“Right after he came back from Lisbon? How obliging of him.”
“He said something about there not being much to do but watch the needles on the fuel gauges drop. Anyway, he flew us to San Martín, and now here we are. By a fortunate coincidence, another training flight is scheduled to land here about four, and Major—excuse me, Capitán—Delgano has been kind enough to arrange it for us to go back to Buenos Aires on that.”
“How nice of him!”
The doorbell at the door behind them sounded loudly.
“Well, that’s the chukker,” Dorotea announced. “One to go. If my husband will pull me out of this chair, I’ll forgo that and see about lunch.”
“Subinspector Nowicki may drop by, Doña Dorotea,” Nervo said.
“I’ll set a place for him,” she said, and raised both arms toward Clete.
He gently pulled her out of the chair.
“Thank you,” she said. “But don’t think I’m ever going to forgive you for putting me into this condition.”
Nervo laughed.
Dorotea walked into the house as Wilhelm Fischer came out with a wineglass. She returned a few minutes later.
“So how were things in San Martín de los Andes?” Clete asked Nervo.
“Why don’t we wait until Nowicki and Sawyer are with us?” Martín asked. He pointed at Sawyer.
“I’ve never met him,” Nervo said. “But he’s not too bad a polo player—for an American—is he?”
“You were about to tell us, mi general,” Clete said, “why your duty took you in such a hurry to San Martín de los Andes.” He paused, and raised a bottle. “Another little sip of our humble Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon, mi general?”
“Don’t mind if I
do,” Nervo said. He turned to Fischer. “Before you came here, Señor Fischer, to improve the quality of the grapes, I’ve been told this stuff was practically undrinkable.”
“I’m so glad I’ve been able to helpful, mi general,” Fischer said.
“Then you won’t be taking a couple of cases back to Buenos Aires with you?” Frade asked.
“The hell I won’t. I accept your gracious offer. But I must say that if I didn’t know better, Don Cletus, I might think you’re trying to get me to tell you things I shouldn’t.”
“You bet your ass I am, mi general,” Clete said. “What’s going on in San Martín de los Andes?”
“Well, among other things, the murderer of your father has finally been identified,” Nervo said.
“Really?” Clete asked very softly.
“You did it. Or at least ordered it.”
“What?” Dorotea exclaimed.
“Or so Señor Schenck told at dinner to a group of el Coronel Schmidt’s officers—one of whom just happens to work for Bernardo.”
Clete just looked at him.
“Would you like me to go on, or would you prefer me to start at the beginning?”
“Try the beginning,” Clete said.
“If you’d prefer. Well, the first interesting thing that happened was that we now have a beautiful blonde in the picture. Von Gradny-Sawz’s friend in the Interior Ministry got her a National Identity booklet identifying her as Señora Griselda Schenck, who you will recall died several years ago in an auto crash that also killed her loving husband, Jorge.