The Malady in Maderia

by Ann Bridge

  She looked at her watch—ten past three; Da Silva would still be having his siesta. Julia decided to have one too, drew down the Venetian blinds, settled comfortably on the bed, and was soon asleep.

  She slept for over two hours, and awoke feeling fresh, cheerful and somehow determined. She rang for tea, and took it in bed; when she got up she put on a fresh white silk dress with a black belt, and black and white sandals, and went downstairs. The first thing to do was to learn anything that the landlord could tell her about the two Spaniards, but this must be done as casually as possible. She went into the bar and ordered a drink, and took it to a table by an open French window giving onto the garden, where a path led along to the door from the restaurant. As she had expected, Senhor da Silva presently appeared, checking on the laying of the tables in the garden, like the good landlord he was; he had greeted her on her arrival, and now, when he noticed her sitting there, he came over and asked very politely, in French, if her room was to her liking, and if she had everything that she required? Julia seldom had any difficulty about engaging a man in conversation, and she did not now; after praising her accommodation, the flowers in the garden, and the view, she went on to ask some very sensible questions about the length of the tourist season, and the relative profitability of the restaurant as compared with permanent guests. Oh, the restaurant by itself was not of much importance, Da Silva told her; few people knew of its existence except those, like the Senhor Armitage, who were connected with the tourist trade—“We cater principally for clients who make a prolonged stay, and like quiet.”

  And of what nationality, generally speaking, were most of his clients? Julia asked—English? American?

  “Oh, a little of everything! The Senhor Armitage is very good about sending us English and Americans; often elderly people, who appreciate quiet and comfort.”

  Not all his guests seemed to be elderly, Julia pointed out, smiling, and referred to the two young men who sat at the table next to hers. “They are Spanish, n’est-ce-pas?”

  To her great satisfaction, the landlord launched into a eulogy of his Spanish guests. They were wealthy, and though fond of a joke, as the Senhora had doubtless observed the other day, they were well-connected and well-behaved. This was their second visit—last year they had stayed for over a month. And this year? Julia asked. Oh, already they had been here for five weeks this year, Da Silva said. Julia expressed a little surprise at so long a stay, for young and healthy people—“How do they amuse themselves?” she asked. Oh, but the expeditions!—always they were making expeditions, visiting every part of the island, taking photographs of the architecture and making films of the peasants and their activities.

  H’m—excellent cover, Julia thought. Aloud, she supposed they had a car?

  No, they hired one from him; the hotel kept two or three cars for the convenience of guests who wished to go for drives.

  With chauffeurs? Julia enquired.

  “Oh, for the more elderly, I supply some excellent chauffeurs. But these young Senhores drive themselves; then they can come and go as they please. Often they drive to a place, and then walk or do their photography for hours; a chauffeur could be an embarrassment on such occasions.”

  “Quite so” Julia agreed heartily. In fact she agreed with all the landlord’s propositions; if these two young men were really the local accomplices, such arrangements were ideal for their purpose.

  When the landlord, excusing himself, presently returned to his avocations, Julia ordered another drink to be sent to her room, and went up there. This new possibility wanted some thinking about. She would have liked to discuss it with Colin, but decided to stick to their agreement that she would not telephone to the clinic—anyhow, she would be seeing him in under twelve hours, she thought, glancing at her watch. Terence, too, was probably still out of reach, plant-hunting with Sir Percy; she must settle her immediate course of action by herself. Colin, admittedly half-jokingly, had told her to “scrape an acquaintance” with the two Spaniards, in order to get a film of the sheep for Sir Percy; but if they were anyhow going to do precisely that for Polunsky, whoever he might be, Julia had an instinctive feeling that the less she saw of them, or they of her, the better. She took up the telephone by her bed, and asked to speak to Da Silva; when he came she asked if she could have a packed lunch and coffee and rolls in her room tomorrow at six A.M., and, in view of this early start, said that she would like a light dinner served in her room. These dispositions taken, she rang up Mrs. Hathaway and told her how comfortable she was at the Montefiore; then she undressed, had a bath and went to bed and quietly read her book.

  On the drive down the following morning Sir Percy, who sat beside her, was full of the glories of Echium candicans—“a truly noble plant.” This suited Julia, who had already decided only to mention her suspicions of the two Spaniards to Colin, in the first instance; plenty of time to tell the others when they had learned more—if they did learn any more. They passed through the last village, and up to the place on the ridge where cars were left, and turned; there was a car there, but it was not Terence’s.

  “Hullo, I wonder whose car that is?” Colin said.

  “Are we to be observed? I should have preferred it otherwise” Sir Percy said.

  A faint prickle of foreboding ran over Julia’s nerves.

  “Terry did say he was coming, Julia, didn’t he?” Colin asked.

  “Yes, definitely. We are a couple of minutes early” she said. And indeed at that moment a humming sound, coming up the road towards them, heralded the arrival of Terence on an outsize motor-cycle; the peasant, perched behind his great bulk, somehow reminded Julia of a monkey attached to a barrel-organ— the absurd idea made her smile.

  “Morning. I hope we’re not late” Terence Armitage said, getting off.

  “No, we’re early” Julia told him.

  “Terence, do you know whose car that is?” Colin asked.

  “No, no idea. It’s a Funchal number-plate,” Terence replied. He turned to Sir Percy. “I brought Tomás along, in case you wanted your gear brought down” he said.

  “Oh, thank you; most obliging of you. I am not sure yet” Sir Percy replied.

  As before, he walked with Terence, and the cousins followed. Julia at once told Colin what she had overheard in the hall of the hotel.

  “Stone a crow!” Colin exclaimed. “What time was this?”

  “About three. Why?”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because we’d settled that I wasn’t going to ring the clinic from the hotel—don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, of course—but for something like this! Anyhow, couldn’t you have come round and told me?”

  “Yes, I suppose I could” Julia said, feeling considerably deflated. “But I didn’t see that there was anything you could do, to make it all that urgent.”

  “So I suppose you just went to sleep!” Colin said indignantly.

  “Yes, I did. But what could you have done about them?”

  “Rung up Hartley, of course, and asked if the name Polunsky says anything to him—and if he has any lines on Spanish accomplices. What are their names, by the way?—at least, what names are they using?”

  “Bother, I never asked Da Silva that,” Julia said guiltily. “But you’d better let me finish telling you what Da Silva did tell me about them—that was what I waited for in the first place, for him to finish his siesta.”

  Colin laughed. “And you to get yours! You’re slipping, Julia! All right, tell me.”

  He listened intently while Julia repeated the landlord’s account of how his so desirable Spanish clients spent their time in Madeira—at one point he interrupted her recital to ask—“Do they do all these jaunts by car?”

  “Yes—one of his. And they don’t take a chauffeur.”

  Colin stopped, and glanced back down the ridge. “So that may actually be their car, down there at the turn” he said. “Murder! —I wish I’d known; I could have given it the once-over.
I wonder if I’d better go back?”

  “I shouldn’t” Julia said. “If they were to spot you doing it from the top, they’d take alarm.”

  “Yes—probably.” He started forward again. Any talk while they were passing through the tunnel was of course impossible, but when they emerged at the further end he said to Julia— “You can talk to these types with the hammocks, can’t you?”

  “Yes, well enough.”

  “Well, ask them if they’ve seen anyone go up today.”

  At the foot of the cliff, accordingly, Julia again spoke to the elderly man who had originally told her that the ten tourists had smoked brown cigarettes; she was beginning to regard the hammock-men quite as old friends, and they greeted her with beaming smiles. But no, no other tourists had come today; they chorused their agreement about this.

  “Well, that’s a let-off Julia said, as she lay down in her fish-net hammock; she was becoming quite accustomed to this bizarre mode of transport. But when, at the top, she was released and stood up, all the same she looked a little anxiously across the stretch of grass and bracken in front of her. There, in the distance, were two figures; she was too shortsighted to see more than that.

  “Terence, have you got your spy-glass?” she asked, as he came clambering up over the top.

  “Yes. D’you want it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to her; she adjusted it hurriedly, and then swept the green expanse, trying to pick up the distant figures—oh, why couldn’t Terence carry field-glasses? At last she got them in the telescope’s small field of vision; turning the screw of the lens, she got them properly in focus —they were standing beside a tripod, and one of them was wearing a green and red shirt; the enormous Nazaré tartan stood out plainly.

  “Colin, come here!” she called, in a low tone; he was walking with Sir Percy towards the thermograph.

  “What is it?” he called back—but then he too saw the little faraway group, and hurried back to her.

  “It’s them!” she said. “And I think they’re using the film-camera.”

  He took the glasses from her, and also studied the men carefully.

  “Yes, it’s them all right, and that’s precisely what they’re doing!” he said excitedly. “Now what do we do?”

  Julia had unslung her haversack and took out a very light fawn silk raincoat and a head-scarf; she tied the latter over her head, and put on the raincoat. “Oh, good girl!” the young man said approvingly.

  “Yes—my hair’s nearly as bad as his shirt!” she said. “Let’s sit —then we shan’t be nearly so visible. How on earth do you suppose they got up here without the men seeing them?”

  “They must have climbed up further along; there are one or two routes. Or they may have got up before the hammock-types arrived. But we must go back at once—I must get onto Hartley.”

  “Can we wait while Sir Percy reads his machine?”

  “No, not possibly—besides he may want to dismantle it and bring it down, which would take ages.”

  “So do I take you back to Funchal and come back for them?”

  “No, that won’t do either. Get hold of Terence—we must arrange something.”

  “Shall I tell him?”

  “Yes of course—you’ll have to.”

  Julia got up and walked quickly after the other two. As usual the scientist was walking very fast—she didn’t want to be seen running, and presently called—“Terence! Could you come back for a moment?” She went on walking towards him, as he returned towards her; the moment they met she sat down on the ground.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “No, I’m all right—only wanting to be inconspicuous! Sit, and I’ll tell you.”

  He sat.

  “Now, do you see those two men out there?” As she spoke she gave him back his pocket telescope. “No, perhaps you’d better not look with that now. But they’re the two young Spaniards from the Montefiore; they’re taking a film of the sheep.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t they?” Terence asked reasonably.

  “Because they’re taking it for someone they refer to as Polunsky, who was very particular that they should make the second film recording at exactly three weeks” she said, opening her eyes at him.

  “And is today exactly three weeks?” he asked.

  “No, it’s only eighteen days; but the one in the parti-coloured shirt was afraid the weather might break if they waited, so they’ve come up today. Terence, don’t you see? Nine days today since we first saw the sheep; and Marcusinho had been ill fully a week before that, perhaps more—so it would be exactly eighteen days from the gassing. In fact it must be. Polunsky isn’t a very Spanish name!” she ended.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I overheard them yesterday, when they were looking at the barometer in the hotel.”

  “Were they talking French?”

  “No, Spanish—like they were when we had lunch.”

  “Then how did you follow?”

  “Oh, I’ve always talked Spanish—it’s my second language. But the point is, Colin wants to get back to Funchal immediately to tell London—he can’t wait while Sir Percy fiddles with his thermometer. Only what about the car, and him and you getting back?”

  “I see” Terence said, thoughtfully. “Yes, there will be quite a lot of action wanted, and quite fast—and all possible inconspicuousness desirable! All right—you and Colin go off at once; look in at the Quinta on your way back and ask Penel to come up and fetch us—she’s got the other car.”

  “Oh good—thank you so much.”

  “All right to tell him I suppose?” Terence asked.

  “Not more than you can help; I mean, this isn’t his side of the business.”

  “He’ll be longing to get hold of their film, of course, if he knows they’re making one” Terence said, with his slow grin.

  “I don’t doubt he’ll get it!” Julia said, getting up. “Probably see it run off before they do, I shouldn’t wonder. All right— ’bye.” She walked quickly back to Colin.

  “That’s all right” she said, taking his arm. “We’re to tell Penelope to come up with the other car. Come on.”

  On the short walk between the foot of the cliff, where Julia was released from her hammock, and the entrance to the tunnel, Julia mentioned Terence’s question about whether to tell Sir Percy what went on, and her reply. “Was that right?” she asked.

  “Oh yes, I think so. I shall want to ask him if the name Polunsky says anything to him, but I can do that when he gets back.”

  They hurried through the tunnel and raced down the ridge to the two cars. Julia had turned the small Austin before she left it; she got in at once and started the engine.

  “I say, do you think you could back that up the other side of their car?” Colin asked.

  “There’s not much room” Julia said—“Why?”

  “To screen me, in case they should be on the look-out; I want to have a look at it.”

  “All right, I’ll try.”

  The space was small, but she managed to edge the Austin up alongside the other car, between it and the mountains. “That do?” she asked.

  “Yes, fine.” He went round to the further side of the machine with the Funchal number-plate; it was an open sports-car, and the owners had not bothered to lock it. He got in and examined the glove-lockers—they produced nothing more interesting than a pencil, a packet of cigarettes, a slab of chocolate and a map of the island. This Colin examined minutely with a magnifying-glass; however it bore none of the giveaway pencil-marks for which he was looking. “They’re more professional than de Lassalle and his poor chum in the Pyrenees” he remarked. “Do you remember the crazy marks they’d made all over their map?”

  “Yes” said Julia briefly. When that map had been found Philip had been alive, happy and busy in the Near East, and she expecting his child. “Try the boot” she said.

  “
I’m going to.” He got out and went round to the back of the car, saying gloomily “I bet you it’s locked.”

  It wasn’t locked—for the excellent reason, as he presently saw, that the lock was broken; the lid of the boot was roughly held in position by four broad straps of elastoplast. “Hell!” Colin exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” Julia asked, getting out; she came round and stood beside him.

  “If I take that stuff off they’ll see it’s been tampered with” he said.

  “Not if you’re careful enough. Hold on a minute.” From her dress pocket she took out a small leather case which, besides her compact and powder-puff, contained a very small nailfile and a biro pen; these she laid on the ground on her handkerchief. Then, taking off her head-scarf, she first carefully wiped off all dust from the paintwork near the plaster—“The dust is the trouble” she said. Next, with the nailfile she very gently and carefully eased up the end of one strip. “I shall want something to roll the ends on” she said. “Have you got a pencil or anything on you?”

  Colin had a pencil, and another biro; she rolled the end of the plaster strip onto this, and then, still gently, rolled the plaster back till the crack between the lid and the body of the boot was uncovered. “Now your hankie” she said, and laid the end back on it on the lid. She did the same to the other three strips; Colin brought the pencil he had seen in the glove-locker for the last one.