Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  He glanced at his watch. “No, thanks.” And now he was worrying why O’Connor was late. Six minutes. Not much. But later than expected.

  “We’ll go out to the terrace, and I shall point out the view. And you can tell me all about your own work. Or is it very secret? Is that why you don’t talk about it?” She had risen, coming on to her feet in one lithe movement from the soft cushions of the couch, not even needing the hand he had put out to help her.

  His own work... He hadn’t given it more than five minutes’ thought in the last thirty-six hours. If a vacation was measured by absolute change, then his trip to Spain scored high. “Not so secret. Not usually, at least.”

  “Then tell me about it.” She walked slowly, gracefully, each step almost in the motion of a dance, towards the terrace door.

  Command performance, he thought, and smiled as he shook his head. “No. It isn’t the kind of job that interests most people, not unless they are doing it.” Or could understand the basics. But it always seemed a bit pretentious to emphasise its intricacies; specialisation was usually boring to the uninitiated.

  “So dull as that?”

  His smile broadened. Hers was the usual reaction. “Well,” he said lightly, “it keeps me from confusing shoptalk with conversation.”

  “Shoptalk?” That was a new word to her. She swirled round to face him, her wide caftan billowing out.

  “Talking about one’s work.”

  “Oh,” she said. That was a new idea to her, too. She thought about it, didn’t like it. “But what is wrong with that? Why shouldn’t I talk about dancing and audiences and performances I have given?” she demanded.

  “No reason why you shouldn’t. And no reason why you should. You don’t need to talk about yourself. Every movement you make tells me who you are.” Even the way she was stepping on to the terrace, right now, was pure Tavita.

  She swirled round again, her eyes laughing. And then, they glanced past him, they became cold and appraising. He turned round, too. Robert O’Connor was standing at the threshold of the room. In the hall behind him, old Magdalena was locking the front door. Hell, thought Ferrier, I never even heard him come in.

  O’Connor took a few steps into the room, glanced around it quickly, selected a corner far away from the windows. “Sorry about the delay. And we’d better keep away from that terrace. There’s a fine view of it from the trees on the opposite side. That’s one of the reasons I’m late. I was over there just about twenty minutes ago. Saw you standing outside, Ian.”

  “So you were studying the lie of the land, were you?” I might have guessed.

  “And the general layout of this house. It helps.”

  “Not this time. He isn’t here.”

  O’Connor looked at him. Then he looked at Tavita. His face, in spite of his control, tightened visibly.

  “He’s in Granada, all right,” Ferrier said quickly, and went back to the terrace door where Tavita still stood—she was obviously waiting for O’Connor to come forward and be presented—and closed it as he pulled her gently inside. “Come on, Tavita,” he urged her, “you heard the man. We’ll keep well out of sight of those windows.”

  “Is he afraid?” she asked cuttingly. She did not resist Ferrier’s arm, but she came unwillingly.

  O’Connor said, “Yes. I’m afraid for you, señorita. There was an attempt to follow us here. That is the second reason why I am late.” He broke into fluent Spanish. “My apologies for this intrusion, and my regrets that I did not think it wise to come over to the window and greet you properly. Now would you have the kindness to ask your maid to leave us?”

  She gestured to Magdalena, who plodded down the stairway at the side of the room. “All the way, Magdalena!” she called after her, and they could hear the thump of heels take a second flight of stairs, diminishing gradually until there was only silence. Tavita studied O’Connor carefully. “Who tried to follow you? The police?”

  “I don’t think so. There are others who are as much interested in Tomás Fuentes as the police.”

  “Who?”

  O’Connor exchanged a quick, despairing look with Ferrier. “It would be safer for you, Señorita Vergara, if you did not know—”

  “Who?”

  “His old comrades,” O’Connor said briefly.

  “So that is why you help Tomás Fuentes?” Tavita looked at them reprovingly. “Now that sounds something that could be true. That is something I can believe. Not that you came all the way from Washington to save Tavita, but that you came to steal Fuentes away from his communist friends.” She was delighted as she noticed the consternation on both their faces. “I don’t like them, either, señor. Please sit down.” She chose a chair backed well into the corner he had selected. “Is this safe enough?” she asked him mischievously.

  Ferrier could almost feel the edge of the words tipping O’Connor’s tongue: We are not here for fun and games, señorita. He caught O’Connor’s eye again, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Play it her way, Bob, he told him silently; it will be quicker in the end.

  O’Connor masked his impatience. “It’s too bad we can’t risk going out on the terrace. It must have a superb view. An interesting house, altogether. Quite old, isn’t it? You have restored it with great taste. The pillars around that doorway, for instance—”

  “Ah, you noticed?” She was pleased. “I must take you on a little tour.”

  Oh no, thought Ferrier, and repressed a groan. He gave full marks to O’Connor for his restraint.

  “After all,” Tavita said, “you do want to meet Fuentes.”

  “If that is agreeable to you.” O’Connor was almost too polite.

  “Nothing is agreeable to me at this moment,” she said angrily. “I can think of more pleasant ways to spend a Sunday morning than having to think about a man such as Tomás Fuentes. He ruined yesterday. He ruined last night. He—” She looked at Ferrier, who was watching her worriedly. She relaxed, sighed. “But we must think about him, I suppose.”

  “And quickly,” Ferrier said. “Even if he is out of this house, Tavita, he is not out of your life. So let’s get him moved away from Granada.”

  “And this gentleman, who has no name, will take charge of that?” She looked at O’Connor, as if she had not yet made up her mind about him.

  “I am travelling under the name of Smith,” O’Connor said.

  She waited, but he said nothing more. “And how long did you know Jeff?”

  “I first heard of him,” said O’Connor carefully, “about six years ago, at the time you and he arranged for your brother’s safe arrival in Málaga.”

  “Jeff told you about me?” And my brother, she thought worriedly.

  “Only in the greatest confidence.”

  “What did he say about me? What did he say about my brother?”

  “He admired you. He trusted you.”

  She looked searchingly at O’Connor, trying to gauge the truth in his words. She said, “Nothing but compliments? How pleasant! And not even one small weakness?”

  “Perhaps one,” O’Connor said with a smile. “Fourteen is your lucky number, isn’t it?”

  That silenced her. “It isn’t stupid superstition,” she said at last.

  “Jeff didn’t say it was.”

  Again she studied O’Connor. “Why should he have told you all that?”

  “To get our help. Your brother would not be alive today if he had not been given a great deal of help as he left Cuba.”

  Her eyes widened, as if she were seeing O’Connor in a new perspective. Yes, thought Ferrier, she underestimated him: his unassertive manner made her think he knew less than I said he did.

  “How is he, by the way?” O’Connor asked evenly.

  “He is well.” She kept looking at O’Connor as if she were trying to find any other meaning behind the quiet, friendly voice.

  “And the others who followed him out of Cuba? Safely established in their new lives?”

  She nodded.

  “
Good. We want to keep them that way. So let’s get Fuentes out of Spain.”

  “Can you really silence him? The only way,” she added slowly, “may be to kill him.”

  Ferrier stared at her.

  Even O’Connor was startled. Momentarily. “There is another way.” At least, he thought, I am going to try for it. He pulled a map out of his pocket, unfolded it, brought it over to where Tavita sat, stretched it on a little table beside her knees. “Here we are,” he said, pointing to the road outside her house. “And Tomás Fuentes? Where is he?”

  Tavita had dropped all her little plays and pretences along with her doubts. Her smooth head bent over the map as O’Connor knelt beside her. “Calle de los Mártires. He is in a house on a courtyard near the end of that street. It’s small, lies down in an old part of town.” The map was baffling her, but she wouldn’t admit it.

  “Which old part of town? Over here? Just below your terrace?” I went through that district today pretty thoroughly, O’Connor thought hopefully.

  “No, no. The other way.”

  It would have to be, thought O’Connor. “Down the hill? Or does it—”

  “It’s just off that big main street,” Tavita said, delighted that she had found something she could recognise.

  “I think I’ve got it,” Ferrier said, remembering his study of his own map. “There’s a Church of the Martyrs down there somewhere. Yes, just there, on the corner of that main street and a couple of others.” And behind the church, there were several small unnamed streets winding around aimlessly. “It’s one hell of a cluttered district.” He pointed it out to O’Connor.

  “Find the little street with the museum on it,” Tavita said. “That’s the Calle de los Mártires.”

  O’Connor found the museum.

  “And that is where the courtyard is,” Tavita added.

  “At that museum?” O’Connor could see a whole new set of problems, each raising its ugly little head to leer at him. I’ll have to get down there at once, he thought worriedly, even postpone meeting Tomás until I have an idea of where he is situated. How could you propose a plan for a man’s escape if you didn’t know what you were up against? And this meeting with Tomás Fuentes would be no social call; it would be hard business all the way.

  “You don’t need a man,” Tavita said, watching O’Connor’s close study of it. “I shall take you there.”

  “No,” O’Connor said most definitely. “You stay here.”

  She pushed the map aside, rose to her feet. “I shall take you—”

  “No,” said O’Connor.

  Ferrier said quickly, “It’s safer for you to stay here, Tavita. And quicker for us, too.”

  “But there’s no hurry, Ian; Tomás is safe. Unless, of course, you wanted to take him away this morning.” That sudden idea delighted her. “What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven.”

  “On Sundays, the museum doesn’t close until one o’clock. Until then, there will be several people walking around the courtyard. But,” she added honestly, “it will be much busier in the afternoon, when the museum opens again around four o’clock. It will have a big Sunday crowd—until eight. That is when the museum closes for the night, and the courtyard begins to empty.” She looked at O’Connor, who was frowning over the map, memorising the network of little streets, calculating the precautionary detours that would be necessary. “You must take him away before then. I insist on that.”

  O’Connor looked up at her, raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. By nine o’clock the courtyard is quite silent. The big gates are closed. A dangerous time to leave. You would be most noticeable.”

  O’Connor rose, folding the map, slipped it back into his pocket “It’s always the way,” he said to Ferrier, shaking his head. “I spent more than a good hour studying the approaches to this house and now I find Tomás is in another part of town altogether. We’d better get down there at once. Separate, but within sight of each other.”

  “Did you listen to anything I was saying?” Tavita demanded.

  “Every word,” he assured her. “But we won’t move Tomás out before one o’clock. I have to talk with him, make arrangements—”

  “And how do you expect to talk with him? Go up to the front door, and knock, and wait for him to answer? Stand outside and wait? Oh, no. Impossible.”

  “The front door opens directly into the courtyard?”

  She nodded. “And faces the main gate.”

  “Is there a back or side entrance?” O’Connor’s face was grim. Yes, he thought again, it would have to be a house that stood in full view of every bloody tourist. “Or did everyone have a good look at him when you took him there?”

  She shook her head. “No one could possibly have noticed him.” She moved quickly over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, began dialling. “I’ll let him know you are coming to see him.”

  “For God’s sake—” O’Connor began.

  “Tavita—” That was Ferrier.

  Both were too late. The telephone was already ringing at the other end of the line. Ferrier reached her. “Please,” he said softly, “put that thing down.” She shook her head, her eyes amused. And then he saw that her lips were counting silently.

  “Three rings,” she said as she replaced the receiver but kept her hand over it. “Now we wait for one minute. Tell me when it is over.” She kept her eyes fixed on Ferrier. To O’Connor, who had come to stand beside the phone, she said, “You must stop worrying. I am not a stupid woman.”

  Indeed you are not, he thought, but he remained worried. His impulse would be quite disastrous, he knew. He wanted to wrench the phone away from her, pull its wire right out of the wall if need be. And that would be the end of this tenuous truce. Intently, he watched her pick up the receiver again as Ferrier signalled the end of the minute. She dialled quickly, but he noted the number. “Ana?” she was saying. “Have you finished the alterations on my black dress? I need it right away. Immediately. Bring it—Ah, pardone Usted, wrong number.” She jammed the receiver back in place as if, Ferrier thought, she wished the cradle were Tomás Fuentes’ face. “See?” she asked them, and added a triumphant smile. “I, too, have my arrangements,” she told O’Connor. Then she walked with a long easy stride across the room to a door on its opposite wall. “Only a few seconds,” she called back to them. She opened the door and disappeared into her bedroom.

  “If she thinks she is going to walk us down into town—” began O’Connor; and then fell abruptly silent. He was glad he had done just that when Tavita returned almost immediately, her clothes unchanged. She carried a shawl over her arm, a key in her hand.

  “Now,” she said, “I take you on that little tour.” They exchanged glances, followed her into the hall. She paused at the top of the staircase to the lower floors, listened carefully, found nothing to alarm her. Then she approached one of the hall’s carved wooden panels. Gently, she pressed one of its decorative arabesque carvings aside and revealed a small lock. She beckoned to them to come close, watch the way she inserted the key and twisted it and then pushed the panel open. She switched on an interior light, stood aside to let them enter a short narrow corridor. She closed the panel behind them, secured it with a small bolt. “Now we can talk,” she said. “And please watch everything I do. And remember it. You will come back this way by yourselves.” She led them to the heavy door that blocked off the end of this cramped corridor, unbolted it, let Ferrier swing its weight open for her. “That was more than Tomás Fuentes thought of doing,” she said as she stepped into the darkness beyond and flicked on another light switch.

  Ferrier closed and bolted the door after them, turned to see what kept O’Connor standing so still and speechless. Then he, too, stared at a long slope of white tunnel, carefully carved out of the limestone, adequately lit by well-spaced bulbs, which began its descent almost at his feet and went on down and down.

  Tavita threw the shawl over her shoulders. “It’s always cool here. We can
move quickly. No danger. I shall warn you when there is a step that is beginning to crumble. And you can ask me all the questions you want.”

  Not all the questions, thought Ferrier, as he watched her take her lead so confidently. She knew these steps and stairs by heart. How often had she used them, and when? He followed O’Connor, letting him be closer to Tavita, listening to his questions about small streets and the parking of cars and the bus routes and the trolley cars and the available taxis and the kinds of shops and the types of neighbouring cafés and the museum’s attendants and the caretaker at the gate of the courtyard, while he looked at the white walls between which they passed, and wondered.

  17

  They had come to the end of the long descent. They passed through a door, stood in a short stretch of corridor with another door facing them. “As far as I go,” Tavita said, and handed the key to O’Connor. “I never want to see that man again. I’ll wait only to make sure you can open the lock.”

  Ferrier noticed the expression on her face as she watched O’Connor. She is really afraid of this man Tomás, he thought. He said, “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure that everything is locked or bolted when we return. And thank you. You have been magnificent.” That brought her back to normal again. She gave him a warm smile, touched his arm. Then, business-like, alert once more, she listened to the key being gently turned. She moved back quickly, re-entered the beginning of the long climb towards her own house, signed to Ferrier to close and bolt its door after her. He watched her briefly before he shut her out of sight, rejoined O’Connor, who was waiting for him with unexpected patience. Or perhaps O’Connor was as nervous of the next few minutes as Ferrier was. “Who goes first?” Ferrier asked wryly. It would be his place, of course; he could identify Tomás Fuentes, and Fuentes knew him.

  O’Connor took out a small automatic, checked it carefully, slid it back into his right-hand pocket. “Insurance,” he said briefly, and pulled open the last door. He locked it securely behind them as they stepped into a small room. It was panelled, dimly lit, and empty. Ahead of them lay another room, presumably larger, slightly more illuminated by a soft pink glow. And silence.