Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “But drugs are a serious matter, Jaime.” So the police raid was the reason that Tomás was brought here last night; that’s why he was smuggled out of El Fenicio in such a hurry. “Is Tomás a man who deals in narcotics?” Jaime looked at him wide-eyed. “If he is, I don’t give a good goddam whether he is Esteban’s cousin or the brother of Tavita’s aunt. Out he goes! You should never have brought him here. Get him out.”

  “But he has nothing to do with drugs. Nothing. Believe me, señor, Esteban would not allow that. He would not help such a man.” Jaime’s voice was stilted. His eyes now looked reprovingly at Ferrier. He moved across the room to the opened windows, closed the shutters. “Soon the sun will be too warm, and this room—”

  “I know about that. What I don’t know is about Tomás. What does he deal in? If not drugs, what?” Ferrier heard a car driving carefully toward the house. He moved quickly over to one of the windows, adjusted the louvres so that he could see out clearly, looked down at a dark-blue Mercedes now drawing up near the path to the front door. Jaime really had a pair of exceedingly sharp ears, he was thinking; the boy had heard that car several seconds before he himself became aware of it. Or had Jaime been listening for it?

  “He is only a man who needed a place to sleep,” Jaime said. “Nothing to do with drugs. Nothing like that.”

  “But why all the secrecy?”

  “It is a matter of honour.” Jaime’s flat statement was final. His hurt pride struggled with a new anxiety, and lost. “Señor Ferrier, you have not finished your breakfast. This cake is—”

  “I’ve had enough,” Ferrier said abruptly. Anything, anything to get me away from this window. What am I not supposed to see? Why should these people think Americans don’t have a pride of their own? Why the hell have I to pretend I’m stupid, easily manoeuvred, pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard? He stayed at the window. A man in grey uniform had hurried around from the driver’s seat to open the car’s rear door and let a woman step out. She was slender, smartly dressed in white, with high-heeled black sandals glistening on her small feet. No hat on her smooth dark head, but short white gloves on her hands holding a patent-leather satchel. “Tavita,” Ferrier said in amazement. “Isn’t this rather early for her?” It was barely half past ten by his watch. She was walking toward the house now. The chauffeur closed the car door behind her, spoke to someone still sitting inside, picked up a small case from the front seat, and left in the direction of the kitchen entrance. Extremely quiet out there, Ferrier suddenly noted. All the small sounds he had heard earlier—the hosing of the garden, women’s voices, a snatch of song—had floated away during his talk with Jaime, and he hadn’t been aware of it. “Where’s everyone?” He turned, saw the door close silently behind Jaime.

  * * *

  Tavita was standing in the middle of the big room, her arms folded, her head bent, as she listened to Concepción’s complaints. “I know, I know,” she said sympathetically. “But what else could we do? Señor Reid will not object. He has met Tomás.”

  “But Tomás did not want to come here. He was angry, last night, when he learned where he had been brought.”

  “Where else could we take him at that hour?”

  “And this morning when I fetched him something to eat and told him about Señor Reid’s accident, he cursed us all. He called us fools and idiots.”

  “How very grateful of him,” Tavita said softly, but her eyes hardened. “And did he say why we were fools and idiots?”

  “He said that if Señor Reid was attacked—”

  “Attacked?”

  “—then someone knows who Señor Reid is. And that, he said, means danger. This house may be watched.”

  “But why?” Tavita shrugged off her own questions. “We have other things to worry about.” Attacked...this house may be watched...Tomás had too many fears and suspicions. No one could connect Jeff with Tomás. No one. “Tell him we are waiting,” she said shortly.

  “And now he’s going to grumble about us being an hour early.”

  “What else could we do?” Tavita asked again. She seemed so sure of herself, so completely in control, that Concepción made no further objections. If she only knew how I felt, Tavita thought, she’d throw her apron over her face and start wailing. Why did this happen to me, to any of us? Tomás walked in from the street, and from the moment that Esteban gave him shelter in good faith, Tomás put his claws deep into all of us. Esteban, this morning, a saddened and wiser man, had made a bitter suggestion: hand him over to Captain Rodriguez; let him take his own chances. But Esteban did not have a brother who once had worked with Tomás.

  “If only Señor Reid were here,” Concepción said.

  “Now, now,” Tavita told her briskly, covering her own worries, “we’ll manage without him. We’ll manage very well.” But she gave a start, almost as violent as Concepción’s, when Jaime appeared unexpectedly at the head of the staircase and ran down toward them.

  “He won’t stay in his room,” Jaime told them as he reached the bottom tread. “He says he has had enough.” And so have I, Jaime’s voice told them. “He asks questions, and I have no more answers.”

  “Why?” Tavita asked sharply.

  Jaime had a special mixture of awe and admiration for Tavita. As he looked at her now, and saw her fear, his own sense of failure deepened. He kept silent.

  “At least you should have stayed in the corridor upstairs,” Concepción scolded. “Get back up there. We don’t want him opening doors—”

  “He is not that kind of a man,” Jaime said angrily.

  “You said he asks questions.”

  “Because he is not a fool, either.”

  “Jaime,” Tavita said, “how much did you tell him?”

  He hesitated, evaded his aunt’s eyes. Somehow there was no evasion possible with Tavita. “I did not have to tell him much. He knows.”

  “He knows about Tomás?”

  “He saw him. Last night. On the staircase.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Concepción, and covered her mouth with her hands.

  Tavita hushed her quickly. She said with a smile, “Well, then—he saw Pépé’s manager. Or did you forget to tell him that?”

  Jaime shook his head. He said with some reproach “The señorita knows that I would not—”

  “I know,” Tavita said gently. “But he didn’t believe you.”

  “Last night, I thought he did. This morning, I knew he did not.”

  Tavita raised one band, stopped a threatened outburst from Concepción. “No harm done. We just alter our plans a little. I suppose Señor Ferrier heard my car arrive?”

  Jaime nodded. “And he saw you. He wondered why you had risen so early.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “I left.”

  Tavita laughed in spite of herself. “No wonder you ran out of answers.”

  Jaime’s wounded pride stopped smarting. He hadn’t failed, really; it had just been impossible to succeed. “He is a difficult man to deceive,” he warned her, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Especially when you didn’t want to deceive him, in the first place,” Tavita reminded him, her voice now as sharp as her perception. All wrong, she told herself angrily, I planned this all wrong. I should have taken Ian Ferrier into my confidence, treated him as I would have treated Jeff. Deception was stupid. And what is stupid is wrong.

  “Why isn’t he down here by this time?” Concepción wanted to know.

  “Go upstairs, collect his tray, and find out.”

  “Me? After he saw me on that staircase last night? After I pretended—” She didn’t finish, but shook her head vigorously. “I’ll never be able to face him again.”

  “Stop the dramatics. We are wasting valuable minutes. I must leave in half an hour.” Tavita looked at the miniature diamond watch on her wrist. She could never see its figures clearly, but she wouldn’t admit that. She made a practised guess. “In twenty minutes, at the most.” What a hideous journey it wo
uld be. And again she thought, why did this happen to me? To me? “All right. If neither of you will do it, I’ll find out.” She moved toward the staircase.

  “But you can’t! It wouldn’t be correct!” Concepción protested.

  “Correct?” Tavita stormed, her dark eyes flashing, her head tilted back.

  Temper, temper, thought Ferrier as he stopped at the head of the staircase and wondered if he should descend, after all, into this little maelstrom. Three faces stared up at him. “Is it safe to come down?” he asked lightly.

  Tavita recovered first. She said, “Oh, it was just a small argument. Now settled.” To Concepción, she spoke softly, quickly, so that even Jaime could only half hear her. “I leave in twenty minutes. Don’t fail me. Say nothing, nothing, nothing to Tomás. About last night or the staircase. Nothing. It will only make his anger worse. Keep him calm. Calm.” Concepción nodded, retreated against the wall to let Señor Ferrier pass. He wasn’t paying much attention to either her or Jaime. He had eyes only for Tavita. And she was, Jaime agreed, looking superbly beautiful this morning even if she had scarcely had four hours of sleep. He noted that Señor Ferrier had changed into a clean shirt, knotted a silk scarf into its open neck, put on a green linen jacket. Too bad that Señor Ferrier was going to be disappointed, he thought regretfully as he watched them meet, the fair-haired man and the dark-haired woman, and then start talking as they walked toward Señor Reid’s study. Yes, it was a pity the way this Saturday morning was being ruined for everyone.

  Concepción tugged at Jaime’s sleeve, reminded him to fetch the clothes that the chauffeur had brought. He turned obediently toward the kitchen corridor, but paused to register a whispered protest. “I hate this man Tomás,” he said vehemently. His aunt looked at him. “Because he hates all of us. Why should we—”

  “Go, go!” Her hand waved him on.

  When he came back with the clothes, the study door was closed, and they could start climbing the staircase without being seen.

  7

  So we are friends, this morning, Ferrier thought, as he felt the gentle touch of Tavita’s hand, saw the warm smile on her lips.

  “I am glad,” she said simply.

  “So am I,” he admitted, lost in the depths of those large dark beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Oh?” She frowned, began walking toward the study. “Oh, yes,” she said, pinning down his allusion. “I asked for your help.”

  “Magdalena asked me to stay and talk with you, but—frankly—I thought Jeff was in more need of help at the time.”

  “That was the way it seemed,” she said.

  Ferrier felt that she had somehow managed to agree and yet disagree with him. “What was the problem?”

  “I managed,” she said vaguely. “How is Jeff? I telephoned the hospital this morning, but they said he couldn’t have any visitors.”

  “Not until this evening. Perhaps not even then, if Dr. Medina has his way. He likes to lay down the law.”

  She was puzzled. “Does he? You met him?”

  “At the hospital last night. Or, rather, early this morning.”

  “He went to see Jeff at that hour?” The warm smile came back to her face. “Then that proves he is a good doctor. Magdalena is devoted to him, Jeff sent her to Dr. Medina some years ago when she was ill and he cured her completely.”

  And you, thought Ferrier, are highly nervous at this moment; why else all this concentration on Magdalena or Medina? Anything perhaps except her own problem. If it was Tomás, then she had only half-way managed with him: he might be safely out of El Fenicio, but he was now stuck upstairs in the attic here. Was that what was troubling her underneath all that calm, cool surface?

  “Yes,” she was saying as they entered the study, “old Medina is a wonderful doctor.”

  “Old?” Ferrier was slightly startled. “He’s about my age.” And possibly about your age, too, my proud beauty, although it would be too ungallant to mention that. It was part of her astonishing attractiveness, though; she didn’t pretend, in either dress or manner, to be tremulous eighteen or confident twenty-four, and yet she was young, age unguessable.

  “Oh,” she said, “then it was Medina’s nephew—he must have taken Magdalena’s call.” She shrugged off her mistake. “I agree with you. He is a little—officious? But it was thoughtful of him to go to the hospital so quickly. Would you close the door? A little more privacy.” She glanced back at the staircase, where Concepción hovered. “He is helping his uncle in his practice. He came here about two years ago.”

  I’m sure we don’t need privacy to talk about Medina, Ferrier thought. Could this woman, who looked so calm and relaxed, really be nervous? “Is he Jeff’s doctor?”

  “Did he say that?” She laughed softly. “He would, of course. It is a strange thing—” She paused, perhaps choosing her words carefully. “Jeff finds him amusing. He gives interesting parties where you can meet so many different kinds of people.”

  “Do you go to these parties?”

  She shook her head. “I do not find them interesting. I am—I am not political.” Her voice became bitter. “I hate all politics. That is why it is so difficult to—” Again she broke off, looked at the safely closed door, hesitated, sighed.

  “I have a better idea for privacy. Why don’t we drive along the coast or back into the hills? Visit Ronda? We could find some parador where we could have lunch and—”

  “I can’t. I am sorry.” The words were abrupt. She added gently, “I am truly sorry. I would love to spend the day with you. But I must return to Granada.”

  “So soon?” He managed to hide his disappointment, but not his surprise. Yet he ought to have expected something like this: she hadn’t even sat down. She had dropped her bag and gloves on a corner of Jeff’s large desk, leaned against it with one hand, her body half turned toward him, her face slightly inclined as she studied him. Behind her smooth head, there were brightly covered books in dark wood bookshelves against white walls. There were no curtains on the windows, only the tall shutters half drawn that sent wavering lines of sunlight over the bare tiled floor. It was a man’s room, austere and practical, a strange setting for this elegant woman, who looked—stranger still—as if she was completely at home in it. He was the intruder here, not Tavita.

  “Yes. Too soon.” She hesitated, then began to speak slowly, choosing her words carefully. “There is much business to be done. Next week, we prepare to leave for London.” Now the words began to spill out quickly. “I have danced there several times. And so I have many friends in England. This time, it is for a holiday. There is much to plan; I cannot leave without arranging everything at El Fenicio, and in Seville, where I also dance. So—you see?”

  He could see that part of it. He couldn’t quite see why she had chosen this time of the year for a holiday, though, when the tourists were beginning to pile into Spain. Or perhaps she never had to depend on foreign visitors for capacity audiences. “What about Jeff? Aren’t you going over to the hospital?”

  “Not today. It is impossible. Jeff will understand.”

  “I thought you were very good friends.” It was a mild enough rebuke, but she was hurt.

  And angry. Her eyes flashed, her head came up straight as she stared at him. “We are. He is one of my dearest friends. He will understand.” She turned away abruptly, walked over to the window, faced the garden. There was a long silence. “Has Jeff told you about us?”

  The directness of the question startled him. “No. Jeff doesn’t talk about his private emotions.”

  “Of course not,” she said impatiently. “He is a man. Not a little boy who must make a public parade of his own affairs.”

  Good, thought Ferrier; so we agree on that at least. He moved over to the two red leather armchairs that were grouped at the side of the window for a view of the garden, a pleasant arrangement for quiet talk. She did not turn around, but kept her back toward him, her face averted, so that even her profile was hidden from him.
“A pity I’m not Japanese,” he tried, “or else I could stand here for hours admiring the nape of your neck. But I prefer a full-face view. Come on, turn round. Show me that the eyes have it.” Either she didn’t understand him or she preferred to ignore him. How the hell, he thought irritably, can we hope for international understanding when we can’t even find an international sense of humour? All right, all right, it wasn’t much of a joke, but it stopped her tears, didn’t it? No joke is altogether bad if it does that. And we certainly didn’t need privacy to talk about Medina or an unlikely trip to London. “What’s the object?” he asked briskly.

  She understood that question at least. She even found it comic, seemingly. Her brief laughter choked on itself. She pivoted round, looked at him. Her eyes were brighter than ever, as if the controlled tears had turned to stars. “Which problem?” she asked bitterly. She broke into Spanish. “The problem that Jeff is not here? The problem that he is needed? The problem of how I send a message to him and get his answer? Or the problem of a man who is in danger and who endangers us all?” The words were pouring out now, quickening with each question. “The problem that everything has gone wrong—not according to his plans—and he doubts everything I try to arrange? The problem that he trusts Jeff but not the rest of us—contemptuous, suspicious, angry with everyone?” She caught hold of herself, realising suddenly that even if Ferrier could not understand all she talked about, she had yet said too much. She tried to cover up. “Then there is the problem of Constanza—the dancer who made the performance start so late last night. She was going to dance in bare feet. For true flamenco?” The indignation was real, and beautifully dramatic.

  And now, thought Ferrier, she’s on to a problem that is more in her line; she can handle this herself. She often must have gone through variations of the same battle, like the devoted Shakespearean who is directing an Ophelia who wants to do a striptease. We didn’t need privacy for a discussion of Constanza, either, let’s get this talk back where it belongs. To Tomás. “Quite a quarrel,” he said placatingly. He was sticking to English, just to make sure. “But what has it to do with this man who is in danger? He’s the real headache, isn’t he?”