Gibraltar Road

by Philip McCutchan

  “I am looking for a friend of mine.” Intentionally Shaw slurred his speech a little as he addressed the bartender. “A man named Domingo Felipe.” This was after the time taken to drink four glasses of the rough vino had failed to produce his contact; the wine, and the stink of stale tobacco-smoke and frying-oil, had made Shaw feel a little sick, and he gave an involuntary belch as he slouched at the bar—but it was in character with his act.

  The barman’s eyes flickered, and the swarthy face seemed to lose some of its colour. He said, “I know of no such man.”

  Oh, yes, you do, Shaw thought, watching closely. Looks as though Don Jaime was right. He asked, “He has not been in lately?”

  He could see the sweat of fear on the bartender’s forehead. The man said, “I tell you, hombre, I know of no one by that name.”

  Shaw stared at him, realized that he would get no cooperation, and shrugged. Another avenue would have to be found, that was all. He couldn’t risk a scene. He tilted the glass of vino, sent the remains of the red liquid down his throat in a gulp. As he turned to go he caught the eye of the man sitting by the bar quite near where he had been. The man looked away quickly, but Shaw had seen the expression, the interest. Something told him to watch out.

  Leaving the bar, he walked out into a little square and up an alley towards the main road. Half-way along the alley he stopped to light a cigarette, and he glanced back. A figure had sunk into a doorway, a figure who was noiseless in alpargatas, the canvas, rope-soled shoes worn by the hombres. As he came to the main Malaga road Shaw turned to the left, headed in the opposite direction from Don Jaime’s villa. The man kept well behind him. Shaw didn’t hurry; he walked casually, calmly along the dusty road as though he was simply going home, and was in no particular hurry. It could be that his shadow was Felipe’s go-between, anxious to give Shaw news of his contact in secrecy; time would tell, and the man would choose his own time. Once outside the village, Shaw turned off sharply into some trees, a grove of orange and eucalyptus. As still and silent as death, he sunk into the dark and watched and waited.

  The other man stopped too. Clearly he was uncertain, then after a while he came on, the alpargatas making no sound. He began to edge along very slowly; and in a shaft of moonlight Shaw caught the glint of steel from a knife in the man’s hand. Evidently he was no friend of Felipe’s after all. Shaw stiffened against the trunk of a big eucalyptus, where the ground-scrub helped to hide him, sweated into his shirt, and felt it stick to him clammily. The man was not far off now;

  Shaw could hear his strained breathing as he evidently tried to make no sound. He was light enough on those rope-soled feet; only very faintly the dry crackles of twigs and brushwood came to the naval officer’s ears.

  Slowly, carefully, the man came up to Shaw’s tree. With infinite caution Shaw edged round, keeping his silhouette out of sight as the man moved slowly past; and then, when he had the man in front of him and unsuspecting, Shaw moved quickly. He came out from the tree’s shelter in one bound, got a grip round the man’s throat, choked back the scream which his fingers told him was coming up. So close to the main Malaga road and the village, Shaw wouldn’t risk using his revolver. But the unknown man was slippery enough. He twisted his body right round, lashed out at Shaw with the knife. Shaw felt his shirt-sleeve rip, felt the prick of the steel just nicking his elbow. Cursing, he brought his knee up with a sharp jerk; the man seemed to expect that, and squirmed his body backward so that Shaw’s knee slid up into his chest, losing its force of impact, but making the man give a choked grunt and fall away a little.

  Shaw closed in, smashed the edge of his open hand across a vital spot in the man’s unprotected neck, using a quick, chopping movement. The hombre’s breath rattled in his throat, and he staggered, slumped to the ground, lay very still. Shaw, breathing heavily, fell back against the tree. He felt sick, horrified at what he had done; but such things had to be. When so much was at stake one couldn’t be squeamish. That, however, made things no easier for the man who had to do them.

  Overcoming his nausea, Shaw bent and searched the body. He found nothing of any interest. After dragging the corpse behind the scrub where, with any luck, it would not be found for quite a while, he turned away, pale and shaking, made his way back to the road into Torremolinos, glad to be in the gay night crowds again, hoping they would banish the stain of death from him. He was worried now, too, for it was clear that suspicions about him had been aroused in Torremolinos, that he’d been expected in that bar. But all he could do for now was to get back to the villa, avoiding the road and see what the Gibraltar courier brought in the morning.

  He was still worrying about that night’s work during a late breakfast next morning when the courier came in from Gibraltar, a big car with a GBZ plate denoting its Gibraltar registration sweeping into the drive and pulling up with a swagger and a cloud of dust at the front door.

  Don Jaime, who had already breakfasted, was himself outside, and through the open window Shaw could hear him talking briefly to the courier and his escort; then he heard the car driving away, and a moment later he caught sight of a girl. As Shaw incredulously recognized those long legs and the trim figure he gave a gasp of sheer surprise and went out at the rush to the porch.

  “Deb!”

  She ran to him. “Darling!” After they’d kissed she said, “My God, but I’ve been worried about you, you just can’t imagine.”

  “Not half so worried as I’ve been about you.” He held her away from him, looked at her. “You’ll never know just how glad I am to see you, but for Heaven’s sake why and how—I mean—”

  “They asked me to bring a letter.” Gently she left his arms, stood back and set her hair straight and flickered her eyes sideways towards Don Jaime, who was standing there with an almost paternal smirk on his face. “I was coming anyway—”

  Smiling now with delight, Don Jaime interrupted. He took Shaw aside and spoke quietly. “Commander Shaw, I am in possession of a little information, and therefore I used some family influence, which was of course very wicked of me . . . but because I have put two and two together, I arranged with my sister that the young lady should come to stay with me. I told my sister that I would like to show her a little of our country, as a friend of hers was already staying with me. I wished you to be no longer worried for her safety, so that you could the better put your mind to work! You see,” he added gently, “I knew you could not do it for yourself. That I understood.”

  Shaw felt overwhelming gratitude towards the Spaniard. He tried to thank him, but Don Jaime cut him short. He asked, “But—what about Lady Hammersley? You must be worried about her.”

  Don Jaime shrugged slightly, and the corners of his mouth went down. “But naturally. However, she is the wife of His Excellency, and it could not be done, for obvious reasons. I have to rely on you now, my friend.” He clasped Shaw’s shoulder hard, and then, making some excuse, went discreetly indoors.

  Debonnair said, “Listen, I don’t know what you two were talking about, or maybe I do!” She looked at Shaw accusingly. “You’re going to try to keep me out of this, aren’t you?”

  Shaw grunted. “You can say that again! Tell me—just how much do you know?”

  She said quietly, “Not an awful lot, Esmonde darling, except that Gib’s buzzing with rumours and furtive head-shakes—you know what I mean—and there’s pretty obviously something going to happen if you take the trouble to think about it.”

  “Is anybody taking the trouble to think about it?”

  “The older people are. Most of the others are too busy enjoying themselves.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Look, Debbie. How did this invitation of Don Jaime’s reach you?”

  She laughed. She looked awfully desirable, Shaw thought, in that summer frock. She said, “Oh, it was a bit of a wangle. Your Major Staunton rang me down at the Shell offices and said Lady Hammersley wanted to see me for something or other, and would I drop in at The Convent, and—well—here I am. Hugh said
that as—”

  “Hugh?”

  “Major Staunton to you.” He grunted and made a face, and the tip of her tongue showed momentarily between her lips. “He said that, as a courier had been detailed already to come up this way, I might as well go with him. Like it?” She grinned.

  “I love it, and you know I do. But from now on you’re keeping well clear of all this, Deb.”

  Her eyes flashed, beneath the fair brows drawn now into a straight line. “Oh, am I?” she said determinedly. “That’s what you think—don’t forget I know this game as well as you do—well, almost—and I can help quite a lot if you stop being pigheaded!”

  When Debonnair had gone to the room which had been prepared for her Shaw walked into the garden, cool before the main heat of the day began to burn it, and ripped open the letter which she had handed to him. It was from Staunton himself, and it contained an up-to-date list of shipping movements in and out of Spanish ports, together with a coded message from the Old Man which said that he was getting concerned about how soon general sea trade ought to be warned of the effects of anything happening in Gibraltar. That was something Shaw couldn’t answer yet; he knew too that it was unlike Latymer to prod his agents unnecessarily, and he could guess from that how the Old Man was being pressed by the Cabinet and the Chiefs of Staff. But—that shipping-list; he could get his teeth into that. The question of how Ackroyd was to be got out of Spain was one to which Shaw had been giving a lot of thought. It would not, of course, be utterly impossible for him to be removed by air, but Shaw didn’t think that was a likely avenue—there were too many snags. For one thing, except for the Barajas airport at Madrid, pretty well all the airports were run by the military, and a very tight control was maintained at all of them—including Barajas; there was none of the careless, slap-happy atmosphere of a seaport. A lift by helicopter was a possibility, but here again it was remote, for the only place which a helicopter could reasonably use as a local base would be North Africa, and word would soon get through the grapevine about that—to say nothing of the suspicions which would be aroused by an unidentified helicopter crossing the Straits in the circumstances.

  Shaw was practically certain that the escape would be by sea, and he studied that shipping-list with the greatest care. Spanish ports were at their most easy-going in Andalusia, where the attitude of mañana was perhaps more prevalent than in the rest of the country; and Karina would want to get away as quickly as she could, obviously, while if she wanted to use a more distant exit port—say somewhere to the north—she’d have to use the roads or railways to get there; and on the roads there would be more chances of her being stopped by the Civil Guard or by the armed Traffic Police, who were always stopping vehicles even if only to beg a lift. All that would increase her hazards, while the railways would be even more tricky with Ackroyd for company. So it was most likely to be an Andalusian port—say Algeciras, Cadiz, Malaga, Almeria, Huelva. Or even points along the coast in between. Quite a choice. And quite a lot of coastline.

  Shaw searched through Staunton’s shipping-list, ticking off the ports one by one, slowly and painstakingly looking for a clue. There was plenty of movement in and out of all these ports, some of it only coastal, but after a while one name stood out—a vessel named Ostrowiec, which had entered Malaga two days before from Marseilles. She stood out because she was a Pole and she was bound for Gdynia, and she was the only Iron Curtain ship in any Andalusian port at the time, while according to the list no more were due for about another fourteen days. The Ostrowiec’s departure date appeared uncertain; at any rate, it was not given in the list.

  Reflectively Shaw rubbed his nose.

  The Ostrowiec’s departure date could be dependent on Karina, and it looked very much like the ship to watch. But however closely he watched, Ackroyd, he knew, could be smuggled past. A man could live in a crate quite long enough to be hoisted inboard in a cargo-sling; and however careful or logical-seeming his deductions might be, Shaw couldn’t be certain that he was right about the Pole. Watching the ship, he might miss some other departure-point so easily. Should he, he wondered, contact Gibraltar, ask for a naval vessel to intercept this Ostrowiec when she went to sea? A moment’s thought told him that Hammersley couldn’t give such an order on mere conjecture. The British Navy had no authority to stop and search a ship on the high seas in peacetime, particularly when she was bound neither to nor from a British port; nor could a blockade be instituted. If either of these two things were done and no abducted British subject found aboard, it would prove a nice little tit-bit for the Iron Curtain countries to exploit as propaganda, could even be made into an excuse for starting a shooting war, perhaps.

  Shaw felt flummoxed. There was still really no lead of any kind, and his surmises about the Ostrowiec didn’t help much. He considered the possibility of advising the Embassy in Madrid to ask for unofficial co-operation from the Spanish authorities in this matter of the Polish ship—he knew the Naval Attache, and knew that he was the sort who might be able to get things like that done. But Gibraltar was a sore point, and, though the Spaniards wouldn’t like the idea of harbouring Karina’s outfit, Shaw knew that they’d have to be told rather too much before they would act—and even then, the due processes, even the unofficial ones, would take far too long. Information might be released, Project Sinker jeopardized, without any results being achieved at all . . . there was far too much behind all this to permit of any security leakage just yet, before it became inevitable. He had to have a chance of finding Ackroyd and Karina himself before anyone else was brought into this; and he was prepared to back himself a little longer yet. So the answer was as before: find Karina now, and not wait for her to move on her departure-point; but meanwhile he’d better send a code telegram to Latymer telling him of his suspicions so that the British Government could be warned.

  As Shaw put the shipping-list back into its envelope and thrust it into his pocket he saw Debonnair coming towards him across the lawn, and he waved.

  When she reached him she asked, “In trouble, darling?” His eyebrows tilted into that crooked line as he grinned at her. “Let’s just say I’m not making much progress!”

  She looked at him in concern. “I wish I could help.”

  “I know, Debbie. But you can’t, not in this.”

  “I can, you know, Esmonde.” She came over to him, pulled him down to the ground beneath a tree, ruffled up his hair as they sat there together. “Listen. When you do get a lead— and you will, don’t worry—you’ll probably have to go quickly. So you won’t want to waste time arguing whether I’m coming with you or not. This is just to tell you that I am—see?”

  That afternoon Shaw slipped into Malaga, sent his coded telegram to London, then strolled casually round the dock area, not taking too obvious an interest in the Ostrowiec. The ship was unloading a cargo and nothing out of the ordinary appeared to be taking place. Afterwards Shaw made some discreet inquiries in a couple of bars near the docks, but could pick up no hint of any likely sailing date for the ship, and after a while he went back to Torremolinos; and that night, after changing into his hombre rig, he made again for that scruffy little bar in the village. He was determined to find some lead to Domingo Felipe that night; and he was convinced that the bartender knew where the contact could be found. After the episode of last night, he could, he knew well, be heading into danger, but it was a risk he was forced to take.

  He had a nasty feeling that conversation was stopping as he entered the bar.

  As he asked for a glass of vino he saw a look pass from the bartender to some one at a table behind him. He didn’t see then who had met that look, for he didn’t consider it wise to display too much interest. But there was a decidedly naked feeling in his spine when he went over to sit at a table on the opposite side of the room from where the barman had glanced so meaningly. And after a time a man sitting across the gangway finished up his drink and got to his feet. He was a tall man, with a deep scar running the length of his right cheek, so de
ep that Shaw could almost see the bone at the bottom of the chasm of cleft flesh. As he lurched past Shaw’s table, this man dropped a coin through a hole in his trouser-pocket, gave it a little flick with his foot so that it rolled under Shaw’s table. The man swore fluently, bent to retrieve it; politely Shaw drew back his chair and joined in the search, and as the two heads came together he felt the man’s fingers squeeze his hand very gently. In a whisper so low that Shaw could only just make out the words, he said:

  “Number Thirty-seven, Calle Santa Marta, Malaga.”

  Cursing still, he found his coin, brought himself upright, and without another glance at Shaw he walked out of the bar.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Shaw didn’t linger after that.

  Though nothing had been said in so many words, he felt quite certain that this address was where he would find Domingo Felipe and that it was genuine, for he had a good nose for a trap as a rule—though he blushed when he thought how Karina had fooled him. In any case, he would have to take risks now, for he was desperately short of time.

  Leaving the bar, he caught the smelly, shaky bus into Malaga. It was the week of the fiesta in the town, and the bus was packed tight with those who had not managed to get in earlier. Shaw was hemmed in between fat and sweating bodies, scarcely able to move or even breathe, and his ears were bombarded by the continual loud, gay chatter and the horrible noises of the engine, his nose assailed by the many varied smells. The bus kept on stopping to pick up even more people en route; every one cheerfully moved along, and eventually Shaw was unable to move hand or foot. He felt he was never going to get out again as the vehicle swayed and jolted on, speeding dangerously.