Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “It was most impressive.”

  “Too impressive? Oh, I see. You think he is American Intelligence. No, no. He was a newspaperman at one time—with a good ear for an interesting story. And he still knows where to find one. That’s all.”

  “Here?” asked Rodriguez sharply.

  Tavita’s eyes widened. She sank down on a couch. “Oh, no—he can’t be one of those men who want to interview me. And to find me being asked questions by the police! Oh, no!”

  “He didn’t come here for an interview,” Ferrier said.

  “Interview?” Rodriguez had picked up the word, was examining it sharply. “What men?”

  “Oh, some journalists or other. They’ve been pestering me all day,” Tavita said angrily. “They are coming this evening at ten. Of course I can’t see them now. I know they are important, but I will not see any of them tonight. I’m too tired, too upset. Captain Rodriguez—please finish your questions.”

  “As quickly as possible,” he assured her. “Did you know that Esteban was worried about you? He thought you were alone here, unprotected against—”

  “Alone? I am often alone.”

  “But not when you may be threatened by a man such as Tomás Fuentes.”

  Ferrier drew a deep, slow breath.

  “But Esteban knows very well—” Tavita began.

  “Do you know Fuentes?” Rodriguez had quickly switched his attention to Ferrier.

  “All I know is that people keep asking questions about him. The first time I ever heard his name was yesterday, around noon.”

  “Who talked about him?”

  “A man called Gene Lucas.” Now listen to that, Waterman; are you flinching?

  “Lucas?” Rodriguez asked softly.

  “Yes. He was looking for Fuentes.”

  Tavita burst out. “Then this Lucas is a stupid man. Tomás Fuentes is dead. And Esteban knows this,” she told Rodriguez. “So why didn’t you ask Esteban all your questions and save yourself the journey to Granada?”

  Rodriguez said, quite unperturbed, “I did talk with Esteban. He came to see me this morning. He told me a strange story.”

  “There’s nothing strange about it. It happened.”

  “What happened, Tavita?” Ferrier asked. Better to let her tell this story that Esteban had cooked up—because he thought I had left for America?—than have Rodriguez ask his questions.

  “On Friday,” she said quickly, “a man came to El Fenicio and asked for me. Esteban talked with him. Esteban always does that with strangers who ask to see me. This man wanted my help—money, shelter. He said he was a refugee from Cuba. Oh, yes, I have given money and shelter to refugees. Often. But they have been friends of my brother, people whose names we knew, people whom we recognised. And none of them—” she looked at Rodriguez and shook her head emphatically—“none were ever criminals. Oh, I’m sorry, Ian. I should have told you all this, perhaps, when I asked you to visit me in Granada. Yes, I was a little nervous in case that man did appear again: I thought you would discourage him—as Jeff Reid would have done.”

  Now this is Tavita embellishing Esteban’s story Ferrier suddenly thought, to let me appear ignorant—innocent of anything that was really going on. A sweet try, but a dangerous one. She’d better stick to the simple outline. Rodriguez is delighted with this little elaboration. “That man?” asked Ferrier. “Tomás Fuentes?”

  “Not Tomás Fuentes! The man who came asking for my help. He used the name of Tomás Fuentes.”

  “But why?”

  “Because my family had known Tomás Fuentes. That was many years ago. The impostor thought—I suppose—that I would remember that friendship and help him now. But he seems to have known little about the name he had borrowed. Tomás Fuentes is dead. He is buried somewhere outside Barcelona. He has a sister in Málaga who has visited his grave.”

  Rodriguez said, “Yes, Esteban told me all this. But a grave does not prove that a man is dead—not a man such as Fuentes.”

  “But the stranger did not even look like Fuentes,” Tavita said indignantly. “Oh, I know I was very young when Fuentes walked around Málaga. But this stranger was about your height, Captain Rodriguez. Fuentes was taller. Esteban remembered that, too. He also thought he remembered that Fuentes had brown eyes and dark hair. But this man had grey eyes. And he was too young to be Fuentes. He was not a man in his fifties—like Esteban. He seemed to be in his forties. No, no, this man was a pretender. The only thing I could recognise about him was the name he gave. And that is one name I would never help.” She shook her head over the man’s stupidity. “Of all the names for him to choose!”

  “And you refused to help this man? You sent him away?”

  “Esteban told him to leave El Fenicio. And Esteban sent me back to Granada. So I drove here yesterday morning. But it seems the man learned I had gone, and he followed me. He telephoned me last night. An extremely short call. I told him he was an impostor, and he hung up—just like that.” She cracked her fingers.

  “And since then?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t seen him, I haven’t heard his voice.” This was the truth, and she spoke with assurance, with a sense of small triumph.

  “Why was Esteban so afraid of this man?”

  “Afraid for me, perhaps. Esteban is an idiot! There was no need—”

  “Was the man a blackmailer?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, looked at Rodriguez with large innocent eyes. “He did not have the chance to make any demands. I cut him off. But perhaps he talked more with Esteban.”

  “And when he followed you to Granada, what did you think he was?”

  “A police spy.”

  Rodriguez stiffened visibly.

  “They do exist,” she said mildly enough. Then her voice sharpened. “What else is that tinsmith who opened his shop this afternoon, found a letter lying inside the door, and hurried to turn it over to the police?” She was angry now, and getting angrier. “To think they should have even believed that letter might be true! About me?”

  Rodriguez was not a happy man. But his senses were all working, for he glanced sharply at Ferrier. He asked him, “Do you see some connection between that letter and the man who was refused help by Señorita Vergara?”

  Ferrier did. But it was not something he cared to have underlined, not at this moment, with Waterman out there on the terrace interested in every word, every place name. Let’s keep the tinsmith, and the courtyard and the museum, out of this. “I doubt—”

  Tavita jumped in with her own bright answer. “But of course! It was that man who wrote the note! I turned him down, and this was his way of hurting me—his last word, as it were.” She paused, thinking about that, realising too late that she had come closer to the truth than was safe. She looked at Ferrier, saw the warning in his eyes. Then she rallied. “I am sorry, Ian. I interrupted you. But there isn’t much more to say, is there, Captain Rodriguez? We can forget about that man. He will not trouble me any more.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, if he ever telephones me again, I shall call the police.”

  “You should have done that right at the beginning,” Rodriguez said severely. “And I think it is fortunate that Esteban did come to see me this morning. Or else the police in Granada might have searched your house thoroughly.”

  “They did search thoroughly,” she said indignantly. She rose to her feet. The interview was at an end as far as she was concerned.

  “But politely. You will agree that they did treat you politely?”

  Tavita nodded. “Except they should never have come here in the first place.” She wasn’t going to give up that point.

  Ferrier was putting up his own small prayer: Quit while you’re ahead, Tavita; you’ve told your story, and it is accepted. It might even be enough to convince Waterman. A doubtful character, a total unknown, had picked on the name of Fuentes, who had known the Vergara family, so that he could blackmail Tavita. Would Waterman believe that—

  Rodrigu
ez wasn’t going to give up his point, either. “I don’t believe you realise what a thorough search means, Señorita Vergara. Your house would not have been left in this orderly condition.” His arm swept around. “Every drawer would have been opened; every box, chest, suitcase, trunk.”

  That shocked her. She looked blankly at Rodriguez. Then she tried to laugh it off. “What? Do they expect a man to be hiding in a drawer or a trunk?”

  “He may leave traces—clothes, jewellery, discarded paper. People in flight, Señorita Vergara, often leave something behind them, quite small, but enough to tell a trained eye just what—”

  “But there was no man here—in flight or in anything else,” she said sharply. “There was no need for any kind of search, polite or thorough. Thank you for coming here to make sure I was safe. Goodbye, Captain Rodriguez.”

  Rodriguez bowed. He was about to turn away. And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Do you have property near the Calle de los Mártires, Señorita Vergara? In a courtyard beside the museum?”

  Tavita seemed to add three inches to her height. “That was years ago.”

  “And it is now leased by Esteban?”

  “It is his. A business arrangement.”

  “Oh, yes. About six years ago. Of course. That was when you took control of El Fenicio.”

  “Yes. As I said, a business arrangement. My property at the Calle de los Mártires was in part payment for my purchase of El Fenicio. But I am sure you know all the details about my private life, Captain Rodriguez.” She smiled quite dazzlingly.

  Rodriguez bowed again. “I have never known which was to be more admired, your business sense or your dancing.” This time, he did leave, and quickly, with only a small nod in Ferrier’s direction.

  Ferrier watched the neat, dapper figure hurry through the hall. Then he looked at Tavita, shaking his head. “I think he came as a friend,” he told her. “Why did you have to—”

  “Friend? Ian, he knows. He knows.”

  God help us, thought Ferrier. “Of course he does,” he said as he went over to her. “Did you think Rodriguez wouldn’t know about your brother? How long has he been back in this country?” He pulled her around to face him, laid a finger lightly over her lips, looked into her startled eyes. Would she get his warning?

  Partly, at least. She said, “Six years.”

  “Then Rodriguez knows, but what of that? He has done nothing for six years; why should he make any move against your brother now? It may just be that you worry too much.” She was about to talk. He kissed her lips quickly, silenced them. “Were you really being blackmailed on your brother’s account?” He glanced at the terrace door, as if he had only become aware that Waterman had stepped inside. The sunglasses were already pocketed.

  “Not interrupting anything?” Waterman asked, looking at Ferrier’s arm around Tavita.

  Ferrier let it drop, eased away from Tavita. “You might have done that earlier and helped us to get Rodriguez moving.”

  Waterman studied his watch. “Yes, he did hang on and on. Cut my time short. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave in a few minutes. Now that is annoying. What a delightful place you have, Señorita Vergara. I would like to have explored it. But perhaps another time? What is so remarkable is its peace, its feeling of complete privacy. Don’t you agree, Ian?”

  “Now that the police have gone, yes.”

  “Well, they didn’t disturb too much. Your servants,” he said to Tavita with a smile, “will not be able to complain. But probably they aren’t the type. My wife would envy you, señorita, for such a well-managed house. We are forever hearing noises from the kitchen—if it isn’t laughter, it’s scolding, or music or television preaching. We don’t have peace like yours. How do you manage it?”

  Tavita said, “This is Sunday. The servants are out.”

  Ferrier looked at her quickly. “But Magdalena is here,” he reminded her, mostly for Waterman’s benefit. Surely she hadn’t left herself alone in this place. Had she sent them all away as soon as Esteban’s warning had come to her, so that Rodriguez could ask them no questions?

  “I sent her to visit a cousin.” Tavita looked at Ferrier curiously, then guessed the wrong reason for his worry. “We will have to cancel my dinner invitation, Ian. No cook. No one to serve. I am sorry. But you understand?”

  Waterman broke in tactfully. “I really must go. I’m expecting a call from my wife this evening at the hotel. Señorita Vergara, would you mind if I used your phone to check?”

  Tavita had scarcely listened. She shook her head. She seemed suddenly drained of energy, thoughts, words. She sat down on a chair, leaned her head against its high back, closed her eyes.

  Waterman looked at her with marked sympathy. He said quietly to Ferrier, drawing him over to the telephone, “What’s upsetting her so much?”

  “Some character arrived in Málaga, called himself Fuentes, and tried to blackmail her. Or perhaps he was a police spy, an agent provocateur. That’s what she thinks. She and Esteban have been running a kind of underground travellers’ aid society.”

  “And what do you think? Was the man really an impostor? Or is that just a clever story to get rid of Rodriguez?”

  “Look—it was Esteban who brought Rodriguez in.”

  “And what scared Esteban, I wonder?”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “I’m a journalist. You believe all this about an impostor?”

  “In a strange way, it fits. That’s how the name of Fuentes got whispered around. Actually, he is dead and—”

  “Since when?” Then Waterman laughed, noticing Ferrier’s quick glance. “That’s again the old journalist in me, Ian. Anyway,” he added, “this should please O’Connor. We’ll be leaving Granada with his judgment confirmed.”

  “But not as pleased as you think.”

  “He’d rather be leaving with Fuentes, instead of me? I guess you’re right. Well, he can’t expect to win them all.” He turned towards the phone, and then seemed to have an afterthought. “Ian—you’ve known me for a long time—off and on, that is, but we do know each other better than O’Connor. Is he playing a little game with us?”

  All you could do when you were taken by surprise was to look quite honestly, surprised. Ferrier made no attempt to disguise it.

  “Could be,” Waterman said reflectively, “could be. He’s a wily bird. Now, what do you find so funny about that remark?”

  Ferrier said, “I just had a vision of O’Connor sitting up in his hotel room weaving and unweaving his infernal machinations. Oh, come on, Ben. What game?”

  “Put bluntly like that,” Waterman said, “it’s hard to answer. It’s just that I’ve got a feeling that things aren’t what they seem.”

  That was a pretty rich joke, coming from Waterman. “They rarely are, are they?” Ferrier asked lightly.

  “Who’s the cynic now?” Waterman began to dial, his back to Ferrier, who moved away politely. But not before he had noticed the first two digits being dialled. Not the hotel’s number, that was certain.

  Waterman got through with remarkable promptness, didn’t even wait for any switchboard to identify itself. “Waterman, of Room 409, I was expecting a call from Madrid. When it comes, tell them I’ll be back at the hotel by eight o’clock—no later. I will take the call then. Understood?” He only waited for what must have been a brief reply before he hung up. “I’ll give you a lift to the hotel.”

  “I’ll walk. I need some fresh air.”

  “Aren’t you going to telephone O’Connor with the good news?”

  Ferrier had been waiting until Waterman left and he could talk more freely. But that might be a mistake, he thought now, as he noticed Waterman’s quiet study of his face. “I suppose we ought to. Tavita, do you mind if I too make a call?”

  She opened her eyes, shook her head. Then she remembered something important. “But first, would you please phone those people—the interviewers? Tell them—oh, you know what to tell them.”

  “Where’
s their number?”

  “On a scrap of paper—under the letters on my desk.”

  He found it, began dialling. The first two digits were identical with those used in Waterman’s call. He frowned, stopped speculating, concentrated on giving a terse but definite message: no interview today, quite impossible. Whoever was on the other end of the line had little to say: he had begun with a guarded Pronto, ended with a noncommittal Adios.

  Waterman was now making a warm goodbye that roused Tavita into a real smile. He was filled with regrets that he had ill-timed this visit, but perhaps on another visit to Granada he might have the great pleasure of visiting Señorita Vergara again?

  Ferrier watched him, could find no fault with the performance. Performance? There was one part of Ferrier that still kept saying, Surely not Ben. It can’t be... Then he only had to look down at the telephone number he had just called and he was worrying again, and heartsick; a miserable combination. He began to dial the hotel, and had the usual wait.

  Waterman was waiting, too, his goodbyes over but with something more to say to Ferrier.

  “Just a minute,” Ferrier told him, and began speaking with O’Connor. If Waterman had wanted to hear this, he was damn well going to.

  It was a strange contrapuntal conversation. O’Connor played the theme straight, asking a series of questions that were too quietly voiced to be audible to anyone else in that silent room. Ferrier countered with short direct answers, followed them with some fancier variations for Waterman’s benefit.

  Ferrier: Bob? Yes, you were right. The rumours were based on that name you were talking about, but it was an impostor who was using it.

  O’Connor: Waterman still with you?

  Ferrier: Yes, the man’s a fake, no doubt about it. The name was borrowed in order to convince Tavita to help him. He miscalculated, though. She denounced him.

  O’Connor: Is Waterman buying that?

  Ferrier: I doubt it. Tavita swears the man was a complete phony. So does Esteban. In fact, he brought Rodriguez from Málaga into the case.