Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “They knew about my instructions to Ames?”

  “They knew that you were sending, or bringing, someone to make contact with Reid this evening and get his information. Lucas made sure that would not happen. He had Reid silenced before you could arrive.”

  “It was a heart attack,” Martin said slowly. But he was alarmed. Smith was sitting quite still, his eyes on Ferrier.

  “An induced heart attack,” Ferrier said. “One of those hydrocyanic-acid jobs, I think, sprayed from a pen.”

  “Proof?” Martin asked quickly.

  “There never is. That’s the whole idea behind such a weapon, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know about it?” Smith asked.

  “Jeff told me. That type of spray pen or spray gun, or whatever Department Thirteen calls it, was used on him last night on a staircase in El Fenicio. But he jumped in time. That’s how he smashed his leg.”

  “At El Fenicio?” Martin thought that over. “Any connection between these two attacks on Reid?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. But it was Jeff’s description of the first attack that made me suspect the second.”

  “Suspicion but no proof?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that what you are really saying?”

  “You might call it a demonstration of proof when the murderer took several items from Jeff’s hospital room; anything that might have contained a recorded interview, made either on tape such as you find in a cassette or on some kind of microwire that could be disguised in—well, in any small object Jeff might carry around with him. Also, the murderer made a neat exit, with one of Lucas’ men acting as his chauffeur. Also, the three thugs who came searching here were directed by Lucas.”

  “Proof?” asked Martin.

  Ferrier’s lips tightened. “I’m too goddamned tired to go into details. You take my word for it. Or not. As you like.”

  Smith looked at the room and said diplomatically, “I’d take this upheaval as a slight demonstration of proof, too.” He gave Ferrier an encouraging nod.

  Martin said, “How did you learn about Department Thirteen? From Reid? And in what connection? The cyanide pen, or something else?”

  He’s trying to find out about Tomás Fuentes, Ferrier thought. He hesitated. “I’ve just been trying to show you that your group has been infiltrated,” he said slowly. “That’s what you should be worrying about right now.”

  “I am. And if Reid was an example of the blabbermouths I’ve had foisted on me—”

  “That’s enough, Martin!” Smith’s voice was cold and sharp.

  Martin got control of himself. He looked at Smith, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Sorry. I’ve been overworked and overworried.” He looked at Ferrier, and saw it was too late for any kind of excuse or apology. The damage had been done. Ferrier was watching him with undisguised contempt. But Martin made one last effort. “Reid did tell Ferrier too much,” he protested mildly enough.

  “Who else was there to tell?” Ferrier asked. “Actually, he told me little. We didn’t have much time together. He told me just enough to get this into the right hands—in Washington.” He pulled out the lighter from his trouser pocket. He held it up clearly. He took a little pleasure in the way Martin stared at it, took a step forward toward it. “No,” he said, pocketing it again, “it goes to Washington. Those were Jeff’s instructions—practically his last words. I’ll carry them out.”

  “So that’s what he was using,” Martin said. “There’s equipment in the study that can play it back to us,” he told Smith. Then he beckoned to Ferrier. “Come on, let’s not waste any more time. This is urgent.”

  “I know.” But Ferrier didn’t move.

  “What else do you know? What kind of report is inside that lighter?”

  Ferrier shook his head. “The subject of that report will talk only with a certain man in Washington. The subject insisted on that. And that’s all I know.”

  “The subject, the subject,” mimicked Martin. He obviously found Ferrier’s caution slightly comic. “Let’s get down to a name. Could it be Tomás Fuentes, alias Vado, alias Adán, alias Crostóbal, alias—” He stopped abruptly, noticing Smith’s face.

  Smith said, “I had no idea you were such an expert on Fuentes.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t intend trespassing. Put it down to academic interest. Frankly, I thought I’d better do a little research, with all these wild rumours floating around.”

  “Have there been so many of them?”

  “Oh, a slight exaggeration on my part. Just the one rumour, the same enquiry, over and over again in the last twenty-four hours. Actually, I don’t quite believe it. Fuentes had too much of a reputation here to risk putting a foot back on Spanish territory. My own theory is that there could be an impostor, using the Fuentes name in order to get our attention—perhaps our help.” He was watching Smith’s face. Ferrier caught Smith’s eye, gave one small shake of his head. Let Martin blunder along in his own inimitable way, Ferrier was thinking; Fuentes isn’t his special interest, anyway—that much, I’ve just found out. He’s the type who overthinks and underacts. But he can feel, too, damn him: for Martin had glanced around quickly, as if he had almost sensed some imperceptible communication between Ferrier and Smith. Martin transferred his full attention to Ferrier. “I think I succeeded in surprising Ferrier. You have heard some of those names, haven’t you, Ferrier?”

  “You surprised me all right.” And now, Ferrier was thinking, I can stop worrying about Reid’s last incoherent, wandering sentences. They made sense, after all. Fuentes and Vado were one and the same man, and Mr. Robert O’Connor in Washington was the expert on both of these names. So, in their way, were Smith and Martin... “In fact, you astonished me. Who is the blabbermouth now?”

  Martin was about to speak, decided not to, bottled up his anger inside tightly closed lips.

  Smith said philosophically, “Well—it looks as if Ferrier is going to carry that lighter all the way to Washington.”

  “Stubborn idiot,” Martin said under his breath.

  “Stubborn? Yes. If he weren’t, he might not have that lighter safe in his pocket. I rather like men who are stubborn about the right things.” Smith turned to Ferrier. “Who is this man in Washington? I may know him, get you quickly to him. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  That’s what I want, thought Ferrier. He hesitated briefly, measured Smith carefully. “O’Connor,” he said. “Robert O’Connor.”

  There was a short but intense silence. Then Martin burst into a fit of laughter.

  Smith said, “Oh, shut up, Martin! It’s no joke.” He shook his head worriedly.

  “He’ll never believe you. Not this character,” Martin said, and went into another round of laughter.

  Smith rose to his feet, called out to the study. “Mike! Ben! Can I see you for a minute? Yes, both of you.” And when they came into the room, he said, “Mike, write down my name—yes, my name.” He waited while Mike scribbled quickly on a page of a small notebook. “Tear that out. Fold it. Give it to Ferrier.” Then to Waterman he said, “Tell Ferrier who I am. Go ahead—tell him!”

  He’s Robert O’Connor, thought Ferrier, and unfolded the slip of paper that Mike had handed to him. Robert O’Connor, it read. “This is Bob O’Connor,” Waterman was saying. Ferrier handed the paper back to Mike. “You want to burn this, I suppose?” he asked with a good attempt at a smile. Then he pulled out the lighter, handed it to O’Connor.

  O’Connor pocketed it carefully. And definitely. Martin watched it disappear, hesitated, as if he was about to speak and wasn’t quite sure how to phrase his suggestion. O’Connor got in ahead of him. “You’ll be late,” he told Martin, consulting his watch. “It’s after ten o’clock.”

  “A few minutes won’t hurt. Developments here—”

  “I can handle them, I think. And you shouldn’t keep Reid’s lawyer waiting. He will need some careful instructions.”

  “He’s capable. Why don’t you join us for a quick dinner? He may have
more information on Reid’s death. And then I’ll see you safely on board your plane.”

  “I’ll manage. Don’t worry about me. Besides, all the topics you’ll be discussing are a little outside my field. Strictly your business, aren’t they?”

  Martin got the message. It was a gentle reminder of their separate responsibilities: Reid was his to worry about—burial arrangements, disposition of effects, checks made at the office as well as here, notification of nearest and dearest as well as of associates, plans for his replacement; Tomás Fuentes was all O’Connor’s. True, there had been a slight overlap: Reid had made that secret report, and perhaps it did deal with Fuentes. If it hadn’t been for Ferrier’s definite statement that the lighter was intended only for O’Connor—yes, thought Martin, I could have made out a case, a good one, to let me listen to the playback. He said, “I am of course curious about what Reid had to say.”

  “Of course,” O’Connor agreed warmly. “If there’s anything that needs your attention, we’ll let you know immediately. And thanks for all your help. Look me up when you next come to Washington.”

  “You’re leaving at midnight? I’d better assign two men to make sure you get on to that plane without any trouble.”

  O’Connor joked that suggestion aside. “You think we’ll be hijacked?” Then he turned serious. “You’ve more trouble on your hands that we have. Infiltration—if Ferrier is right about it—is a major problem. The worst, for my money.”

  “I can handle it. I think I know where to start.”

  “Then you’re lucky. Usually it’s a nasty, heartbreaking, mind-tormenting business that can take months. I know.” O’Connor was definitely sympathetic. “I went through it, a couple of years ago. It practically paralysed my work. And I kept wondering if I was suspecting the wrong man.”

  “In this case, it’s a girl. A fairly recent addition. Sent me by Washington.”

  “Foisted on you?” O’Connor asked pointedly. He began steering Martin toward the hall.

  But their progress was slow, for Martin kept talking. “More or less. About a year ago. She came with a lot of heavy support—an uncle in a position to convince important people. She’s clever, there’s no doubt; puts on a good performance. And attractive. Washington said she had the right background for one of my assignments. She is a lapsed communist. But who can trust that? They revert—”

  “Not always. I have known some who meant what they said. And they do know, more than most people, what we are up against,” O’Connor reminded him sharply.

  “Sure, sure. But this one could be a good double agent. That idea has been worrying me for some time, actually.”

  They had reached the hall. “Then you’d better take some action on that,” O’Connor said, and put out his hand. Martin took it. The goodbye was made, but Martin did not leave. He dropped O’Connor’s hand, turned to look back at Ferrier. “Something wrong?” O’Connor asked. His impatience was thinly veiled.

  “Ferrier,” Martin called over, “you’re so quick to smell infiltration—what did you think of Amanda Ames?”

  Ferrier’s face was tight. He had heard the conversation—who couldn’t have? But he wasn’t prepared for Martin’s question. “No!” he blurted out angrily. “Not Amanda. She’s all right.” And she had never been a communist—that was the whole point of her story. He almost said that, then realised that Martin could have a powerful answer: she never had any true story to tell—that was the whole point of being communist. So he kept silent his eyes fixed on Martin unwaveringly.

  “Indeed,” Martin said dryly. “And how long were you with her?”

  Ferrier suddenly saw where he was being left. But he didn’t dodge this question, either. “About an hour.” I must sound like a fool, he thought.

  “And you find she is quite above suspicion? In one small hour?” Martin was overly polite.

  Ferrier said nothing. He could feel Mike’s sympathetic but speculative eyes studying his face. Thank God Ben Waterman had gone foraging in the kitchen.

  “She is, you see, an extremely attractive young woman,” Martin said to O’Connor. “Puts on a good performance, as I told you. But there is one thing she can’t charm away, and that’s the fact that there were only five of us connected with the Málaga listening post: Reid, two men with whom I’ve worked for fifteen years, Ames, myself.”

  The words were spoken clearly enough. Ferrier saw Mike’s look of consternation, heard him swear softly under his breath at such indiscretion. “Don’t worry,” Ferrier told him. “It was all carefully calculated.” Fool of the year, that’s me. That’s how I’m made to look. Anything I say, from now in, will be weighed twice. Askance—good old word that could hardly ever be used—is the way they’ll look at me. Then he laughed openly. Askance was the exact expression on Mike’s face. “I laugh so that I may not weep,” he said, and got a twenty-eight-year-old stare in return. “Or curse,” he added bitterly. Amanda Ames? I listened to her today. I got more of a message than Martin ever sent... Or was I wrong? Hell, that was the worst of the Martins in this world: one good sneer from them and your confidence started crumbling. That was what had been intended of course, he reminded himself; but his confidence stayed shaken.

  He heard the front door close. Mike said, “Stupid old bastard, I thought he’d never leave. What got into him?”

  O’Connor came quickly back into the room. “He’s just trying to show he is completely in control. Today has been a bad day for him. That’s all.” Then he asked sharply, “Where’s Ben?”

  Mike said, “He got hungry when you started talking about dinner. Muttered something about sandwiches.”

  O’Connor glanced at his watch, took the lighter from his pocket. “Let’s get with it. I’d like to hear what this has to tell us.” He held up the lighter. “Martin says Reid has the equipment—”

  “Yes. It’s there. Well disguised. Not touched. Looks like part of his stereo set up.”

  O’Connor tossed over the lighter. “Let me know when it’s all ready to go.” Then he turned to the very silent Ferrier. “You gave me a small signal when Martin was discussing Vado. Or is it now Fuentes?”

  “Fuentes.”

  “You don’t think he is a fake?”

  “He’s the real thing.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he made contact with two people who knew him in the old days. He used them to meet Jeff Reid.”

  “Friends of his?” O’Connor asked quickly.

  “Far from it. But they are going along.”

  “Blackmail perhaps? That sounds like Vado—Fuentes. Who are they?”

  “Esteban and Tavita, the—”

  “Ah, yes—El Fenicio? Tavita was Reid’s friend. She came into some of his reports—a crazy pair, but effective...” O’Connor was briefly entertained by some memory. “So Fuentes is in Málaga,” he added softly.

  “He was in Málaga. I saw him last night. Just over there.” Ferrier pointed behind him to the staircase.

  O’Connor recovered from his shock. “You are certain?”

  “Well—I am now. I didn’t know who he was at the time. He didn’t see me. I thought it better not to step forward. He had a gun ready for use.”

  “When did you learn who he was?”

  “This morning, when Tavita smuggled him out disguised as her chauffeur.”

  “Tavita told you who he was?” O’Connor was tense.

  “No. But I—”

  “You guessed it?” O’Connor was trying to hide his disappointment. From the study, Mike’s cheerful voice called that he was ready and waiting. “Coming,” O’Connor answered irritably, but he didn’t move.

  Yes, thought Ferrier, as he watched O’Connor’s expression change from disappointment to doubt, there’s that old askance look making its bow again. Thank you, Martin, thank you very much. I’m just the susceptible guy who takes women at their pretty-face value and twists the facts to suit his dramatic sense. “I had bits and pieces of information,” he sai
d angrily, “I made some deductions, I saw some definite evidence. Add all that together—and if you call it guessing, then it’s okay with me.”

  “Oh, come on now,” O’Connor said, breaking into a smile. “Did you talk this over with Reid?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he believed you? But, of course, he must have. Or he wouldn’t have told you about me, would he?”

  That at least was a gesture. Either that or O’Connor was a smooth operator. Ferrier said flatly, “It was Fuentes I saw.”

  “And where is he now in Málaga?”

  “He isn’t. He’s in Granada. He was there this evening. I telephoned Tavita, and he took the receiver away from her. So I spoke with him—”

  “He actually spoke with you? What about?”

  “I disguised it a bit. I passed on the word I’d be visiting Tavita.”

  O’Connor’s highly intelligent face was bewildered. “You’d better start at the beginning.” He looked up quickly as Ben came carrying a tray loaded with food into the room. “Go and make some more sandwiches,” he said impatiently.

  “But I just have,” Ben told him. “The itsy-bitsy dainty little things on the lace doilies are Concepción’s idea of a man’s bite. The jumbo slabs are mine. Take your choice. And here’s a tubful of beer.”

  O’Connor exchanged glances with Ferrier, shook his head, sighed, then shrugged in resignation.

  Ferrier nodded toward the study, where Mike stood waiting. “I think you’ll find the beginning starts in there. I only came in on the second act.” Then he added with a gleam of humour, “But that, of course, is just another of my guesses.”

  O’Connor looked at him sharply. An answering smile appeared on his thin worried face. He lifted a couple of sandwiches, a can of beer, and headed for the study. “Okay, Mike. Get something to eat. I’ll call you when I need you.” He closed the door quietly on them all.

  14

  Esteban walked among the tables, making sure that everything was ready for tonight’s performance. It was early yet—half past ten: the first people wouldn’t arrive at El Fenicio until after eleven, and these were usually tourists. Saturday night was filled with them. “Make sure,” he warned the waiters, “that the front tables are kept for our regulars. And no one—no one—is to sit here. This table stays empty all night.” He tilted the two chairs against it as if it were already occupied. And in a way it was. Esteban could almost see Señor Reid sitting there in his favourite place. He turned abruptly away, walked to the back of the courtyard, stood there and looked at his domain. He wondered what kind of performance would be given tonight. The dancers were quiet in the dressing-room—except Constanza. Death saddened her, she had kept saying, as if to explain her excessive tears. No doubt. She was sentimental. But death also excited her, for she kept talking talking talking. About nothing important, thank God. At least she was remembering Esteban’s serious warning. She was no longer mentioning the man she had glimpsed, or thought she had glimpsed—Esteban hoped he had shaken her out of that notion—up on the balcony of Tavita’s sitting-room. She hadn’t even mentioned it to Captain Rodriguez, this afternoon. And she’d have the lead part in the dancing tonight. But Esteban wished she could control her tongue, have some proper dignity. Death gave meaning to life, and should be treated with respect. The final act faced all of us; a friend’s death was but a preview of our own.