And Mrs. Martha Howell smiled, too, not sure later whether she had forgotten her manners because of memories of her husband and Clete buzzing Big Foot Ranch, or because the look of absolute terr
or on the face of Enrico Mallín was the funniest thing that had happened all day.
“He’s out of his mind!” Enrico Mallín proclaimed, redfaced. “Dorotéa is on that airplane!”
“I would say he’s exuberant, Enrico,” Martha said, coming to Clete’s defense. “He’s actually a very good pilot.”
“He shot down seven Japanese planes, you know,” the Old Man said, looking at von Wachtstein.
“Did he really?” Peter replied politely. Countering that he had shot down thirty-two himself, including six Americans, would have been really bad form. And he liked the Old Man. In many ways he was like his father, with a definite opinion about everything.
“Yes, he did,” the Old Man drove the point home.
“Well, at least we know they’re back,” Pamela Mallín said. “Which means we can go fetch her.”
“I’ll send someone over in a car. Or Cletus can bring her,” Claudia said.
“Oh, no,” Enrico said firmly. “Thank you very much, but we’d rather, wouldn’t we, Pamela?”
The good-byes and expressions of mutual gratitude took almost twenty minutes, and Enrico Mallín’s Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe had just reached the road paralleling the Estancia Santo Catalina landing strip when the Feiseler Storch flashed overhead.
Enrico Mallín looked at his wife across Little Enrico—a slender fifteen-year-old who had inherited his mother’s blond hair and soft, pale complexion. “Peter’s going to be at the wedding, is he?”
“You know how Beatrice feels about him,” Pamela said.
You mean I know how crazy she is.
“That isn’t going to cause problems with Cletus?” Enrico asked.
“Both of them are aware they are in a neutral country,” Pamela said. “And will behave accordingly.”
“The Germans killed Jorge Frade,” Mallín said.
“I’m sure Major von Wachtstein had nothing to do with that,” Pamela said. “And I know Cletus doesn’t hold him responsible, either.”
“Forgive me for saying this, darling, but has it ever occurred to you how much better off everyone would be if neither the Germans nor the Americans were here?”
“No,” Pamela said, quietly angry. “I won’t forgive you for saying that. That was a terrible thing to say. If I were in your shoes, Enrico, I would thank God that our daughter has found a man like Cletus.”
Enrico Mallín looked at her for a long moment, but in the end decided not to argue the point. “If I offended you, darling,” he said, “I offer my apologies.”
“You had better get used to the idea that Cletus is about to become a member of the family,” Pamela went on, warming to her subject, “and that we’re about to become grandparents, and modify your attitude toward Cletus accordingly.”
With a look of horror on his face that the shameful secret had been blurted out, Enrico Mallín smiled uncomfortably at his son.
“We are going to have to have a man-to-man talk very soon, Enrico,” he said.
“I know Dotty’s pregnant, if that’s what you mean,” Little Henry said. “I mean, everybody knows. I even heard the servants talking about it.”
“We will still have a talk, man to man, my son,” Enrico said.
Twenty minutes later, the Rolls topped a shallow rise in the rolling pampas, and Enrico Mallín could see the road now stretching before them in a nearly straight line for several miles. And a moment after that, a car appeared on the road, heading toward them.
“If I didn’t know better,” Enrico said, gesturing through the windshield at the car, “I’d say that looks like Jorge’s Horch.”
“That’s it.” Pamela said. “He had it repaired.”
“My God, how fast is he going?” Enrico exclaimed, and added: “If I were him, I don’t think I would ever want to see that car again.”