Yet there also was not any lingering smell from someone having cooked a breakfast meal.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Raschner called softly from a table in the sitting room.
Cranz walked to him.
“What looks like a photo frame has recently been removed from here,” Raschner said, pointing to barely discernible disturbances in a very light coating of dust.
Cranz raised his eyebrows in question.
“I noticed the absence of photographs of the sons,” Raschner said. “There are no photos anywhere. Then it seemed to me that there were photo frames missing from the arrangement on the mantel”—he gestured with his finger toward the mantelpiece—“and then I found this.”
Cranz nodded.
“May I proceed, Herr Obersturmbannführer?”
“Proceed to what, Sturmbannführer?”
“While I see if I can find a photo album anywhere, I will send Schneider to the garage to see if their auto is there.”
“You’re suggesting what, Sturmbannführer?”
“Let me see if we can find the car and a photo album before I suggest anything, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
“Please call me ‘Herr Cranz,’ Sturmbannführer.”
“May I proceed, Herr Cranz?”
“Go ahead.”
[TWO]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1030 14 July 1943
Don Cletus Frade sat at a small glass-top table on a small verandah outside the master bedroom of the big house waiting for his wife to join him. He was reclined in his chair, his feet resting on the other chair, and holding a brown manual in his hands.
The manual, published by the Aeronautics Division, Ministry of the Interior, Republic of Argentina, was titled “A Practice Examination for Those Intending to Take the Qualifying Examination Leading to the Award of the Rating of Commercial Aviation Pilot.”
The manual had come to him from Major Gonzalo Delgano, Argentina Army Air Service, “Retired,” now the chief pilot of South American Airways. He had pointed out, reasonably, that inasmuch as the “understanding” was that all SAA pilots be Argentine nationals, it might be better if Don Cletus got an Argentine pilot license as an Argentine citizen.
It would be, Delgano had said at the time, a mere formality. Then he had come back and reported that the examining officer was being a “bit difficult” and Don Cletus would have to go to El Palomar and take the examination. It would probably be a matter of simply showing up—Delgano would meet him there—and signing a few papers.
Reasoning that while Delgano was probably right, this still was Argentina, and that it was better to be safe than sorry.
Clete had called Tío Juan Domingo and explained the problem.
Colonel Perón said that it was nonsense, not to worry about it, that he would have a word with whoever it was in charge of such things. Then he had called back and said “there were formalities,” and that he would need to go to El Palomar and sign a few papers. And he would meet him there to make sure things went smoothly.
The “practice examination” seemed to have been written for people who really didn’t have much practical aviation experience. Among other gems, offered as True or False, it asked would-be aviators “Should seat belts be worn at all times?” and “Should flights over bodies of water be undertaken only in good weather?”
Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade came onto the verandah in her negligee and a robe, both pale blue. Don Cletus’s heart jumped.
“Get your goddamn feet off my chair, Cletus!” Doña Dorotea greeted him. “I’ve told you a hundred times!”
He took his feet off her chair and put the manual on the floor.
Antonio La Vallé, the butler, trailed by one of the maids, appeared.
“Would Doña Dorotea prefer her eggs soft-boiled or scrambled?”
“The thought of either makes me nauseous,” Doña Dorotea said.
“You have to eat, precious,” Clete said.
“Yes, I know. I’m eating for two. What is that wonderful American phrase? ‘Up yours,’ Cletus.”
“Give her the eggs scrambled, with toast and orange juice, please,” Cletus said.
Doña Dorotea had managed to get everything down without nausea and was mopping at her plate with a piece of toast when Antonio came back onto the verandah.
“Don Cletus,” he announced, “four people, one a woman, in an American auto with diplomatic license tags have just come onto the estancia.”
Clete nodded his thanks and wondered aloud, “I wonder who the hell that is? A woman?”
Dorotea shrugged.
“In twenty minutes, you will know.”
“In twenty minutes, I have to take off for El Palomar.”
“In a Cub, darling, right?”
“In a Cub, my love.”
