by Iris Danbury
“Then forgive me if this is not the correct thing to do, but my sister—” She gave a brief account of Lisa’s disappearance. “How can I find if she is in hospital somewhere?”
“First I could trace whether your sister is in the hospital I attend,” Dr. Montal answered. ‘Then there are several convent hospitals.”
‘Thank you very much.” Nicola wrote her address on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Today I’m still at the hotel in Santa Ana, but tomorrow I shall be staying at the flat for, perhaps, a fortnight. After that—I don’t know.”
His strong, eagle-like features softened for a moment.
“I will do what I can,” he promised. Then he turned towards his niece. “Adrienne, if you’re ready?”
He gave Nicola a formal bow and moved away towards the exit of the salon.
“Goodbye, Miss Brettell,” Adrienne said breathlessly. “We live at Orsola de Mar. You must come and see us.” She followed her uncle out of the salon and as Nicola watched the two disappear, the tall man in a light grey suit, the blonde girl in a hyacinth blue dress, it seemed as if they had taken light and vitality with them, leaving the exhibition salon dim and lifeless in spite of the glowing pictures on the walls.
Nicola waited a few minutes before leaving. She did not want to appear to be following the Montals, but when she stepped out into the narrow street where practically all the first-floor balconies were decorated with flowers in window-boxes and tubs, there was no sign of the doctor and his niece.
In the vestibule of her hotel, Nicola studied the large map of Barcelona, but could not find the place mentioned by Adrienne.
“Orsola de Mar?” the receptionist echoed. “About forty-five kilometres from Barcelona. You can go by train.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you.” Nicola had imagined that the Montals lived in a suburb, but the place Adrienne had mentioned was nearly thirty miles away.
For the time being Nicola gave no more thought to Adrienne’s casual suggestion. She had to pack her clothes and pay her bill in readiness for leaving early tomorrow.
She found time to telephone Patrick Holton to tell him about the move.
“The rent is apparently paid, so I might as well move in,” she said, and then continued with an account of her meeting with Dr. Montal and his niece.
“It never occurred to me that poor Lisa might actually be in hospital,” she went on. “I know it was stupid, but she’s hardly ever ill.”
“Well, a doctor should be able to trace her, if she’s ill. I’ve no further news at this end,” Patrick told her. “Look, let’s forget your sister for a bit. Tomorrow’s Saturday. How about coming out with me somewhere? You ought to see something of Barcelona while you’re here.”
Nicola hesitated. Then she said, “I don’t want you to feel obliged to take me around just because I’m English—and Lisa’s sister.”
“That hadn’t entered my head,” he retorted. “All right. What shall we say? Three o’clock? I’ll meet you at the foot of the Columbus monument, the Colon. That suit you? It’s handy for both of us.”
Although Nicola agreed, she was to some extent worried that an urgent message might come when she was out enjoying herself, but then, she reflected, one could not stay in all the time.
It took only an hour or two next day to settle herself in Lisa’s flat and she persuaded the caretaker to provide her with a key.
As she unpacked and put underwear into the dressing-table drawers, a small hard object rattled about. Nicola recognized it at once—a small topaz brooch in antique silver setting that one of Lisa’s friends had given her for her birthday.
So Lisa had really stayed here. Nicola stood with the brooch in her hands, cold shivers chasing up and down her spine. Four days in Barcelona and still no news of Lisa, who must have known exactly when Nicola was expected to arrive. Even if for some reason Lisa did not want to meet her sister yet, surely she could have sent a reassuring message. Or was Lisa in some particularly bad scrape and afraid to make even that contact?
About midday a letter was delivered, addressed to “Senorita Brettell”. Nicola eagerly tore it open without examining the postmark. This might be the clue she had been seeking.
Instead, the note was a cordial invitation from Adrienne to spend the next day, Sunday, at the Montals’ villa in Orsola.
“If you can take the ten o’clock train from the main station,” wrote Adrienne, “I will come to meet you and take you to our home.”
So it had not been one of those meaningless phrases—“Do come and see us—” Adrienne’s intentions had been sincere.
Nicola told Patrick of the invitation when she was walking with him in the city park.
“Orsola de Mar? Yes, I know it A very pleasant fishing village up the coast.”
“You don’t know anything of this doctor, I suppose?” she queried.
Patrick grinned. “Actually I haven’t been ill—yet!”
They spent the afternoon on the sandy beach farther along the promenade. “How long have you been in Spain?” Nicola asked.
“Nearly two years.”
“Why did you come in the first place?”
Patrick smiled. “I’d spent a couple of holidays in Spain and I suppose I liked the climate. The firm I work for is partly British, and somehow you feel that shipping wine and importing foreign spirits is more interesting than selling soap or breakfast foods.”
“Especially in a country where you buy good wine so cheaply,” Nicola observed.
“What are you going to do if Lisa doesn’t turn up before your holiday runs out?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Go home, of course. I couldn’t stay here indefinitely.”
“But you’ve no job to go back to?” Patrick sat up and spoke earnestly. “Look, I could probably get you a job here—either in my own firm, or recommend you somewhere else where you’d be comfortable.”
“That’s very kind of you, Patrick, but I can’t really make any plans yet. I must wait and see.”
“Well, let me know how you feel. You’ll need a work permit and one or two other documents, but I could help you there.”
“Thank you.”
Nicola thought it unlikely that she would need Patrick’s assistance. It might have been possible to step into Lisa’s position, but it seemed that her sister had left behind a rather unsatisfactory reputation where work was concerned and the firm might not relish employing another Miss Brettell.
Then, too, there was the flat in Bayswater. Nicola had struggled to keep it on without Lisa’s contribution on the assumption that sooner or later Lisa would return to London and need a place to live.
It was inconceivable that Lisa had disappeared without trace. She had probably had to switch her plans at short notice and even now there might be letters or telegrams at home telling Nicola of some new address.
All the same Nicola was eager next day to see Dr. Montal in case he had news of her sister.
Adrienne met her at Orsola station and led the way to a long white car.
“It is only a short drive to our house,” she told Nicola. Nicola had a glimpse of the harbour as the road climbed out of the village and Adrienne forked away from the main road, drove through a pair of open gates and halted before a large white house with an arcaded front. Nicola followed the young girl through the centre archway to a courtyard, massed with flowers and trees, feathery palms, trellises laden with foliage and splashed with colour.
“We must immediately have something to drink,” declared Adrienne.
When a young manservant appeared, Nicola decided on iced lemonade rather than wine. Half-past eleven was rather too early in the day for her, whatever the Spanish habits might be.
“My uncle will not be home until nearly lunch-time,” Adrienne informed her, “so we have time for bathing. You swim?”
“Yes, but actually I haven’t brought bathing things with me today,” Nicola answered.
“Oh, that is no matter. We have a selection of swimsuits for o
ur guests. Also we have our own pool in case we do not want to go down to the seashore.”
After resting in the cushioned wicker chairs for a while, the two girls walked through part of the extensive gardens surrounding the Montals’ villa.
The pool, lined in azure blue tiles, was surrounded by a flower garden and completely secluded, yet within easy reach of the main part of the house.
Nicola enjoyed swimming in the warm pool.
“Much warmer than bathing around our icy shores at home,” she called to Adrienne, who was floating lazily on her back.
“There is no sense in plunging into freezing water,” Adrienne replied.
Nicola reflected that her hostess probably did not realise how few opportunities the average English girl had of swimming in private pools in flower-scented gardens.
Dr. Sebastian Montal arrived home only a few minutes before lunch and Nicola was anxious to ask him if he had learned any news of Lisa, but she restrained herself until the meal had begun. The three sat at a table in a corner of the main courtyard, where three dwarf palm trees spread a canopy of dappled shade overhead.
After an impressive selection of hors d’oeuvres, where Nicola had to take a choice between some twenty or more tempting dishes, Adrienne said, “I hope you can eat calamares. They are small squids. If not, we will offer you something else.”
“I should like to try,” replied Nicola. “What’s the use of eating everything English when you could at least try Spanish food?”
She glanced at the doctor and saw that for one swift moment an expression of approval flitted across his stern features. It seemed the moment to ask for information.
He shook his head in answer to her query. “Nothing so far, I’m afraid. No young woman has been brought in during the past week or ten days. No girl, that is, answering to your description or of that name.”
Nicola’s face fell, although to hear that Lisa was in hospital was the last thing she wanted to hear.
“But I shall make enquiries elsewhere,” the doctor promised.
After lunch Dr. Montal withdrew, probably to enjoy his siesta, while Adrienne conducted Nicola to a terrace that gave a panoramic view of the harbour. Here there were more tables and chairs and Nicola was commanded to lie full length on one of the mattressed long chairs.
“I’m not used to going to sleep in the afternoon,” she protested mildly.
“In Spain it is necessary,” said Adrienne firmly. “This is only May. In July and August our sun is too strong for us to move about after lunch.”
“I understand the Spanish take their siesta all through the winter, too.” Nicola could not keep out the teasing note in her voice.
“Ah, but that is because we have our night life here and in England perhaps you go to bed at ten in the evening. That is just when we have finished our dinner and are waking up for the evening’s entertainment.”
After a pause to settle herself, Nicola asked, “Have you always lived here?”
“Oh, yes,” returned Adrienne. “Except when I was away at school, of course. This house, the Villa Ronda, is also my father’s house, but he is away, very far away, in South America.” Adrienne’s tone became sad.
“But he’ll come home soon?”
Adrienne shook her head. “That we do not know. He has been there for more than three years. He went abroad when my mother died. She was French, you understand. He is also a doctor and he was sad that all his skill could not save her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nicola sympathised.
“We do not know when my father will come back. He has not written for nearly two years. Sebastian believes that he is dead, but I know that my father will come home some time.”
“So you have only your uncle as close relative?”
“There are branches of the family, of course, but they live elsewhere—in Barcelona, Tarragona, Madrid—all kinds of places.”
Nicola remained silent, unwilling to probe further into the girl’s tragic history, but she saw now the significance of Adrienne’s name, her fairness and her correct, precise English spoken with a faint French accent.
The day passed quickly, but the doctor did not join his niece and her guest until shortly before dinner. Nicola had been slightly anxious about leaving after so late a dinner. “Will there be a train back to Barcelona?” she asked.
“Our chauffeur will drive you back,” Sebastian Montal assured her.
“Oh, but I mustn’t put you to that trouble,” she began to protest, but Dr. Montal silenced her with a glance from his sombre eyes.
“You could not be allowed to walk from the railway station to your apartment so late at night.”
Nicola made no reply, realising that his ideas about girls walking in strange towns late at night were different from her own carefree English attitude.
During the long, protracted dinner he asked questions about what work she had done and she gave him polite answers. When it was time to go, Nicola thanked both Adrienne and her uncle for an extremely pleasant day.
“You must come again,” invited Adrienne eagerly, but there was no echoing support from the doctor, only the promise to telephone or write if he heard any news of Lisa.
It was nearly midnight when the chauffeur brought Nicola to the main entrance of the flats. She thanked him and sympathised that he had to drive all the way back to Orsola, but she supposed that it was all part of his job.
As she mounted the stairs she was aware of the scrutiny of a young man who leaned against the wall. From the second floor she peered once over the banister rail, but apparently he had lost interest in her.
She had been in the flat no more than a couple of minutes when there was a subdued knocking at the outer door. Her first instinct was to take no notice, but the knocking came again, this time louder.
She called out, “Who is it?” and a man’s voice called back, “Lisa! Lisa!”
In a moment of panic she unlocked the door, thinking that Lisa might also be there. She was confronted by the man from downstairs. The smile on his dark face instantly faded as he began to say “Al fin!” Then he said, “Lisa?” followed by rapid exclamations and questions in Spanish which Nicola failed to follow.
She gathered that he was asking for Lisa, believing her to be still living at the flat.
Nicola shook her head. “Lisa—no. Who are you?”
“Amigo,” he declared. “Donde esta Lisa?”
Nicola shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in a gesture of ignorance.
“Inglesa?” he queried.
“Si. No hablo bien espanol. Vous parlez francais?” She did not like the look of him particularly, yet she was desperately anxious not to miss an opportunity of hearing something of Lisa.
“Je suis la soeur de Lisa,” she explained slowly. “Hermana. Understand?”
“Hermana?” he echoed. “Buenos noches.” He turned sharply, hurried along the corridor and vanished down the stairway before Nicola could even return his “Goodnight.”
She shut the door quickly, locked it, then pondered on the man’s odd and abrupt behaviour. Evidently he had been waiting for Lisa to come home, expecting to find her still living in the apartment. Naturally, he had not connected Nicola with Lisa, since they were so different in looks.
Nicola was really too tired to cope with the problem now, but she sat on the bed and forced herself to think. Was Lisa in the habit of receiving visits from young men at such late hours? All the circumstances of Lisa’s strange disappearance were beginning to build up into something sinister.
Nicola knew now that she could not go home to England without knowing what had happened to her sister. She was vexed with herself that she had made no attempt to ask the man’s name.
She telephoned Patrick next morning and told him that she had changed her mind. “If there’s a job going in your office, I’ll be glad to take it I can’t explain in detail, but I need it now.”
“Why? Have you found Lisa?”
“No. I’ve decided to
stay here and go on looking for her, but I must work. Can you fix an interview for me?”
“With pleasure,” he replied.
At Patrick’s firm of wine-shippers next day Nicola was interviewed by one of the English directors, but he held out no encouraging prospects.
“We filled the vacancy left by your sister, Miss Brettell,” he told Nicola, “and at the moment I. don’t see where we could fit you in, especially as you say you’re an experienced secretary. Your sister was only a copy typist.”
She could almost hear his thoughts—“And a pretty poor one at that.” “Still, if we have a vacancy here within the next few weeks,” he promised, “I’ll get in touch with you if you’re still free or want a change.”
Nicola thanked him, left her address and went out of his private room into the outer office. A man sat on a bench and glanced up as she passed, but looked away immediately. She was sure it was the man who had called at the flat on Sunday night, asking for Lisa.
“Senor!” Nicola addressed him quietly. “Can you tell me anything about my sister Lisa?”
As she said Lisa’s name, the man jerked up his head, but stared blankly at Nicola.
“You came to her flat in the Paseo Maritimo on Sunday night,” she continued in a hushed voice, forgetting that he probably could not understand English except for a word or two.