Ferrier was out of his car, walking rapidly to the little white Simca. Keep your eye on me, Max, keep your eye on me, he said silently as he stepped in and didn’t risk any more glances at either Max or the hotel entrance. The Simca’s engine turned over nicely. He backed it out from its sheltering place beside the huge Rolls, started slowly at first, his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Max must have climbed into his Mercedes, a nice powerful 280 but restrained in appearance, nothing flashy, not even too large in size; it began moving, too. And behind it came a Renault in subdued grey, not as old as it had been made to look, and much stronger in horsepower than might be expected. Ferrier put on some speed as he headed out of the plaza, noted with relief that the little caravan was not too obvious: the Renault even tried to pass the Mercedes and was waved back by the chauffeur.
Then suddenly, ahead of him, travelling straight towards him in the direction of the hotel, Ferrier saw the big yellow sports car. It was in a hurry. He had time to turn aside his head, pretend to reach for something in the tiny back seat, and avoid being noticed. But Gene Lucas, who was driving, only had his eyes on the Renault, which was again edging out as if to pass the Mercedes. There was no Bianca with him today, no clutter of liberal chic to lighten his journey. He was alone, a large suitcase his only company. He looked hot and tired, dust-covered and tense. A man, thought Ferrier, who is almost late for a most important meeting. Then he put aside all speculation and turned the blunt hood of the little Simca down into town.
* * *
Ferrier had decided not to play coy, become too involved in small twisting streets in the hope of greater safety. The most direct route was the best. Security lay not in detours but in the unexpected speed of O’Connor’s decision. Their abrupt departure from the hotel was a help, too. So were the main streets, now crowded as Sunday came to life. Even Max and the Renault that followed were hard pressed at times to keep Ferrier in sight. For once, he thought, we’ve caught the opposition off balance. He began to enjoy himself.
He found a parking place in the lee of the Church of the Martyrs, set out quickly for the museum, with only seven minutes to spare. He glanced back as he approached the big gate to its courtyard. Max had arrived. His car had drawn up about fifty yards away, well to one side of the narrow street, the driver at the wheel, the engine idling. The Renault was behind, looking for a free space.
All right, thought Ferrier as he saw Max leave the car, here we go. He walked into the courtyard, paused inside the gates (do you see me, O’Connor, is this clear enough?), and looked around as any stranger would. Then he turned towards the museum steps. At their top, he was stopped by a middle-aged man in grey with an iron hook for a right hand. “The museum is closing,” he was told. “In ten minutes, we close.”
“I could have a look at the main hall.”
“No. A waste of your money. Come back this afternoon.” The man was tired, but the brown eyes were friendly even if the lips looked severe under a heavy dark moustache. “There is a lot to see. It takes more than a glance.”
A gentle reprimand, thought Ferrier. “Of course. It was just my disappointment at arriving so late.” And now, he thought, I’ll have to put in time, waiting for O’Connor to leave. Or else I’ll find myself walking out with him and Fuentes. And there they were—yes, there they actually were, already out of the house and with no one seeming to notice or pay any attention to the two men who were skirting the courtyard at the slow pace of interested tourists. Either you could say O’Connor was lucky or you could credit him with being quick to choose his moment. Whatever it was, luck or skill, it was bringing him safely into the colonnade that stretched along the other side of the broad patio. He was leading the way, about six paces in front of Tomás Fuentes. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with each other.
The attendant broke off his advice to the foreigner about what he could expect to see inside the museum, said shrewdly, “You like architecture? Yes, that colonnade over there is old, fifteenth century. It was built before Columbus sailed for America.” His iron hook waved in the air as he pointed. (Ferrier controlled his flinch, not so much at the hook, but at its direction. If Fuentes had seen that, he was likely to start running.) “It’s just as it was—except for the tinsmith’s shop in the corner near the gate. Commercial.” He shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips. Then he turned to warn some youngsters to take the steps more carefully, limped back to his post at the museum door to watch the visitors who were starting to trickle out. Ferrier joined a small group of them, followed their slow progress down the broad stone stairs. Now he could watch the colonnade in safety.
And it was worth watching. O’Connor, walking leisurely, was past the tinsmith’s shop and strolling towards the gate. Fuentes had just reached the tinsmith’s, seemed interested by its window display, then halted at its door. He was kneeling, tying a shoelace. And Ferrier almost halted, too, in his surprise. For as Fuentes rose, he slipped something under the door. Or touched it? Or what? (Had he actually slipped something—an envelope, a letter—something that had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared in Fuentes’ hand? Ridiculous, Ferrier told himself: you are just too damned suspicious of that character.) Now he was following O’Connor again, walking a little more smartly to make up for lost seconds.
Ferrier came down the last two steps into the courtyard, let the thickening clot of people jostle around him. His impulse was to cross over to the colonnade, have a look at the tinsmith’s door. But it wouldn’t be particularly wise to draw the attendant’s quick eyes back in that direction; he had already noticed Ferrier’s interest. Once was understandable; twice would be emphasis. So Ferrier walked thoughtfully towards the gate. Possibly, he decided at last, he had imagined too much: Fuentes might only have been steadying himself as he rose. But with a man like Fuentes, you came to expect tricks. He enjoyed them, that was the truth of it. The detailed attention to his disguise must have given him a lot of pleasure. He was determined to be a winner, even in the smallest things. His dark suit, for instance, must have had a much larger chest size than his light dapper grey. Yet it had been well filled, as if he had added several inches to his girth and a full twenty pounds to his weight. Padded, or bulging with his special possessions? His movements had also changed: stride shortened, head and shoulders pitched slightly forward, hands scarcely swinging. From across the courtyard, he had seemed older, a little stiff in his joints. Thorough, that was Fuentes.
The narrow street was busier now. Ferrier could risk walking smartly towards the church, cutting through the flux of people trailing out from the museum courtyard. Ahead of him, he saw a door being closed on Max’s Mercedes, and at once the car started moving, careful not to brush any of the pedestrians. Then, reaching a freer space, it increased its speed to the legal limit. Ferrier barely glanced at it as it swept past him. He noted, with interest, a man sitting beside the driver. Max was in the back seat with Fuentes, who was now wearing a tilted beret to add a new touch to his bald head. Behind them came the Renault, not too near, not too far. There were three men in this car—two unknowns, one recognisable. He was one of the two young men who had quoted poetry on the hotel terrace. I bet Garcia Lorca is far from his mind now, thought Ferrier. And Max has increased his quota. He has taken along not a couple of men, but three, excluding the drivers. That makes five of them to back him up, if need be. Max, I like your style.
Ferrier reached the Simca. (He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Robert O’Connor, which was as it should be.) All over, he kept thinking, all over. Goodbye to Tomás Fuentes. All over, and thank God for that. Then he remembered Amanda’s postcard.
He pulled it out of his pocket, switched off the ignition. The writing was hurried, and depressed—its line descended in a trailing slope. Like Jeanne Moreau’s mouth, he thought. An unhappy sign. The message began bravely, ended strangely. Can I take you up on that lunch? I’ll have a table for two o’clock. Inside. If you’re late, don’t worry. I’ll wait.
He turned the card over. It
was a colourful view of a garden restaurant, a sort of green terrace, with a venerable building as close background. This, the descriptive small print told him, was the Parador Nacional de San Francisco, where Washington Irving, the celebrated American writer, had spent many happy years being inspired by the great beauties of the Alhambra. Which beauties? Ferrier wondered irreverently. Then he became serious again as he looked at Amanda’s writing. I’ll wait. It wasn’t the kind of phrase that a girl as pretty as Amanda Ames ever needed to use. Translated, it probably meant Vital that I see you. And it had better be: the last thing he needed today was luncheon with a charming question mark; what he wanted right now was an hour stretched flat on his back, with his eyes blissfully closed. It was the warm sun pouring into the little front seat of the car that had made him feel the full extent of the effort and strain of these last twenty-four hours. All over, he thought again.
He slipped the card back into his pocket, turned on the engine, forced himself to stay awake as far as the hotel. He’d cat nap in his room. Leave instructions to be called at a quarter of two. The Alhambra grounds weren’t far away from the hotel—a few minutes by car. And the parador was at the edge of their walls; no problem in finding it. Cat naps were no problem, either. There had been many times when he had lived on them for several days.
I’ll wait... Pathetic and sad. Or was that just a part of the act?
19
Ferrier was twelve minutes late even before he reached the parador and annoyed with himself. (He had not allowed for the possibility that he might be followed from the hotel. Perhaps it had been a false alarm—he was inclined to think not—but he had taken the precaution of a roundabout route instead of the direct road.) He managed to find a small space for the Simca near the gatehouse, with a tip for the grey-coated attendant—the quadrangle was full of cars—and that added some more minutes. Then he had to make his way through a garden with fountain and cloisters, all very charming except that he was in no mood to appreciate the attractions of a sixteenth-century convent; and after that through a series of small rooms—elegant in the Spanish style, with wood beams, white walls, tiled floors, native rugs, hand-woven linen massively draped, dark rich colours, heavy candlesticks, wrought iron, large bowls packed with bright flowers. Beyond all this was the dining terrace and garden, filled with tables and crammed with guests. People everywhere, indoors, too. Amanda had certainly chosen a lonely spot for her rendezvous. And he had come too far, must have passed the room where she waited. He was closer to being twenty minutes late when he found her, tucked away at a corner table with her back to the room. He had been looking for a girl in a blue dress, and she had changed to brown. In spite of his annoyance, rapidly mounting, he had to smile.
She noticed his smile with relief, brushed aside his apologies. “You did come,” she said thankfully. “After I sent that card—”
“How did you know it would reach me?” He had taken the seat on her right, the chair opposite her being already filled with a white silk coat and her white duffel bag type of purse.
“Simple. From where I sat in the bar, I could see the back of your friend’s head. When you went out to the terrace, he turned his head and began to speak in your direction. I couldn’t see you, but who else was there? Unless he was talking to himself, of course.”
They shared a laugh, small, tentative. Then seriously, he looked at her. Her face was a little drawn and tired, but she really was a stunning girl. That brown dress, for instance—not a colour he’d choose as his favourite, but it looked good on her, lightened by a white coral necklace that curved down to her breasts, lay between them. It was the quality of her skin, of a tan that wasn’t too deep; honey and roses, he thought. Brown highlights were emphasised in her dark hair, lashes and eyebrows black, and those deep-blue eyes looking back at him so frankly.
“Yes?” she asked him.
“Oh, just admiring your earrings.”
She was amused again. The earrings were simple little studs to match her necklace. She shook her head, as if he baffled her in a light way.
“So you saw me walk through the bar. Why didn’t you say hello?” he asked.
Her voice dropped to a low level. “Too many strange people around. Gene Lucas’ friends were all over the place—oh, not staying at that hotel. Lucas is, though. They are meeting there, right now. In my room.”
“What?” He was taken aback, and showed it. He looked around quickly, just to make sure they wouldn’t be overlooked even speaking as quietly as they were. The well-spaced tables reassured him. Indoors wasn’t as tightly packed as the open terrace. And the tables were self-absorbed, buzzing with tourist talk in several languages. Although none of the other guests were bothering to lower their voices, the only distinguishable words were an emphatic no or a clear yes that shot out from the mixed brew.
Amanda had been saying, “Lucas came panting along—he had arrived a little late—and asked me if he could use my room to meet a few friends. His own room wasn’t ready to receive him. He said. It could be true, it could be a lie. You never can tell with Lucas.”
“But you didn’t have to let him—”
“But I do. Or are you forgetting my job? It is to penetrate the Lucas set up. I’ll never do that by refusing—” She stopped as his hand touched her arm, warning her that a waitress was approaching. “Sherry,” she told him. “Amontillado.” She kept silent after that until the girl left, watched him curiously. “You look so dubious, Ian. The waitress will bring you real Scotch, just as you ordered. They are geared for foreigners at these inns. They’re tourist industry.”
“Dubious?” he asked jokingly. Had he really let his feelings about Amanda’s job show so clearly? And there was a twist there: Amanda’s job, according to Martin last night, might be just the opposite of what she had stated so calmly. Her mission might be—if Martin’s doubts were on the right wavelength—the penetration of Martin’s Málaga network.
“Too much word,” she agreed. “Something half-strength would have been closer. You looked just a little—on guard, leery, expectant of the worst, slightly sceptical. That was all. Or were you nervous about me? I shouldn’t have told you about my exact job in so many direct words. I know—I shouldn’t have. Only, I’m scared stiff, and you are the only person I know in Granada whom I can trust.”
She was deadly serious, intense. Too intense. She’d be likely to break down any minute. So he tried to lighten the mood. “Come on, Amanda, you know better than to take anyone at face value. I could be—”
“You couldn’t.” She paused, then said slowly, “I heard about Jeff Reid.”
He was silent.
Her voice dropped even more. “It was murder. Did you know that?”
The blue eyes were fearful, sad, and so completely honest. Damn Martin, he thought, for the suspicions he planted. Martin would say right now that this could be a small probe to find out if he had any proof of assassination, and if so—as the only person so far who had any evidence to offer—Ferrier was putting himself in some real danger by admitting it. He looked away from those blue eyes. “How did you find that out? Or am I making you break security again?”
“How I found out doesn’t matter. What I’ve found out is the important thing. Ian—remember that man Lucas asked you about yesterday?”
Tomás Fuentes. “I remember,” he said carefully.
“He is in Granada,” she said, almost in a whisper. “That is why Gene Lucas is here.”
And much good it will do him, Ferrier thought with a touch of satisfaction. He hoped his face was totally blank of expression.
“And that is why Martin sent me here.”
“Martin?”
She nodded. “At least, I now think that is why. Martin didn’t explain, just told me to leave early this morning for Granada. He had reserved a room for me at the Palace. He said Lucas was going to be there.”
“And when did you see Martin?” Last I heard, Ferrier thought, Martin was going to start investigating. A strange way
of making an enquiry, to send a suspect right into the middle of a highly sensitive, top-secret operation. Or was this some kind of test?
“I’ve never seen him. Just instructions and messages.”
“And when did you get this one?”
“Late last night—almost half past eleven—I got a phone call to go to—” she hesitated—“to a place where I pick up any important message. When I got there five minutes later, I was given a number to phone. There was a woman at the other end. She told me to hang up and wait. I did. When the call came through, it was from Martin.” She tried to smile. “He’s a most untraceable person. I suppose it is necessary. Only—yes, I do get irritated. The others who have dealt with me—more important than Martin, I think, although that’s possibly sacrilege—well, they just don’t behave like that. Careful, yes; but they keep everything simple and direct. I don’t think Martin trusts anyone.”
“Except himself?” Ferrier asked. Martin’s super caution was beginning to look comic, now that the Tomás Fuentes incident was definitely closed as far as Málaga was concerned. Trust Martin to fuss and blow smoke screens after he arrived too late. I suppose, Ferrier was thinking, Martin wanted a part of the action and some of the credit. This wasn’t his business—O’Connor had made that clear—but Martin had the excuse that Málaga was his special thing and what happened there was his responsibility. At least, he was making it so. But in what an inept way: sending a girl on a man’s errand—this job was far too tricky, too dangerous for Amanda to handle alone. And a girl of whom he wasn’t sure, at that. “He’s a fool,” Ferrier said in sudden anger.
Message From Malaga Page 31