The Man in the Shadow

by Jan Andersen

  THE MAN IN THE SHADOW

  by

  Jan Andersen

  There was a tragic mystery surrounding Richard Kendall, and Jess, as a budding reporter, had been sent out to Spain, where he was living, to get to the bottom of it—keeping her identity a secret.

  But could she bring herself to do the job, knowing she might break Richard’s faith in human nature once and for all?

  CHAPTER I

  Although she had been flying over an hour it was only when Jess saw the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees soaring out of the earth ahead of the aircraft that she realized she had more or less burned her boats behind her.

  It seemed much longer than a week ago that Oliver Preston, her boss and editor, had called her into his room and told her to sit on the comfortable chair. That in itself should have told her that this was no ordinary briefing.

  He wasted no time. ‘What does the name Richard Kendall mean to you?’

  ‘Richard Kendall? Why, nothi...’ She stopped abruptly. That was not the answer he wanted, so she searched into her memory, mentally trying to sift through the newspaper files.

  She came up triumphant—her father’s daughter after all. ‘The man who didn’t defend himself. That was what they called him, wasn’t it? He was a well-known surgeon accused of negligence. And wasn’t there something about the death of his wife?’

  ‘And child. You’re on the right lines, Jess. You can look up the details later. After the enquiry he disappeared. A lot of people tried to find him and failed. The important thing is that I know where he is now. I believed then there was a big story there somewhere that never came to light. I still believe it. You, Jess, are going to dig out that story.’

  Jess stared at him in dismay. ‘But I’m not a reporter; you know I’m not a reporter.’

  His big body moved impatiently in its chair, but his smile was still genial as he said, ‘I know you’ve spent two years telling me you’re not a reporter. Now, I’m about to find out whether you’ve been truthful.’

  Jess stuck out her small chin. ‘I’ll only go and make a mess of things and then you’ll fire me.’

  ‘And I’ll fire you if you don’t go, so what’s the difference?’ He spoke gently, oh, so gently, in the kind of voice that Jess had heard him use to other people, but never to her. She knew now as she had half known when she first put a pen to paper four years ago that she should never have gone to work for a national newspaper.

  Jess’s father, Garrard Stevenson, had been a well-known reporter, an even better-known foreign correspondent. To him it was unthinkable that his only child should not keep up the newspaper tradition started four generations ago. So Jess, who adored her father, and was naturally gifted with words, allowed herself to be gently pushed into journalism. But over one thing she had stuck fast after her first year’s hard training: she did not want to become a news reporter. She would write on any subject she was capable of, but she would not intrude into people’s lives. The thought of front doors banged in her face was abhorrent to her. A naturally shy, rather self-effacing person, she was happiest when alone with a typewriter and had worked her way up on women’s subjects and travel, whenever she could.

  Two years ago Garrard Stevenson had been killed in South America while on a mission for The Post. His friend and editor, Oliver Preston, had got in touch with Jess and offered her a job working for his woman’s page. The salary was a good one and she had leapt at the opportunity. But even then he had warned her that, although he had taken her on because she was Garrard’s daughter, unless she proved herself of the high standard he expected of his staff she would have to go.

  The job had become a lifeline for Jess and the salary Oliver paid her part of that lifeline. For when Garrard died he left nothing but a few debts and a beautiful crumbling house which Jess’s mother refused to leave. She had lived in it for fifteen years, she declared, and it was her only link with her dead husband.

  Knowing her mother’s complete lack of business sense and her rather delicate health Jess had not the heart to tell her they could not afford to stay on there. Somehow, she vowed, they would manage. And so they had done, just, but only by courtesy of Oliver Preston. Mary Stevenson had only a tiny pension, likewise her sister Amy who came to live with them. Jess had just about kept their heads above water. Now, for some extraordinary reason, Oliver Preston had chosen to play the ruthless editor to her.

  She was silent for a few minutes, then she said quietly, ‘What did I do wrong, Oliver?’

  ‘Nothing. You have no fears about that. But I’ve left you alone for two years to do what you want on this paper—and I’ve paid you well. Now I’m asking for some repayment. You’ve had all this time to toughen up and grow a second skin.’

  ‘Why me?’ she asked despairingly. ‘There are dozens of people on your paper who would make a better job of this than I would.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not this particular story; and I’ll tell you why, Jess. It’s simply because they’re reporters and they wouldn’t be able to hide it. This man Kendall has become a recluse. He wouldn’t talk to reporters three years ago and he’s even less likely to now. And if he’s half the man I think he is he’ll smell a true reporter from a mile away. That’s why this job is for you.’

  ‘You ... you mean I’ve got to try to get a story without telling him who I am?’ The whole thing was growing worse at every minute.

  He nodded, then shrugged casually. ‘If the man was really negligent, then he was a monster anyway and you shouldn’t have your usual fears about prying. Just think about the story and nothing else. At least it’s a very human one.’

  ‘Is there some doubt about his guilt, then?’ Jess asked, curiosity roused for the first time.

  ‘That’s up to you to decide. He wasn’t tried by a criminal court, there was merely an enquiry. I’m interested in his version.’

  Jess had one more try. ‘You really do mean it when you say that I have no alternative but to go and try to get this story?’

  ‘Every word, I’m afraid. You are no longer Garrard’s daughter, but a member of my staff. And I want this story—badly.’

  In a flat voice Jess said, ‘You haven’t told me where I have to go yet.’

  Oliver Preston twisted the silver paper knife that always lay on his desk and again he half smiled. ‘You think I’m blackmailing you, don’t you, Jess? Well, maybe I am, but that’s my prerogative as editor of this paper. However, even in the worst of jobs there’s generally some compensation. You’ll be out of this country for up to a month.’

  ‘A month?’ she repeated stupidly.

  ‘Yes, unless you can winkle the truth out of him before then. But this is a slow business and I want you to take your time, get to know him, win his confidence. You’re a nice girl, and a pretty girl, so it shouldn’t prove too difficult.’

  ‘Nice girls don’t particularly want the confidence of monsters,’ she retorted, stung at last into some show of spirit.

  He smiled again. ‘Don’t be prudish, Jess. By the way, didn’t I hear you’re thinking of getting married?’ She was just about to tell him it was none of his business, but there suddenly didn’t seem much point in arguing. It was better to remind herself that there are always distasteful jobs to do and the quicker she did this one the better.

  With heightened colour she answered, ‘Yes, I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘He’s Spanish, isn’t he? And don’t ask me how I know. It’s my job to know these things. Where does he live?’

  ‘Barcelona.’

  ‘I thought so. Well, I told you there were compensations. Mr. Richard Kendall’s hideout is not fifty miles from Barcelona. You can even have your weekends off if it suits you.’ He bent his head to his desk again.

>   ‘Right, Jess, you’ll be leaving in three days’ time. You’d better go and start doing your homework. And don’t come home without that story, will you? Oh, yes, and there is one more thing. You’re not to tell anyone, and I mean anyone—the real reason why you’re there.’ Jess walked slowly to the door. She simply could not answer that question. At this point she did not know whether she was being sent off for punishment, simply for being who she was, or for a free holiday. As she opened the door, Oliver Preston made one last comment.

  ‘If you’re going to marry this Spanish fellow I suppose we’ll be losing you anyway. Don’t rush into things, Jess, will you?’

  ‘Don’t you mean be sure to put my job before my private life?’ With a little snap Jess closed the door behind her. Now she would probably be fired anyway.

  The plane banked steeply and in the bowl of brown rolling hills Jess caught her first glimpse of Barcelona, then they were over the translucent blue-green of the Mediterranean and turning again to make the final landing. Somewhere waiting in that glass-fronted building they were racing towards was Rafael. For the first time since the whole business had started Jess felt a surge of excitement. How could she not, for Rafael was the most exciting man in the world.

  As soon as she entered the Customs hall he was there, head and shoulders above the crowd, his smile seeming to meet hers the moment she stepped through the glass doors.

  ‘Jess, darling Jess, it is unbelievable you are here. And I wondered how I could wait another month before I came to England. A miracle, nothing short of a miracle!’

  Jess laughed in happiness and delight. She was here, with Rafael, that was all that mattered. All the worries of the past few days were pushed into the back of her mind.

  He flicked his fingers for a porter and she turned to him. ‘But I have to go through Customs first.’

  ‘Not when you are with Rafael Gomez. Remember, you are in Spain now where a little influence goes a long way.’

  She bubbled over with laughter. ‘You didn’t tell me you were an influential man, Rafael.’

  ‘No. But then I expect there are many things I have not told you. There is time enough. Now, my love, I want to hear the meaning of your cryptic telegram. Have you given up that foolish job of yours, or does your editor really take pity on the lovesick members of his staff?’

  ‘Neither. I...’ She hesitated a moment wishing she could take Rafael into her confidence, but Oliver had said no one must know, so she must abide by his decision. Perhaps it was just as well, for Rafael disapproved of her job anyway, so he would be certain to disapprove of this particular assignment. ‘I have to write a rather big travel feature on Montserrat, about the mountain and the history of the monastery.’ Actually she was not really telling a lie because, knowing how much she liked travel writing, Oliver had grudgingly said he would publish a feature if it were good enough in next year’s travel supplement. She would have plenty of time on her hands, she might as well occupy it usefully.

  Rafael pulled the steering wheel round to avoid a swerving motor-cyclist, cursing softly in Spanish.

  ‘It is ridiculous,’ he said stormily, ‘young girl up there alone at this time of the year. There are no tourists, it will be cold—oh, I can think of a dozen reasons why you should not go. I shall write to your editor and tell him.’

  Jess reached out and let her hand rest on his. ‘No, Rafael, you will not. Remember what we said a long time ago—if you fell in love with someone from another country there are bound to be differences in customs. I know many of your women don’t have jobs, but in England many of us work not just because we need the money but because we like it.’

  She could see he was not convinced. ‘But why you, Jess? Why not send a man?’

  Because as far as I know I am the only one on the staff who can speak any Spanish. And now please, Rafael, don’t say any more. Isn’t it enough that I’m here?’

  ‘Quite enough.’ And he smiled his brilliant smile.

  Jess settled back against the rich leather to enjoy the final run into the city. She had always wanted to come to Barcelona, but somehow had never managed it. She had learned her Spanish at school and in two months spent in Madrid on a kind of exchange. Her father had been a strong believer in travel broadening the mind, so he had also insisted that she spend two months in France.

  It was through her interest in Spain that she had met Rafael. There had been a special Spanish Exhibition in London six months ago and she had been the obvious person to cover it. She had looked at the olive wood and the leather goods and china and the richly patterned carpets before she had discovered the small stand showing Spanish designs of jewellery.

  ‘Oh,’ she had exclaimed aloud, picking up a delicate necklace scattered with tiny pearls, ‘it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You think so, senorita?’

  She spun round to find herself looking up at dark inquisitive eyes. Even now she could remember that first tiny twist of excitement when she faced him

  ‘Yes, it’s beautiful,’ she said again. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing anything like this in Spain?’

  ‘Then you know Spain?’

  ‘Well, I know Madrid quite well and I spent a brief holiday on the southern coast.’

  ‘You liked it?’

  ‘Yes, I loved it. I can’t wait to go back,’ she said simply.

  From that moment the rest of the exhibition was forgotten. She wrote some kind of report, one that she sincerely hoped Oliver Preston never read. She talked to Rafael until the exhibition closed and then he asked to take her to dinner. Whatever she had been doing that night she would have cancelled.

  She learned that he ran a jewellery business just off the Plaza de Cataluna in the centre of Barcelona, a business that his father had started many years ago, and that he lived with his mother in a flat overlooking one of the city’s small parks. His English was perfect, learned she understood during the year he spent at a British university, and kept up on his business visits to London every two or three months.

  She dined with him the following night as well and then he returned to Spain and she expected never to hear from him again. But a week after he had left she received a handbag in soft leather—the kind she could never have afforded to buy for herself. There was a note enclosed:

  ‘Thank you, Jess, for two perfect days in London. I, like all Spaniards, never write letters, but I shall be in London again in two months’ time.’

  From beside her now he said, ‘You’re dreaming, Jess.’

  ‘Am I? Well, perhaps I am. It’s because I can’t really believe I’m here. Last week it was snowing in London and everyone was saying the winter would never end, and now here I am, with you, and the sun is shining. What could be better?’

  ‘For me, nothing. It has been my dream that you would really come to Barcelona and see my home; and talking of home, we are just arriving.’ With a blaring of horns he swung off the wide, busy avenue and a few minutes later was stopping in a quiet square outside the entrance to a small block of flats.

  As he put his hand on the door she stopped him. ‘Rafael, there’s something I meant to ask, but I’ve been a little afraid.’

  ‘Of me?’ He turned to her in surprise. ‘You can never be afraid of me, surely.’ He bent to kiss her lightly on the lips.

  ‘No, not you; of course not you. Your mother. You don’t talk about her very much and yet I know she is important to you, just as I know that in Spain the family unit is important. Does ... does she know about us?’

  ‘You mean does she know that I went to England and met the most wonderful girl in the world? Of course she does.’

  ‘And that you want to marry me?’

  Jess knew by the barest hesitation that her arrow had hit home and her heart sank. Rafael said, rather quickly,

  ‘I thought it best that she should meet you first before we talked of marriage. Spanish women of my mother’s generation are rather—conservative. And, like mothers the world over, she thinks that no one is go
od enough for her son.’

  Jess felt suddenly chilled as though already the sun was going down. ‘Will ... will she be there now?’ she asked.

  Rafael shook his head. ‘She sent her apologies that she was not able to greet you. She had to leave the city for the day and will not be back until late tonight. I imagine you will not meet until tomorrow. My plan is that we should go up now, you would no doubt like to bath and rest, and we shall have a drink and talk and then we shall go out to dinner. Since you have to leave on Sunday, then we must make the most of our two nights.’

  He led the way into a lobby, richly carpeted, and pressed the bell for the lift. It took them up eight floors. This, thought Jess suddenly, is where I might live, and it gave her the strangest feeling. During this coming month Rafael was certain to ask for her final decision. It would be yes, she had known that from the beginning, and yet she wanted to wait; she still wanted to wait.

  Before Rafael’s key was in the lock the front door was opened by a small smiling Spanish maid who took the case, and Jess’s bags, all in one movement, it seemed.

  Rafael said to her, ‘Please take the senorita straight to her room and see that she has everything she wants.’ And to Jess, ‘Remember, my darling, this house is yours. You must ask for anything you want. When you are ready Maria will bring you to the sitting room and then I shall show you everything.’

  Jess found she had a large bedroom furnished in vibrant greens and blues, but the bed had a white lace cover. In an alcove was a desk and chair and on the desk a portable typewriter waited for her. There were two comfortable armchairs and a whole wall of cupboards. As she stood and gazed in wonder Maria pressed one of the small brass handles of the end cupboard and the door swung open to reveal a portable television set.