Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “Rodriguez...” Reid was worried. “I’ve always kept clear of him.”

  “You’ve never meddled in Spanish politics? Taken sides?”

  “I’ve kept clear of that, too. Not my job.”

  “I had the feeling he knows about it.”

  There was a short silence. “So goodbye Málaga,” Reid said slowly. He looked at the red roses.

  Ferrier branched off quickly to another subject. “Is Ed Pitt—the black who was travelling with Laner—another graduate of Department Thirteen?”

  Reid nodded.

  “Rodriguez thinks he has been shipped out. Ultimate destination America?”

  Again Reid nodded.

  “We’ll have to alert—” Ferrier cut himself off. Deeper and deeper in, he thought angrily; you take one step, then a couple more, and soon you are walking the full mile. Why the hell did I have to bring up the question of Ed Pitt? But he knew the answer to that. America needed no more assassins.

  “There will be several such names. Once Fuentes starts talking. There’s a man in Washington—Robert O’Connor. Knows about Cuba, about Vado. That’s what Fuentes said. He will talk with him. He’s been right so far.”

  “Fuentes? Or this O’Connor?” He is beginning to tire Ferrier thought worriedly. He has a lot to say, too much perhaps, and so his mind keeps jumping.

  “Fuentes named O’Connor. No infiltration there, no danger.”

  Ferrier hesitated, then risked it. “You don’t trust Martin any more?”

  “It’s not that! It’s just—” Reid’s pain showed in the sharpness of his impatience. He closed his eyes, tried to control his voice. “O’Connor is the expert. He can take charge. He knows Vado.”

  “Vado?” Who the hell was Vado? Deeper and deeper in... “Just a minute,” Ferrier said, moving over to the cassette player. The Haffner was ending. “I’ll put on the Brahms Fourth.” He began changing the neatly packaged tape.

  “I was to go to Washington,” Reid said as the music filled the room. “A quick trip. There and back. Ian, would you—if Martin is slow to reach me—it might be best—” He halted as a brisk knock sounded on the door. It opened.

  The pert nurse came in, bouncing and cheerful. “And how is the patient?” she asked brightly.

  “Fine,” Reid said through his teeth. “Come back later and—”

  “Fine, are you?” Dr. Medina asked as he entered the room. He nodded to Ferrier, looked in astonishment at the roses. “You receive your visitors in style,” he said genially, and lifted the clipboard with Reid’s medical record from the bottom rail of the bed. He studied it briefly.

  “They are taking good care of me,” Reid said.

  Medina replaced the board and its careful notations. “Uh huh... How’s the pulse?”

  “That has all been done,” the nurse said in Spanish. “Señor Reid was fully examined an hour ago. All is going well.”

  “And why wasn’t I notified as soon as he was awake? I left definite instructions.”

  The nurse said coldly, “There was no need. Dr. Medina, your uncle, Señor Reid’s physician, was here when our doctors—”

  “And how long have you been here?” Medina asked Ferrier.

  The nurse looked at Ferrier pleadingly. So he said, offhand, easily, “Not too long. I was a little early, so I dropped in.” He could feel the nurse relax. Antonio Medina might have little standing in this hospital, but she was scared of doctors. What one might call a well-trained nurse.

  “I hope you didn’t make him talk too much,” Medina said severely.

  “I did most of the talking. I brought him some music. Any objections?”

  “Not at all, not at all. But a little less volume, please.” Medina looked at Reid. “Are you strong enough to sign a contract? Ridiculous nonsense, of course. Business should be kept out of sick-rooms. But there is a man outside who wants to see you for only a couple of minutes. He is from Madrid—some firm called Martin and Sons. He says the contract is urgent. Is it?”

  Reid nodded, avoided glancing at Ferrier, who was standing frozen by the cassette player.

  “All right. Just the signature. No discussion.” Medina was being extremely competent. He told the nurse brusquely, “Send the man in.” Then he turned to Ferrier. “Come along. We’ll wait outside.”

  Ferrier looked at Reid, hesitated. Does he want that lighter, and how do I get it to him naturally? “By the way, Jeff, I also brought you some cigarettes. Would you like one now?” He produced his own pack, had his hand on the lighter all ready to deliver.

  Jeff had caught his meaning. “Keep them. Meanwhile.”

  “I should think so,” burst out Medina. “No cigarettes in here. And, nurse”—the young woman had returned with the man from Martin and Sons—“see that these roses are all removed before your patient goes to sleep again. They must not be left here overnight. You understand?”

  Ferrier pretended to listen, but his full attention was now on the stranger. He was a medium kind of man, in height, weight, features, and dress. Nothing extravagant. A quiet manner, hesitant but friendly. The only touch of colour to his dark suit and restrained tie was a small red carnation in his buttonhole. He carried a briefcase in one hand; the other, with a neat bandage on its thumb, held a brightly jacketed book, as if he had come prepared for some waiting around. Well, thank God he had at least come. Ferrier glanced over at the bed. Reid’s face was less strained. The end of responsibility, thought Ferrier, and felt something of the same relief. “I’ll stay outside. If you need me, press that button on the bedside table. What does it do?” he asked the nurse. “Rings bells or buzzes?”

  “It turns on a light over the door.”

  “Every modern convenience,” Medina said sarcastically. “Come along, both of you.” His grasp on Ferrier’s arm was gentle but definite. Ferrier disengaged himself, equally definitely, hesitated.

  The stranger said apologetically, “This won’t take much time.” His voice was pleasant, American, proper Bostonian. “I’m sorry to break in on you like this, but I’m leaving Málaga this evening for Madrid.” He turned to Reid, looked at the encased leg, shook his head with sympathy. “Too bad. Martin telephoned me about your accident, asked me to get this contract signed. It’s urgent, seemingly.” He was opening his briefcase, selecting a document. Ferrier followed the nurse and Medina into the corridor.

  There was a mixture of people spilling over from the entrance hall and the crowded waiting room. “Six o’clock is the beginning of visiting hours,” the nurse explained. “They’ll soon be in the wards, and this corridor will be much quieter.” She picked up a wandering child. “Are you lost?” she asked gently. “Shall I help you find your mother?”

  Medina watched her leave, said “Much quieter, but not colder. Shall we move into the little garden?”

  “I’ll stay here,” Ferrier said, glancing at his watch—eight minutes to six. He almost regretted his decision as more visitors came pressing into the corridor, packing everyone into a tighter mass. He backed against a wall with Medina, let the others be pushed past him. He could see the upper half of Reid’s door, now on the opposite side of the corridor; and in spite of the broad shoulders and large bullet head of a tall fair-haired man jammed in front of him, he had a clear view of its signal light. But it remained unlit. All was peaceful. Even the jostling mass was still, now silent, almost somnolent in the rising temperature.

  A gong boomed. Everyone jumped a little, was jolted into movement and excited talk. There was a brief confusion—the big man adding to it by turning too quickly, misjudging his own bulk and bumping into Ferrier. Profuse apologies, of course.

  “De nada,” Ferrier said impatiently, and shoved the man aside. The confusion was over as quickly as it had begun, changing into a steadily moving lane towards the main hall. And there was the man whom Martin had sent, caught up in the main stream of traffic, already half-way down the corridor. Reid’s door must have opened when the big fellow had almost toppled against Ferrier. Damnatio
n, thought Ferrier. “Hi there!” he called, and started after the neatly brushed head of medium-brown hair now bobbing along in the steadily flowing current. Then Ferrier stopped, feeling slightly foolish. Why should he speak with the man, anyway? There had been no signal from Jeff, no request for the delivery of the lighter. Either Jeff hadn’t been too sure of his visitor or he was someone who wasn’t important enough—another messenger, perhaps, like Amanda Ames. In a matter of seconds, the corridor was cleared. The voices had receded into the other wing of the hospital. The entrance hall, the waiting room beside it, were empty, too. Suddenly, it was all very lonely. “What was his name?” he asked Medina.

  “How should I know?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “I—I just met him. Is it important?”

  Ferrier turned toward Reid’s room. Quick, light heels came hurrying along the corridor from the hall. It was the young nurse, a little breathless. “Your friend has left,” she told Medina.

  “Not my friend,” he answered sharply.

  She looked at Medina. “But—”

  “Never saw him before in my life.” Medina followed Ferrier, stopped him as he was about to open Reid’s door. “Don’t you think Señor Reid has had enough excitement for one day? I’d advise a little rest now. You can come back later.”

  “I’d like to see him for a few minutes.”

  The nurse said, “He may already be sleeping. Dr. Medina’s friend—sorry, doctor; I mean the man you brought here—told me that Señor Reid seemed rather tired. He wanted a little rest.”

  “Most sensible idea he has had—” began Medina. He stared as Ferrier pushed him aside, quickly opened the door.

  “He is asleep,” the nurse whispered, and moved across the room on tiptoe to adjust the shutters, darken the room.

  “Best thing for him,” Medina said in a hushed voice. “A little natural sleep—Ferrier, what are you doing? Don’t waken him!”

  Ferrier reached the bed. Reid was still, peaceful, his eyes closed; his head was twisted sideways on the pillow, his mouth half-open. His good arm was stretched toward the table, but even if he had had time to make it, his fingers could not have pressed the signal that controlled the light outside his door; the bed table had been pulled a few inches beyond his reach. “Open the shutters,” Ferrier heard himself say. “Open the shutters, damn you!”

  “Señor Ferrier!” Medina was scandalised. And then worried. “Is something wrong?” His voice was faint, almost strangled.

  The shutters opened wide. The full light streamed in. “He is dead,” said Ferrier.

  “No, no, no!” shouted Medina.

  The nurse came running to stand beside Ferrier, her eyes wide, her face in shock. She reached over to take Reid’s wrist, feel it. “Dr. Medina,” she called, “Dr. Medina—” She began pushing the emergency signals. He came forward slowly, unbelievingly, his eyes fixed with horror on Reid’s inert body.

  Ferrier didn’t wait. He was out of the room, running down the corridor, pushing his way through a straggle of latecomers in the entrance hall, ignoring the startled looks and exclamations as he shoved open the front door and raced down the steps toward the street.

  10

  It was a narrow street, drawing back from the front of the hospital to form a little square. At one end was a park or gardens of some kind; at the other, the broad avenue that was a main thoroughfare. Ferrier hesitated, getting his bearings, deciding, his eyes searching. People everywhere, some in standing groups, others walking toward the hospital; cars everywhere, too, some parked, some moving slowly out into the narrow street. Boys on bicycles, children playing, women with baby carriages; old men sitting on a low stone wall, lost in late-evening thoughts. Which way? People everywhere, but where was the man with the smoothly brushed head and dark suit and a briefcase and a brightly covered book?

  Useless, Ferrier told himself, useless. Abruptly, he broke off that train of thought. If anything was useless, it was to start out saying it was useless. Sure, the man had had several minutes to lose himself in this crowd. But would he walk far in this heat? Or did he have a car parked near here? That was possible. Ferrier couldn’t picture him making his way toward the avenue to wait for a trolley bus. He’d be too noticeable in his definitely American clothes; memorable, also, if he went searching for a taxi. A private car could hide him, get him out of the public eye. A car that was waiting as near the end of the street as possible, ready to slip into the avenue; that was the quick way back into the city, or out of it. Ferrier started toward the avenue, almost at a run. “Dispenseme, dispenseme,” he kept saying as he forged through the various groups. But that man, he was thinking, must have had just as much difficulty in making his way along this street, and he couldn’t have risked drawing so much attention to himself, either. Unlike Ferrier, he wouldn’t have forced the pace.

  Most of the cars were parked; only a few were moving out, and these slowly. There was some kind of block toward the end of the street, now only a short distance away. A boy, circling on his bicycle, had skidded and fallen. No harm done, seemingly. A white Simca had braked just short of him. A policeman was pulling him to the side, lifting the bicycle out of the way of the blocked cars, yelling to the traffic to keep moving. A blue Fiat was impatient, tried to edge past the nervous Simca, was given a loud reprimand by the policeman, slowed back into place. The driver leaned out to explain something quickly, apologise perhaps. The policeman had enough on his hands as it was—the boy’s family were swarming around—and, as the Simca speeded forward into the avenue, signalled all the following cars to get out get out get out. They did.

  Ferrier, no more than thirty tantalising feet away from the blue Fiat, saw it make a right on the avenue, slip into a heavy stream of traffic. He stopped, staring after it, helpless and angry. It was the same car that had waited outside Reid’s house this morning in the Calle San Julian, the same car that had trailed him and Amanda Ames down to the beach. And the same driver. The passenger beside him, shoulders clearly visible as the car had made its quick turn even if his face had been averted, wore a dark suit, and the back of his head, brown-haired, was neat and smoothly brushed.

  Ferrier took a deep, long breath, started back towards the hospital. What could you have done, actually? he asked himself. Yelled at the car, got the policeman to stop it, and then what? There were no charges he could make except to sound wild, crazy. There was no proof at all. Short of searching that man, of having an expert standing by who could recognise a cyanide spray gun when he saw it, there was no proof possible. He approached the hospital steps, skirted the handcarts piled with bunches of flowers, a brilliance of reds and yellows and pinks and purples, thought of red roses and Tavita, and wondered how he was going to tell her. And when. Don’t panic Fuentes, Jeff Reid had said. Don’t panic Tavita, either, he told himself. Then suddenly he had his own mild panic, thrust his hand deep into his trouser pocket. It was still there, Jeff’s lighter. My God, he thought in horror, I might have lost it in that wild run along the street—it might have dropped out, or it could have been lifted by pickpocketing fingers when I got jammed in a crowd. But it was there. He reached the steps, mounted them slowly.

  “Señor Ferrier!”

  He stopped and turned, saw Captain Rodriguez leave his car, which had been parked across the little square in front of the steps, and walk toward him. How long has he been there? Ferrier wondered. The car looks well embedded in the rows of automobiles over on that side of the square, and I saw it—yes, I’m pretty sure I saw it when I came out of the hospital—but I didn’t see Rodriguez. What was he doing? Loitering behind one of those palm trees or ducking down behind his chauffeur?

  “Yes,” Rodriguez said lightly as he reached Ferrier and halted beside him on the top step, “my lieutenant was right. You are an angry man.”

  Ferrier glared at the small grey car and its driver.

  “He saw you come running out of the hospital and he—”

  “Didn’t you? Or were you tyi
ng your shoelace?”

  Rodriguez’ attempts at a friendly joke ended. He looked hurt, then angry. And then he decided to ignore the rudeness. “Something is wrong, I think,” he said softly, studying Ferrier’s face.

  “Yes. Very far wrong.” Ferrier made an effort, brought the harsh words out. “Reid is dead.”

  “What?” Rodriguez was bewildered. “I was waiting to see him—seemed better to let you finish your visit.”

  Much better, thought Ferrier bitterly. If Rodriguez had managed to place a bug in that room, all he needed was to let Jeff and me talk ourselves out. I wish I could see his face when he plays back our conversation. All he will hear is the Haffner and Brahms’s Fourth and a mumble-mumble background.

  Rodriguez recovered. His face was grave. “When did it happen?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Perhaps less.”

  “And the cause?”

  “They’ll say it was a heart attack.”

  Rodriguez stared at the American, frowned. His lips tightened. He said stiffly, “Are you implying that our hospitals are careless?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps I did not understand your English correctly?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Rodriguez again studied Ferrier’s face. I am a patient man, he reminded himself. “Let us go inside,” he said politely, pulling the door open, stepping aside and as he held it. “After you, Señor Ferrier.” The golden glare of the street gave way to dim shadow; a warm breeze stirred around the hall from its ceiling fan. The sharp noises of traffic faded. There was an illusion of coolness and peace. An illusion... Ferrier looked around, for Medina. He saw two white-coated doctors, a nurse, a few people grouped at the reception desk, two harried attendants, but apart from that the hall was almost empty now. Was Medina in Jeff’s room?

  “Tell me one thing,” Rodriguez said. “Why did you go racing into the street? What were you searching for?”

  So he did see me; may even have followed me, Ferrier thought. “A man in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase. He had been visiting Reid. Just after he left, we found Reid dead.”