A Quiet Flame

Anna looked at it. “D12,” she said. “What’s D12?”

“There’s another date and a signature inside the stamp. The signature is illegible. But the date is clear enough. April 1947.”

“Yes, but what is D12?”

“I have no idea.”

I went back to the cabinet and removed another file. This one belonged to a John Yorath. From Wales. And it was full of information. Details of entry visas, details of John Yorath’s medical history, a record of his stay at the Hotel de Inmigrantes, a copy of a cédula, everything. But not Jewish. And no “D12” stamp on the cover.

“They were here,” said Anna excitedly. “This proves that they were here.”

“I think it also proves that they’re not here any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Clearly, however, they were arrested. And then deported, perhaps.”

“I told you. We’ve never heard from them. Not since January 1947.”

“Then perhaps they were imprisoned.” Warming to my theme, I said, “You’re a lawyer, Anna. Tell me about the prisons in this country.”

“Let’s see. There’s the prison at Parque Ameghino, here in the city. And the Villa Devoto, of course. Where Perón imprisons his political enemies. Then there’s San Miguel, where regular criminals are sent. Where else? Yes, a military jail on Martín García Island, in the River Plate. That’s where Perón himself was imprisoned when he was originally deposed, in October 1945. Yes, yes, you might imprison a great many people on Martín García.” She thought for a moment. “But wait a minute. There’s nowhere more remote than Neuquén prison in the Andean foothills. You hear stories about Neuquén. But almost nothing is known about it except that the people who are sent there never return. Do you really think it’s possible? That they could be in jail? All this time?”

“I don’t know, Anna.” I waved at the regiment of filing cabinets ranked in front of us. “But it’s just possible we’ll find the answers in one of these.”

“You really know how to show a girl a good time, Gunther.” She stood up and went over to the next cabinet and drew the drawer open.

AN HOUR OR SO before dawn, exhausted and grimy with dust, and having found nothing else of any interest, we decided to call it a night.

We stayed too long. I knew that because as we came back into the front hall, someone switched on the electric lights. Anna uttered a little stifled scream. I wasn’t exactly happy about this turn of events myself. Especially as the person who had switched on the lights was pointing a gun at us. Not that he was much of a person. It was easy to see why Marcello had talked about a skeleton staff. I’ve seen healthier-looking men in coffins. He was about five feet, six inches tall, with lank, greasy, gray hair, eyebrows that looked like two halves of a mustache that had been separated for its own good, and a rat’s narrow, recreant features. He wore a cheap suit, a vest that looked like a rag in a mechanic’s greasy hands, no socks, and no shoes. There was a bottle in his coat pocket that was probably his breakfast and, in the corner of his mouth, a length of drooping tobacco ash that had once been a cigarette. As he spoke, it fell onto the floor.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a voice made indistinct with phlegm and alcohol and a lack of teeth. In fact, there was just one tooth on his prominent upper jaw: a front tooth that looked like the last pin standing in a game of skittles.

“I’m a policeman,” I said. “I needed to look at an old file urgently. I’m afraid there was no time to go through proper procedures.”

“Is that right?” He nodded at Anna. “And what’s her story?”

“None of your goddamn business,” I said. “Look, take a look at my ID, will you? It’s just like I told you.”

“You’re no cop. Not with that accent.”

“I’m secret police. SIDE. I’m one of Colonel Montalbán’s people.”

“Never heard of him.”

“We both report to Rodolfo Freude. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

“Matter of fact, I have. It was him who gave me my orders. Explicit orders. He says no one. And I mean no one. No one gets in this place without the express authority, in writing, of the president himself.” He grinned. “Have you got a letter from the president?”

He crept forward and patted me down, his fingers quickly turning my pockets inside out. He grinned. “Thought not.”

Up close, I wasn’t inclined to change my impression of him. He looked inferior and second-rate. But there was nothing second-rate about the gun in his hand. That was special. A .38 Police Special, with a two-inch barrel and a nice bright blue finish. It was the only thing about him that looked like it was in perfect working order. It had crossed my mind to tackle him while he was searching my pockets. But the Police Special quickly changed it for me. He found my gun and tossed it away. He even found the little stiletto in my breast pocket. But he didn’t find the gaucho knife hidden under my belt in the small of my back.

He backed away and patted Anna down, mostly on her breasts, which seemed to give him an idea.