It was mostly old-time style, with a few additions, a mixture of everything from cooking to eating to sitting, and big enough to house a family of ten. Cluttered but clean. He opened the door again to get rid of the smell of fish glue, crossed over to the row of back windows to let more air in. Under their stretch lay the sink and a long tiled counter. Concepción had been at work there, preparing dinner. Bowls of diced vegetables, peelings and scrapings beside them, a knife on a chopping board, a half-sliced onion. He was worried now, as well as puzzled. He jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket, felt the lighter. He hesitated, thinking hard. And then he heard a small crunch of gravel from the yard outside. Someone was approaching the open kitchen door, and carefully. Concepción? She didn’t need to walk with such caution. Quickly, before the visitor could see his hand go out, he dropped the lighter into the nearest bowl, made sure it was covered in its bed of chopped tomatoes. He backed swiftly away from the counter, moving as lightly as the man outside, reached the central table. He paused there, watching the doorway. No one entered. There was only silence.
He felt foolish, wondered if his imagination had overreacted. No, he decided, someone was out there, someone whose foot had slipped on the loose gravel; someone who was now standing absolutely still, hoping he hadn’t noticed. What is this? he wondered angrily. An ambush, a trap? and what has happened to Concepción?
He circled back to the stove, picked up the pot from the floor. Its handle had cooled slightly, was at least bearable to hold now. It was medium size, but solid, and nauseating to look at. The smell was clearing off, though. If he hadn’t been so quick to put distance between himself and the bowl of tomatoes, he would have remembered to pick up the knife. Not that he was an expert with it; apart from the usual pistol practice, his training in combat had been of the unarmed type. Again he looked at the doorway into the yard. What was he supposed to do? Step right out from a lighted kitchen, a perfect target? He turned, made for a closed door behind him. This one should open toward the heart of the house, perhaps into the corridor that led into the main room. Once there, he knew the geography of the place—and the position of the light switches, he reminded himself wryly.
He opened the door, carefully, quietly, made sure there was no one waiting for him there, and then slipped out of the kitchen. He was in that corridor all right, and it was empty. Dark, too; no lamps had been switched on. Ahead was an archway framing grey shadows of chairs and couches, an interior still life, a study in twilight. He tightened his grip on his cumbersome weapon, walked softly, steadying his slow progress with his left hand against a plaster wall. At the threshold, he paused. Then, quickly, he stepped into the room. No one on the staircase to his left. But from his right there was a man coming at him with the butt of a revolver held high.
Ferrier swung the pot, hit the descending wrist, heard the pistol go clattering over the floor and the man curse. As the man made an attempt to lunge at him he swung again, this time catching him on the side of his fat, round face. The man went down with a scream, and stayed down. From the direction of the kitchen came running footsteps.
Ferrier mounted two steps of the staircase, drew his back against the wall. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the greyed light of the room, but he couldn’t see the fat man’s pistol. It must have slid some distance over the tiled floor, was now hiding under a couch or chair. So I surprised them, he thought with some real pleasure, even if they were expecting me. All carefully planned, was it? He concentrated on that wide doorway. Come on, come on, he told the footsteps silently. They had stopped as abruptly as they had begun. The man was waiting just within the threshold. All right, thought Ferrier, I can wait, too. But he tightened his grip, lifted his arm, listened for the smallest sound of movement.
“Hold it!” The voice came from the centre of the room. A small, thin man rose from behind the chair where he had been crouching. His pointed revolver, a silencer adding ominously to its length, was direct and menacing. He came a few steps nearer, no more than twelve feet away. “No,” he warned Ferrier. “Don’t throw that thing in your hand. Drop it! I will use this revolver if needed. You make a good target. At this distance, the poor light does not matter. Drop it!” The words were in English, heavily accented, but fluent. The manner was intense.
Ferrier checked his impulse. He could see the man clearly enough; therefore the man could see him. This was no bluff. A loaded pistol, aimed right at his chest, ended all bright ideas. He dropped the cooking pot. It thudded down a step, clanged against the iron railing, stuck there.
“Come here! Hands up! Up!”
Ferrier stepped down one tread. He glanced at the entrance to the corridor. There was a footstep there, as if the man was getting into position. There was, as yet, nothing to be seen.
“Face me! Come here!”
And leave my back unprotected to that third man on the threshold?
“All the way down! Move!”
Ferrier drew a deep breath, steadied himself. If it was to be a knife between the shoulder blades, he had had it. But if it was only to be a blow on the back of his head, he might—if he was quick enough—lessen its impact. He moved, and moved swiftly, leaving the protection of the staircase wall, stepping obliquely forward into the living-room.
The man on the threshold, tall and powerful, came out of its shadows, arm raised and ready. The blow, aimed at the back of Ferrier’s head, only tipped him, but even so he stumbled forward, pitched on to his knees. There was a stinging pain. He let himself slump into a heap on the floor, pretending to black out.
The man who had used the cosh stood uncertainly with it in his hand, looking down at Ferrier. The blow hadn’t felt quite right to him, hadn’t cracked the way he usually heard it. He raised his arm again.
“Enough!” yelled the man with the revolver. “Enough!” he repeated to the fat man, who had come over to join them, nursing his jaw. “Put away that knife! See what he left in the kitchen. He brought in two packages.” To the big fellow, he said, “Quick! Search!”
They turned Ferrier over roughly, so that the back of his head fell sharply on the tiled floor. Suddenly, it was no longer pretence. The pain doubled, a tight band spreading around his forehead, pulling tighter. He blacked out.
11
Esteban rose from his knees, stood looking down at the American on the floor. “He is all right. He is coming back to himself.” There were no wounds, no blood. “A knock on the head. That is all.”
Concepción, sitting on the edge of a chair, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders, stared at Ferrier and said nothing. She wasn’t even seeing him. Her mind was as numb as her wrists and ankles. She rubbed them in turn, slowly. And tears for the news that Esteban had brought coursed steadily down her cheeks.
Ferrier opened his eyes, gradually focused them to the blaze of lights around him. The Eiffel Tower was Esteban, dark face grave, furrows deep at the sides of thin angry lips. Ferrier sat up gingerly, the echo of pain reminding him to move cautiously. His brain cleared. He could remember. No concussion, he thought hopefully. He felt the back of his head carefully.
“Move slowly,” Esteban warned him. He picked up Ferrier’s wallet and passport, which had been thrown on the floor, and handed them over. “I came because I was worried. I had been telephoning Concepción for almost an hour. No answer, no answer, no answer. So I came. They heard me and they left. I did not see their faces. They went out through the front door as I came in from the kitchen. Three men—one was tall, fair-haired; two smaller. They scattered in the darkness. Then I heard a noise from the cloakroom in the hall. They had pushed Concepción in there, bound and gagged. The piece of cloth around her mouth was coming loose, and she was trying to shout.” He looked worriedly at Ferrier, who had finished examining his wallet, and was now checking his pockets. “Did they take your money?”
“No.” The money was there. So were the traveller’s cheques, and the driving licence. But his pocket diary was gone, with its list of addresses, of appointme
nts kept, of engagements to come. But more worrying than that, the slip of paper with Tavita’s full name and address and number had been lifted.
“Then that is good,” Esteban said. “But also strange. Why did they not take your money? They left the watch on your wrist, too.”
Good God, thought Ferrier, looking at his watch, did all that happen within twenty minutes—from walking into the kitchen to waking up on this damned floor? He felt as if he had been out for hours, but even that had been only a matter of a few minutes. He climbed slowly to his feet, steadying himself on Esteban’s arm. He pushed back into place the lining of his trouser pockets. The men had been rough as well as quick in their search; one pocket was badly ripped. Esteban was picking up his handkerchief, keys, Reid’s keys, matches, all scattered over the floor. “They took my cigarettes and my pen.” Ferrier said in wonder. What the hell did they expect to find in a pack of cigarettes and a ball-point pen?
“Where are you going?” Esteban asked sharply.
“To get some ice.” His head was throbbing, but that was nothing compared to the nagging worry in his mind. He staggered off, down the corridor, toward the kitchen. Esteban followed him; and Concepción, with a little cry of fear as she found she was being left alone, followed Esteban. “I need some air,” Ferrier said as he reached the kitchen, and made straight for the row of windows over the sink, leaving Esteban to deal with the refrigerator. The bowls of vegetables on the tiled counter seemed intact. He brushed aside the invading flies, reaching into the bowl of tomatoes. It was there. The lighter was there. His worry ended. He gripped the lighter, pulled it out, had barely time to cover it with his handkerchief before Esteban was beside him, dumping an ice tray into the sink, telling Concepción to find a towel. Everyone is moving so damned quickly except me, Ferrier thought. There he was, handkerchief clutched in one hand, unable to get that hand into his pocket and feel natural about it. Esteban’s quick eyes were studying him too curiously. So he walked slowly over to the large wooden table, sat down on a bench, and as Esteban gave more instructions to Concepción he managed to slip lighter and handkerchief into his pocket, and began to relax. He looked at his hand in amazement; it was trembling, just a little, just enough to make him angry.
Esteban noticed his frown. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
“No.” The idea was enough to make him feel like vomiting. “A cigarette, if you have one.”
“I know what to mix,” Esteban insisted, and left for the dining-room. Concepción was applying an ice-filled towel to the back of Ferrier’s head. Her tears had dried, but she said nothing; and for that, Ferrier was grateful. In the jumble of his thoughts, of bits and pieces of memories, his mind kept coming back to one thing: Tavita’s name and address had been taken, and he was worried by that. He didn’t know why he should be, either, and that worried him even more. Later, he would try to puzzle out a possible answer. Now, it was only an instinctive warning. “Thank you,” he said to Concepción, “I can hold it.” He took the towel from her heavy hand, eased the pressure against his skull. Of all the damned silly ways to be knocked out, he thought angrily; they turn you over, and you are being so bloody smart pretending to be limp that you let your own head smash against a tiled floor. And yet, it could have been worse: if that blow from the cosh had really caught him, he would have been out for a couple of days at least.
Concepción was coming back to normal, too. She had gone over to the sink, started fussing with the bowls, exclaimed in anger over the flies, closed the louvres on the shutters. Then she noticed the lingering smell from the burned pot, and ran to the stove. “Where’s my bouillon?” she called out sharply, and jolted Ferrier’s head. “Where?”
He had to laugh. Her whole world was falling apart and she was fretting over some liquid for a sauce. “It’s on the staircase.”
She looked at him with horror. “He’s crazy,” she told Esteban as he returned with two glasses. “The blow has—”
“It’s on the staircase,” Ferrier repeated. “Go and look.” But she did not move. He took the glass Esteban offered him. The drink was sharp, aromatic, unpleasant enough to be good for him. Concepción was watching him warily. “How did the men get into the house? Did you see all three of them? Clearly?”
He isn’t crazy, thought Esteban, and began sipping his brandy.
“One came to the front door,” Concepción said slowly, and then as the memories came back her voice quickened with indignation and she broke into Spanish, rattling on and on. It was a short story made long; she’d keep remembering small details, retraced her sentences to get the facts in proper order. Esteban would break in and translate, just to make sure the American understood, and then add part of his own information. Between them, they did a fine piece of reporting, completely muddled and scarcely comprehensible.
Ferrier put down his empty glass—the concoction was working; his dizziness was over; the pain was now only a small reminder, and he could lay aside the towel. He said, cutting into a description of Esteban’s repeated telephone calls to this house, “Fine, fine. So this is the way it was. A man came to the front door just after six o’clock. He was tall, light-haired, broad-shouldered, well-dressed. He said he had come to collect the picture delivered this morning. And when Concepción argued that she had no authority to hand it over, he told her that Señor Reid had died, had no more need for it. And the two other men—”
Concepción broke in. “I was standing so shocked, so—”
“Yes, yes,” Ferrier said quickly, gently. It had been a brutal way to break the news of Reid’s death. “The two other men—one small and dark, with a revolver; the other black-haired, fat—had come through the kitchen. And they tied you up. They left you, bound and gagged, lying in the hall. They went to search the house.”
“From the attic right down, and then—”
“Concentrated on Señor Reid’s study.” Searching the house for either Tomás Fuentes or at least some sign that he had been here? Searching the study for any possible source of information such as the lighter? They hadn’t known exactly what to look for, that was at least heartening. But they had been thorough. They had had almost two hours in this house.
“They were angry,” Concepción said, “and rough. I could hear them pulling out books and drawers. I was so—”
“Yes. And you heard the telephone start to ring around seven o’clock.”
This was Esteban’s cue. “Seven exactly. I had just heard from the hospital—”
“Where you have many friends,” Ferrier said patiently. He had heard all about them, in considerable detail. “You called every fifteen minutes from El Fenicio, and then came to see what was wrong. I got here just about twenty minutes before you arrived. They heard my car and—”
Concepción said excitedly, remembering another point, “One called out, ‘That must be Ferrier.’ And the man with the gun, the man who had given the orders about searching, ran to the dining-room windows to see who got out of the car. Then he came back, and talked in almost a whisper, and they shoved me into the cloakroom and—”
“So they know my name, do they?” Ferrier asked. And they knew about Reid’s death before most people: even Esteban, with all his friends, hadn’t known until later. And they knew about the picture. The whole assignment smelled heavily of Lucas. Quickly arranged, a little stupidly, too. “Why on earth did they use the picture as an excuse to get into the house?” That was idiotic, a giveaway.
“But what other excuse did they have to keep Concepción arguing, while they made sure there were no others with her in the kitchen? Besides, they were well dressed. They could not pretend to be workmen.”
Not so idiotic. Just too quickly arranged. Of necessity. And I was not supposed to be up and around, able to listen to Concepción’s story. Come to think of it, Concepción might still be lying in that cloakroom. I didn’t know there was a closet in the hall. I’d have stumbled back to the kitchen and then probably passed out. I might never have been able to get
off that floor for hours, if that cosh had really struck full strength. Ferrier gave Esteban a warm “Thank you, my friend.”
Esteban unbent. Stiff politeness gave way to cadaverous charm. He accepted the thanks with a nod, sat down opposite Ferrier. “Now, you must have a story to tell.” To Concepción, he said, “Get me another brandy.”
She turned on him. “You do nothing. You talk and talk. You came too late. I could have choked to death in that dark cloakroom. You don’t look to see what has been stolen. You don’t call the police. You—”
“No police,” Ferrier said.
She looked at him wide-eyed. “I will call them now.”
“No police,” agreed Esteban. “This is not their concern.”
“But—”
“Tavita wants no attention drawn to this house,” Esteban said sharply. “If you tell the police about this night, Captain Rodriguez will hear of it. He is already asking too many questions.”
Ferrier said, “So he did visit El Fenicio this afternoon. And saw that dancer—the one who had the quarrel with Tavita?”
Esteban was wary. “Constanza? Yes, he talked with her about her—her vision last night. But she is always having visions.”
“She saw a strange man on the balcony, didn’t she?” And perhaps, thought Ferrier, this will get him on to the subject of Tomás Fuentes; he could tell me a lot about that man’s past.
But it didn’t. Esteban shrugged his shoulders. “Ridiculous nonsense, it was Señor Reid, of course.”
“Of course,” Ferrier said smoothly.
Esteban turned back to Concepción, saw she was only half persuaded. Loyalty to Tavita was keeping her silent; anger against the men who had broken into this house, her house, deepened her frown. “Why call the police?” Esteban asked. “The men came searching, but they did not find what they were looking for. They took nothing. Except some cigarettes and a pen. Was it valuable, Señor Ferrier?”
Message From Malaga Page 19
