Her first stop was the shipping office, where she reserved passage for four days hence. Then she made her way to the Ridge Hotel, where she secured a room, arranging to move her belongings to the hotel the following day. She had no need to speak to Vallejo again, nor did she think she would see him, and she trusted that Raoul would be as good as his word.
Next, she would visit Miriam Babayoff.
Once again, many locks had to be drawn back before Sebastian Babayoff’s sister opened the door only enough for Maisie to see her face and part of her shoulder.
“Hello, Miss Babayoff—might you be able to spare me a few moments?”
Miriam closed the door, slipped the chain back, and opened the door just enough to let Maisie in. A pile of mending was on the table, a needlework box open.
“I can see you’re hard at work. I won’t keep you long, Miriam.”
Miriam nodded and moved toward the stove. “Would you like tea?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, thank you. I shan’t be staying too long. Is your sister here?”
Miriam looked at Maisie and shrugged. “She cannot move, Miss Dobbs—of course she is here.” She held out a hand toward a chair and took her place again in front of her work. She picked up the fabric and began stitching where she had left off.
“I’d like to talk about Sebastian, Miss Babayoff.”
The dead man’s sister sighed deeply, her exasperation showing as she all but threw down the skirt she was hemming. “I thought I had answered every one of your questions. Too many questions. You are not the police, and my brother is dead. What do you think you are doing?”
Maisie softened her voice. “Yes, it does seem rather ill-mannered of me, but I am trying to get to the bottom of something. I have some answers, but not all. First of all, Miss Babayoff, would you mind describing for me what happened when you went to the mortuary, to identify your brother’s body?”
Miriam Babayoff reached toward the garment she had been working on and picked at a thread. Her breath seemed to come faster, and she held her hands to her eyes. “It was terrible. Very terrible. I could not bear it.”
“It is a hard thing to do—to know that one you love is gone, and have to look at his body. But you were not alone, were you?”
She shook her head. “Our rabbi and Mr. Solomon came with me—each a tower of strength. Mr. Solomon, especially, helped me so.”
“He was there with you, a shoulder to lean on.”
Miriam nodded. “I could not look at my brother’s face—the rabbi told me not to—but I saw Sebastian’s ring on his finger.” She held up her left hand and moved her little finger. “It was my mother’s wedding ring, though Sebastian wore it on his little finger—that’s where it fitted him. He said he would wear it there until he found a bride.”
“How very sad for you. Then of course you had to identify him.”
She shook her head. “That was all I had. They said his face was—what did they say? Unrecognizable. I could bear to see no more after that. Once I’d told the policeman that it was Sebastian, Mr. Solomon led me to the door, and we were shown out. I was very upset.”
“Miriam, I am very sorry to have to ask this—but did you look carefully at his hand?”
She nodded. “I turned away at first, and then I knew I had to hold his hand. So I did. And I asked for water, and I removed my mother’s wedding ring.” She stood and opened a cupboard next to the stove. Reaching for a small box on a high shelf, she took it down and set it on the table, opening the lid. A narrow band of rose gold sat in purple velvet.
“It’s exquisite in its simplicity, isn’t it?”
“It was the cheapest, I know—but my mother cherished it.”
“It must have been difficult to remove, if Sebastian had pushed it onto his little finger.”
Miriam smiled, a melancholy smile of remembrance. “Sebastian had narrow fingers, artists’ fingers. He could work his fingers quickly with the camera—they were long fingers, almost like a pianist. When I saw him working, I thought it was like watching a maestro at the keys.” She put her hands on the table, as if she were playing a piano. “But there was a—what do you call it?” She made a motion around her little finger with the fingers of her right hand.
“A ridge?”
“Yes, where he had worn it, and it was part of him.”
“Is that so?”
The woman nodded.
“Tell me,” said Maisie, “have you any doubt that the man you identified was your brother?”
Miriam Babayoff frowned. “I have held my brother’s hand as a child and as a woman. I know his hands.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I have no doubt that you do.” She paused. “Tell me something else, then—and truthfully, Miriam. If nothing else, then please tell me the truth.” Maisie looked at the needle threaded through the fabric of a skirt, waiting for Miriam to return to her work. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I saw you at the cave. I know there was a man there. I know you went to the cave with Arturo Kenyon and that later, munitions were moved. They were loaded onto a fishing boat—perhaps two—and taken to arm the Republicans in Spain.”
“It was Sebastian, he—”
Maisie held up her hand. “You can tell me that in a moment. I want to know who the man was—in the cave.”
“Just a man. I knew him as Pedro. Arturo Kenyon brought him. He was paid to guard the cave, to watch, to report on anyone who came to search around.”
“Was he from the garrison?”
She shrugged.
“It was not your brother.”
“No—my brother was murdered, you know that. . . . Miss Dobbs, why are you asking me this?”
“I know he was murdered. But there are others who would have me think otherwise, and though I think I know why, I am looking a bit harder, for the moment.”
Tears ran down Miriam Babayoff’s face. Maisie reached to hold her hand. “So much of the story I have put together in my head is right—as far as I know. You said Sebastian had traveled into Spain before, at the outset of the war.”
Miriam nodded. “As I told you, he went for a short time—enough to take photographs. He said it was an opportunity, you see. He wanted to be the first to send his photos to the Americans—the big ones, he said. He said life would be interested—I didn’t quite understand, and he didn’t explain.”
“I think he meant Life—it’s a publication in America, with lots of photographs. If he had sold his work to them, he would have become famous.” She pulled a handkerchief from her leather satchel and gave it to Miriam. “Sebastian went to Spain, and I take it he came back with a greater feeling of injustice. Would that be fair to say?” She did not wait for a response. “He had taken photographs, and it was while developing them that he really began to look at what was on the other side of the camera. And he became more vociferous, more angry, about the injustice of it all. Was that the case?”
Miriam nodded, wiping her eyes and nose. “I told him it wasn’t our battle, but then I saw his photos too, and I knew, here”—she pressed her hand to her chest—“that what he said was right. Our father believed in equality, and we believed in him. When Sebastian saw what Fascism was doing to the country just a few miles away, it changed him. It was as if he could be something like my father, as if he could honor him. And of course Carlos was our father’s friend, and they had the same beliefs, so they felt outrage together—and it grows, in the way that coals together are a fire, but one alone is extinguished. See, the war changed Sebastian.”
“That’s when fate allowed him to photograph the German man—the man with the gray hair. He saw him in Spain, by chance, didn’t he? And out on the boat with Carlos Grillo—using the binoculars—he thought he saw him being transferred to a German submarine. Then the man appeared again here in Gibraltar, and Sebastian wanted to photograph him and put his face in public—perhaps in a newspaper or even a pamphlet for the Ridge Hotel. And he asked Rosanna to help him.”
There was si
lence, as if both women were weighing up how much truth the table between them could bear.
“He loved her, but not as much as she loved him,” said Miriam. “She would have died for him. He asked her to dress as if she were a tourist—he took clothes . . .” She picked up a handful of the fabric in front of her and dropped it again. “Clothes that were here, waiting for me to mend and hem and add a tuck here and there. She dressed as a woman with money, to go to the party where he was taking photographs. I don’t know how he knew the German would be there, but he did.”
“And then, coincidentally, he was murdered.”
Silence filled the space between Maisie and Miriam Babayoff, and this time Maisie made no attempt to take the woman’s hand. It was as she had expected: the truth was being given voice. She had come close, when she had tackled Vallejo, but even then, her conclusions had taunted her, coming back time and again as if to ask, “Was it really so?”
“Who killed my brother, Miss Dobbs?” Miriam Babayoff looked away as she asked the question, unable to look at Maisie.
Maisie shook her head. “Sadly, after all this, I believe the police were correct. It was a refugee, possibly starving and rootless, perhaps himself haunted by what had come to pass in his country. Your brother paid the price.” She leaned forward, closer to Miriam. “But know this—you have his legacy. You have his photographs, and if you trust me with those photographs, I will do everything I can to put them in the hands of people who will buy and print them for many, many others to see. Keep the negatives, make more prints, but I will take the best of them.”
Miriam pressed her lips together to stem more tears. She spoke again, though her voice cracked. “A refugee, after all. You made all this effort, and only to find the police were right.”
“I found out about Arturo Kenyon, though. I suppose he had seen Sebastian’s photographs, and it inspired him to break the law.”
“He is in Spain, you know, fighting in the International Brigades.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I suspected as much.” She pointed to the pile of clothing awaiting alteration on the table. “I must leave you to your work, Miss Babayoff—I have taken enough of your time. If you would like me to take some of Sebastian’s photographs, get them ready for me as soon as you can. I’ll come to see you again before I leave.” Maisie stood, and smiled at Miriam. “One last thing—and forgive me for speaking out of turn—but if you are in love with Mr. Solomon, you must marry him. Do not wait, Miss Babayoff. Time isn’t always on our side.”
“But my sister, she’s—”
Maisie reached for Miriam’s hand. “Of course you cannot leave her, and of course you want her to be safe and cared for. But Mr. Solomon loves you, Miriam. And he would help you care for Chana too. Look how he was so gentle with her, on the day of the attempted break-in. I watched as he lifted her and carried her to her room. He did that for you, and he did that for her. Perhaps together you could get her out more, and she would be happier.”
“But I don’t want to upset her, Miss Dobbs. She can be very difficult when she’s upset. Just the mention of trying to walk sends her into a tantrum—even my father could not tolerate it. She would be very troublesome if she knew I had accepted Mr. Solomon.”
“I think she would get used to it—and probably used to the additional attention, too.” Maisie stood up to leave. “Consider yourself, Miriam. You have given so much—not only to Sebastian and to Chana, but to the cause your family supported. It’s time to honor your own dreams—and I believe doing so will benefit Chana, too.”
Maisie bid Miriam farewell and left the Babayoff house, the sound of bolts being pushed home echoing as she turned away and started down the narrow street.
Maisie was not quite sure what she would say to MacFarlane, but she knew something had to be said. He would expect her to confront him with what she considered to be the truth. He would do nothing, but at least he would know that she knew what had happened. She had put her conclusions to Vallejo before they were settled in her mind, but it was her discomfort with the scenario she’d described that had made her think, and think again. It was as if she had something under her skin, a tiny splinter that festered. The professor’s apparent agreement—as well as that of the German—served only to make her reflect on every piece of information she had gathered, every movement she had witnessed, every conversation memorized. There were those who wanted her to accept her unfinished deduction as the truth—though she thought that perhaps MacFarlane expected her to see through the layers of subterfuge.
Robert MacFarlane was sitting beneath the mural, sipping a cup of tea, when Maisie walked into the café. A glass with two fingers worth of single-malt whisky sat alongside his saucer, as if waiting for noon to strike. Maisie knew he generally did not drink in the morning, unless it was early morning, a continuation of the night before.
“So you’re here again, Miss Maisie Dobbs.” MacFarlane stood as Maisie approached, and Mr. Salazar rushed to pull out a chair. “Will you join me in a wee dram? The sun is over—”
“The yardarm somewhere across the Empire,” said Maisie, mimicking his accent. “Not for me, thank you.” She sat down and asked Mr. Salazar for a milky coffee.
“Very funny. So where have you been, your ladyship?”
Maisie shook her head. “Not now, MacFarlane. You know very well I do not use a title.”
“It serves you well when it comes to getting papers to cross the border, and the like.”
“Ah, I would be the first to admit one has to use the tools at one’s disposal, but not every day.”
“What were you doing in Madrid?”
“You know. I’m sure you’re aware of my every movement. My question is, Why are you interested?”
“You need to be kept safe, Maisie Dobbs.”
“What I really need, Robbie MacFarlane, is to know the truth.”
“Didn’t you already go over that with Professor Vallejo?”
“Your agent? He is, isn’t he? An agent for the British government? That wasn’t easy to work out. His beliefs don’t quite mirror the government’s with regard to the Spanish war, but I would imagine he’s very useful all the same. Getting to the bottom of the mysterious Mr. Wright was another thing. It took me a while, though—”
MacFarlane raised a finger from the table as Salazar approached.
“Your coffee, madam. And your favorite japonesa, on the house.”
“That’s so kind,” said Maisie. “Thank you very much, Mr. Salazar.”
The proprietor gave a short bow and turned away to greet new customers.
“So what about the other man, Maisie? He’s just a German fed up with Mr. Hitler and his big mouth, doing all he can to help the Republicans in Spain.”
Maisie shook her head. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? The British government isn’t interested in the Republicans—their sympathies are with the Nationalists. We’ve been through that. But Wright is a valuable man—he’s moving between worlds. The Germans think he’s working for them, the Republicans think he’s on their side in Spain, and who’s pulling the strings? From where I’m sitting, I would say it’s him. But he’s providing valuable information to the British government. He’s a chameleon; he can hop from a German submarine to a cocktail party where some important people are sipping drinks and becoming a little loose-lipped, and then back to his bunker close to the trenches. He’s a go-between, and he’s very, very important to the government, though he also does not really exist. That is the world of the spy, the informer. The trouble was that Sebastian Babayoff, in his naïveté, thought he could reveal something and become important, perhaps by placing a photograph in a newspaper, or even an American weekly. He thought he’d bring our Mr. Wright out of the shadows and put him on center stage. So Babayoff had to go. But for someone like me, I believe it was a case of ‘Let her think she’s found something, and she’ll go away.’ ”
MacFarlane sighed and looked at the clock above the door. He shook his head and picked up his
malt whisky, downing it in one gulp.
“I’ll not contradict you, Maisie. But I won’t agree either. Babayoff was killed by a refugee. That’s all that needs to be said.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. And that’s what I have told his sister.” Maisie paused. MacFarlane raised an eyebrow, and she continued. “But here’s what else I have come to believe, amid all the lies and diversions—and I need to say it.” Another pause. “Yes, Babayoff had become a security risk at a time when people such as Wright could ill afford exposure regarding their true work. Wright, of course, comes to mind, but there’s Vallejo too. I do not for one moment believe the story I was told, that Babayoff was killed by a Nationalist spy. I do, however, believe he was attacked by a penniless refugee, likely primed by one of Wright’s contacts, with a hint that a photographer with money in his pocket—cash payment for his work—was leaving the hotel.” She ran her fingers through her cropped hair. “It was the refugee who was killed, not Babayoff, who was taken from the scene and told he was being moved to Spain for his safety. In his panic, he believed the story. He left the ring behind on the little finger of the dead refugee—probably chosen for his similarity to Babayoff. And of course, he knew Miriam would retrieve the ring.
“Yet when he was first set upon, before another man entered the scene to finish off the refugee and take Babayoff from the path to safety, he had panicked and thrown his Leica camera into the bushes. But he left behind the Zeiss. A refugee wanting instant money would not have taken a distinctive camera; a fist holding cash has more heft, after all.” Maisie lifted her hand and rubbed it across her forehead. “I believe Babayoff was then taken into Spain, allowed to think it was for his own good—to document the war—and then conveniently killed in action. His sister, in her grief, recognized only the ring and the dark hair. She looked at the refugee’s hands, but they were enough like Babayoff’s so it did not alarm her. She buried her brother in the Jewish cemetery, and in the future she would have somewhere to go, a place of remembrance. But, knowing her brother’s belief in the establishment of a republic for the people across the border, she wanted to continue his work. Thus she became acquainted with Arturo Kenyon, and of course, she knew Rosanna Grillo already. Now that she’s done what she could—helping with a limited shipment of arms into Spain—such activities are behind her, though I believe part of her will never forgive her brother his reckless self-interest. She knew he upset people, and she was afraid for her own and Chana’s personal security—the attempted break-in by one of Wright’s people kept her in a state of fear. I do not believe either Miriam or Rosanna Grillo knew or had met Wright before the day of the cocktail party and Sebastian’s subsequent death, though they were acquainted with Vallejo.
A Dangerous Place Page 26
