Jaime was saying at his elbow, “Dr. Medina is here.”
It was the younger one, the nephew. He didn’t look happy. His usual smile was missing, although his voice was friendly enough. So Señor Reid’s end was troubling him, too, thought Esteban, and he bowed slightly as he murmured a conventional welcome, feeling more sympathetic than usual to the man. (His uncle was another matter: there was a real man, someone who deserved both trust and admiration.) Young Medina said little at first. Then he saw a tall man entering the courtyard behind him, and spoke with a rush of words. “Here is someone who is devoted to flamenco,” he said, indicating the newcomer. “He wanted to arrange a small party tonight for a group of American friends. I promised I’d introduce him to you and see that he got two good tables with a clear view of the stage, and persuade you to arrange a little supper for them as well as providing your best wine. Is that possible, Esteban?”
“The tables at the front are already engaged,” Esteban told the stranger. “And we serve food only if you order it well in advance. I am sorry. But otherwise we would be delighted to have your party here.” He waited for the introduction, but Medina was walking on, down the courtyard, toward the door near Reid’s table. “Dr. Medina!”
“I am just going to see Magdalena, deliver her some pills for her arthritis,” Medina called back.
Esteban started after him, a heavy frown on his dark face. The stranger stopped him by asking, “And when should we arrive to catch the show?”
“It starts at midnight.”
“So early?”
“Tonight, yes.” Esteban looked at him warily. The man spoke good Spanish, but with a strong American inflection.
“And when will Tavita herself be dancing? We can’t miss that.”
“I am afraid you must.”
“You mean Tavita is not appearing tonight? But this is Saturday—”
“I regret, señor.”
“When will she be dancing here again?”
“When she next visits Málaga.” What did I say wrong? wondered Esteban, noting the flicker of interest in the stranger’s blue eyes. “She dances here on Fridays and Saturdays. She is in Seville for the rest of the week.”
“In Seville? That’s disappointing for us. Too far to reach for tonight’s show,” the stranger added with heavy humour. “I hoped she might have been dancing somewhere near Málaga, just a few miles away.”
Esteban inclined his head, said nothing.
“Will she be dancing in Seville tomorrow?”
“I don’t know her plans,” Esteban said coldly. Again he noted the flicker in the stranger’s eyes. “I can give you two tables down here, señor. Would these be agreeable?”
The man looked in the direction of Esteban’s pointing arm. “Well,” he said slowly. “I think I’d better discuss this first with my friends. They particularly wanted to see Tavita. You understand?”
“Of course,” Esteban said, bowed slightly, watched the stranger leave. For one second there, he had felt the old warning instinct. You stood at the side of the ring with the cape folded over your arm, you studied the bull’s wild entry, noted the way it carried its head. Did the horns hook to the left? Or the right? How many thrust of a pic, how many planted banderillas would it take to weaken the neck muscle just enough, lower the dangerous horn, bring these two lethal points even, give you a one-in-ten chance to escape a savage wound? Then you moved out to test the bull, swirling the cape, side-stepping, running, watching; always watching the horns and the way they were held. And sometimes your instinct about a bull could be as valuable to your life as the way you studied it. Instinct, a small warning bell sounding a moment of fear, arousing minutes of extra caution. And now, as Esteban’s eyes followed the stranger out of the courtyard, there was that momentary fear in them. It passed. It always did. But he was suddenly twice as alert.
Quickly, with light steps, he walked toward the door Medina had entered. They met inside its threshold. Medina was in a hurry. “I didn’t find Magdalena so I left her medicine with one of the girls. Good night, Esteban.”
“No need to rush. Your friend has already gone.”
Medina halted abruptly. “But I didn’t expect him to wait. And he isn’t my friend. He’s a patient, a new one. Came into my office this evening with a strained ankle. Nothing serious. We started talking about flamenco. He’s American, of course. They always know so much about flamenco and bullfighting, don’t they?”
Esteban wasn’t amused.
“Did you arrange two good tables for his party, later tonight?”
“He changed his mind.”
“Ah, yes. Another American habit. But he will return some other night and bring many people. He will end by believing he discovered El Fenicio all by himself.” Medina tried to edge past Esteban.
“What is his name? So that I will know it when he telephones about a reservation—some other evening,” Esteban added smoothly. But he didn’t step from the doorway.
“Name? Oh, one of those strange American names, hard to remember. Leavis, Livis, Loamis—something like that. I’ll check with my records, if you like, and get the right spelling. Pronunciation, now, is another matter,” he said jovially. “I must go. I’m in a hurry. I have another house call to make before I can start enjoying my own Saturday night.” He made his way into the courtyard.
Which girl? Esteban wondered as he moved quickly toward the dressing-room. Constanza? Faquita? Maruja? Surely it would have to be Constanza the talkative, he thought gloomily, the girl who never could resist an audience. He stopped at the door, looked at the three dancers in various stages of readiness, each of them giving orders to the old woman who pressed and stitched for them. Silks and satins hung from hooks in the wall, billowing out dangerously near the little tables with their pots of creams and powders and rouge and hairpins. “What did he have to say?” Esteban demanded of Constanza. “And you know the rules: no men in this dressing-room.”
“But he’s a doctor!”
“What was he doing here?”
“Nothing, nothing. He came looking for old Magdalena. Some pills or something.” Constanza was more interested in choosing her dress for tonight. She favoured the flame-coloured one. “What about this?” she asked him.
“He just gave you the bottle of pills and left without one word?”
“He congratulated me. That was all.”
“On what?”
“Well—I just happened to mention I was dancing the seguidilla tonight. And a Saturday night at that!” Her large brown eyes glowed with triumph, then veiled themselves in Maruja’s direction.
“And you told him Tavita had gone to Granada.”
“I didn’t!” Constanza was frowning at her three pairs of shoes, trying to find the best contrast to her dress. “Maruja told him.”
Maruja, brushing her long smooth hair with slow steady sweeps, said sarcastically, “When Tavita is called away so suddenly, who else but our little Constanza could take her place?” She dodged a thrown shoe, aimed her hairbrush in return, exchanged criticisms that became more specific as they mounted in volume.
Esteban shouted above the uproar, “Suddenly? What did you mean by telling him ‘suddenly’?”
“Because it was suddenly,” Maruja yelled back. “She left while we were still asleep, didn’t she?” Then she turned on Constanza again. “And another thing, duchess—” she began. Esteban didn’t stay to listen. He left them facing each other, hands on hips, insults now flying over Faquita’s head. They were good friends. The storm would soon end. By the time he reached the courtyard, the screaming had slackened into an occasional afterthought. Then there was silence, broken by full-throated laughter.
He took out his folded handkerchief, carefully mopped his brow. It had been hot in that dressing-room, in every way. The warm air seemed cool by comparison but more insipid, even with all the fragrance of flowers around him. The girls must splash on that carnation perfume as if it were water. No wonder the bills ran so high, no wonder m
oney never could be saved. There had been enough powder spilled on the dressing-tables to keep a face covered for a year. But he had other worries now. Or had he?
Constanza had kept her promise: no more excited gossip about a strange man on the balcony last night. So what had Medina learned? Nothing much: perhaps no more than he might have guessed. And why should you worry about Medina? he asked himself. No reason at all. The man had an unfortunate tongue, quick to wound others. Inquisitive? Rumourmongering? No, these were not Medina’s faults. But why did he not speak of Señor Reid’s death? Then he put it down to Medina’s manners; they had been picked up abroad when he had been sent by his uncle to Paris and New York to learn medicine. Some men, like certain wines, did not travel well.
By the time Esteban had reached the back of the courtyard and passed through its arched entrance into the wineshop, he had talked himself into believing that his worry had been excessive. On the counter, a large tray of tumblers, all polished and downturned, was ready for the night’s trade, but there was no sign of Jaime. Quickly, Esteban crossed to the doorway to the street, empty now but soon to be filled with taxis bringing in the Saturday tourists, and found Jaime standing just outside, as expected. “What’s so interesting out there?” Esteban asked sharply. “You have plenty to do inside.”
Jaime stepped back into the wineshop. “It’s a very fine car but only good for driving at night,” he decided aloud. “By day, the sun would roast and the dust would choke you. You might as well ride on top of a donkey for all the comfort you’d get. Now if I had money like that American, I’d buy a yellow car—just like that one—but its top would be closed. And there would be air conditioning inside, and I’d have—”
“What American? What yellow car?”
“The one that was waiting for Dr. Medina. Just a little distance along the street. And could it start! They went zooming off, just like that.” Jaime swept the linen towel in his hand sideways, cracking it like a whip.
“The tall dark man was waiting for Medina? The American who was in here asking for two tables?”
Jaime looked at Esteban curiously. “Yes. He came out first, and I followed him—politely, of course—to see the car drive off. But it didn’t leave then. So I came back in here and polished some more glasses until Dr. Medina came rushing through the wineshop. Now the car will start, I thought. And I was right. It was off and away before I even got to the door.”
My instinct warned me, Esteban thought. There is danger.
“Something wrong?” asked Jaime anxiously.
“Those three glasses!” Esteban pointed to the tray. “There is lint on them.” He turned abruptly on his heel, stalked into the courtyard, then stood there irresolutely, staring at the empty stage.
What to do now? Call Tavita and upset her still more? Warn her about something he could not name?
Or he could call Ferrier. But what good would that do? Ferrier would ask five days, he thought bitterly. Besides, what could I report? A man arrived here, used Medina to get a few minutes alone with me and ask questions about Tavita and where she is. Not direct questions. Not exactly. But his interest was definite. And I was too clever. I tried to draw his attention to Seville. Now the man would wonder why; now he would know that I was trying to keep something hidden. Who was he? A police spy, an agent for Captain Rodriguez pretending to be an American? Who?
Yes, my instincts warned me all along. There is only one way to remove the danger from Tavita, from El Fenicio, from everything we have built together. And that is to remove Fuentes. Permanently.
Esteban walked back toward the telephone in the wineshop. But the first batch of taxis had arrived. Excited women with pink faces and short flowered dresses, fat men with glasses and light jackets, they all came jumbled in from the street, halting abruptly, looking doubtfully at the small dimly lit room, calling out they had come to the wrong place, what was that address, where’s our guide—stop him paying off the taxis—hold them, hold everything. “Ladies, gentlemen,” said Esteban, “follow me, if you please.” He beckoned to them, silencing the small confusion, and led the way into the courtyard. His telephone call would have to wait. Perhaps wait until tomorrow: Time to decide. Time to make sure that his story was perfect in all details, bringing no disaster to Tavita. Yes, he needed time—not Ferrier’s four or five days—but just enough to be quite sure in his own mind that he was acting wisely.
He bowed for the ladies, who were pleased with the tables he had given them, and sent Jaime running to get the guitarist on stage. Yes, he assured the gentlemen, this courtyard would soon be full; yes, it was old, quite historic; no, the dancing would not start until almost midnight, but it was good to come early and secure the best tables. Tonight, he answered all these usual questions with good grace. After all, he had to thank this group of tourists. A telephone call to Captain Rodriguez was not something to be made on impulse.
15
When O’Connor came out of the study, twenty minutes later, he was no longer smiling. His face was grim. He said nothing at first, just walked up and down the full length of the living-room for several turns, head slightly bent, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him as if he were finding a solution there. Then he stopped in front of Ferrier. “When are you expected in Granada?”
“In about four or five days. I didn’t know how long it would take in Washington to—”
“Four days... That gives us a little leeway. But I think we had better act as if it weren’t there.” He gave a brief nod to Ferrier, eyes easing from their worry. Well, thought Ferrier with a surge of relief, he doesn’t think I’ve messed things up completely. “Ben,” O’Connor went on, “we still need you. Sorry. But you know this part of the country well, don’t you?”
“Andalusia? Yes. Alice and I spend Easter in Seville each year, and branch off to Córdoba, Granada, Ronda. It’s—”
“Where is Alice now? Waiting for you in Toledo?”
“No. She’s with the kids and a visiting sister from—”
“Good. Just a couple of days more, Ben. Perhaps less. Nothing indiscreet, nothing to involve you. We’ll keep your status Simon Pure.”
“Which means,” Waterman told Ferrier, “he needs someone to drive his car.”
“You know the roads,” O’Connor said persuasively, “and possibly—if I remember you—all the short cuts, too. By the way, would you drive Mike out to the airport? He is leaving pretty soon.”
Mike was startled, but he said nothing. So we’ve got something, he thought as he rose and followed O’Connor towards the hall. Quickly, his mind reviewed the various plans O’Connor had laid out for him on their journey to Málaga. If it had all been a false alarm, they both would have returned to Washington, trying to console themselves with the fact that at least they had made the effort, at least they had checked. If there had been only a report from Reid, then they both would have returned to Washington, and no consolations needed. If there was not only a valuable report but also serious complications, O’Connor would stay behind while Mike high-tailed it to Washington, sending out en route a call for reinforcements or whatever additional help O’Connor might need. If there was no report worth sending on to Washington, but a completely fouled-up situation, then they’d both sit out the next few days in Málaga until the dust settled and they could see what had to be done. It’s Plan Three, Mike was thinking as he reached the hall: me for Washington. He could feel the adrenalin beginning to pump into his veins.
“Good luck,” O’Connor told him, shaking hands, passing over the lighter discreetly. “No delay. You know whom to reach. Also, have the FBI called in on this—get Bill, if possible.”
So it’s their headache, too, thought Mike. We are on to something really widespread. “I’ll do that. Will you phone the airport, let Max know I’m on my way? I’ll avoid the main entrance, use the side gate.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, left the lighter safely there, brought out a scrap of paper. “Here’s the airport number—I jotted it down, thought we might have
to use it again.” He glanced over to Ferrier and Waterman to check if they had noticed the lighter disappearing into his pocket, but his little subterfuge had worked. Waterman was washing down last mouthfuls of a sandwich with his Scotch, and Ferrier was paying no attention at all.
“Granada is the place,” O’Connor was saying. “And I’ll need all the help I can get. Double the reinforcements, if that’s possible. Get Max to handle it. Tell him—” O’Connor paused, looked across the room at Waterman. “Ben, what’s the biggest hotel in Granada?”
“The Palace. It’s also the best.”
“Ian—do you know it?”
“That’s where I planned to stay.” Ferrier was amused, both by his promotion to first name and by O’Connor’s gentle diplomacy—old Ben wasn’t to feel left out, although the answer to O’Connor’s unspoken question couldn’t come from Ben. Ferrier gave it. “It’s handy for everything. Plenty of short-term tourists, but restrained. Its situation couldn’t be better.” Within walking distance of Tavita’s house. Ferrier wondered if O’Connor had got his meaning.
Message From Malaga Page 25
