Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (71 page)

“It’s okay.”

Steve straightened up. “What do you think?” he asked Felipe.

“I don’t know.” The clerk looked worried. “I don’t know what to think, Senor.”

Richard watched Steve become as helpless as he himself felt. The man, the big, strong man, looked dazed. As if he didn’t know what the hell to do next. It was the child’s first experience with adults who were totally ineffectual. Some of his faith, some of his feeling that grown people were godheads, was lost at that moment. But he gained something else. The knowledge that being no longer a child was the key to wisdom and strength.

It was then that his tears stopped.

Tears, he saw, weren’t going to help. He got up off the chair and stuck his hands in his pockets. “What are we going to do, Steve?” he asked.

The man looked down at him. “Let me think,” Steve said. “Just let me think. The thing is, I can’t seem to — ”

His face tightened. “If anything’s happened to Kelly, I’ll — ”

“But what could happen in Seville?” Felipe asked wonderingly. “This is a quiet city.”

The woman who had brought Richard home finally went off. Quite clearly, she didn’t want anything; she had only been sorry for the little boy. But Steve insisted on paying the cab fare, and he added a substantial amount to it.

“And I’ll remember your kindness always,” he said.

After she’d left he pumped Richard again.

“Tell me from the beginning,” he said.

“I … we … we went up to the belltower. The Giralda. It was a nice view and then we came down again. After that there was the man with the balloons. I wanted all of them and he said it would be two hundred pesetas. He seemed glad to sell them all. And then I gave all the kids a balloon.”

“Yes?”

“Kelly, too. I gave her a yellow one. Because she was wearing a yellow dress.”

“Yes, and then?”

“Then I let my balloon go. After a while, the other kids did the same thing. The balloons were all going up into the air.”

“Where was Kelly all this time?”

“Standing there. I
thought.
I mean … why
shouldn’t
she be there? Where would she
go?
”

“And then?”

“And then the crowd thinned out. The balloons were gone, and the children went too. There was hardly anybody left.”

“And no sign of Kelly?”

“No! She just wasn’t there!”

“We must call the police,” Felipe said excitedly.

“Wait, let me think.”

“But Senor — ”

“Just let me be for a minute or two.” Steve’s face was pale under his tan. “I have to think, damn it.”

“
Si
, Senor, but even in Seville …”

“Shove it,” Steve said savagely. “Let me think, for Christ’s sake.”

Richard stood there, stunned. Kelly had been there one minute, holding her balloon, a canary yellow, a smile on her face. And then, in the next moment, she had been gone.

He bit his lip. It wouldn’t do any good to bawl. That wouldn’t help Kelly.

But who would want to hurt her?

“Please, Steve,” he said. “Can’t you think of something?”

First of all she was conscious of sweat drenching her. Coming to, slowly and painfully, she felt the moisture on her forehead, between her breasts; the hair on the back of her neck was plastered down.

It was so hot.

Then the pain came creeping back.

Piecemeal, she remembered. The hard object in her ribs … and then the whack on the side of her head. The movement of the strange car …

She came to all at once and, as she lifted her head, agony shot through her and once more she went under.

The next conscious moment was when the movement of the car stopped. Suddenly there was utter quiet; the throbbing of the motor ceased, and she opened her eyes to hear the twitter of a bird. Next, there was a faint rustling of leaves and after that, a voice saying, “Let’s get her inside, Pablo.”

There was country quiet; she was being lifted out through the car door, in a man’s arms. A huge tree, its leafy branches trembling in a sprightly gust, was a green blot; she saw the blue of the sky, some powdery clouds, and heard the bird sing again.

“Where am I?” she asked, through dry lips.

“Shall I hit her again?” she heard someone say in Spanish. She drew into herself, waiting for the blow. Please, she thought. Not again …

“No perdio el control …”

No blow came. How grateful she was for that, and for the stern adjuration of the second man to his friend. “Don’t lose your cool,” was what he had substantially said.

Everything was taken in stride. Why? It didn’t matter. What was happening didn’t matter … for the moment. She simply didn’t want to be hurt again. She would be good. Just as long as they didn’t hurt her.

“Can you walk?” a voice asked, in English.

“I’ll try,” she said.

She was set down on her feet. Unsteadily, she stood and shook, but yes, she could walk. “So, good,” the good voice said, and a hand went under both of her arms, as if she were recovering from an operation and a nurse was helping her down the corridor. She believed that for a moment. So she had undergone surgery. And now was ambulatory …

She put one foot in front of the other, like a good girl, and heard the bad voice say, “Kick her in the ribs; give her something to remember you by.”

It wasn’t a hospital. Reality flooded back. And fear with it.

Who were these people? What had happened?

Richard!

The balloons, the white doves, the —

And now her faculties began to gather together. She peered around. “Richard,” she said. “Where’s Richard?”

“Shut up,” the good voice said quietly.

The steps, four of them, were difficult to negotiate. “All right, one more,” the good voice said, urging her on. “That’s it.”

The cool, dark interior of wherever they were helped. She wanted to dry the back of her neck with her hand, but someone slapped it away.

“Quiet, now, and you won’t be hurt.”

“Please … where is this?”

“Sit down and shut up.”

She was lowered into a chair. She sat there obediently, the headache claiming almost all of her attention. It hurts so much, she thought gravely.

“Could I have an aspirin?” she asked.

How thick her voice sounded. How craven. How unlike her …

Was this the end of the line?

An inner voice asked the question. The turbulence of her thoughts was due to pain, shock and the sheer surprise of the attack on the … street corner … with the balloons … the crowds … the childish laughter …

She couldn’t
think.

Couldn’t think straight.

The perspiration poured down her neck, forehead, upper lip. Her dress stuck to her. She couldn’t seem to sit straight, either; the man was almost holding her up. His touch was not ungentle, but she was conscious of the dark gaze from someone else … the other man, the one with the bad voice. Her eyes saw what he was like. Swarthy, disgusting, sweaty and like an animal in a zoo.

That man had wanted to hit her again.

She shuddered, feeling the bile coming up into her throat. The pain lessened as the nausea grew. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, felt faint again, and started to slide down in the chair.

“Jola …”

The man holding her up put both arms around her. She smelled his rank odor, gagged. I’m going out again, she thought, and then heard another voice. Blinking, she recognized it.

“Ah, so,” the other voice said, and she knew someone else had come into the room.

Her eyes opened again; amazement stunned her. If she had been almost out of it a second before, the surprise of the familiar voice brought her back to consciousness. It was a croupy, emphysematic voice, the familiar voice of Senor Nascimento.

“So, very good,” he said, and then, after a sudden, shocking silence, there was a sharp expletive.

“Merdia …”

She waited, looking up with blurred eyes into the gaunt face of the man on the plane. His expression was unbelieving. Their glances locked.

“
Por Dios
…” he said, almost hissing it.

There was another brief silence and then an explosion. “But this is not the mother!” Senor Nascimento cried. “What is this that you have done?”

The mother? What did that mean …

Suddenly the South American started screeching. “Stupid! The wrong woman … stupid …
infructuoso imbecile … loco … malo …
”

Dimly, it started to make sense. The wrong woman.
This is not the mother.

Why, it was Richard’s mother these people had meant to kidnap. Richard’s pathetic mother.

There was a garble of excited Spanish. Raised voices. Screams, imprecations. “Stupid, stupid,” Senor Nascimento kept shrieking. “Now what to do, you
louse.
”

She sat there patiently, and she knew. These men had made a mistake. It was supposed to have been Lisa Comstock but instead they had snatched her.

And now what?

Now, well, what else? She would have to be silenced. Cold, craven terror surged through her. She would never be allowed to leave this place alive. My head, she thought, but it was compensation. Her head didn’t hurt as badly as all that, but it was a substitute for cowardly, sick fear. They’ll kill me. Just to shut me up. They’ll kill me and bury me in a ditch somewhere.

The voices faded away, and she still sat there, numbed. The light, filtering through a slatted blind, hurt her eyes. She put a hand over them and then, like a rag doll, slid down in the chair. Another hand went out to ward off the floor that was coming up at her, and she felt the soft pile of carpet between her fingers.

Laughing helplessly, with tears seeping through the laughter, her head came to rest on the cool tile between the scatter rugs.

This can’t be real, she thought.

She must be dreaming.

There were thirty-odd hospitals in Madrid and the outlying districts and Steve called them all. The answer was always the same.

“No, Senor. There is no one by that name here.”

“She might be. I have to point out that she might not know anything. It’s possible she could be a victim of amnesia.”

But it was no good. No amnesiac, epileptic, heart patient, traffic victim or autistic personality had been logged in in the past twenty-four hours.

“The police,” Felipe kept insisting.

“Not yet.”

“But why, Senor?”

“Because,” Steve sat down and put a hand over his eyes, “I’m not sure. But I’m afraid to bring them in on this thing.”

“For what reason?” The desk clerk was incredulous.

“I’m not sure,” Steve said wretchedly. “But believe me, Felipe, I have my reasons, even though I’m not too clear about them myself.”

“Something must be done,” the clerk said, wringing his hands. “That beautiful girl …”

“Just give me a little while longer.”

It was about seven in the morning when the call came through from Madrid.

It was a woman’s voice, sounding very far away, on a poor connection with a feedback.

“Senor Connaught?”

Steve pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yes, who’s this?”

“This is Joia.” The old woman’s voice was raspy. “You’re there, Senor?”

“Yes, Joia. What is it?”

“Senora Comstock … they have taken her,
si?
I can tell you where.”

“Senora Comstock?” He took the receiver away from his ear, looked at it in astonishment and then put it back. “What are you talking about, Joia? There’s nothing wrong with Richard’s mother. Kelly’s gone. I can’t seem to trace her whereabouts. It’s Kelly. What are you trying to say?”

There was the sound of an
indrawn
breath. Then, “The Senorita? I don’t understand …”

“Kelly’s disappeared,” Steve said rapidly. “What is all this about Senora — ”

There was an abrupt silence, as if she had gone away. Then a weird, choked sound, a gasp, and the phone went dead.

“Joia,” Steve said, then said it again. “Joia? Are you there?”

But he knew she wasn’t. You could tell when there was a blank line.

He had been cut off.

He called operator.

“I was talking to Madrid,” he said. “My line was disconnected.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” The correct voice was formal. “Please give me the number you called, sir.”

“I didn’t call them, they called me. It’s Paseo de la Castellana, Madrid. Can you get them for me, please. It’s urgent.”

“Yes, sir. Please stand by.”

She rang back a few minutes later. “I am sorry, sir, but there is no answer when I ring the Madrid number.”

“But there has to be,” he shouted. “There are about a dozen servants, and … there has to be! Keep trying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now what?” Richard asked, wearing down his fingernails.

“The American consul, that’s the only thing I can think of. Christ, how can someone disappear just like that?”

“It was my fault,” Richard said miserably. “I should have taken better care of her.”

Steve brushed his hand across the child’s head. “You stupid kid. It wasn’t your fault,” he said harshly. “Stop scarifying yourself. If it was anybody’s fault it was mine. There was something screwy all along. I should have realized it.”

The soft green of trees, the broad sweep of grass … it was so lovely, so lovely. There was the stern fortress, its crenellated walls rising high, formidable, impregnable. But outside the forbidding walls sunlight swept across the moat and the foliaged compound outside. There were soft clouds in the sky.

Kelly was lying on the grass, quiet, happy, with the fortress walls behind her. It was long ago, she thought. Way, way back people had been incarcerated and tortured in those deep, dark dungeons of the castle. Avila, in the twentieth century, was liberated. There were no more racks, no wheels, no Iron Maidens. Just the same she was glad she was outside the fortress, on the green grass at its foot.

She was glad to be free.

She was looking, with eyes still badly focussed, at an etching of the Palacio de Avila. It was on the south side of the wall, beside her brass bed, and what seemed at first to be a realistic scene was only a picture on the wall.