Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “Luckier than Lee Laner. We found him. Just one hour before I came here.” Rodriguez was watching Ferrier carefully.

  “Good. That may clear up—”

  “We found him dead. Behind some crates in a warehouse near the harbour. A knife wound in the back. Pockets emptied, no identification.” Ferrier was too startled to speak. His obvious amazement was the best answer he could have given. Rodriguez’ sharp eyes lost some of their wariness. He even volunteered a morsel of information, “We are searching for his companion—the black man called Pitt. They separated last night. Strange, isn’t it? They had travelled so long and so far together.”

  “There is something big at stake here,” Ferrier said slowly. Far bigger than he had imagined.

  Rodriguez nodded. “And it involves your country, I am inclined to think, rather than mine. Laner and Pitt were only travelling through Spain. Their destination? Adam Reid had the impression—vague, not definite, but still an impression—that it was the United States. At least, he had heard them talking about New Orleans. And a ship did sail for there, at dawn.”

  “That’s where we may find Pitt. Unless he was killed, too.”

  “No. I don’t think you shall find him either dead or alive. My own guess is that he was safely removed from Málaga by another route about the same time as Lee Laner was being eliminated.”

  Ferrier studied Rodriguez’ bland face. You know more than you’ve told me, he thought. Naturally. But if one man had been “eliminated” and another “removed”, then why did you come asking me questions? They are already out of your jurisdiction, both of them. Or is your real interest Jeff Reid? Good God, have I said anything to add to Jeff’s troubles? Then he thought of Tavita, and her chauffeur in the fresh-looking uniform, the man with the peak of his cap pulled down over his brow, who had been so efficient with packages and boxes that somehow his face had always been turned aside. And he thought of Jeff’s lighter, deep in his pocket.

  “Yes?” asked Rodriguez politely. He was standing fixed in the doorway, watchful, expectant. “You were about to say?”

  “I was just thinking this is one hell of a way to spend a weekend.”

  Captain Rodriguez nodded and turned away, walking with his quick light step toward the driveway, a neat figure in light-grey sharply silhouetted against the lush puce, pinks, and reds of geraniums and bougainvillaea. Ferrier retreated from the brilliance of colour and light into the shadowed hall. He crossed the wide room, his pace quickening. He took the stairs at a run, three at a time. She didn’t, he kept saying to himself, she didn’t take Tomás out—right under the nose of Captain Rodriguez. Surely not...

  But she had. The doorway to the attic staircase was innocently open, and the small room at the top was quite empty except for a narrow iron bed that looked disused and desolate, with its thin mattress and meagre pillow stripped down to their faded stripes. The one small window was now closed. It looked and smelled like a place that hadn’t been occupied in months. Only, on the cracked plaster wall that was marked with the blotches of long-dead and dried-up mosquitoes, there were five or six corpses showing signs of fresh blood.

  He went down to his own room. From his window, he could see Rodriguez near his car talking with another neatly dressed man. Then Rodriguez stepped into the car, drove away. The man sauntered towards the deep shade of the nearest large tree. So the house was now being watched, Ferrier thought. Or guarded, as Rodriguez might say with a pained lift of the eyebrow. But that scarcely mattered now. Ferrier began to laugh. Yes, Tavita had managed it; she had taken Tomás out, right under Rodriguez’ nose, and his, too.

  8

  All right, thought Ferrier, let’s go through the motions: a look at the town, lunch somewhere—possibly at the parador, if it isn’t too full of tourists all in search of a hilltop inn with an Arab fortress, Phoenician and Roman ruins for its neighbours. That’s what I told Rodriguez, and I might as well let him see I follow my suggestions. That’s one way of keeping life as simple as possible, and that’s what I aim to do. Once I see Jeff this evening, and get his answer for Tavita, I’ll hand back this damned lighter that’s burning a hole in my pocket, and the pencil, get rid of the whole thing and head for Granada. One night there, and I’ll disentangle myself—that may be difficult unless Tavita, instead of being woman, is playing conspirator; in which case I’ll kiss her beautiful little hand and get the hell out and feel I’m lucky to escape. I’ve got my own work to think about, my own schedules to keep, and they are complicated enough without getting involved in a whole new scene. Let Rodriguez worry about his eliminated American, Tavita about her Tomás; and Jeff may be out of action for a while, but he has his Martin in Madrid to move the pieces around the chessboard. This is one game I don’t belong in.

  And having delivered this definite declaration of independence to a massive flowerfall of purple bougainvillaea that splashed down the wall against which he had edged his car last night, he switched on the ignition, decided there wasn’t enough room to turn without sideswiping Jeff’s Buick, and started backing down the driveway to the road. He braked quickly, stopped dead, swore. A yellow sports car, filled to the brim with a tight cluster of talking and laughing people, had swooped through the gateway and was already more than half-way to the house. It came to a halt just behind him. Thoughtful of them. There was nothing else to do but get out, with marked patience, stand by his open doorway and stare at them with a frozen mask for a face. They’d get the message.

  If they did, they ignored it. The driver gave a friendly wave, eased himself out of a crowded front seat, reached over to the folded top and lifted a picture that had been balancing there with the help of a restraining hand from one of the men in the back. The other man there had his arms full with a dazzling redhead, who was sitting precariously on his lap. In front, there had been another lap-percher, a brunette, definitely uncomfortable and glad to slip out on to the driveway, leaving two blondes behind her. Four pretty girls, Ferrier noted, all with long hair swinging around their shoulders, all with bright shirts and beads and deeply looped earrings. The brunette was smoothing down her white trousers, ignoring the complaints from the blondes that they had been crushed to death. One hundred and twenty pounds, five feet four in flat-heeled sandals, thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six, all pleasantly disposed of in the right proportion. She had a merry smile too, now directed at Ferrier. “Do you mind?” she called to him, and pointed to the garden. “It is so beautiful.” And without waiting for his answer—he was admiring the pointing arm, smooth and firm and golden-tanned—she moved toward the nearest roses.

  “Sorry,” the driver said as he reached Ferrier. He waved the canvas he held in one hand back toward the car, where his five friends had now fallen silent and were studying Ferrier with various expressions: the two blondes were speculative, the redhead was interested, the two men were quietly measuring possible opposition. “We seem to have blocked you.”

  “It seems that way.”

  “I thought Jeff Reid might have been in your car. I promised to drop this off at his place.” Again the canvas was casually displayed. It was roughly painted in bold green and purple slashes, possibly an impression of terraced vineyards, with white blocks for houses clustering along the crest of the steep hill and a sprinkle of leaning church towers, chrome yellow, heavy black outlines, under a flat stretch of indigo-blue sky. “He wanted something to doll up a wine catalogue for his American market. Is he at home?”

  “No. He’s in the hospital.”

  The stranger’s thin, handsome face looked depressed, more for the fate of his painting than for Jeff Reid. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, fairly young—possibly around thirty, certainly younger than the two middle-aged men he had brought with him, although they were desperately trying to keep faces and waistlines taut and lean. They all had the same bleached-by-sea, tanned-by-sun look, hair that was most carefully cut into casual locks, Victorian sideburns, expensive sports shirts appropriately faded, and eyes that were unguessable behi
nd large round dark glasses. “Do you hear that?” the tall one demanded of his carload. “In the hospital, for God’s sake.” There was a united protest. “I agree. We can’t take this thing on a picnic.” He waved the canvas in disgust, looked at Ferrier, removed his dark glasses to show intensely sincere blue eyes, and smiled with definite charm. “May I drop this advertisers’ dream in the house? It can welcome Reid when he gets home—when will that be?—and he can put the cheque in the mail. I’m Gene Lucas, by the way.” He had already started toward the house. “Won’t be long!” he called back to his friends as Ferrier caught up with him. He looked quickly at the garden, made sure that the dark-haired girl was far enough away, said lightly, “Amanda is perfectly happy. She has a thing about flowers—four pots of roses on her scrubby little terrace—waters them, prunes them, prays over them, and gets nothing in return.” The blue eyes were focused on Ferrier now. “Are you staying with Reid, or were you just calling to offer condolences?”

  “I’m this weekend’s guest.”

  “So you are Ferrier?”

  Ferrier, leading the way into the hall, stopped short. “Yes,” he said, with just enough of a rising inflection in the word to make it a question.

  Lucas propped his picture against the wall, lost interest in it. He said quickly, no time to waste, “You telephoned Martin in Madrid. What’s the trouble?”

  Ferrier stared at Lucas blankly. So the painting had been just an excuse to get into the house for a quiet talk, and all that little act within earshot of Lucas’ friends had been merely plausible justification for the visit.

  “What’s bothering Reid?” Lucas insisted.

  “He didn’t say.” Ferrier did his best to look unconcerned. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, stood at ease. His right knuckles were touching the lighter. For a moment he was tempted to get rid of it, hand it over—this must be Martin’s man—but his fingers now felt the small silver pencil, and he waited.

  “You mean he got you to send that message without telling you what was on his mind?” Lucas was incredulous.

  “The message told that, didn’t it? He couldn’t keep some business appointment on Monday. Simple.”

  “Come on, Ferrier,” Lucas said impatiently, “don’t give me this standoff. When Martin gets a message like that, it means an emergency. Send help. Rally around. So here I am. What did Reid tell you?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Look—if he trusted you enough to let you send that message, he must have told you what to say if anyone from Martin made contact with you.”

  Ferrier’s hand closed around the lighter. Keep it safe: that was all Reid had said. And only if something more happened to Reid was the lighter to be given to Martin or to someone sent by Martin. But nothing more had happened to Jeff Reid. He was alive. The lighter would go back to him this evening; he could decide how to deal with it then. It would be comic, thought Ferrier, if Jeff handed it back to me and told me to pass it along to Lucas, and all this mild sweat for nothing. Except, I don’t know who this fellow is. Sure, he comes from Martin—or so he says. But what about that silver-pencil routine? Jeff had been definite about that.

  Lucas sensed his indecision, tried harder. “This could be urgent, and we are wasting time. Didn’t Reid give you instructions before they carted him off to the hospital? No additional message for Martin? There has got to be something, you know.”

  “Why don’t you ask him about that yourself? I’m seeing him around six this evening. Drop in at the hospital any time after that.”

  “Why not before?” Lucas asked quickly, a sudden show of suspicion in his eyes.

  “Doctor’s orders. Jeff’s not on view until six.”

  Lucas’ manner changed back to something more genial. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for me to contact Reid directly. Why else do you think I came to see you?”

  “That,” Ferrier said, “is still puzzling me.”

  “I wonder. Ever heard of Laner?” The question had been offhand, but Lucas was quick to notice Ferrier’s surprise. “So Reid did tell you about Laner?” Lucas pressed his advantage as Ferrier looked at him blankly. “Did he also mention the name of Tomás Fuentes?” he asked softly.

  Tomás... Tomás Fuentes? “Wrong on both counts,” Ferrier said bluntly. “Reid mentioned neither of them. I heard of Laner about half an hour ago—from a policeman who had as many damfool questions as you have. You know, Lucas, you not only puzzle me. You worry me. What the hell is going on? Who is Fuentes? What’s he got to do with Reid?”

  Lucas backed off noticeably. “He is just a rumour, a possibility. If he were here, Reid might know about it. That’s all. I was only checking.” He shrugged his shoulders, looked apologetic. “It’s just part of the job.”

  “What job?”

  “I’m in the same line of work as Reid. He told you he is with the CIA?”

  “No.” And, thought Ferrier, I’ve never known anyone in the CIA who went around proclaiming it as blatantly as this. What’s Lucas trying to do? Impress me, get my full co-operation? Can this type really be authentic? If so, God help our country.

  “That shook you,” Lucas said delightedly. “At least I’ve had one success this morning. You’re cool, Ferrier, you’re really—” He jerked his head around to look at the doorway, all expression wiped off his face, the lean handsome profile now hawklike. It was the dark-haired girl. “Hello, Amanda. Getting impatient?”

  Slowly, she entered the hall. “The others are. They are all over the garden. You’ll have quite a time corralling them back into the car.”

  “You start work on that. I’ll be with you right away.”

  “What makes you think Bianca would listen to me? She never does. Why did you have to bring her along? There is just one too many on this picnic.” The voice was plaintive.

  Ferrier had a feeling of disappointment. This complaining touch was the last thing he had expected from anyone as pretty as Amanda. He preferred her as he had first seen her, with a smile glancing over her lips. Now they were down-drawn and mutinous. But Lucas seemed pleased, as if he was taking her small show of jealousy as a compliment. “We’ll soon be on our way,” he told her as she wandered vaguely around the hall. She scarcely glanced at Ferrier. She stopped just beyond the two men, again rather vaguely, and began studying Lucas’ vineyards.

  Lucas turned back to Ferrier. “You can tell Reid I delivered on time. And I’m waiting for further instructions.” He glanced at the girl, added, “I suggest a series—three more pictures. But if so, I’ll have to start work right away. Let me know, will you, what Reid has in mind?”

  Ferrier nodded. “What’s your telephone number? Better write it down for me.” I’ve given him his cue, he thought; now he will produce a little silver pencil and flourish it under my nose. Lucas is just the type to enjoy playing games like this.

  “I’ll call you,” Lucas said. “Late this evening? If you have any news for me, we can make a date for tomorrow.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Ferrier warned him. “I don’t know where the hell I’ll be this evening. And I may have left Málaga by tomorrow.”

  Lucas studied Ferrier thoughtfully. “Difficult, aren’t you? You know, I have the strange feeling that you could give me Reid’s answer right now.” He shook his head unhappily over such lack of trust. “Oh, well—I’ll write down my phone number, and you can call me.” He pulled a wallet from the pocket of his bleached linen shorts, found a scrap of paper. “Have you got a pencil?”

  So he put the first move on me, Ferrier thought in annoyance. And am I supposed to produce Reid’s pencil, hand it over nonchalantly?

  Amanda had turned away from the painting. “It isn’t really your best work, Gene. You’ve rushed it, and it shows.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Lucas said coldly. “If you want to be helpful, where’s that silly pencil of yours—the one you always carry around in that grab-all?”

  “Would you like it?” She spoke with studied sweetness. She searched with madde
ning slowness in the white canvas bag that hung from her shoulder.

  “Amanda! Come on!” Lucas was angry. “You’re in a foul mood today.”

  A mood called Bianca, thought Ferrier. His hand came out of his pocket, empty. “I’ll find something to write with,” he said diplomatically, and started toward the study.

  But Amanda caught his arm lightly as he passed her. “Here you are,” she said, presenting him with a pencil. It was small and slender, made of silver, decorated with arabesque tracery. “Give this to the man. And tell him to hurry. Are we going sailing or aren’t we?”

  Ferrier took the pencil, resisted a second glance, passed it over, and hoped Lucas couldn’t sense the jolt that had stiffened his spine.

  Amanda covered his reactions beautifully. “I have the most wonderful idea,” she told him. Her voice had lost its petulance, became warm and inviting. “Why don’t you come along on our picnic?”

  “He can’t,” Lucas said, scribbling down the telephone number.

  “But why not? He looks like a man who has a long empty Saturday ahead of him.” She spoke to Ferrier. “Do you know anyone at all in Málaga?” Her deep-blue eyes were sympathetic. “No? I guessed it. How awful. Gone—”

  “No,” Lucas said decidedly. He handed her back the pencil, gave Ferrier the slip of paper. “Now, get out to the car. Let’s start moving,” he told her.

  “Seven of us in one car—that’s really carrying the carefree bit too far,” she said rebelliously. She turned to Ferrier. “We each and every one of us have a car—can you believe it? But we must all pack into Gene’s, and laugh and wave—such jolly fun—and when he makes a sudden stop I’ll be right over his windshield.”

  “You’ve never objected before to sitting on a lap—” Lucas began.

  “Stationary,” Amanda interrupted. “But not at the speed you drive.” She looked angrily at the blonde girl who had come running up the steps to stand hesitating at the threshold as she saw the tight group of three. She had gathered some roses, fastened them loosely into her long hair, and held a large cluster of bougainvillaea against her breast. “Our flower child, Bianca,” Amanda murmured.