Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  O’Connor: So you think there may still be an attempt made to crash her place, question her?

  Ferrier: That would be my guess. Rumours feed on rumours, you know.

  O’Connor: Then stay with her. Who else is at the house?

  Ferrier: Very peaceful, now. The police have gone. So has Rodriguez. They seemed satisfied. Aren’t you?

  O’Connor: What about servants—aren’t they around?

  Ferrier: No. Tavita sent them off quite happily. The anonymous note was pure spite. A delayed-action bomb, as it were. Nasty, don’t you think? Yes, that guy deserves anything that’s coming to him.

  O’Connor: I’ll send Sam to join you. Perhaps Al, too. They are all I can spare at the moment. There may be others, later. I’ve got to move out now, keep everything looking absolutely normal. I don’t suppose you carry a small equaliser?

  Ferrier: Good Lord, no. Just sight-seeing for a couple of days and then on to northern Italy. Time I was getting back into my own life. Sure, I’ll tell Waterman you are packing up. By the way, Ben made a definite appointment for eight o’clock. He wants to be back at the hotel then. He’s expecting a phone call from Alice.

  O’Connor: Eight o’clock? He’s rushing it. All right, let’s rush him. Tell him I move out by eight o’clock. Tell him I have a plane at Seville waiting. We must leave there by midnight. That should keep him curious—perhaps even make him reconsider his last instructions.

  Ferrier: I wouldn’t bet on that. I’m usually kept pretty busy when I’m in Washington. And I’d better warn you, my golf game is lousy. Now some mountain climbing or scuba diving—

  O’Connor: Goodbye, then. And thanks Ian. Many thanks. You can depend on Sam. He’s in charge now. Promoted in the field.

  Ferrier: That sounds a good decision. Goodbye, Bob.

  He replaced the receiver slowly, and then turned to face Waterman, who had been absorbed for those last two minutes in tracing the patterns of the Moorish tiles set into a table top. “Well, that’s that.”

  “Surprising.”

  “What?”

  “He needed so much persuading. I thought he had his mind all made up.”

  “He kept hoping he was wrong, I suppose. Only natural.”

  “And he’s packing up. Definitely?”

  Ferrier nodded. “Say, I have a message for you. They must leave by eight. He has a plane waiting at Seville to take them off. If you want to hitch a quick ride back to Madrid, there’s your chance.”

  That had really astonished Waterman. He stared openly at Ferrier.

  Ferrier kept a tight grip on his own expression. Waterman must have known about that plane, secretly held for an emergency. He must have linked it with Fuentes’ flight. What worried him now, obviously, was the fact that the plane was being put to use, and so quickly. Ferrier could almost see Waterman’s mind jumping from possibility to possibility. “But how about your call to Alice?”

  “I can always leave word that I’ll be home by two this morning. That’s all that was really worrying her—what time I’d get back. There’s a big party tomorrow at the Embassy. Yes, I guess I’ll make that flight.” He looked at his watch, called a last goodbye to Tavita, and started for the hall. “Will Max meet us at the plane?” he asked Ferrier.

  “I’ve no idea. Why shouldn’t he?”

  Waterman opened the door. “He may have a better reason than either you or I imagine, Ian. I told you before—we’re the babes in the wood, left to wander.” He looked back at Tavita, then at Ferrier. “I wouldn’t stay here,” he said, and broke into one of his old smiles, broad and genial. “I don’t want to interfere with your plans, but what she needs now is a quiet evening in bed and no—”

  “Clean up your mind,” Ferrier said with real anger. “Cut out the innuendos. Sure, I know bachelors are always fair game, but lay off me, will you? I get pretty goddamned tired of hearing the same old—”

  “Touchy, aren’t we? Hope you are in a better frame of mind when I see you again.”

  If, thought Ferrier, if... “Have you actually forgotten that Jeff Reid isn’t even buried yet?” he asked unbelievingly.

  Waterman’s amusement faded. He said slowly, “I was as sorry about that as you were.” And he left.

  23

  Ferrier locked the door securely behind Waterman. Not a particularly good lock, either, he noticed. Any two-bit burglar could pry it loose with a hairpin. That was the strange thing about Tavita: she’d bar her windows with decorative iron and leave the keys in her car and the garage open; she’d install some simple-minded contraption to hold fast a modern door like this one, while she’d have elaborate systems for antique hunks of wood. And just then he remembered the ancient lock and its enormous key that belonged to the front door of Tavita’s house on the museum courtyard. What had happened to that key? How had O’Connor dealt with it? It was too big, too heavy, too cumbersome to be carried in any pocket. Had he been forced to leave that door unlocked after he had brought Fuentes through it?

  Ferrier came back into the room almost at a run. “Tavita—that door to your house on the courtyard—it must be unlocked. Is that safe with all these tourists around?”

  She paused in measuring brandy into two glasses. “We need this,” she told him. “Of course it wouldn’t have been safe. That’s why your Mr. Smith locked it when he took Tomás Fuentes out into the courtyard.”

  “But how do you know he locked it?” Or didn’t she know and was just assuming he had?

  Her smile belonged to Mona Lisa. “He was so clever about that. I begin to like your Mr. Smith very much. Even if he made one mistake—with Tomás Fuentes. He did not see Fuentes slip a note under the door of the tinsmith’s shop. But there is no harm done. Fuentes did not destroy me. And he won’t!” The smile was gone. “It was Fuentes who wrote that note. You agree?”

  “Yes.” Fuentes bending down to tie a shoelace at the door of the shop. I saw him. I didn’t believe what I saw. I can scarcely believe it now. “How could he have taken such a chance? He could have destroyed himself, too.”

  “Oh, no. He had calculated well. The shop did not open until four o’clock. The police did not come here until almost half past five. So how many hours had he to escape then? He was far away from Granada by then.”

  Four and a half hours away. Far enough, thought Ferrier.

  “And,” added Tavita, “he did not sign his name to the note. He knew I would not sign it for him by giving his name to the police. Not to anyone. I will not be connected with his name. Ever. He knew that.” She handed Ferrier a glass of brandy. “We drink to—to our silence. And to my story. Rodriguez believed it, didn’t he?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well—why not? It could have been true. Couldn’t it?”

  He had to smile. “Yes,” he agreed. The brandy was again too sweet for his taste, but he welcomed it. “About Smith—” he began, puzzled about that door down on the courtyard. “He was clever, you said. How?”

  “Oh, that! He simply left one of the windows open, just a little. And after he came out and locked the door behind him, he pushed the key through the opened window back into the room. I found it on the floor and put it on its hook.”

  “When were you down there?”

  “After I got Esteban’s call. I wondered if Fuentes was still in the house on the courtyard with your Mr. Smith. Or had they left? You see, you didn’t tell me,” she said with mild reproof. “And I had to know. So, I went down. They had left. Everything was in good order. I checked thoroughly. I even remembered to bring up the suitcase.”

  “Fuentes’ suitcase?” He stared at her. “Where did you put it?” he asked slowly.

  “In the small room where I store all my suitcases and trunks.”

  “You mean—it was lying there when the police—”

  “But it looks like one of mine.”

  “Until someone opens it. Or did you empty it?”

  “His clothes are safer left there until Magdalena can remove all the labels—e
verything came from Argentina.” That amused her. “Then I’ll give them to Matéo. My chauffeur. They’ll fit him. I know they will.” She was delighted with her small secret. For a moment, the exhausted look on her face was replaced by a real smile.

  “Of course they will, seeing that Matéo’s uniform fitted Fuentes.”

  The smile drained from her lips. “You saw that?” Now worry and fear flooded back. “Rodriguez was there—you were standing with him outside Jeff’s door—did he see, too?”

  “He did. Only, he wasn’t looking for Fuentes. He didn’t even know Fuentes was in Málaga. But don’t underestimate Rodriguez. Where’s that suitcase?”

  She made no more protests, but led him into her bedroom. There, in a windowless box room piled with trunks and bags of all sizes, he found the suitcase. It was unlocked. He checked inside it, found only neatly folded clothes topped by a silver-grey suit. “Where’s the key to the tunnel door?”

  “You aren’t taking it back down to—”

  “No arguments, Tavita. The key!”

  “I hide it under my handkerchiefs,” she said, going into her dressing-room. He repressed a laugh as he noticed the bars, highly decorative but definitely iron, across the dressing-room window. The bathroom had them, too. So did the bedroom, although here they were softened by long draperies of red satin. That’s right, he thought, everything is tightly secured but you keep an important key in your handkerchief drawer. Tavita, Tavita... He shook his head.

  “What is so funny?” she asked as she came back into the bedroom, glancing at his face.

  “Nothing. Come on, Tavita, Let’s get this stowed away.” He picked up the suitcase, hurried her out into the living-room, swung the bedroom door shut after them. It was a massive antique, its wood hardened by age, heavily studded and banded with iron. Its lock and key looked highly efficient. “Incredible,” he said softly.

  And tactlessly. She bridled. “Don’t you like my room?”

  “A study in contrasts.” Red curtains, gilded mirrors, lace pillows scattered over a giant bed. And bolts and bars and nails and studs and God knows what. “At least, you sleep in safety.”

  “Isn’t that the most important thing about any house? To be able to sleep in safety?”

  Her vehemence surprised him. But this time he was wise enough to say nothing. They reached the hall in silence.

  She said tensely, “You have never known what it is to live through a civil war. In Málaga—we did not sleep well. Threats and terror, flames and bombs, midnight executions.” For a moment, her eyes brooded on some hideous memory. She turned away quickly, concentrated on opening the panel’s hidden door. She stood aside to let him enter, handed him the key. “Are you going all the way down?” She was cool and practical again. “What a waste of time! I have only given you extra work.”

  “On the contrary. It was a bright idea. And necessary. It saved me a lot of trouble and a long walk. I’ll drop the suitcase just inside the second door—it should be safe at the top of the tunnel.”

  He moved quickly, wasted no time, counted each second. When he got back to the hall, and the panel was securely in place, he had some necessary advice for her. “Let the suitcase stay there for the next three weeks. Don’t open the doors. Don’t go near it. After that, you can do what you like with it. But I’d burn the clothes, if I were you, keep nothing at all. And I’d drop the suitcase over one of your cliffs on a dark night,” he added. “Now where’s the fuse box? I’d like to see all the tunnel lights completely out.”

  Tavita looked at him, but made no comment. And when he had dealt with the fuse box in a coatroom off the studio, she said in wonder, “How could you think of all these things?” It was his turn to stare. How could anyone not think of these things? They were elementary compared to all the elaborate stratagems that Tavita—and Esteban, too; let’s not forget old helpful Esteban—could invent.

  “And now you are laughing at me again,” she said, and she marched back into the big room.

  “I didn’t even smile,” he protested.

  “Your eyes did. Why do you always find me so—so comic?” she asked angrily.

  “Not comic,” he said quickly. “Often amazing. And sometimes worrying.”

  That was better. Her voice softened. “Forgive me. I am tired, nervous. And I don’t understand why you keep worrying about me. Everything is over.” Her words were more bravado than anything, as if she were persuading herself.

  “That’s just the point. It isn’t. Not yet.”

  “Tomás Fuentes?” she asked quickly, swinging around on him.

  “Nothing to worry about him.” He watched her relax. “He is dead, remember? Just a name used by an impostor.”

  She looked hard at him. Then she actually laughed at herself. “Then what do we fear? Let us go out on the terrace, and you can tell me about it.”

  “I’d like to stay in the room, keep an ear open for someone at that front door. He’s a friend. His name is Sam. We thought we’d—well, keep you company for this evening.”

  “Why?”

  “The journalists who wanted to interview you are fakes. All they wanted was an excuse to get in here and search. And question you about Tomás Fuentes.”

  “Then I will tell them exactly what I told Captain Rodriguez.”

  “Their questions may be harder than his.”

  “They would threaten me?” She was angry again, really angry this time.

  “They would put their threats into deeds, if necessary. As Fuentes would.”

  He did not have to explain further. She drew a deep breath. “And how will you and Sam prevent them? For tonight, perhaps yes. But tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? Men like Fuentes will not give up.”

  Yes, he thought bitterly, how do we prevent them—even for tonight?

  Tavita said, “I shall call the police.”

  “No!”

  “I shall call them.” She went quickly over to one of the small tables—the one with the Moorish tiles inset on its top—and picked up a small piece of paper from under a crystal paperweight. “Here it is,” she said triumphantly. “The policeman in civilian clothes left it so that I could get in touch with him if I were pestered by any anonymous notes or threatening phone calls. I didn’t pay much attention, frankly, but now it may solve our problems.”

  “How? What are you going to tell him? You’d better have a good story ready, or else you’ll get tangled up with Fuentes.” Ferrier looked at the slip of paper. It was authentic, all right. “Was it visible under that paperweight? I meant, was it held only at one corner, or was it—”

  “I’ll think of something,” she said, lost in her own predicament. “I’ll keep it absolutely simple and true. Let me see... I am very doubtful of an interview that has been arranged. I cancelled it. But the journalist insists on appearing.”

  “He hasn’t yet. You’ll have to wait until he and his friends arrive before you can make that complaint. And I doubt if you’ll be allowed anywhere near that telephone once they do appear.”

  “We won’t let them inside. We’ll keep them waiting at the door while I telephone.”

  “Waiting like me?” a cheerful voice asked, and Sam propped his elbows on the banister of the staircase that led up into the hall from the floors below.

  Tavita’s reaction was to switch on some lights and then pick up the paperweight again.

  “Quick, isn’t she?” Sam asked, looking at the paperweight poised and ready. “But we really don’t need all these lights. One will do, meanwhile.”

  “How did you get in?” Ferrier’s annoyance with himself turned to anger. “All right, all right, drop the smile. You’re the cat that swallowed the bowl along with the cream. Tavita, don’t worry—this character is harmless.”

  “Not a flattering introduction,” Sam said, and came up the rest of the staircase. He looked around, nodded appreciatively. Then in quick succession he visited the studio and Tavita’s bedroom, crossing the main room silently, flicking on and off light
s as he needed them. “These are all the rooms on this floor, Señorita Vergara?” He spoke in Spanish, and fluently.

  Tavita nodded, replaced the paperweight. “We are in good hands,” she said to Ferrier, half-ironically, half-seriously. So young, she thought, looking back at Sam with growing interest. He was a Spaniard. That was definite. What a relief to be able to pour out her feelings in her own language. “Where do you come from?”

  “Just one minute, Tavita,” Ferrier said. And to Sam, “How did you get in here?”

  “By way of the garage. I put the Simca inside—thought it better be out of sight.”

  Hell, thought Ferrier, I forgot that damned Simca. “I didn’t hear you move it.”

  “All it needed was a shove.” Sam was now standing at the entrance to the terrace, looking around out there. The light was fading rapidly.

  “So you found a door in the garage,” Ferrier tried.

  Sam finished the brief inspection. “Yes. At the back. It opened easily, led down a long flight of open stairs on to a terrace. Another door there, unlocked. Servants’ rooms and a kitchen et cetera, et cetera. Stairs up through a dining-room and its terrace. More stairs—and then this floor. Simple.”

  “Too simple,” Ferrier said worriedly.

  “Yes. I don’t like this set-up one bit. Doors and windows everywhere.”

  “Damn all terraces,” Ferrier said softly. He didn’t insult Sam by asking if he had locked any open doors he had discovered.

  “Three terraces by my count. Linked how?” Sam looked over at Tavita and repeated his question in Spanish, taking considerably more wordage.

  “By stone steps,” she said. “They are short flights, but steep.”

  “And that,” Ferrier decided, “is our weak point.” He visualised that flight of open stairs which had brought Sam so easily down from the garage on to the lowest terrace, and didn’t like what he was seeing. An intruder wouldn’t need to come back into the house to reach this room; all he needed to do was come up by way of terraces to this large wall of window. Ferrier frowned at it as if one of Gene Lucas’ men had already appeared out there.