It took five minutes to shake the hands of all the participants in the confer-ence, five of whom said, "We can't really discuss all the details in a conference like this; we will have to meet privately just as soon as possible," or words to that effect.
But finally he and Humberto walked together out of the Anglo-Argentine Bank Building onto Calle Bartolome Mitre, where Enrico was waiting at the wheel of Clete's Buick.
Clete moved quickly to climb in the back, to give Humberto the front seat.
"Claridge's Hotel, por favor, Enrico," Humberto ordered.
The streets in Buenos Aires' financial district were lined with banks, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with well-dressed men, most of them car-rying briefcases. As the car moved slowly through the narrow, traffic-jammed streets-Enrico sat on the horn-Clete looked up and saw the American flag flying from an upper story of the Bank of Boston Building, where the U.S. Em-bassy had its offices. He saw buildings housing the National City Bank of New York; La Banco de Galacia; and the Dresdener Bank.
Just as Clete noticed a brass sign reading "Claridge's Hotel" on a building, Enrico turned off the street in the drive and stopped.
"Here we are!" Humberto announced.
The restaurant was on the ground floor. The paneled walls, heavy furniture, and long bar reminded Clete of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas.
Humberto was greeted, in English, by the headwaiter. Picking up on that, Clete noticed that the snippets of conversation he overheard as they were led past the crowded bar to the dining room were also in English.
English English, not American.
Seated at a table, waiting for them, were Se¤orita Dorotea Mallin; her mother; Se¤ora Claudia Carzino-Cormano; and three gentlemen of the cloth, only one of whom, Father Kurt Welner, he could identify by name.
Dorotea was in her demure mood, he saw immediately. He was not sur-prised, when he went through the Argentine kissing ritual, that she moved her head in such a way as to absolutely preclude any accidental brushing of their lips.
"Beatrice sends her regrets," Humberto announced. "She has a migraine."
Pro forma expressions of regret were offered, but Clete saw relief on every-one's face.
The clergymen were introduced. The tall, thin, balding one was the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral, and the jovial Irishman was Monsignor Patrick Kelly, who was one of the squad of clergy par-ticipating in his father's funeral at Our Lady of Pilar.
The look the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price gave Clete made it quite clear that while God might have forgiven a repentant Cletus Howell Frade for despoiling one of the virgins of his flock, he was not quite ready to do so.
"There is very good news-" Father Welner said, then interrupted himself. "Would you like something to drink?"
"I think a little whiskey would go down nicely," Clete said.
"'When you hear the good news," Monsignor Kelly said, "you might wish to have champagne."
"Whiskey now, champagne later?" Clete asked.
"'Poor Cletus has had a bad morning," Humberto said. "Business, you un-derstand."
He raised his hand with two fingers extended.
"So have we all," Dorotea said.
"You spoke to the Cardinal Archbishop, Father?" Humberto asked Father Welner.
"'His Eminence has graciously granted permission for the Very Reverend Cashley-Price to assist me in the nuptial mass," Monsignor Kelly answered for him.
"It will be necessary for you, Cletus-" the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price began, and interrupted himself. "You don't mind if I call you 'Cletus,' do you?"
"No, Father," Clete said, deciding it was five-to-one Cashley-Price was High Church and would prefer that form of address.
"It will be necessary, of course, Cletus, for you and Dorotea to go through our premarital counseling. The Bishop was quite firm about that."
A waiter delivered two glasses dark with whiskey and set them before Clete and Humberto.
"I'll have one of those, please,"