He shifted slightly so that he could watch her eyes. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to talk to him."

"About what?"

"My status. I believe that's what they call it."

"Margaretha, a man like Cazeaux isn't in a position to tell you anything."

"But he is. He was able to tell me a great deal—"

"Such as?"

She shook her head. "It's too late to explain, Nicky. It's already started. They've already begun spreading the word about me. I told you about the rumors. Now it's worse. I'm not to be trusted. I'm a dangerous spy ... a spy and a whore."

In a way, the worst of it was that she wasn't even crying. Her voice was strained but her eyes were dry and still on that disk of a moon.

"Margaretha, listen to me. You haven't done a damn thing. What's more, they haven't got a case and they know it. So all you have to do is stay away from trouble for a while, and it's all going to pass—"

"No, you listen, Nicky. I'm marked. It won't just go away. Somehow I've got to wash it off. It seems the burden of proof is on me, and I've got to show them where I stand with some kind of positive action. Nicky, I've got to do something."

Two trains departed daily from Vigo, one to Madrid and points east in the morning, another along the coast in the evening. Obviously she had checked the schedule that first afternoon because her timing was very good. She had sent him out to fetch breakfast and a newspaper at about half past nine. When he returned he realized that everything must have been arranged in advance with that consul—the ticket, the taxi, the boy to collect her luggage. She had probably even prepared the note beforehand:

"It's not because I've grown tired of you."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

IT was four o'clock in the afternoon when Gray finally succeeded in locating the French consul in Vigo. A warm, dry wind had risen from the south. The shops were on the verge of closing. The consul was sitting on the terrace of an old cafe above the bay: a heavy man in a tropical suit. There was a bottle of rum on the table and newspapers on his lap. Although he appeared to be reading, his eyes kept following a slender waitress.

"You're Martial Cazeaux?"

He had the typical thin moustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. His fingers were stained with nicotine.

"I'm Cazeaux, yes. Who are you?"

"The one who came with Mata Hari."

"The English painter? Too bad."

A waitress brought Gray a clean glass, and Cazeaux filled it with rum. His hands looked like white animals, hairless mice that moved independently of the rest of him. Gray wished he had brought a knife, something with a serrated edge.

He said, "I understand you saw Margaretha Zelle yesterday."

Cazeaux nodded. "Yes, that's correct."