When I came outside again I found that darkness had fallen swiftly. The air was cooler now, and I was glad I had brought my coat. I strolled down by the harbor. Lights from all around the bay sent shimmering bars of gold across the water.
I became aware that I was being followed, which wasn’t really surprising. I decided I had better not stay on the streets. Flamenco music poured from a cafe a few yards along, so I went inside and ordered a glass of sherry.
Here, too, I was looked at or over. Two or three times a man passed by my table and tried to pick me up. Politeness failing, I found a hard frozen stare was the answer.
My glass was nearly empty, but I didn’t want another drink. So I sat for long minutes with the dregs of my sherry until at last I judged that the time had come to move on to the restaurant.
It turned out to be quite close, but the moment I stepped inside I realized I was still much too early. The place was almost empty. I chose a table in an alcove from which I could see the entrance and resigned myself to a long wait.
The Velasquez restaurant gave an impression of slightly faded magnificence—tall fluted columns and elegant potted palms, red velvet drapes and a carpet of royal blue and gold. The food was superb—if only I had been in a mood to enjoy it. I accepted the waiter’s inevitable recommendation of a paella and ate it without interest, watching the door with every forkful.
I lingered over dessert, a rich chocolate gateau, and took almost an hour over coffee. In the end I had to admit defeat. There had been no guarantee that Alexis and Belle would come here, but even so I was left with a cold feeling of desolation.
Wearily, I signaled the waiter and asked for my bill. The amount of it shook me. If this was anything to go by, how much was staying at the hotel going to cost? I couldn’t stay there at this rate for long.
With economy in mind, I asked the doorman if I could catch a bus back to my hotel, which was in the Torreno quarter. He looked down his nose at me— customers of the Velasquez weren’t expected to travel by bus! But he gave me directions, speaking English with such a thick, lisping accent that I found it difficult to follow.
I started walking, my steps heavy with disappointment. I wondered what I was going to say to Brett. He would be furious with me for running out on him. I had counted on finding Alexis. I had not allowed for failure.
The street I had turned into on my way to the bus was a narrow one, cobbled, with tall shuttered buildings on either side. Though I could see bright lights and traffic passing right at the far end, the street itself was dark and utterly deserted. I couldn’t help a tremor of unease.
As I stood hesitating on the narrow pavement, debating whether this could really be the right way, a car swung slowly around the corner from behind me. I turned. Its headlights, full on, were so bright that I was blinded. I stepped back instinctively, closer to the wall.
The car came on, accelerating hard. It seemed to be heading straight for me, even though I must have been clearly visible. It had actually mounted the pavement and still was coming on. Oh, God, it couldn’t possibly stop in time. Panic-stricken, I screamed and pressed myself back against a door in the wall. But nothing could save me now.
Then, in that final, ultimate split second, the door behind me sprung open, and I fell sprawling backward.
The car went by with a roar, almost scraping the bricks of the wall, and suddenly it was darkness again. Pitch black. I lay where I had fallen, shaking uncontrollably. For the moment I was too terrified to think of anything beyond the one stark fact that I had escaped certain death only by a hairsbreadth.
Chapter Six
Somewhere close at hand behind me I heard another door opening, and light streamed out. A startled voice gasped something I didn’t understand. Lifting my head, I saw a stout woman dressed all in black. She stared down at me with wide, astonished eyes, then came forward and helped me to my feet, talking rapidly and incomprehensibly.
“English ...” I mumbled apologetically. “Inglesa.” Then I tried French. “Je suis Anglaise.”
She seemed to understand and nodded and smiled reassuringly, while still pouring a flood of words meaningless to me. Gripping my arm, she urged me toward the lighted doorway. Only now did I begin to take in any details. I was in a narrow dark alleyway with rough stone walls, and I realized that it must be an outside passageway between two buildings.
As we went inside, the smell of garlic was almost overpowering. It seemed to saturate the air so that I felt sickened, and I was reluctant to penetrate any further. But my legs were so weak that I needed to sit down, and I could hardly do that in the street. Besides, I was scared to leave this refuge. Though I felt a little lightheaded from shock, I knew with chilling clarity that the car had been driven at me deliberately. The driver, whoever he was, had intended to kill me. But why?
The single light in the room came from a central unshaded bulb and showed me this was a poor home. The furniture was worn, the walls were a grimy beige color. There was an old man who sat in a wooden armchair drawn up to the table. He seemed to be affected by some sort of nervous ague, for his thin blue-veined hands trembled. Beside him stood a small girl with long pigtails and a black-haired, dark-skinned boy of fifteen or sixteen. Their eyes were all turned upon me, staring.
The woman pushed me down onto the shabby sofa and immediately went to a corner cupboard and fetched a bottle and glass. Gratefully, I gulped down the amber liquid and found it raw and strong, stinging my throat. But it seemed to revive me.
The youth stepped forward, speaking diffidently. “You are English, senora?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.” I felt so relieved that someone could understand me that I babbled on. “There was a car ... it drove straight at me. If your street door hadn’t been unlatched, I would certainly have been killed.”
He was gazing at me blankly, and I realized I had gone too fast for him to follow me. I began again.
“A motorcar, you understand? An automobile.”
He nodded, his thin strong-boned face lighting up eagerly. “Si, si... an automovil.”
“The driver ... he tried to knock me down ... tried to kill me.”
He looked bewildered and said something to his mother. She answered in another torrent of words. Then the old man, who was presumably the grandfather, joined in, and the little girl spoke in a high piping voice. They were all staring at me, almost as if I was some creature from another planet. At length the boy began fumbling for more English words.
“Steal... ? He take money?”
“No, not steal.” I held up my handbag, which I had been clutching all this time without knowing it. “He didn’t stop. He just tried to run me down. Kill me.”
Their scared, uncomprehending eyes looked back at me. What was the use? The alcohol was already having an effect, and I could feel the shivering of my limbs growing less. I sought about in my mind for something they would understand, some explanation that would satisfy them.
“Accident,” I said. “Comprende? Accident.”
They all repeated the word solemnly, even the little girl, though whether it meant anything to them I couldn’t be sure. I reached forward to put the glass on the table then, experimentally, I tried to stand up. My legs still felt weak, but I decided I would just about be able to manage. I nodded to each one of them in turn—the old man, the boy, the little girl, and lastly to the woman.
“Gracias,” I said, moving toward the door. “Mucho gracias.”
“You go now?” asked the boy.
“Yes,” I said. “Si si... I must go.”
“You walk?” he said. “La senora ... sola. It is dark”
“I was going to get a bus,” I told him. But that meant nothing to him. I tried again. “Taxi.”
“Ah, taxi.”
There was another family discussion, concluding in nods all around. Then the boy announced, with a sort of gallant pride, “I, Pedro, will come with you.”
I smiled my gratitude. The thought of emerging into the dark stre
ets again terrified me. Maybe the unknown driver who wanted me dead was still lurking there, waiting for a second chance to run me down. I knew that it would take all my courage to leave the safety of this room, even with the friendly boy escorting me.
Outside, I wondered why I had ever been so foolhardy as to take this turning at all. Although linking two busy traffic routes, the narrow street was in almost total darkness, shadowed by the tall, high-walled buildings. As I walked beside Pedro to the farther end, I was shaking with nerves. My eyes kept searching for doorways where we might take shelter if the car should return. But mercifully, the street remained empty.
We reached the corner at last and were among other people again. At once I felt safer and let out my breath in a long sigh of relief.
Pedro did not slacken his pace, and I presumed he knew where he could find me a taxi. All I wanted now was to sink back in a soft-padded seat and be whisked straight to the hotel. Encountering Brett no longer seemed a problem. His face would look comfortingly friendly, even though he might be in a bad mood because I’d walked out on him.
“Gail. Gail.”
I heard my name shouted from across the street, above the din of the traffic. In bewilderment, I stopped and gazed around, wondering if I had only imagined Brett’s voice because he’d been in my mind. Then I saw him on the pavement opposite, waving at me frantically. He started to cross, dodging nimbly between the fast-moving cars.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked in a belligerent tone as he reached me. “And who’s this?”
Pedro looked startled, and to reassure him I said quickly, “It’s all right. Friend ... amigo.”
Brett said impatiently, “Will you please explain what’s going on, Gail? I’ve been searching for you all over the place, and then I find you calmly wandering the streets with a local youth.”
He was angry, all right. But he was still Brett. I would be safe now as long as I stayed with him. In my pent-up state I clutched his arm.
“Somebody tried to kill me, Brett! Quite deliberately. A car just tried to run me down.”
He looked at me with cool incredulity. “Gail, you’re imagining things. The way some of them drive here is pretty irresponsible, I agree, but whoever would deliberately want to run you down?”
“I don’t know who it was,” I shouted. “But I was walking through a narrow street back there ... on my way to catch a bus, when a car came along from behind. Suddenly it accelerated and drove straight at me. If I hadn’t fallen backward into a doorway, I’d have been killed.”
My voice had risen to the edge of hysteria. Brett held me against him and patted me soothingly, as if I was a child to be comforted.
“It’s all right, love—it’s all right. I’ll get you back to the hotel. But you still haven’t told me who this young chap is.”
It was difficult to explain it all, confronted by Brett’s evident disbelief. Pedro stood looking on, nodding his head vigorously, though he couldn’t have made much sense of my incoherent story.
“You do seem to have had a narrow escape,” said Brett when I stammered to an end. “But you must forget this crazy idea about someone trying to kill you, Gail. Obviously, it was just some drunk.” His hand went to his pocket. “I suppose I’d better pay off your escort.”
Pedro understood the gesture, if not the words. He backed away, his manhood insulted.
“No, not to pay money. I do not wish.” He turned to me, still concerned on my behalf. “You okay now, yes?”
I nodded, pulling myself together and smiling at him.
“Yes, I am okay now. Thank you for being so very kind and helpful, Pedro. And please thank your mother again, too.”
Brett surprised me by adding a few words in Spanish. With an oddly appealing little bow, the boy turned and walked off quickly.
“Come on,” said Brett. “Let’s find a taxi and get back to the hotel.”
“But shouldn’t we report this to the police? Someone tried to kill me.”
“For God’s sake,” snapped Brett irritably. “You’ve said yourself there was nobody around when it happened, nobody who could back up your word. Just suppose we could get the police to believe your story that it was no accident, but done quite deliberately— what then? What could you tell them to help them track down the culprit? You couldn’t describe the car, could you? Or the driver?” He shot me a keen, probing look. “Well, could you?”
I shook my head unhappily. “All the same ...”
Brett cut across me. “The sum total of going to the police would be to start a lot of inquiries we don’t want. So far, Gail, we’ve been lucky. So far the press haven’t got on to the fact that you’re Alexis Karel’s niece who’s come to try and persuade him to return home. But if they do, and you stir up trouble with the police, just think of the headlines—‘Runaway’s niece claims someone tried to kill her.’”
“All right, you’ve made your point. So we’ve just got to let him get away with it?”
Brett pounced on the word. “Him?”
“I mean, whoever was driving the car.”
“Forget it, Gail. Put the incident right out of your mind. If there really was anything deliberate involved, and it wasn’t just a drunk driver who couldn’t control his car, then my guess is that it must have been some young hooligan who thought it would be fun to give you a scare.”
“A scare? But I’d have been killed, I tell you, if that door hadn’t given way.”
He nodded, frowning. “I realize you’ve had a nasty shock, but you mustn’t get it out of proportion. Honestly, I should try and forget the whole thing, or you’ll finish up with a persecution complex.”
It was easy for Brett to say forget it. But how could I ever forget that car roaring toward me with its headlights blazing, blinding me, almost touching the wall where I cowered helplessly?
Brett found us a taxi, and I climbed in almost in a trance. I was so deeply absorbed that when Brett spoke his words hardly registered at first.
“If you hadn’t gone off like that, Gail, I could have told you there isn’t a chance of finding Alexis in Palma. He’s skipped out. He’s left Majorca.”
“Left Majorca?” I surfaced with a jolt. “Where is he, then?”
It was dark in the taxi. Lights from outside gave me flashed glimpses of Brett’s face. I couldn’t read his expression, but he sounded pleased with himself, almost smug.
“At the present moment your dear uncle and his girlfriend are somewhere at sea aboard a fishing boat, heading for some destination unknown. They left this afternoon before we even arrived.”
“But I don’t understand. Why weren’t we told at the hotel that they’d checked out? The desk clerk said—”
“The desk clerk was no doubt well bribed by Alexis to put inquirers off the scent. Your uncle didn’t want anyone to know they’d left the island.”
“But why not? What’s it all about, Brett? How did you come to find out, anyway?”
“I happened to run into a chap I know in the hotel lobby. Dougal Fraser. He works for the Globe, and he shot over here yesterday when the story first broke about Alexis and Belle turning up in Majorca. Dougal actually had an interview with your uncle. He says Alexis kept complaining about being hounded by the press, saying he’s a private citizen, a naturalized British subject, and that what he does is entirely his own concern and no one else’s. And now, apparently, he’s fixed a deal with a fisherman to take them off the island secretly. Not a soul knows where they’re heading.”
I felt stricken, engulfed by an agonizing sense of failure. That this blow should come scarcely half an hour after I’d narrowly escaped death in a dark side street. I closed my eyes, fighting tears that threatened to sweep away the last shreds of my self-control.
“Where ... where do you think they can have gone?” I faltered.
Brett hunched his shoulders. “The possibilities are endless, right around the compass. Algeria, the east coast of Spain, the French Riviera, Corsica, Sardinia. Or maybe just
one of the other Balearic Islands—Minorca or Ibiza. It looks as if Alexis has achieved the exact reverse of what he hoped for. He won’t be left in peace now. As Dougal pointed out, if they had just hung around here in Majorca the story would have died a natural death in a couple of days. But now the press is on the alert again. This has given the whole thing a new lease on life.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked miserably.
“We pack up and go home, if we’re sensible.”
“No, Brett, I can’t. Not without trying to find him.”
“Then we just stay put until we get some news.”
“You mean, just wait here?”
“Have you any better idea?” He slung the words at me. But when I didn’t answer, he added more gently, “I don’t think it will be for long, Gail. It seems certain they weren’t equipped for a lengthy voyage. They’ll have to make some landfall in the next twenty-four hours or so, and the minute word comes through we can get after them.”
“Plus every reporter within range, I suppose,” I said bitterly. “Why can’t Alexis see that he’s playing into the hands of the gutter press? At this rate we’ll never be able to keep it from Madeleine.”
Brett said curtly, “Just you remember, Gail, that if it wasn’t for the newspapers you’d never have got onto Alexis as fast as this—if at all. And as for your aunt, that’s your own lookout. It was a stupid idea to try and keep her in the dark.”
I bit my lip. I should have known better than to expect sympathy from Brett. And yet I had to acknowledge that I needed him at this moment. I needed his contacts in the newspaper world if I was to get after Alexis in time to save the situation. Every day, every hour that passed, the chance of Madeleine finding out grew more likely. Rudi couldn’t keep her in the dark indefinitely. If she happened to ask for a newspaper, he could hardly refuse to give her one. And Madeleine had a radio in her room, though she almost never switched it on.
I remembered how desperate I had been to come to Majorca without Brett. Now I was glad that he had found me out. But I would have to watch my step with him. I couldn’t afford to go on risking his anger. I didn’t want him to rush off in a fit of temper.
Quest for Alexis Page 6