Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  Rodriguez shook his head. “It is only a brief visit,” he said again. “A few questions.” He hesitated, seemed to find some difficulty in explaining the need for them. “Friendly questions. Nothing official. You see, I am—well, I suppose you have already been told that I am attached to the police?” Ferrier nodded.

  “Please do not let that alarm you. I am here to ask your help.”

  “Oh?”

  “A matter of—of background,” Rodriguez said softly. His voice was pleasant, like the expression on his face. He was shorter than Ferrier, possibly in his mid-thirties. Black hair, thick and long on top but straightly cut at the nape of the neck, was held together by careful brushing and a dash of oil that added a gleam to the heavy curls. His brown eyes were calm, sympathetic; his round face placid, almost cherubic in its innocence. He was dressed carefully but not expensively. His light-grey suit and white shirt were immaculate, even if they were ordinary in cut and material. His shoes, black and highly polished, covered small narrow feet. His hands were neat and delicate. He was a man like a thousand others whom Ferrier had seen in the streets and cafés of Madrid and Granada. At this moment, as he looked around the big room with considerable interest, he seemed to be searching for a tactful start on those few questions. “Are you married, Señor Ferrier?”

  It was an unexpected beginning. Ferrier recovered. “Not so far,” he admitted with a cheerful grin.

  “Then you live alone.”

  Ferrier’s grin broadened. “More or less.”

  “On this scale?” Rodriguez’ manner was amiable, almost humorous. One hand gestured vaguely toward the room.

  “Hardly. But the style of living in America is simpler. We don’t have many Concepcións around. Without her, this house would be one giant headache.”

  “Of course, Señor Reid entertains a great deal.”

  Now we are coming closer to business, thought Ferrier. “That’s part of his job, I suppose.”

  “Certainly, he has many visitors. But never his wife or children. That must have been most disappointing for Señor Reid.” There was a diplomatic pause. “He expected them, you know. Yes, for the first few months he kept hoping. But I understand that his wife refused to live in Spain. A strange woman. Do you know her?”

  “I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Quite pretty,” Ferrier said coldly.

  “And seemingly quite determined. An unhappy combination for any man who married her.”

  Ferrier said nothing at all. Janet Reid had always been charming to him, but he had never been really comfortable about that. She had a way of dropping small acid comments about other friends of Jeff’s when they weren’t there to hear them. Ferrier had had no illusions that his back, once it was turned, wouldn’t make an equally good target. So his pleasure in her company had been decidedly guarded. But she was Jeff’s choice, made early in their lives when he was going off to Korea. No one had forced her to marry an Air Force pilot, yet she seemed to have an increasing resentment that Jeff wouldn’t change his career to please her. Some women never knew when to let well enough alone; they didn’t seem to realise that if they shifted a man away from what he believed in, from a job that he felt had to be done, they’d change him from a man into a eunuch.

  Rodriguez said, “There was a separation based on incompatibility and then charges of desertion against Señor Reid and a divorce.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I do not understand your American laws. He took the blame. But does that seem fair? It was she who had refused to come with him to Spain. She deserted him.” Rodriguez paused. Quietly he added, “Why did he not defend himself?”

  “Oh, he probably did not want any publicity—added bitterness—that kind of thing. Bad for the children.” Ferrier drew a deep breath. I got out of that fairly well, he thought. Publicity was something that Jeff would try to avoid if he was connected with the CIA. Would that be Rodriguez’ next question—why would Jeff want to avoid publicity?

  “I think it was worse for the children that she never allowed them to come and see him in Spain. And when he went back to visit America, she kept them away from him even there. Is that legal? Why did he not insist that she obey the law? Or was she threatening him? With what disclosure?” Ferrier looked blankly at Rodriguez. He was thinking now not so much of Jeff but of Janet. This was a new light on her entirely. If, that was, Rodriguez’ information could be believed. “I know nothing about all that.”

  “Señor Reid never discussed his troubles with you?”

  “No.”

  “But you are his friend, a good friend.”

  “He isn’t the type to bellyache.” Ferrier caught hold of a sudden rise in temper. “It isn’t my business. And frankly, Captain Rodriguez, is it yours?”

  “I do not think that you are qualified to judge what is, or what is not, my business.”

  And that was true enough. Ferrier had encountered too many critics of his own field of work whose arguments had been based on false assumptions. There were undercurrents that no one, standing at the edge of a seemingly normal stretch of water, could be aware of—unless he was a practised diver and went deep below the surface.

  “I would not be here,” Rodriguez said stiffly, pointedly, “if the son of Señor Reid had not become mixed up in what is most definitely my business.”

  “Jeff Reid’s son?”

  “Adam Reid, eighteen years old, student, home address given as Twenty-ninth Street, North West, Washington, DC.” The name was right. So—with quick mental calculation—was the age. And Jeff had inherited a small house in Georgetown from his father: the sum total of all that had been left him. Janet had taken that, too, had she? “Where is Adam? What has he done?” Ferrier asked worriedly.

  “He has been in Málaga for the last three days. Or at least, near Málaga. He has been staying with some friends in Fuengirola, a few miles away.”

  Ferrier stared at the quiet Spanish face in disbelief. “He came to Málaga and didn’t get in touch with his father?”

  “Oh, he knew where his father’s house was. He admitted he had searched for it. He had also found out Señor Reid’s habit of visiting El Fenicio on Fridays. Didn’t either of you recognise him there?”

  “At El Fenicio?” Ferrier asked incredulously. “Was he one of those four Americans?”

  “Three Americans,” corrected Rodriguez. “The fourth is a Swede who speaks English with an American accent, possibly because he has so many American friends who stay with him at Fuengirola when they are passing through Málaga. Adam Reid was the young man with the beard.” He studied Ferrier quite openly now. “You didn’t like to hear that, did you?” he asked not unsympathetically. “No, I suppose not. You cannot enjoy the idea that your friend’s son actually pointed him out to his enemies.”

  Ferrier said defensively, “I’m pretty sure Adam had no idea of what he was doing.” Damn, he thought a second too late, I’ve practically admitted I know that Jeff was identified.

  “Possibly not. He is a young man who has little idea of how he can be used. His excellent American education never taught him about that.” Rodriguez paused. “So you saw that incident when Adam Reid identified his father?”

  “No.” He doesn’t miss a trick, does he?

  “You must have heard about it then?”

  “Yes. Just a piece of gossip. I noticed nothing.”

  “Too bad. I had hoped you could testify that the light-haired American followed Señor Reid into the storeroom after the identification was made. Why did you go in to investigate? Any suspicions?”

  “I was worried. Reid had said he wouldn’t be long—”

  “Why did he leave you? Did he say?”

  “No.”

  “He did not mention arranging a party after the performance?”

  “No. But he wouldn’t tell me about that until it was all arranged.”

  “He is a man of surprises?”

  “A man who doesn’t raise false expectation
s.”

  “Where did you find him after his accident?”

  “At the side of the stairs.”

  “Not at their foot?”

  “No. At the side. Just below the half-way point.”

  Rodriguez relaxed, even smiled naturally. “How pleasant it is to deal with a man who tells me the truth. Yes, we found some evidence of where he had crashed down from the staircase. Someone—you?—dragged him away from there. Why?”

  “He needed fresh air, a place where it circulated freely.”

  “Did you decide that? You were taking grave chances by moving—”

  “I knew that. He insisted.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t explain.”

  “Did he say what had caused that fall?”

  “No.”

  “Or who was there at the time?”

  “Look—I didn’t ask questions. I was too worried about getting help for him.”

  “Did he seem—ill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you any guesses? After all, neither you nor I believe this was a mere accident, a natural fall.”

  “Plenty of guesses, and no conclusions. The whole thing defeats me.”

  “Defeats you, Señor Ferrier? I doubt that. We called your Embassy in Madrid this morning about—another matter. I was talking with one of your friends there. You have a most impressive record. Analysis and interpretation. That is your special field, isn’t it?”

  So he checked on me, Ferrier thought. Of course he would. I ought to have guessed that right from the start I was the unknown who entered a complicated picture, the vague outline that had to be filled in. “Before you found that out, what role had you chosen for me?” he asked sharply. “Someone who had gone into that storeroom to pick up a message or drugs left there by that young American? Did you think I was in some kind of dirty business with him?” he ended angrily.

  “Now, please,” Rodriguez said softly, unhappily. “You know well that I must check every small thing, however ridiculous it seems. Drugs? No. I never took that seriously, although our narcotics agents insisted on a thorough search of El Fenicio. A message? You mean some kind of espionage? Well, that might be more possible, except that some things we have learned since that unhappy incident last night make me now believe that you would have little in common with Lee Laner—that is the American you mentioned—or with his black friend, Ed Pitt. Or with their kind host at Fuengirola, the man with the Swedish name and passport of Gustaf Torrens. We will know more about him soon: we have been in touch with Stockholm. Yes, that unhappy incident—so unpleasant for Señor Reid—has turned out very fortunately for us. And very sadly for Lee Laner. Seemingly, he made a mistake last night. We do not know what it was. Yet. Perhaps Señor Reid will be able to help us with that problem. Are you quite sure he recognised none of those Americans in the courtyard last night, or Señor Gustaf Torrens? He made no comment about them?”

  “He said he had seen a thousand like them in the last few years.”

  “Yes, that is what we are all to be made to think. One gets tired of the pattern; one stops looking at them; one accepts and asks no questions.” Rodriguez took a small step toward the hall, a hint that he was now about to leave. “I apologise that I had to ask you so many questions of my own. But I hope that some of the things I have mentioned will explain the reason why I needed a few answers. So thank you, Señor Ferrier. I hope I haven’t interfered too much with your visit to Málaga. Good—”

  “One minute,” Ferrier cut in quickly. He may be finished with me, he thought, but I’m not finished with him. “You owe me an answer. You didn’t say what Adam Reid has done. And I’ve three other questions. Are you holding him? Where? Can I see him?” He was angry, and didn’t care whether he showed it.

  Rodriguez said stiffly, “You seem to think that we are unreasonable men. Your Adam Reid is now driving toward Madrid with nothing worse than a strong admonition to obey our traffic regulations. He is quite proud that he faced the Spanish police, but a little disappointed that he cannot charge us with having threatened, beaten, or tortured him.” Rodriguez smiled bitterly. “Or will he?”

  Ferrier said quietly, “Then he was arrested. Why? Because he was seen in the company of—”

  “Not at all for that reason. The arresting officer did not even know Adam Reid had been at El Fenicio. It all began simply—like most trouble for young people. He was detained last night, or, rather, early this morning, for driving at high speed through the city and for blowing his horn repeatedly. As a foreigner who might not understand our traffic laws, he would have been allowed to proceed with a strict warning. But he did not have his passport. He could not remember where it was. He could not understand much Spanish. He could not speak it. So he was taken to the nearest Guardia Civil post, where an interpreter could be found. His manner was strange, but he was carrying no drugs. He was dressed poorly, but he had money and many traveller’s cheques. His only luggage was a small duffel bag with no change of clothes. He was—extremely unhelpful, until he heard that the American Embassy in Madrid would be notified, so that after proper verification they could issue him with temporary travel papers and he could proceed on his journey. It was then that he began to co-operate. He did not want his mother to be worried by any enquiries; she did not know he was in Spain—he was supposed to be travelling through France and Italy toward Yugoslavia. He even remembered where his passport might be—he must have left it in his suitcase along with the rest of his things at a house in Fuengirola. He was quite casual about the clothes. He thought it easier to buy new ones rather than go back to collect that suitcase. He had forgotten about the passport. He had been leaving Málaga in a very great hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “He was evasive about that. Fortunately for him, I arrived at the police station just then, and I had seen the quarrel between him and his friends in the courtyard at El Fenicio. It was real. He was furious; and they were contemptuous.”

  “Had they travelled with him from America?”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “They picked him up in Madrid at the American Express office. There is always a crowd of American students there. He had a car. They wanted transportation. They came south together. He was vague about them. He only knew they had been travelling in Europe for a year. That impressed him. That is what he really wants to do: travel, cash cheques from his mother, travel, travel. Anything to postpone the days of growing up.” Rodriguez shook his head in wonder. “Or don’t Americans want to grow up? Is that why you have put youth on a pedestal?”

  Ferrier ignored that. It would be difficult to answer, anyway. “So you let him go? Just like that?”

  “He had been very helpful. In his own way. We learned the name of Laner and Pitt, and we had a short talk with Gustaf Torrens when we visited his house to find Adam Reid’s suitcase.” Rodriguez laughed, briefly, softly. “Strange how a young man who loses his temper and drives too wildly can draw attention, quite by chance, to a peculiar group of people. But that is what happens in my work. It has all the joys of the unexpected.”

  “You’ve had a busy morning,” Ferrier said dryly. And now Adam Reid would be followed until he was safely out of Spain, just to make sure he was not making a habit of encountering “peculiar groups of people”. Peculiar in what way? There had been no mention of morals; and drugs had been discounted. It could be something in the area of dangerous politics—not the simple voting kind that most Americans indulged in with open argument, but politics that throve on secrecy and bred conspiracy. Yes, there had been a hint of that in Rodriguez’ acid comment about Torrens, “the man with the Swedish name and passport of Gustaf Torrens.” An illegal agent? Whoever or whatever Torrens was, he must have spent some bad hours since Spanish Security had called on him for Adam Reid’s suitcase.

  “Extremely busy,” Rodriguez agreed. “In fact, I did not get to bed last night. That was why I did not accept your offer of a chair. If I had sat down, I might have fallen asleep.” He was moving
definitely toward the door. “So if I have seemed a little slow, this morning, and taken up too much of your time—you will understand?”

  Slow? Ferrier would hate to be interviewed by Rodriguez when the man had a night’s sleep behind him. He followed the captain into the hall. There were several loose ends, left purposely so, and they bothered him. He would like to know more about Lee Laner; that could be one small step toward finding out about Jeff’s accident. There was a connection somewhere, he felt.

  “Yes?” asked Rodriguez quickly. “You have another question?”

  It was almost, Ferrier thought, as if he had been waiting for a question. About Torrens, or Pitt, or Laner? “Yes. Would you let me know where young Reid is staying in Madrid? If, that is, you should just happen to learn where he is.”

  Rodriguez had noted the irony. He froze in disapproval. Then he decided to treat it as a small joke between them. “If,” he said, “I should happen to learn where Adam Reid is, I shall certainly inform you. But I don’t think you’ll be able to persuade him to come back to Málaga to see his father. Was that your idea?”

  Ferrier nodded. “I could try.”

  “I tried, too.”

  “Did you tell him his father was in the hospital with a smashed-up leg?”

  “I did even more than that. I told him that his new friend, Lee Laner, might be to blame.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “He refused to believe it. Naturally.”

  “Well, by the time he reaches Madrid, he may have thought it over. In any case, I’d like to talk with him.”

  Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips. “It will be a waste of your breath. But I’ll let you know. He’s lucky, that young man.”

  Ferrier remembered the sullen, unhappy face that had glared blankly at the street outside this house. The truly lost generation, he had thought at the time. “Lucky?” He shook his head.