Message From Malaga (47 page)

Ferrier said, “I just had a vision of O’Connor sitting up in his hotel room weaving and unweaving his infernal machinations. Oh, come on, Ben. What game?”

“Put bluntly like that,” Waterman said, “it’s hard to answer. It’s just that I’ve got a feeling that things aren’t what they seem.”

That was a pretty rich joke, coming from Waterman. “They rarely are, are they?” Ferrier asked lightly.

“Who’s the cynic now?” Waterman began to dial, his back to Ferrier, who moved away politely. But not before he had noticed the first two digits being dialled. Not the hotel’s number, that was certain.

Waterman got through with remarkable promptness, didn’t even wait for any switchboard to identify itself. “Waterman, of Room 409, I was expecting a call from Madrid. When it comes, tell them I’ll be back at the hotel by eight o’clock—no later. I will take the call then. Understood?” He only waited for what must have been a brief reply before he hung up. “I’ll give you a lift to the hotel.”

“I’ll walk. I need some fresh air.”

“Aren’t you going to telephone O’Connor with the good news?”

Ferrier had been waiting until Waterman left and he could talk more freely. But that might be a mistake, he thought now, as he noticed Waterman’s quiet study of his face. “I suppose we ought to. Tavita, do you mind if I too make a call?”

She opened her eyes, shook her head. Then she remembered
something important. “But first, would you please phone those people—the interviewers? Tell them—oh, you know what to tell them.”

“Where’s their number?”

“On a scrap of paper—under the letters on my desk.”

He found it, began dialling. The first two digits were identical with those used in Waterman’s call. He frowned, stopped speculating, concentrated on giving a terse but definite message: no interview today, quite impossible. Whoever was on the other end of the line had little to say: he had begun with a guarded
Pronto
, ended with a noncommittal
Adios
.

Waterman was now making a warm goodbye that roused Tavita into a real smile. He was filled with regrets that he had ill-timed this visit, but perhaps on another visit to Granada he might have the great pleasure of visiting Señorita Vergara again?

Ferrier watched him, could find no fault with the performance. Performance? There was one part of Ferrier that still kept saying,
Surely not Ben. It can’t be...
Then he only had to look down at the telephone number he had just called and he was worrying again, and heartsick; a miserable combination. He began to dial the hotel, and had the usual wait.

Waterman was waiting, too, his goodbyes over but with something more to say to Ferrier.

“Just a minute,” Ferrier told him, and began speaking with O’Connor. If Waterman had wanted to hear this, he was damn well going to.

It was a strange contrapuntal conversation. O’Connor played the theme straight, asking a series of questions that were too quietly voiced to be audible to anyone else in that silent room. Ferrier countered with short direct answers, followed
them with some fancier variations for Waterman’s benefit.

Ferrier:
Bob? Yes, you were right. The rumours were based on that name you were talking about, but it was an impostor who was using it.

O’Connor:
Waterman still with you?

Ferrier:
Yes, the man’s a fake, no doubt about it. The name was borrowed in order to convince Tavita to help him. He miscalculated, though. She denounced him.

O’Connor:
Is Waterman buying that?

Ferrier:
I doubt it. Tavita swears the man was a complete phony. So does Esteban. In fact, he brought Rodriguez from Málaga into the case.

O’Connor:
So you think there may still be an attempt made to crash her place, question her?

Ferrier:
That would be my guess. Rumours feed on rumours, you know.

O’Connor:
Then stay with her. Who else is at the house?

Ferrier:
Very peaceful, now. The police have gone. So has Rodriguez. They seemed satisfied. Aren’t you?

O’Connor:
What about servants—aren’t they around?

Ferrier:
No. Tavita sent them off quite happily. The anonymous note was pure spite. A delayed-action bomb, as it were. Nasty, don’t you think? Yes, that guy deserves anything that’s coming to him.

O’Connor:
I’ll send Sam to join you. Perhaps Al, too. They are all I can spare at the moment. There may be others, later. I’ve got to move out now, keep everything looking absolutely normal. I don’t suppose you carry a small equaliser?

Ferrier:
Good Lord, no. Just sight-seeing for a couple of days and then on to northern Italy. Time I was getting back into my
own life. Sure, I’ll tell Waterman you are packing up. By the way, Ben made a definite appointment for eight o’clock. He wants to be back at the hotel then. He’s expecting a phone call from Alice.

O’Connor:
Eight o’clock? He’s rushing it. All right, let’s rush him. Tell him I move out by eight o’clock. Tell him I have a plane at Seville waiting. We must leave there by midnight. That should keep him curious—perhaps even make him reconsider his last instructions.

Ferrier:
I wouldn’t bet on that. I’m usually kept pretty busy when I’m in Washington. And I’d better warn you, my golf game is lousy. Now some mountain climbing or scuba diving—

O’Connor:
Goodbye, then. And thanks Ian. Many thanks. You can depend on Sam. He’s in charge now. Promoted in the field.

Ferrier:
That sounds a good decision. Goodbye, Bob.

He replaced the receiver slowly, and then turned to face Waterman, who had been absorbed for those last two minutes in tracing the patterns of the Moorish tiles set into a table top. “Well, that’s that.”

“Surprising.”

“What?”

“He needed so much persuading. I thought he had his mind all made up.”

“He kept hoping he was wrong, I suppose. Only natural.”

“And he’s packing up. Definitely?”

Ferrier nodded. “Say, I have a message for you. They must leave by eight. He has a plane waiting at Seville to take them off. If you want to hitch a quick ride back to Madrid, there’s your chance.”

That had really astonished Waterman. He stared openly at Ferrier.

Ferrier kept a tight grip on his own expression. Waterman must have known about that plane, secretly held for an emergency. He must have linked it with Fuentes’ flight. What worried him now, obviously, was the fact that the plane was being put to use, and so quickly. Ferrier could almost see Waterman’s mind jumping from possibility to possibility. “But how about your call to Alice?”

“I can always leave word that I’ll be home by two this morning. That’s all that was really worrying her—what time I’d get back. There’s a big party tomorrow at the Embassy. Yes, I guess I’ll make that flight.” He looked at his watch, called a last goodbye to Tavita, and started for the hall. “Will Max meet us at the plane?” he asked Ferrier.

“I’ve no idea. Why shouldn’t he?”

Waterman opened the door. “He may have a better reason than either you or I imagine, Ian. I told you before—we’re the babes in the wood, left to wander.” He looked back at Tavita, then at Ferrier. “I wouldn’t stay here,” he said, and broke into one of his old smiles, broad and genial. “I don’t want to interfere with your plans, but what she needs now is a quiet evening in bed and no—”

“Clean up your mind,” Ferrier said with real anger. “Cut out the innuendos. Sure, I know bachelors are always fair game, but lay off me, will you? I get pretty goddamned tired of hearing the same old—”

“Touchy, aren’t we? Hope you are in a better frame of mind when I see you again.”

If, thought Ferrier, if... “Have you actually forgotten that
Jeff Reid isn’t even buried yet?” he asked unbelievingly.

Waterman’s amusement faded. He said slowly, “I was as sorry about that as you were.” And he left.

Ferrier locked the door securely behind Waterman. Not a particularly good lock, either, he noticed. Any two-bit burglar could pry it loose with a hairpin. That was the strange thing about Tavita: she’d bar her windows with decorative iron and leave the keys in her car and the garage open; she’d install some simple-minded contraption to hold fast a modern door like this one, while she’d have elaborate systems for antique hunks of wood. And just then he remembered the ancient lock and its enormous key that belonged to the front door of Tavita’s house on the museum courtyard. What had happened to that key? How had O’Connor dealt with it? It was too big, too heavy, too cumbersome to be carried in any pocket. Had he been forced to leave that door unlocked after he had brought Fuentes through it?

Ferrier came back into the room almost at a run. “Tavita—that door to your house on the courtyard—it must be unlocked.
Is that safe with all these tourists around?”

She paused in measuring brandy into two glasses. “We need this,” she told him. “Of course it wouldn’t have been safe. That’s why your Mr. Smith locked it when he took Tomás Fuentes out into the courtyard.”

“But how do you know he locked it?” Or didn’t she know and was just assuming he had?

Her smile belonged to Mona Lisa. “He was so clever about that. I begin to like your Mr. Smith very much. Even if he made one mistake—with Tomás Fuentes. He did not see Fuentes slip a note under the door of the tinsmith’s shop. But there is no harm done. Fuentes did not destroy me. And he won’t!” The smile was gone. “It
was
Fuentes who wrote that note. You agree?”

“Yes.” Fuentes bending down to tie a shoelace at the door of the shop. I saw him. I didn’t believe what I saw. I can scarcely believe it now. “How could he have taken such a chance? He could have destroyed himself, too.”

“Oh, no. He had calculated well. The shop did not open until four o’clock. The police did not come here until almost half past five. So how many hours had he to escape then? He was far away from Granada by then.”

Four and a half hours away. Far enough, thought Ferrier.

“And,” added Tavita, “he did not sign his name to the note. He knew I would not sign it for him by giving his name to the police. Not to anyone. I will
not
be connected with his name. Ever. He knew that.” She handed Ferrier a glass of brandy. “We drink to—to our silence. And to my story. Rodriguez believed it, didn’t he?”

“I hope so.”

“Well—why not? It could have been true. Couldn’t it?”

He had to smile. “Yes,” he agreed. The brandy was again too sweet for his taste, but he welcomed it. “About Smith—” he began, puzzled about that door down on the courtyard. “He was clever, you said. How?”

“Oh, that! He simply left one of the windows open, just a little. And after he came out and locked the door behind him, he pushed the key through the opened window back into the room. I found it on the floor and put it on its hook.”

“When were you down there?”

“After I got Esteban’s call. I wondered if Fuentes was still in the house on the courtyard with your Mr. Smith. Or had they left? You see, you didn’t tell me,” she said with mild reproof. “And I had to know. So, I went down. They had left. Everything was in good order. I checked thoroughly. I even remembered to bring up the suitcase.”

“Fuentes’ suitcase?” He stared at her. “Where did you put it?” he asked slowly.

“In the small room where I store all my suitcases and trunks.”

“You mean—it was lying there when the police—”

“But it looks like one of mine.”

“Until someone opens it. Or did you empty it?”

“His clothes are safer left there until Magdalena can remove all the labels—everything came from Argentina.” That amused her. “Then I’ll give them to Matéo. My chauffeur. They’ll fit him. I know they will.” She was delighted with her small secret. For a moment, the exhausted look on her face was replaced by a real smile.

“Of course they will, seeing that Matéo’s uniform fitted Fuentes.”

The smile drained from her lips. “You saw that?” Now
worry and fear flooded back. “Rodriguez was there—you were standing with him outside Jeff’s door—did he see, too?”

“He did. Only, he wasn’t looking for Fuentes. He didn’t even know Fuentes was in Málaga. But don’t underestimate Rodriguez. Where’s that suitcase?”

She made no more protests, but led him into her bedroom. There, in a windowless box room piled with trunks and bags of all sizes, he found the suitcase. It was unlocked. He checked inside it, found only neatly folded clothes topped by a silver-grey suit. “Where’s the key to the tunnel door?”

“You aren’t taking it back down to—”

“No arguments, Tavita. The key!”

“I hide it under my handkerchiefs,” she said, going into her dressing-room. He repressed a laugh as he noticed the bars, highly decorative but definitely iron, across the dressing-room window. The bathroom had them, too. So did the bedroom, although here they were softened by long draperies of red satin. That’s right, he thought, everything is tightly secured but you keep an important key in your handkerchief drawer. Tavita, Tavita... He shook his head.

“What is so funny?” she asked as she came back into the bedroom, glancing at his face.

“Nothing. Come on, Tavita, Let’s get this stowed away.” He picked up the suitcase, hurried her out into the living-room, swung the bedroom door shut after them. It was a massive antique, its wood hardened by age, heavily studded and banded with iron. Its lock and key looked highly efficient. “Incredible,” he said softly.

And tactlessly. She bridled. “Don’t you like my room?”

“A study in contrasts.” Red curtains, gilded mirrors, lace
pillows scattered over a giant bed. And bolts and bars and nails and studs and God knows what. “At least, you sleep in safety.”

“Isn’t that the most important thing about any house? To be able to sleep in safety?”

Her vehemence surprised him. But this time he was wise enough to say nothing. They reached the hall in silence.

She said tensely, “You have never known what it is to live through a civil war. In Málaga—we did not sleep well. Threats and terror, flames and bombs, midnight executions.” For a moment, her eyes brooded on some hideous memory. She turned away quickly, concentrated on opening the panel’s hidden door. She stood aside to let him enter, handed him the key. “Are you going all the way down?” She was cool and practical again. “What a waste of time! I have only given you extra work.”