Dorotea had to tell Clete where to turn off the macadam-paved highway onto Estancia Casa Chica. There was no sign visible from the highway, but one hundred meters down a road paved with small, smooth riverbed stones, the powerful headlights of the Horch lit up two short pillars formed from fieldstone. A sturdy rusty chain was suspended between them, and hanging from the center of the chain was a small sign that read: CASA CHICA.
“Oh, damn!” Dorotea Frade said. “I don’t have a key.”
“Great!” Clete said.
Enrico Rodríguez got nimbly from the car the moment it stopped, found in the shadows the padlock fastening the chain to the left pillar, tugged at it a moment, then matter-of-factly pulled from his shoulder holster his .45-caliber pistol—an Argentine copy of a Colt Model 1911 semiautomatic—took aim, and fired.
Clete noticed that Enrico had not first worked the action, which meant he had been carrying the pistol with a round in the chamber.
The first shot dented the massive brass padlock, but it still securely held the chain. Enrico fired again, then again. The lock then dropped off the chain and the chain dropped to the road.
“Did he have to do that?” Dorotea asked, seemingly taking the abuse of the lock somewhat personally.
“Well, since unnamed persons didn’t have the key . . .”
Enrico came back to the Horch, stopping to stand in the beam of the headlights. Clete could see that the hammer still was back and locked. Enrico replaced the magazine in the pistol with a fresh one, then put the pistol back in the shoulder holster.
What Enrico was doing was recharging the magazine he’d taken from the pistol. When he’d finished, he slipped it into the left front pocket of his pants and got nimbly back into the car.
Three hundred meters down the road, just past a curve, a two-wheeled horse cart was blocking the road.
Clete slammed on the brakes, pushed Dorotea down onto the floor, and got out, grabbing a Remington Model 11 12-bore self-loading shotgun from under the seat as he did so.
“It’s all right, Don Cletus!” a familiar voice quickly called from the darkness. “It’s Sargento Gómez here.”
A moment later, Sargento Rodolfo Gómez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, stepped into the light of the headlights. He had a 7mm Mauser carbine cradled in his arms like a hunter.
And, a moment after that, Staff Sergeant Sigfried Stein, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, came running down the road carrying a Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun. Before he reached them, two gauchos on horseback, both carrying shotguns, came onto the road.
“I heard shots,” Stein said, but made it more a question.
“Enrico had to shoot the padlock off the chain,” Frade said.
“I forgot the key,” Dorotea said. “For which sin, I was just shoved onto the floor.”
“Don Cletus was protecting you, Doña Dorotea,” Enrico said.
"I’ve been trying to convince myself of that,” Dorotea said without conviction.
“Sorry, baby,” Clete said, then turned. “Sergeant Stein, say hello to Lieutenant Fischer.”
The two shook hands.
Frade looked at Fischer and said, “Around here, we use ranks to dazzle our guests. Siggy is Major Stein and I am El Coronel.” He turned to Stein. “Speaking of our guests?”
“José,” Stein said, and pointed to one of the gauchos, “his wife is with Frau Frogger. Frau Frogger’s not talking to Herr Frogger.”
“Why not?”
“Because he came to me and told me that if we didn’t watch her close, she was going to try to get back to Buenos Aires.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Frade said. “Fischer, you are now another major.” He paused. “Oh, hell! Fischer, how’s your German?”
“Not bad.”
“Okay, we don’t introduce you. When Siggy and I talk to you, it will be as Mister Fischer. Got it?”
“Get in, Siggy. We’ll go see the lioness in her cage.”
“I can just ride on the running board,” Stein said.
“Get in,” Frade ordered. “If you fell off and broke your leg, we’d really be screwed.”
Commercial Attaché Wilhelm Frogger got quickly to his feet when Frade walked into the sitting room. Frogger had been in an armchair
Frogger was wearing a suit and necktie. His face was cleanly shaved and his mustache trimmed.
A gaucho with a flowing mustache and holding a shotgun in his lap was sitting in a wooden chair tipped against the wall near the door.
He neither said anything nor got out of the chair, but nodded at Frade and the others.
Frade glared at Frogger but didn’t speak to him.
“The woman?” Frade said to the gaucho.
“In her room.”
“Go get her, please.”
The gaucho nodded and left the room.
