or," Antonio replied as he opened the door to Clete. "Se¤or and Se¤ora Duarte are expected any moment."
"Well, that gives me time for a shower," Clete thought aloud. "Where did you put my things, Antonio?"
"In your room, Se¤or," Antonio said. There was a slight tone of disapproval in his voice.
Ask a dumb question, get a dumb answer. Where else would he put my things?
Oh, God! My room is not where I stayed before. My room is el Coronet's room.
Well, that's the way it is. I better get used to it. El Coronel 's gone, and what used to be his is now mine. Including his room and his bed.
Clete turned to look at Enrico. He was pushing himself out of his chair.
With effort, Clete saw. And tough old soldier or not, you 're in pain, pal. And tough old soldier or not, are you in any shape to try to protect me? Am I going to get you killed, too, just because you 're around me ?
Antonio led him to the apartment of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade-unnecessarily, since Clete knew where it was. It consisted of a bed-room, a sitting, and a bath at the rear of the house. The windows opened on a garden.
In the room there was another sign of Antonio's none-too-subtle snobbery. A clothes tree held a tweed jacket, an open-collared shirt-that's a polo shirt, a real polo shirt, for people who play real polo-and a pair of gabardine riding breeches. A pair of highly polished riding boots stood beside it.
Christ, I hope that stuff's not my father's!
"Your father intended that clothing as a Christmas present for el Capitan Duarte," Antonio said. "He never had a chance to wear it. El Capitan was about your size...."
I would just as soon not wear any clothing made for my dead cousin, not to mention clothing which would make me look like an Englishman about to go chase a fox, but thank you very much, Antonio, just the same.
"Thank you," Clete said. "I'll see if it fits."
The seeds of curiosity were sown, however, while he was taking a shower and shaving: / wonder how I would look in that outfit? The Princess would probably think it made me look-what's that Limey word she uses?-smashing!
And why not wear it? It's new. And you're wearing Uncle Jim's Stetson. And you brought Sullivan's Half Wellingtons home from Guadalcanal and you wear them. So why not wear Cousin Jorge Alejandro's fancy English riding boots and the rest of it? Waste not, want not, as Aunt Martha always says.
A sudden, very clear, and very painful image came into his mind and was still there when he came out of the bathroom in his underwear: First Lieutenant Francis Xavier Sullivan, 167th Fighter Squadron, U.S. Army Air Corps, flying his P-40 in support of the Marine Raiders; going into Edson's Ridge on fire from the nose to the vertical stabilizer.
As Clete walked into the bedroom, he was startled-even frightened for a moment-to find Capitan Roberto Lauffer, in civilian clothing, sitting in an armchair near the bed, his very nice, highly polished jodhpurs crossed on a matching footstool. Clete then noticed that Enrico was also there, leaning on the wall beside the closed door to the sitting.
Lauffer quickly pushed himself out of the chair and offered Clete his hand.
"I thought, mi Mayor," Enrico said, "that it would be all right to bring el Capitan here. Se¤or and Se¤ora Duarte are in the reception."
One Cavalryman taking care of another, huh? Spare a fellow horse soldier from Beatrice ? Well, it least it shows Enrico likes him.
Clete nodded at Enrico to show him he approved, and then looked at Lauf-fer.
Very sporty, Clete thought, that's a damned nice tweed jacket, a classy polo shirt, and he's even got one of those whatchamacallits around his neck.
"Of course," Clete said. "How are you, Roberto?"
"I'm afraid you're stuck with me again," Lauffer said. "General Rawson wants me to stay close to something you're holding for him..."
"The money, you mean?" Clete said, but it was not a question.