by Iris Danbury
After a long pause she said quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You saw this girl this morning.”
He came closer to her and stood on the opposite side of her desk. “You think it would have improved your appetite at lunch if I’d told you then? Even good news can be very disturbing at mealtimes, let alone something that is very uncertain.”
Her hands rested idly on the typewriter keys.
“I’d better concentrate on your work, Dr. Montal,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for telling me about this girl. I shall be ready at whatever time you say tomorrow morning.”
“You understand that I may be mistaken?” he reminded her.
“Of course.”
He went out through the arched windows on to the terrace and Nicola was glad of his absence. She needed a few minutes to collect her thoughts. If the girl turned out to be Lisa, how could Nicola try to look after her? She could scarcely expect Dr. Montal to give Lisa a home and treat her as a patient.
Nicola turned back to the typing. Then she gave a half smile. The doctor had probably been right after all not to tell her until there was something else to occupy her mind. Work was the conventional antidote to worry.
Adrienne did not appear at dinner and Nicola was concerned about the girl.
“Will she be all right?” she asked the doctor. “She must surely be very hungry—and unhappy,” she added quietly.
The doctor smiled. “Hungry? No. Rosana, our housekeeper, will keep Adrienne well supplied with whatever meals she fancies. As to her being unhappy, she has probably forgotten her tantrum, but she wants to make certain that I know how displeased she is with me. I know Adrienne.”
Nicola wondered if Dr. Montal knew his niece at all. Adrienne was no longer the gay schoolgirl, ready to agree to Sebastian’s ideas. At seventeen she was half child, half woman, experiencing all the pangs and joys of growing up without maturing. With neither mother nor father to guide her through this phase with all its frustrations and heady discoveries, she needed more understanding and sympathy than her uncle was apparently willing to give.
Yet Nicola was secretly delighted to be dining alone with her employer out on the “Mediterranean balcony”. The last sunset colours of mauve and yellow, crimson and grey were fading, leaving the mountains sharply silhouetted like two-dimensional cardboard cut-outs. Lights in the harbour came on first in ones or twos, then a small chain, and the sea intensified to a deep midnight blue. When the dusk on the balcony deepened, a manservant brought oil lamps to insert in iron sconces on the balustrade.
After the meal the warm night air and the aroma of Sebastian’s cigar combined to make Nicola feel sleepy and presently she excused herself.
“Goodnight, Dr. Montal. I shall be ready early tomorrow morning for Barcelona.”
On the way to her room she paused outside Adrienne’s suite. Courtesy and friendliness demanded that she should make enquiries in case Adrienne was really in distress, yet Nicola did not want to appear to be taking sides.
Adrienne called out, “Come in,” in reply to Nicola’s knock.
“Ah! So you have come at last. I wondered if you had been forbidden to visit the prisoner.”
Nicola smiled. “Prisoner? I thought it was you who chose seclusion. You’re all right?” The query, she knew, was unnecessary. Adrienne seemed in perfect health and spirits.
“Naturally. Why not?”
“When you didn’t appear at dinner. I wondered—”
“Oh, I have had an excellent dinner of bread and water,” Adrienne declared. “I shall continue to live.”
“Fortunately for us all,” Nicola said drily.
Adrienne glanced up and burst into delighted laughter. “You have much sense, Nicola, not to take me too seriously. I fly into a rage, then it is all over in ten minutes, but I cannot then admit that it was not important, so I remain—what would you say?—remote?”
“Aloof is perhaps the word that suits you.” Nicola sat on the foot of the bed. “I have news. Your uncle thinks he may have discovered my sister, so tomorrow he’s taking me to Barcelona. I didn’t think to ask him whether he is also taking you.”
“Oh, I’m not a toy to be picked up whenever he has the fancy. Besides, tomorrow I have plans of my own.” Adrienne’s face melted into a self-satisfied expression. “Sebastian will jump to the wrong conclusion,” she continued, “that I shall immediately go to see Barto. So I think he will invite dear Dona Elena to keep me company, and see that I don’t stray.” She giggled. “What frustration for her! Her day will not be at all happy.”
“Why? What are you going to do?” Nicola was vaguely alarmed.
“Nothing wicked. Only what I am permitted to do. Goodnight, Nicola. Have a happy day tomorrow—and I hope you find your sister.”
On the way to Barcelona next day Nicola was not certain whether she wanted this distressed girl in a convent hospital to be Lisa. To see her high-spirited sister mentally ill would be a painful experience, yet every day the anxiety of not knowing what had become of Lisa constantly gnawed at Nicola’s peace of mind.
Dr. Montal lost no time in taking Nicola straight to the girl’s bedside. Nicola looked at the pale face, the cloudy dark hair, and knew that the girl was not Lisa. When the patient opened her eyes and stared wildly at the doctor, Nicola was relieved that she was able to say definitely, “No, Dr. Montal, she is not my sister.”
When they left the ward, Dr. Montal asked, “Have you a photograph of your sister?”
“Not here. I might be able to get one from home. A snapshot or one of those Lisa had taken for publicity.”
“That might make it easier to trace her.”
Nicola shivered. “You mean the police?”
“Yes, the police. Possibly in other directions, too,” he answered.
She knew what he meant by “other directions”. As a doctor he was naturally in touch not only with hospitals, but mortuaries, and the thought that Lisa might be dead was unbearable.
“I shall be busy here and at another hospital,” the doctor told her. “Can you amuse yourself until about five o’clock? Then I’ll pick you up and take you back to the Villa.”
“Of course. I’ll be glad of the time to explore Barcelona,” she agreed without hesitation.
“You might go to the ‘Spanish Village’ at Montjuich,” he suggested, “unless you’ve already been there. Take a taxi.”
Outside the convent it occurred to Nicola that she ought to get in touch with Patrick. Today was Saturday and he would not be working this afternoon, although he might already have arrangements of his own and be unable to see her.
She took a taxi to the Plaza de Cataluna and telephoned his office. “I could meet you somewhere at about two o’clock,” he told her. “I’m tied up until then. Where would you like to go?”
“Dr. Montal suggested the Spanish village—whatever that may be,” Nicola replied.
“Oh, yes, you ought to see that. All right, I’ll meet you at the Plaza de Espafia by the air terminal and we’ll have a quick snack lunch and then go to the village. Quarter past two?”
“Thank you, Patrick. That would be fine.”
She spent the morning idling in the shops, then strolled along the Ramblas where flower stalls splashed brilliant colours beneath the plane trees and the air was vibrant with the chatter of crowds, punctuated by raucous cries from the lottery ticket sellers.
When Patrick took her to the Pueblo Espafiol, the Spanish village built inside Montjuich Park to illustrate all the various styles of Spanish architecture, she was delighted.
“What a marvellous place! I’m glad Dr. Montal suggested I should come,” she said.
“I’d have brought you here anyway,” retorted Patrick, “without waiting for your boss to mention it. We just haven’t had time together for me to show you the sights before you went dashing off to live it up in a classy villa at Orsola.”
She sensed that for some reason his feelings were ruffled. “Tell me about the buildings,” she sai
d tactfully, avoiding the personal element.
“They had an International Exhibition here in 1929,” he explained, “and this village was part of the celebrations.”
“And the houses have stood up all this time?” she queried.
“Oh, yes. They’re solidly built, not just canvas and plaster.”
As they walked through the various squares and up the narrow, twisting streets, he pointed out replicas of typical houses found in Andalusia and Catalonia, Castille and Navarra and all the other provinces of Spain.
“But they haven’t made it a dead showpiece,” Patrick said. “All kinds of crafts go on in the workshops and there are shops to sell the products.”
Nicola was charmed to see leather purses actually being embossed and decorated and could not resist buying a couple. At a small printing shop she bought some Christmas cards illustrating scenes from Don Quixote.
“Look, Patrick, straight from a hand press. None of my friends in England would be able to match that.” Other shops sold hand-woven textiles and there was even tucked away under an archway a blacksmith’s forge where ironwork was fashioned.
“I could spend days here,” she said happily.
“Why don’t we?” returned Patrick.
She laughed. “Since both of us have to work, that’s not a very sensible question!”
They returned to the miniature Plaza Mayor, which Patrick said was similar to the one in Madrid. One side was a balcony cafe and Nicola was glad of the opportunity to rest her feet and drink coffee.
“We must come here again when they have a fiesta,” Patrick suggested. “Sometimes they dance the Sardana in costume, or they have entertainments on Sundays for children. All kinds of shows go on here.”
“Yes, we must make a date,” she replied. After a pause, she added, “Dr. Montal found a girl in hospital whom he thought might be Lisa. I went to see her this morning. But she wasn’t Lisa.”
“Disappointing,” he said almost curtly.
“Not really,” Nicola said hastily. “This girl was in a very unhappy state. Mental breakdown, I think. I hope never to see Lisa like that.”
Patrick was silent, and Nicola had the impression that in some way he was relieved that Lisa had not been traced.
“You didn’t like Lisa, did you?” she questioned.
“If you must know the truth, no, I didn’t.”
“Any particular reason? Or shouldn’t I ask that?”
Patrick sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just that she was the kind of girl I don’t care for. Too mercenary. Too eager to have a good time. You see, Nicola, you’re paying for her good time, and if she knew about it she’d laugh and tell you what a fool you were.”
Nicola smiled. “I think you’re a little hard on her. Anyway, I shall be able to pay off the debts quickly, thanks to Dr. Montal’s generous salary. After that, I shall be able to enjoy my own good time with money to fling about like Spanish gold.”
He gazed across the table at her, his eyes stared with an intensity that slightly disconcerted her. “Your idea of a good time isn’t the same as Lisa’s,” he said at last. “But I’m glad you’ll get a run for your money later on. I may not be here when you polish off the final debts. I’m due home in September.”
“For a holiday?”
“In a way, yes. I’m getting married.” He turned his head away to look across the plaza. “My fiancée lives in Sussex.”
“But you’ll come back here to your firm—with your wife?”
“H’m. I don’t know. I have a contract with the firm, but it’ll expire about that time and I don’t know if we shall renew it. But we’ll let the future take care of itself.”
“Then let me wish you every happiness,” said Nicola quietly with a smile.
He gave her a swift glance. “Thanks, Nicola,” he said, but his tone was cool.
She caught sight of the clock on the opposite side of the square. “Heavens! Is that the time?” she exclaimed in dismay. “It’s gone five o’clock and I promised to meet the doctor.”
“What? At this hour?” Patrick queried.
“Yes, at five.” She was gathering her handbag and the small parcels of shopping.
“If I’d known, we could have had a decent lunch. I thought you had the rest of the evening free and then we could have dinner together. Why didn’t you say so?”
“It didn’t occur to me,” she said lamely. “Anyway, I don’t want to take up all your free time.”
He frowned. “Where are you meeting this all-important boss of yours?”
Nicola bit her lip in vexation. “I’m not sure. He didn’t make any definite arrangement as to place—except that he suggested the Spanish village.”
“So therefore if you didn’t accept his suggestion, he’d expect you to let him know by telephone where you’d gone?” Patrick raised his eyebrows mockingly. “He certainly keeps tabs on you. Doesn’t like you roaming around Barcelona on your own.”
Nicola smiled rather nervously. Patrick’s acid comments had solved her problem. “Thank you for such a nice afternoon,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve enjoyed it, but I apologise for leaving you so early. I ought to have explained.”
He smiled, apparently having recovered his normal good humour. “Don’t worry, Nicola. It’s as I said. You’re so different from Lisa. She wouldn’t have cared two hoots about keeping a promise, employer or anyone else. I’ll come out to the exit with you in case his lordship hasn’t arrived.”
But as soon as Nicola reached the exit and walked down to the road through the park she saw Sebastian Montal’s car. She said goodbye to Patrick, thanked him again for a pleasant afternoon, and ran towards the car. Dr. Montal opened the door without a word.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Dr. Montal,” she said contritely.
“Who was the young man you were with?” he asked, ignoring her apology.
“He’s English. He works at the firm of wine-shippers where my sister worked for a time. He’s been helpful to me.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“Well, he had known Lisa for a short time and he was able to give me information about her. He was someone with whom I could discuss the problem. He even offered to find me a job in his firm if he could.”
“But I gather he was not successful. I believe you said there was no immediate vacancy there.”
“Yes, that’s so. But it was kind of Patrick to try to help me.”
Dr. Montal had sounded so critical of Patrick that in turn her voice took on a defiant note.
“Are you in love with this man—Patrick?”
The question took her by surprise, but she did not hesitate in her reply. “No, indeed! He’s a good friend. Besides, he’s engaged to a girl in England and later in the year he’s going back to marry her.”
That should settle the doctor’s uncertainties, she thought with satisfaction.
He drove for some minutes before he spoke again.
“I asked if you were in love with him—not he with you,” he said brusquely.
“The situation doesn’t arise, Dr. Montal,” she answered stiffly. Why must he catechise her like this? What business was it of his if she and Patrick fell in love?
“Is there someone in England with whom you have —as the English so often say—an understanding?”
“No one at all,” she snapped.
“Good. I like to know where we stand in these matters. I apologise for my curiosity.”
He gave her a warm smile and began to ask her about her visit to the Spanish village.
She thought his change of mood entirely remarkable, but since there was no point in maintaining a hostile relationship with her employer Nicola matched his geniality.
It was only when she arrived at the Villa Ronda and went to her room that it now occurred to her why Patrick might be so hypercritical about her working for the doctor. Possibly he had been disappointed that he had not succeeded in obtaining a job for her with his own firm and therefore annoyed that she had grabbed
at the first available chance elsewhere.
It could hardly matter to him now, for he would be returning to England in a few months’ time. It was more important to Nicola that Dr. Montal seemed reasonably content with her secretarial services. How she succeeded in the other half of her dual post, as companion to Adrienne, was another matter. In this direction the doctor was easily displeased, and Nicola knew she must be careful not to make careless blunders.
CHAPTER IV
Nicola was resting on her balcony overlooking the flowered patio when Adrienne approached from below. “Come down and bathe!” she called.
“In the pool?” queried Nicola.
“No, in the sea. We’ll go to the beach house.”
A few moments later Adrienne came into Nicola’s room. She was bubbling with high spirits.
“Oh, this has been a day!”
“You’ve been up to mischief, I can tell,” Nicola said with mock severity.
“No, truly, I have been working hard painting all day. But tell me—did you find your sister?”
Nicola shook her head. “The girl was not Lisa.”
