Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  Parker abruptly asked for a stop-watch. When he’d got it in his hand he pressed the knob at the top, and for a long time he checked that maddening note.

  Then, white-faced and shaking, he said, “It’s barely noticeable yet, I s’pose, but she’s running faster for all that.”

  He clenched his fists and swore. The others stared back at him, caught each other’s glances sidelong. Parker wiped a sweat-rag over his face, shrugged. Then he picked up a screwdriver and moved back to the starting-panel.

  It had taken Don Jaime no more than ten minutes and a wad of high-denomination peseta notes to get the man ‘Pedro Gomez’ out of the La Linea casilla. And, speeding north-east to Torremolinos in the limousine, Shaw began to feel better. Don Jaime had produced a flask of brandy from a recess in the upholstery, and a couple of good pulls at this had worked wonders. The Spaniard promised food the moment they got back to the villa.

  As they drove fast along the road which led down into the valley, across the Guadiaro river’s cantilever bridge, and then along the high coast road past Buller’s Beach, with the blue-hazed mountains to the westward, Shaw tried to thank Don Jaime, but the Spaniard wouldn’t permit it.

  “But it is nothing,” he protested from the corner where he lay back, cool and large, looking like the millionaire he was. He waved his cigar airily, the rich, heavy smoke drifting across Shaw’s nostrils. Shaw liked the smell of other people’s cigars, but had never cultivated such tastes himself. Don Jaime went on, “Your country has been good to me, and your Mr Latymer is a personal friend of mine, Commander Shaw.”

  He glanced sideways at Shaw as he said this. Shaw smiled back at him and told him that he already knew that. Don Jaime said, “Now, I understand, but perfectly, that you cannot tell me what it is you have come to Spain to do. But, on the other hand, if you should decide to take me just a little way into your confidence, Commander, I may—who knows?—be able to help. Again, I shall understand if you do not wish this. But I am not without influence—and like the donkey, I have large ears. Unlike the donkey, however, I have many of them—and they are all to the ground.” His brown eyes looked shrewdly into Shaw’s. “Do you understand?”

  Shaw smiled and rubbed the side of his nose. “Perfectly, Señor de Castro.”

  After that Don Jaime transferred his attention pointedly to the cigar. He wasn’t going to probe and pry. It would be entirely up to Shaw.

  For some miles they travelled, as though by mutual consent, in silence. Shaw lay back against the luxurious, fabulously expensive upholstery of the speeding car, whose engine-sounds came to him faintly as a whisper in the wind. He thought swiftly. Of course Don Jaime would understand, as he had said, if Shaw chose to keep quiet. There would be no question of giving him a snub, giving the brush-off to a man who had proved invaluable in time of need. On the other hand, Shaw knew he could use his discretion because the Old Man himself trusted Don Jaime. And the Spaniard, with his vast business interests and his wealth and his importance—the importance of which Shaw had seen a demonstration so recently—might well find things out much more quickly than he, working so largely in the dark. Karina might be anywhere by this time—so might Ackroyd. No progress had been made at all, and Shaw, who was now extremely worried, would in effect have to start again from scratch; the ensuing delay could have fatal results for Gibraltar. And Debonnair. Debonnair! Shaw felt the nagging pain entering his guts again at the thought of what might happen to her.

  What was he going to do?

  He felt the appraising glance of Don Jaime then. “Come, amigo," said the Spaniard quietly, regarding Shaw with kindly curiosity. “You are troubled. Confide in me. You have the assurance of my silence, as much as the confessional.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment, Don Jaime.” Shaw hesitated, then he made his decision. He said, “I want to find two people. One, a woman—Rosia del Cuatro Caminos, she calls herself. The other’s a man called Ackroyd, an Englishman.”

  Very briefly he sketched in some details without giving away anything about the major defence secrets or the danger which was hanging over Gibraltar. Don Jaime listened in silence mostly, drawing slowly at his cigar, gaze fixed on the cream, felt-lined ceiling of the car as they swayed over the bumps and potholes; but, because he had a suspicion that the Englishman’s worried face was not due entirely to the difficulties of his job, he asked one or two probing though gentle questions, and discovered that Shaw was upset because a certain young lady had arrived in Gibraltar. Don Jaime had rather expected there was something about a woman. After that he merely nodded once or twice; and when Shaw had finished he sat on, still silent, non-com-mittal. He appeared to be thinking, and once or twice he grunted to himself and nodded his head again, wobbling his many dark-shadowed chins.

  The Spaniard was silent again for most of the way after that, as they swept through Estepona, Marbella, Fuengirola. Some two hours after leaving La Linea the limousine turned in a cloud of dust for the big wrought-iron gateway into the villa’s drive. As it pulled up before the door Don Jaime’s butler came out to meet them. The chauffeur jumped down to open the car door. As Don Jaime got out behind Shaw he called to the butler:

  “Frederico, luncheon for Señor Gomez in ten minutes. He will want to wash first.” He turned to Shaw. “You no doubt know that by your standards our Spanish meal times are always late. But you will excuse me if I do not join you, my friend. I have much to do.”

  “Of course.”

  Don Jaime clapped Shaw on the shoulder almost affectionately, taking it in a great bear-like hug for a moment.

  Then, as Shaw followed the butler to Don Jaime’s private bathroom, the Spaniard walked into his study, got rid of the girl typist, poured himself an Amontillado, and took up the telephone.

  He knew that his good friend Latymer didn’t send operatives out unless there was something for them to do, and he didn’t send senior ones out on minor jobs either. He knew that ‘Pedro Gomez’ was supposed to work in Gibraltar Dockyard, and the letter of invitation which he had been asked to write to Commander Shaw had started him worrying about Gibraltar in the first place; he felt sure, by now, that all was not well, that something was threatening the security of Gibraltar—and Don Jaime, like any other Spaniard, had a clear interest in Gibraltar; he was as good a patriot as anyone else, and as such he subscribed to his Government’s view that Gibraltar should belong to Spain (though he was well able to find this attitude quite consistent with the friendship which he felt for England—the two things were in separate compartments in his mind). And in addition he was very fond of his half-sister, the girl of half-Spanish blood who had been Dona Juana de Maria de Castro before Sir Francis —then Captain Hammersley and A.D.C. to the Governor of Gibraltar—had married her. The call which he made was, in fact, to his half-sister in the fortress.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The first thing Don Jaime did after Shaw had lunched that afternoon was to implement the invitation contained in the letter which Carberry had given Shaw. He asked him to consider himself his guest for the time being, until the march of events, as Don Jaime put it, took him away.

  His bear-like paw came down on Shaw’s shoulder. “I want to help. And here in my home you will be in the centre of things; and you may as well be comfortable while you can, amigo."

  Shaw agreed thankfully. The villa was an excellent base of operations, and he could not have wished for anything better; it was a communications centre from which he could cover a whole lot of territory, and for the short time he was likely to be there Shaw knew he would live, for one of the rare occasions in his life, in sheer luxury and off the fat of a land known for its gourmandizing and its service; a fact which he could have enjoyed had it not been for his anxieties.

  He asked Don Jaime, “D’you happen to know a man in Malaga called Domingo Felipe?”

  The Spaniard gave him a quick look. “Yes, amigo, I do. He is a useful man, as I would gather your department has told you. But he has not been seen for some days, and
I believe he is in trouble with the Policia Secreta. Because of this, he has changed his address. More than that I cannot tell you.”

  The Policia Secreta, Shaw knew, was one of the most important police formations in Spain and was controlled by the Direccion General de Seguridad in Madrid; its functions included C.I.D. work, extradition laws, Interpol, and subversive activities. And he didn’t like the sound of their interest in his contact. If Domingo Felipe was off the list of useful men, even if only for the time being, it would make his job the harder unless Don Jaime should get some information soon. Anyway, Shaw determined to carry on notwithstanding, and to try to make contact later that day with Felipe.

  However, the first thing to do—and Shaw did it as soon as possible—was to put through a telephone call to Major Staunton. He had agreed a simple code with the Defence Security Officer to cover any calls such as this, and Staunton came through immediately when Shaw gave the name which they had arranged he should use, the cover being, if anyone should intercept the call, that he was an officer on local leave from the garrison.

  Shaw asked how things were going.

  Staunton’s reaction was casual, his yawn elaborate. But Shaw caught the tenseness behind his voice when he answered lightly, “Oh, much as usual. Things haven’t changed just because you’re away, you know, my lad!” Staunton laughed, and the laugh was just a little forced and nervy. That in itself told Shaw much of the story of strain and stress. “I don’t think the . . . weather’s going to hold for long, though. It’s getting awfully sticky.” He paused. “Having a good leave, old boy?”

  Shaw said enthusiastically, “Fine, thanks. Taking it easy—plenty of good food.”

  “And—the women? I have to ask that—knowing you.”

  “No luck with them yet, I’m sorry to say. Seem to keep one jump ahead of me, though I nearly picked a winner —thought I had till she turned nasty. Can’t be helped. It’s not for lack of trying.”

  “I’m sure of that.” Staunton told him that all was well with Debonnair and then for a minute or two they chatted easily about general matters of no importance; a little chaff and leg-pulling and some regimental chat which Shaw hoped wouldn’t sound too phoney. Then Staunton said, “There’s some mail for you, by the way. As it happens, there’s a diplomatic bag going up to Malaga tomorrow, and I can get the courier to drop it in if you like. No trouble at all, old boy,” he said, as Shaw protested formally. “It’ll be with you some time to-morrow. Bye-bye.”

  He rang off. It was only then that Shaw wondered how Staunton knew that he’d reached Don Jaime’s.

  After that belated lunch, and his telephone call, Shaw went out into the garden and wandered down to the sandy beach. There was some quality in the friendly lapping noises of the Mediterranean wavelets as they hissed so gently up the smooth sand which brought him a quietness and a kind of peace, and he tried to think things out in this solitude. Of course, the next move might well depend on the letter coming through from Staunton, for Shaw didn’t suppose it was a love-letter or anything personal like that—orders must be on the way from some one. Or that next move would depend on any information he might yet be able to get from the man Domingo Felipe. Shaw was very conscious of the time that was running out; but meanwhile there was nothing he could do but wait, and he would have to be as patient as possible—Felipe, Carberry had said, could be contacted only in the late evening.

  He had walked for some distance along the shore in the direction of Malaga before he realized just how dog-tired he was. His head had cleared, but the blow from the sandbag, not to mention the discomforts of that calabozo, had left him with a weak feeling of lassitude. He turned, and slowly he walked back along the sand and headed up for the path leading to the garden; and there he sat beneath the shade of a palm-tree and looked out over the water. After a while, as he sat there with his mind spinning round again in useless circles, he heard the sound of a child’s laughter. Looking round, he saw a small boy in swimming-trunks coming along the path from the villa, olive-skinned and serious. His hand was held by an Englishwoman—that was evident from her clothes—a middle-aged woman who looked what she was: a spinster governess.

  The little boy caught sight of Shaw at the foot of the tree. He waved a hand. “Hola, señor!”

  “Hola, hijo!” Shaw, still the Spaniard Pedro Gomez, waved back and grinned. He got to his feet as the governess smiled at him primly. He bowed. “Señora.”

  “Señorita!” She simpered a little, pleased at the implied compliment. Shaw felt suddenly sorry for her. “You’re Señor Gomez, aren’t you?” She spoke to him in not very good Spanish.

  “Si, señorita.”

  “He is staying with Grandpapa,” the little boy said, his face serious as he turned from the governess to Shaw. “I looked at you having lunch. I looked through the window— you did not see me.” Dimples came and went, dispelling the seriousness; the English Miss looked shocked at his disclosure, made little schoolmarmish clicking sounds with her tongue and frowned. The small, pointed face gazed up at Shaw. “I am going to swim. Would the señor care to come with me?”

  The tone was so grave, the face so serious again, so much and so consciously the face of the small señorito deputizing for the grand abuelo, that Shaw had to laugh. “I would but I cannot! I have no costume.”

  “You may borrow Grandpapa’s.”

  Again, Shaw laughed. “Hijo, Don Jaime’s costume on me would be like a tent upon a clothes-pole. Thank you for the offer—but I think I’ll stay here and watch you.” He grinned at the governess, who, he was delighted to note, didn’t suspect in the very least that she was enjoying what her heart craved—an Englishman’s company. Sensing this, Shaw felt sorry for her again—so dried-up, so virginal, so materially comfortable yet so much without hope. He smiled at her kindly. She returned his smile, a little self-consciously.

  She said briskly, “Well, we’d better be getting along. Come along, Juan.” Her voice was so determinedly cheerful, and yet so depressed and depressing. She took the child’s hand, her big, bony one enveloping his small olive fingers. “Let the gentleman alone now.”

  The boy said gravely, “Adios, señor.” Gently, remembering the manners of his class, he disengaged his fingers from the hand of his governess—oh, dear, would the English Miss never learn?—brought his heels together, and gave a little formal bow.

  “Adios, hijo, adios,” said Shaw.

  Shaw flopped back on the sand beneath the palm-trees. He looked after the pair, his brows crinkling. That boy had affected him; he felt a strange bitterness welling up inside him, an almost physical pain. As the two walked on they became outlined in the rays of the sun beginning its afternoon decline to the west behind Shaw. Silhouetted against the now darkening blue of the sea, the English Miss had very nearly slim lines. Her years, in Shaw’s half-closed eyes, fell away and left him a prey to visions. The small, well-built child had his hand trustingly in hers as they approached the water’s edge; Shaw thought again of Debonnair, and his heart seemed to contract, his guts squirmed painfully, and he sighed. Perhaps it was true that he had no right to marry and have children. Debonnair was very likely right; his life was too shaky. And in a way children were always hostages to fortune. Maybe an agent’s life and domesticity were just oil and water.

  He recalled the grave manner of the little boy, the serious, steadfast eyes and the almost precocious politeness that had made him laugh. Suddenly he thought: It’s a long time, a hell of a long time, since I’ve laughed like that, spontaneously. As the child splashed into the water, flinging his arms and shouting, Shaw scrambled up and walked away. There was an abominable pain in his stomach now, and his mouth felt dry, sour.

  He knew this time of quiet was no more than an interlude in the storm. Somehow he didn’t want any more such interludes; they were a little too painful, and would remain so until the outfit had done with him and life could be one long interlude.

  Shaw was not disappointed in his visions of good living. Don Jaime’s own
valet—who had been sent earlier into Malaga by his master to get Shaw an outfit of suitable clothing—looked after his needs. The food was excellent, the wines superb. A very old Oloroso was served before that night’s late dinner; the best white and red wines appeared with the meal itself, and afterwards the butler produced a vintage port from the cellars, a port which Don Jaime said was from one of Portugal’s great years. That port, and the aroma of Don Jaime’s cigar in his nostrils, would have added up to the perfection of luxury in more normal times.

  When Don Jaime had taken one glass of port he excused himself on the grounds of work, and Shaw was left sitting on the veranda. He puffed in silence at a cigarette and looked out through the spidery trees towards the moonlight falling across the Mediterranean, sending a spiral of silver shimmering out into the darkness. Beyond, the lights of the fish-ing-boats making out of the port of Malaga for their night’s work glimmered faintly and were gone. A faint, refreshing breeze off the sea ruffled the trees. The masthead lights of a big vessel approaching the port came up in the distance from the direction of Cape Gata; Shaw watched until he saw the red and green sidelights sliding into a single red blob as the ship made the starboard turn to enter the harbour.

  He watched enviously. Some lucky so-and-so was still sailing the seas. Giving an exclamation of annoyance at his own thoughts, Shaw crushed out his cigarette, glanced at his wrist-watch. He stood up. It was just about time now.

  Twenty minutes later Shaw, who had delayed until he could be reasonably certain that the Torremolinos bars would be filling up, and that therefore he would be less conspicuous, was back in his old faded shirt and the dirty corduroys. He left the villa and, instead of going out by the driveway, skirted along to the left of the building and out through the trees which enclosed Don Jaime’s property to the northward; clear of the trees, he flitted over scrubby fields towards the roadway which led to Malaga through the village of Torremolinos, which was not far away from Don Jaime’s main gateway. Slouching along in big, heavy, dust-covered boots, he looked like any other hombre ambling into Torremolinos for the bars or knocking-shops that night. He walked slowly, as though he was going nowhere in particular, along the dusty roadway through a mixed, rather cosmopolitan crowd of locals out with their girls and smart tourists staying at the beach hotels. But when he turned off the main road half-way through the village he went where the tourists didn’t penetrate.