Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  At 8 p.m. the previous night Shaw had crossed the British Lines beyond Gibraltar’s airport into the tiny fragment of neutral ground between the fortress and the advanced sentries of Spain, one of hundreds of men and women, Spanish workers heading homeward in that nightly exodus which begins at about six o’clock and goes on until eleven; some in buses, many on foot. A drab line of poverty which had straggled along the road across the airport runway, along the top of the Devil’s Tower Road beneath the sheer face of the towering North Front, curving along from the Water-port and Queensway or Irish Town and Main Street. Men dressed like Shaw in old corduroys and faded blue shirts and berets, smuggled cigarettes concealed about their persons, women whose petticoats hid sugar and flour and tea. Chattering like monkeys, the women’s voices shrill, rising and falling in the blessed evening cool as the star-like lights climbed up the Rock, the ragged column moved on through the check-point out of British territory, past the starched-drill sentries of the infantry battalion quartered on the Rock and the policemen who looked to Shaw just like the village constables back in England. Past the Revenue Inspectors, past the Security Police who examined the stamped passes out of the fortress.

  Shaw controlled his burning impatience as the routine rigmarole went impassively through its paces, no one stationed at those gates knowing how vital to their very existence was Shaw’s mission that night. Shaw looked back, up at the towering sheer face of the North Front, wondered how long that great cliff would still be there, with its old siege-galleries to frown across into Spain.

  Then, past the sentries of the Spanish Army, and the carabineros in their distinctive blue-green uniforms, with the peaked caps (indicating them as a separate force from, though linked with, the Civil Guard) and holstered revolvers heavy at their belts. Even once away from there, when his Spanish worker’s pass had been cursorily checked and found in order (it showed him as Pedro Gomez, a day workman employed in Gibraltar Dockyard’s engineering shops), Shaw held himself back so that he could pass through the La Linea Customs post farther on in company with a score of others. There was safety in numbers, and it was pointless to take risks at this stage.

  He came up to the La Linea gateway, big stone arches thrown across the road into the town. Straight through the gates and he was inside Spain. He felt that sudden sense of aloneness, the kind of feeling that always came to him when the die was cast and he was cut off physically from base. He was so conscious of his inadequacies, of his instinctive distaste for the job he had to do—a distaste which he felt could interfere with his efficiency if he wasn’t careful. The feeling of aloneness didn’t last for long, however (though it was to return on the morrow, when he heard distantly the bugles from the Cambridge sounding off for Colours, and then the Royal Marines Band thundering out “The Queen”—it was an odd feeling, to be so near and yet so effectively cut off that if anything should go wrong he might have been ten thousand miles from British soil) and by the time he was through the aduana search-room to the right of the gateway he was breathing easy. They’d given him the usual quick run-over, but they hadn’t found anything on him, hadn’t spotted the revolver-holster slung uncomfortably between his legs under his trousers.

  He came out into the square beyond, walked along the pavement to the left lined with the cabbage-trees; at the end, beyond an orange-piled fruit kiosk in the centre of the square, with its small green patch of gramon, the coarse grass of Andalusia, he stepped off into the roadway. He jumped back quickly as a big black Studebaker swerved violently, tyres screaming, past the street which he had attempted to cross. Shaw cursed after it, fluently and in the colloquial Andalusian dialect. The three men in the car took no notice as the vehicle righted, accelerated, and rushed onward, taking the road to the right of the aduana.

  That had been last night.

  In the cafe Shaw drank up his second cup of coffee, signalled for a third. He didn’t notice the small boy who had been looking at him from behind the counter. When the waiter came over Shaw made a ribald reference to the heavy smell of perfume which still lingered.

  The waiter smiled and bent confidentially over Shaw, eager fingers picking up a small pile of peseta notes which Shaw had slid on to the table as he spoke, the quick olive hand reminding the naval officer, with a little pang, of that last dinner at Martinez with Debonnair. The waiter said:

  “The señor likes the perfume, no?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then perhaps the señor would like also the señorita who wears the scent, and who often comes here.”

  “She is . . . pretty?”

  “Señor, she is more than pretty. She is beautiful.” The man gave the word its full sound and meaning, closed his eyes ecstatically, opened them again. He made a gesture with his fingers.

  “Describe her.”

  The waiter did so. It sounded like Karina right enough— there were not so many women with that particular gold-dusty colouring, the colouring which he himself was always so attracted by.

  “Her name?”

  “Rosia del Cuatro Caminos.”

  Shaw thought, Rosia of the Four Ways—so that’s what Karina’s calling herself now—he was certain it was her; the description, the exclusive scent, the fact that Karina was known to be around. . . . The waiter was hovering expectantly, lifting his eyebrows in a question. “The señor wishes . . . ? If the señor is in no hurry . . ."

  “He is in a hurry.” At once Shaw’s face-muscles tautened; it had been a mistake to admit hurry, but to attempt to cover up now would make it worse. “Here.” He pushed more money over—he had plenty of Spanish currency, provided by Carberry. “Her address?”

  The waiter bent lower, obsequiously. Shaw could see the dirty collar-back. He said, “The end house in the Calle del Virgen, señor.” While the man told him the way Shaw grinned inwardly. The waiter didn’t appear to see anything incongruous in that street-name. The man went on, “There are many señoritas of the establishment, but Señorita Rosia, she is the most beautiful of them all.”

  Shaw thanked the man. Not too hurriedly, he drank up his coffee and left. He knew enough about the effectiveness of the Spanish grapevine to know it wouldn’t be long before Karina had the news that some one had been asking for her —and he realized that it was only too probable that she knew he was in La Linea as it was, so he couldn’t hang about and merely watch that house, wait for her to emerge from what was most likely a rabbit-warren with plenty of exits. Too much time would be lost that way, and he couldn’t risk her flying the nest now. There were snags, of course— there always were—but he couldn’t possibly pass up a lead like this.

  He pressed his left arm in to his side, felt the hard, reassuring outline of the holster slung beneath the armpit under his light coat.

  As Shaw sauntered away from the cafe the waiter watched from the doorway and smiled a little. Then he walked back into the room and through a door into the kitchen beyond. He called sharply, “Pablo, hijo?"

  A moment later a small boy who had been in the crowd leaving Gibraltar a little way behind Shaw the night before darted out of the kitchen, through an opening into a side-alley, and disappeared.

  Three miles away in Gibraltar Debonnair Delacroix had checked in earlier at the Rock Hotel off the B.E.A. flight which had touched down from London on the runway which Shaw had crossed so short a time before. There had been a message for her from a Major Staunton to say he’d intended meeting her but hadn’t been able to get away at the last minute—he would, said the message, call her later on. That, she thought, since she didn’t know Major Staunton from Adam, was all rather odd. Then, when she’d rung the Bristol, she’d been told that Commander Shaw had left unexpectedly for Tangier. After that she tried S.N.A.S.O. But Humphreys had been tipped off by Major Staunton not to raise any panic when Shaw didn’t turn up for his programme of inspections, and he was being non-committal. Staunton had hinted at goings-on of a private nature in Tangier, and Humphreys, being a tolerant and broad-minded man, had quite understood. Now
he didn’t think it would be either going too far from reality or giving any games away if he mentioned to his charming-sounding caller that Commander Shaw had business across the Straits.

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful, Miss Delacroix.”

  Debonnair frowned into the telephone, tapping her foot impatiently. She said politely, “Don’t mention it; it’s awfully nice of you not to mind being bothered with a private call . . . thank you so much.”

  She rang off Then she sat down on the bed and said, “Hell.” She said it with determination and a slight pucker of her mouth, but she knew she had to be content with what she was told when Esmonde Shaw was on a job. All the same, it was a pity. But meanwhile Debonnair had a series of business engagements with the Shell Company, which acted as the agents for Eastern Petroleum in Gibraltar; for her trip, though it was undeniably a wangle, was a wangle with a firm basis, and was not to be entirely a joy-ride. So she couldn’t linger on the off-chance that Esmonde Shaw might get in touch, nor could she wait around for this Major Staunton. She lifted the house telephone, spoke into it; soon after a chauffeur kissed a pretty kitchenmaid good-bye and walked round to the Rolls which the Shell manager had placed at the young lady’s disposal. As Miss Delacroix came down the steps of the hotel with an attentive commissionaire in close attendance the chauffeur gave a low but appreciative whistle. Those legs . . . !

  He stood and held the door open for her. As she stepped in her dress lifted a little, and the chauffeur caught a glimpse of lace. He stood there staring, until he got an indignant glare from the young lady, who was now sitting in the back.

  Debonnair said crisply, “All right, laddie. Marks and Spencers. Go and get a pair for your own best girl.” She gave him a long, cool look.

  As he drove her down the slope to Southport Gate into Main Street, the lights on the dial behind AFPU ONE in Dockyard Tunnel were growing just a little brighter all the time. Not very noticeably unless, like the technicians on watch, you were looking out for it; but steadily, all the same.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hours afterwards Shaw’s head was still throbbing, bursting into great shafts and flickers of blinding white light. He’d never known a head like this, and it made him retch—when he had first begun to recover consciousness during the night he had felt that death must be very near, for his head felt no more than a lump of bruised, pulped butcher’s meat and his stomach seemed to be on fire; it had been a long time before he’d been able to recall what had happened, a longer time—much longer—before he realized where he was.

  The one thing that stood out a mile was that he’d played it wrong, that that first sight of Karina had put him off his stroke. And he could catch flickers, as on an old and defective film, of that brief scene with Karina.

  When he’d left that cafe he’d walked on towards the Calle del Virgen feeling his nerves jumping more than was usual. Once the job began he was normally all right. But not this time. He felt a shock of distaste as he reached that street and looked along its length, noted the cul-de-sac and the sleazy house at the end. He couldn’t fit Karina into this background. He went unwillingly into the slatternly alley. A small boy, half hidden in a doorway, emerged and ran swiftly away ahead of him, and odd shadowy figures passed. He walked on, beneath the overhanging balconies, the balconies which brought to his ears the low laughter of love-making.

  And then, ahead of him, he’d seen her waiting for him. He’d seen her beneath a balcony, and at once a hundred memories had flooded back.

  She was waiting for him as she had done so often years before, and it might almost have been a dream. She was waiting for him in the shadows, and there was a hint of laughter and a well-remembered scent. The lamplight from an uncurtained window caught the green of her slanting eyes, eyes which held him now in a steady, rather enigmatic look. He felt they’d recognized each other instantly across the span of the years, and for his part nostalgia swept him with a sudden and blinding wave which took him somehow off balance—off guard, certainly. Anyway, he hadn’t drawn his revolver; but then she’d probably had him covered all the way along. He saw the small round mouth of her pistol facing him, a little pistol which he recognized. It was the small, jewelled one, almost a toy really (though it was effective enough at close range like this) which she had treasured and always liked to use in the old times.

  In a low voice, and smiling as she used to in the way that crinkled up her nose and brought something utterly nameless to the eyes and the oval face, she’d said rather mockingly, “Well, my Esmonde? Have you nothing to say to me, after all this time?”

  Running his tongue over dry and gritty lips, he’d found the words he wanted had all gone. All he’d managed was: “I was coming to the—”

  “The brothel.” She gave a low ripple of laughter. “You don’t need to euphemize with me, my Esmonde. We know each other well enough for that, I think. As it happened, I preferred to meet you here—the other was risky, for the Madame is not in my confidence. To her I am just another of her girls.”

  “It’s not risky here, then?”

  She said, “Not in the least. No one would interfere with a señorita and her bargaining with a client in the Calle del Virgen!” The green eyes smiled at him; he could have sworn in that instant that he’d caught a hint of wistfulness in them. But she went on, in a crisper tone, “You will turn round now, please. You will walk back along the alley and turn to the left at the end. There you will find a car waiting, and you will get in.”

  Shaw didn’t move. Coming out of his dream now, he asked, “What’s the idea, Karina?”

  “That I will tell you when you are in the car.”

  “You’ll tell me now.”

  She shrugged. “Very well. I wanted anyway to see you again for old times’ sake, but now there are other things.” Her voice had become harder. “In a nutshell, my dear Esmonde, I want to have you out of the way until the man Ackroyd is clear of Spain—oh, yes, I have him!” she added, as she saw the query in his eyes. “He is no longer in La Linea. He is where you will never find him, but I believe in making quite sure, you understand? And I want you for something else—information. The man Ackroyd, he is a useless worm. If necessary you will come back to my country with me.”

  Other things, too, returned to Shaw. Through the mists he realized that there was one satisfactory aspect: Ackroyd hadn’t talked. That must be true, for otherwise Karina would not want him for ‘information.’ He wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant by saying Ackroyd was a useless worm. But, with a growing sense of dread, he recalled something else she’d said, and that was that she knew through her contacts in London about Debonnair’s flight, knew she had arrived in Gibraltar—and had threatened that if Shaw did not talk, she would bring Debonnair out from Gibraltar, make him talk under threat of what might be done to her. In this there was one patch of light: Karina could not know of the danger threatening Gibraltar, or she would scarcely use the removal of Debonnair as a threat. Security was, as yet, intact.

  He’d stood firm, and he hadn’t gone towards the car. Instead he’d asked, “What if I don’t move?”

  “I will shoot, even though I do not wish to do that to you.”

  He grinned down at her. “You’d never get away with that.”

  “On the contrary.” She gave a short laugh. “In the Calle del Virgen they look after their own kind. Turn, please. Esmonde, I do not wish to harm you.”

  She’d sounded as though she meant that.

  Shaw had given a slight shrug then and turned. But as he did so he’d brought his left hand smashing down on her wrist. As her small pistol fell with a click on the ground he’d brought out his own revolver, pushed the muzzle at her. She was close enough for him to see the firm roundness of her breasts through the thin suit, close enough for him to draw in her perfume, that wonderful perfume . . . and then, as she gave a sudden cry, as though of warning, he saw her glance flick upward and he caught a glimpse of a figure in deep shadow on the balcony above, the balcony towards which sh
e had drawn him, and something swinging on the end of a rope.

  As the sandbag took his skull Shaw went out like a light, stone cold on the filthy paving-stones. Just before the bombshell burst in his head he’d seen Karina dart a little to one side and, just as the sandbag hit, some reflex action made his fingers tighten on the trigger of his revolver. As he fell Karina flitted unhurt into the shadows, but a uniformed member of the Policia Municipal, coming with a companion into the mouth of the alley, cursed as Shaw’s bullet snicked through his coat-sleeve;-the bullet went on and spun the carbine on the shoulder of a Civil Guard passing along the other side of the street beyond.

  It was morning before Shaw realized where he was.

  The filthy, smelly cell, the calabozo with the tiny, high-set grille window through which the sun now faintly struggled, had meant nothing to him until the door had been swung back and the light from the passage showed up the municipal coming in with a tin platter of revolting-looking food and a mug which gave off a thin trail of steam.

  The policeman was quite jovial really, told Shaw that it had been lucky for him that a police patrol had been entering the alley when he passed out, or he might never have been seen again—as it was, said the policeman, the figure of a woman had vanished with most suspicious haste—vanished altogether—at their approach. The man seemed to take it for granted that Shaw had been bargaining with a prostitute, that he knew—or should know—the dangers of being discovered drunk on the paving-stones by the scavenging men and women who inhabited the Calle del Virgen.

  Shaw asked, “What am I being charged with?”

  “With firing—fortunately harmlessly—an offensive weapon at the Policia Municipal.”

  “How long will I be kept here?”

  The policeman shrugged. “I do not know. Possibly a long time.”

  Shaw glowered, but knew it would be no good arguing with this man. The policeman said, quite kindly, “Hombre, you must indeed be considered very fortunate in being alive at all. Perhaps you will be more careful in future.”