The Malady in Maderia

by Ann Bridge

  “H’m” Dr. Urquhart said thoughtfully. “Thank you—that is a useful pointer. Is he—your cousin—a very dominant person?”

  “Far from it! He has always been almost as lacking in self-confidence as she, till just lately—it’s been a constant worry.”

  “To whom?—his mother?” Julia laughed out.

  “Poor Aunt Ellen! No; she’s much too vague to notice anything of that sort! No; Edina—his sister—and I have done the worrying mostly, I think.”

  “Not his wife?”

  “I don’t know” Julia said, not laughing now. “My impression is that she would be thinking more about herself. But look, Dr. Urquhart, this business with Aglaia is really serious.”

  “To whom, Mrs. Jamieson?—and serious in what way?”

  “To her husband, primarily—and as it affects his career” Julia said sombrely. “She cannot seem to understand that when one is married to someone in Intelligence one just can’t be told everything that they are doing, let alone share in it; and that one must never talk about them, and whether they are successful or not, to other people—in fact one should practically never talk about them at all!”

  “Has he pointed this out to her?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Armitage—the cousin she’s been staying with here—has tried to, and so have I; but even when she is well, and normal, she is terribly impulsive and uncontrolled. Unless she can realise the position, he may have to resign; he told me so yesterday.”

  “Is he a good Intelligence officer?”

  “He’s getting to be” Julia said slowly. “My husband, and some of his other superiors, thought he had it in him to be a very good one indeed: he had a remarkable gift for languages, and great adaptability; the one thing he has lacked was self-confidence, and now, just when he was getting that—” she broke off, suddenly uncertain of her voice.

  Dr. Urquhart tried a fresh tack.

  “Have you any idea what brought on this attack of hysteria in Mrs. Monro? You realise that it is quite a serious one?”

  “I assumed so, because you felt it necessary to knock her out” Julia replied frankly. “I think this has been building up for some time. First, of course, he had to be away from home a lot—I imagine much more than she had bargained for. Then just a short time ago she was in a car smash, and lost the baby she was expecting—utterly miserable for her, of course; and on top of that he had to go off to this job in Spain, which she felt, rightly or wrongly, was a sort of demotion for him. So she has been stewing and fretting over that, as well as all the rest—quite a plateful for a very young and not very disciplined person, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Certainly. Most trying, not to say painful, for any young married woman” Dr. Urquhart said.

  “But I think the immediate thing that has tipped her over the edge—” Julia began, and then paused.

  “Yes—what was that? Take your time” the old Scotsman added kindly.

  “I think she expected, when she was so insistent on his coming here, that as well as bringing off an important job successfully— which she did desperately want him to do—that he would be staying in the same house with her, and that she would be— well, be in on everything he was doing” Julia said thoughtfully.

  “And did he not stay there?”

  “No, he stayed in Funchal. He had to see me first, of course, and hear what was going on, so Mr. Armitage got him a room there for the first night; and in the course of that evening we stumbled, accidentally, on some quite fresh information which practically confirmed our suspicions. When he reported this on the telephone to London, that same night, they sent out someone very high-powered indeed, who got here the next morning.”

  “How?” Dr. Urquhart interjected.

  “Oh, on a special plane. But this person was so very well-known that his visit had to be kept secret, if possible; we were lucky in being able to arrange a hide-out for him in Funchal, and my cousin stayed there with him while he made his enquiries. And the most unobtrusive form of transport was for me to drive the two of them about in the little private car I was using anyhow.”

  “Clearly. When did this high-powered person arrive?”

  “Last Friday. And my cousin—I’m afraid quite rightly” Julia said sadly—“would not let his wife know where he was staying, nor even his telephone number.”

  “You agree that these were necessary precautions, in her case?”

  “Yes” Julia said—“and in his. He was really afraid of being in touch with her until the job was done, because of the distraction and—well, the general botheration.”

  “That doesn’t sound as if he were very mature either” Dr. Urquhart said, but with a quite benevolent smile.

  “No, he isn’t. He’s only just growing up,” Julia agreed readily.

  “Look, Dr. Urquhart, this job my cousin is on is really very important indeed; I’m not exaggerating. And I can’t help being tiresome and mysterious about it, because I really can’t tell you what is going on.”

  “Don’t apologise—I don’t even suspect you of exaggerating. I can see that it is a very difficult situation for all three of you.”

  “Good—I’m glad. And you see this has really rather rubbed her nose in that situation” Julia said. “It was one thing to know in theory that Colin and I often worked together, but quite another to have us doing it close by, and she being excluded.”

  “Has she in fact seen him?”

  “Yes—that was what finally did it.” She told the doctor then of their encounter with Aglaia at the Quinta the previous day, and how Colin had had to be taken in to Funchal by his wife— “I had to collect the big shot from somewhere else”—and how Aglaia had returned to the Quinta already in a state of hysteria, and locked herself into her room. “Her husband was in too much of a hurry to be able to straighten her out or soothe her down, because he had to telephone some fresh information to London at once” Julia explained. “That’s just an instance of how difficult it all is for him.”

  Dr. Urquhart was silent for a few moments, reflecting on what he had heard. Presently—“Since her husband is anyhow not staying at the Quinta, do you know why it was considered necessary to send her up here?” he asked. “Mrs. Shergold only said that she had been asked to put her up for a few days, and had agreed.”

  “Yes, I do know” Julia said at once, “but I’m afraid you will think as much of the reason as I am able to give you absurdly melodramatic.”

  “Give it to me all the same” he said, again with that benevolent smile.

  “Dr. Urquhart, there have been some very unsavoury characters about on the island for some time past” Julia said carefully, “and my cousin, and Mr. Armitage, and the big shot from London have been working against them. They know us all by sight but, except in my case, not where we live. They picked up a clue yesterday that would lead them directly to Mr. Armitage’s Quinta—in fact I saw them doing it. So I told Mr. Armitage this, and asked him to warn all the people on the place not to talk to strangers. Then he remembered Mrs. Monro, and decided that it would be safer if she could be got away at once—and as Mrs. Shergold happened to be down there for the day, he asked her to bring Aglaia up here.”

  Dr. Urquhart listened gravely.

  “This was Mr. Terence Armitage, of the Shipping Office, who wished to have Mrs. Monro removed?” he asked at length.

  “Yes—she’s his cousin.”

  “H’m. He is not an alarmist—he has very sound judgment” the Scotsman said. “Yes—it is an impossible situation for young Monro.”

  “Is there anything one can do about people like that? Cure them, I mean?” Julia asked, rather desperately.

  “Sometimes. When she is more herself I will talk to her” the doctor said. He got up.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jamieson. What you have told me has been very useful” he said. “When your cousin, young Mr. Monro, is free, I should like to see him. One always needs to see all concerned, in a case like this. Goodbye.”

  16

&nbs
p; When The Police Car drove away from the clinic it was rather crowded. A uniformed policeman drove, with Colin, at Colonel Marques’ instance, beside him; Marques and the Major sat in the back, with two plain-clothes men on the tip-up seats. A second car with several more uniformed police followed. They reached the hotel a little before nine—“I don’t suppose the patron is up yet” Colin remarked to the Colonel, “but I suppose you’ll want to see him?”

  “Certainly. We want to do everything quietly and correctly” Marques said, getting out.

  “Well, the guests’ cars are all in lock-up garages round at the back; it mightn’t be a bad idea if this other car with the local men waited round there” Colin said. “More unobtrusive, and then they can keep an eye on all cars.”

  “A good idea—show me, please.” Colin led him round the corner of the building to where a row of garage doors fronted onto a long yard; all were closed except one, outside which a chauffeur in his shirt-sleeves was polishing a black saloon.

  “That their car?” Marques asked.

  “No—they use a sports convertible.”

  “Right.” They went back to the front of the hotel, where Marques told the other car where to wait; then he rang the bell. The door was in fact open, and a valet in a green baize apron was polishing the parquet with a weighted felt on a broom-handle; he came over to the door and asked what he could do for them? Marques asked for the receptionist, and stepped into the hall; the Major, Colin, and the two plain-clothes men followed; there was no one at the desk. The valet disappeared.

  “What did you say the landlord’s name is?” Marques asked Colin.

  “Da Silva.”

  After a moment a young receptionist appeared, struggling into his jacket; Marques told him, very politely, that he wished to see the Senhor da Silva. This flustered the receptionist slightly —he was not sure if the Senhor was about. “Please fetch him” Marques said, still politely. “My name is Marques.” The receptionist vanished; the valet re-appeared, and went on polishing the floor. Colin walked over to the barometer and looked at it with interest; then he glanced across towards the staircase. “What have you found there?” the Colonel, bored, asked, coming over to him.

  “This is the barometer the two boys were tapping when my cousin overheard them talking about photographing the sheep for the Russian.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Coming downstairs.”

  The Colonel also measured the distance to the staircase with his eye.

  “Miss Probeen must have good hearing” he said.

  “Just what I was thinking. Her ears are as good as her eyes are bad. But look, sir—I wanted to tell you this sooner—my cousin is not Miss Probyn any more; she is Mrs. Jamieson now.”

  “She is married? I hope to someone worthy of her?”

  “She’s a widow now; he died a few months ago. He was in my Service—a splendid chap” Colin said briefly. “I didn’t realise that you and she had met before, or I would have made this clear sooner.”

  “Ah yes—you said ’My cousin’, but I did not know of whom you were speaking” the Colonel said. “My apologies.”

  At this point da Silva appeared; he was fully dressed, but evidently had not shaved. Marques went over to him.

  “The Senhor da Silva? My name is Marques. I am sorry to disturb you so early—could we perhaps speak in your office?”

  Da Silva, looking slightly surprised, led the way into his office, a large tidy room behind the reception-desk; the Major and Colin followed, the two plain-clothes men remained in the hall. Marques shut the door after him; then he drew out a small leather case with a card in it and showed it to the landlord—da Silva took it, read it, and looked aghast.

  “From the P.I.D.E.!” he said, under his breath.

  “Yes, Senhor. I wish to speak with two of your guests, to check that their papers are in order.”

  “Which guests?” the unhappy da Silva stammered.

  “The Senhores de Calderón, in Number seventeen.”

  “But these are most excellent clients! This is their second visit, and they never give any trouble.”

  “I am sure they would not, to you, Senhor” Marques said, with a small cold smile. “Tell me, on which side does their room look out?”

  “Over the yard where the garages are. They say that they see so much scenery on their expeditions that they do not require a room with a view” the wretched hotelier said, still eagerly defending his guests.

  “Quite so. Muito bem” the police chief said.

  “But I assure the Senhor Chefe that their papers are in perfect order—I sent them, as with those of all my guests, to the Policia, and they were perfectly satisfied” da Silva persisted.

  “No one is blaming you, Senhor; all the same I wish to see these gentlemen. Please be good enough to take us up to their room.”

  Plainly uncomfortable, da Silva opened the door and led the way upstairs; Marques indicated to the Major with a gesture that he should remain below—“Come with me” he said to Colin, and nodded a summons to the two plain-clothes men, who followed them up, but remained in the corridor, one on each side of the door. da Silva knocked; there was no reply. He knocked again—this time a sleepy voice said “Entre,” and the landlord opened the door, saying—“Some gentlemen to see the Senhores.”

  Two sleepy figures with tousled heads sat up in bed as Colin, Marques and da Silva walked into the room, and gaped in astonishment. Marques walked over and stood by the window.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I am sorry to disturb you so early, but I must ask you to dress and come to the Policia” he said. “Bringing your papers, please; I wish to see whether they are in order.” He turned to Colin, and asked in English—“These they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Just look in the bathroom—is there a window?”

  Colin walked over and opened the bathroom door—“No” he said.

  “Thanks.” He turned to the two Spaniards and said, now in Portuguese—“You can go into the bathroom, one at a time, and dress there, leaving the door open.”

  At this point one of the young men sprang up and darted towards the door, knocking da Silva, who stood near it, aside; Marques called a monosyllabic order, and the youth was promptly seized by the two waiting plain-clothes men and brought back into the room.

  “You see that resistance is of no use” Marques said calmly. “Please get dressed quietly.” He turned to da Silva. “Senhor, are you hurt?”

  “No, I—I do not think so” the landlord said uncertainly.

  “Good. You need not remain; I am sure this is trying for you” Marques said pleasantly. “Let the Senhor out” he said to Colin, “and then lock the door.” Colin did as he was told; the other Spaniard, apparently seeing that the game was up, got out of bed, picked up an armful of clothes off a chair, and went towards the bathroom.

  “Stand by the door and hold it open” the Colonel said to Colin, again in English. “See that he doesn’t take anything— you’d better just give his clothes the once-over before he puts them on.”

  This was a routine that Colin was quite familiar with. He took his shorts and Nazaré shirt from the Spaniard, and felt with a practised hand in the shirt pockets, round the bottoms of the sleeves, and the hems of the shorts. “Ah, here we are” he said— “Oh no you don’t!” as the youth tried to snatch the garment from him; he unpinned a small piece of muslin, opened it, and after a glance at the contents handed it to the Colonel.

  “Ah, the usual thing!” Marques said.

  “I think so—it looks like a cyanide capsule to me.”

  “Well, go back to that door.” Marques spoke in Portuguese to one of the plain-clothes men, who left the job of holding the other Spaniard to his colleague, and searched a second pile of clothes lying on another chair—this time without result.

  “Where is your pill?” Marques asked the youth who had tried to make a dash for it.

  “I think it may be in a shirt that I wore yesterday—in the
clothes-basket” the young man said.

  “Let him look” Marques told the plain-clothes man, who led his captive over to the basket, still holding him by one arm. With the other hand the young man felt down among the dirty clothes —he straightened up with a cry of dismay. “Domingo! They are gone!”

  The other youth, half-dressed, dashed out of the bathroom. “Impossible!” he exclaimed; he turned the basket upside down —a heap of dirty clothes fell out onto the floor, which he turned over with feverish haste. “Carajo! Who can have moved them?” he said. He fairly ran across to the chest of drawers, pulled out the middle one, and looked in that, tossing out shirts in a particoloured shower; then the bottom drawer, hurling pyjamas about. “Nothing!” he said. “Who can have done this?”

  “Go and finish dressing” Marques told him; as the young man obeyed, “What is all this, do you suppose?” Marques asked of Colin in English.

  Colin knew well enough what the wretched boys were looking for—the rolls of film which Julia had removed from this very room the night before; but since they were now on their way to England in Sir Percy’s plane, and it had been agreed that the Colonel was not to be told about Sir Percy and his activities as yet, he stalled. “Could it be more of the suicide pills?” he suggested.

  “They would hardly have more than one each” Marques said.

  “By the way, Colonel, while we’re up here should we see if they’ve got their radio installed?” Colin asked.

  “Might as well.” Marques was standing by the window; he now opened it, and looked right and left. Sure enough, clipped to the hinge of the shutter was the radio aerial, in a fairly inconspicuous position. “Yes, that is it all right. Fernandez can collect it when he comes to bring down their gear” he said easily. He leaned out of the window and called down to the driver of the police car to come round to the front door.

  By this time the second young man was in process of getting dressed in the bathroom; the first sat dejectedly on a chair. “Now get your papers,” Marques told him—“Ah, you have them— good. My people will pack all your effects and bring them to the Policia.”