The Assignment by Per Wahlöö Read Free Book Online Page B

and sorting a pile of documents. Her legs were bare and she was wearing thonged sandals. Her dress was green and simple, made of some very light material, and she looked fresh and clear-eyed.
    “You’re quick.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    He felt his shirt sticking to his back and the sweat running down his neck and trickling between his skin and his collar. He went back through the office, across the corridor, into the outer room, took off his jacket, and opened his case. He took out the revolver, cleaned it carefully with a rag, opened one of the boxes of cartridges, twirled the chamber with his thumb, and put in six bullets. Then he fastened the strap over his shoulder, thrust the revolver into the holster, put on his jacket, and buttoned it up. It pulled a bit when he moved his arms, so he unbuttoned his jacket again and let it hang open. The fat man stood by the door all the time, watching. Or rather, not exactly watching, for his eyes were glazed and seemed to rest on some point much farther away.
    Manuel Ortega felt somewhat more secure as he walked back to the desk and sat down. He opened his briefcase, tookout the documents he had brought with him from Stockholm, and put them down in front of him. They had nothing to do with the matter. Nothing had anything to do with the matter. All resolutions and preconceived ideas could be scrapped.
    For twenty minutes nothing happened.
    Once or twice the chair under López creaked. The sun began to pour into the room and the heat became even more intense.
    There was a bell on the desk, an ordinary one of black bakelite with a black button on it. He pressed it and wondered what would happen.
    About a minute later someone knocked on the door and the youth with the thin jacket and the smoked glasses came into the room.
    “How far did the General get with his contacts for negotiations?”
    “As far as I know, he had no contacts.”
    “But hadn’t he planned to make any in recent weeks?”
    “I don’t know anything about that.”
    “What have you been doing these last three weeks?”
    “Me personally?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nothing whatsoever.”
    “Were you present at the meetings?”
    “There haven’t been any meetings.”
    “Didn’t anyone come to see the General?”
    “A few.”
    “With whom did he negotiate?”
    “I don’t know whether he negotiated with anyone. But Colonel Orbal came here a few times. And a druggist called Dalgren. Perhaps some others, but no one I knew or recognized.”
    “What did the General do during those weeks? I mean while he was in the office?”
    “He used to sit in here.”
    “Where are all his papers?”
    “He didn’t have any papers. But he did get a newspaper every day, which the cleaning woman threw away the next morning. She had orders to do that.”
    “And the mail?”
    “There wasn’t much. What did come, the adjutant had to read. If there were anything special he read it out loud to the General. Then he threw away the letters.”
    “In other words, you’re suggesting that Orestes de Larrinaga didn’t do a single thing during the whole of his time as Resident?”
    “I’m not suggesting that. He was working on a proclamation.”
    “A proclamation?”
    “Yes, a personal statement.”
    “Every day for three weeks?”
    “I imagine he was very conscientious.”
    “Where is this proclamation?”
    “It was never finished.”
    “But in that case the General must have left some papers behind, drafts and notes?”
    “He never wrote things down. He dictated everything to his adjutant—sorry, secretary.”
    “Then this secretary should have left the notes behind, the draft of the proclamation, that is.”
    “Yes, the proclamation should be in the safe. It wasn’t all that long. At the most one typed page. All the drafts and notes were destroyed.”
    “There’s nothing in the safe.”
    “No.”
    “You knew that before.”
    “Yes.”
    “Where do you think that draft copy has gone to?”
    “I don’t know. The