The Secret Enemy (A Steve Carradine Thriller)

by John Glasby

  THE SECRET ENEMY

  John Glasby

  © John Glasby 1966

  John Glasby has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2014 by Linford Mystery under the pseudonym ‘Manning K Robertson’..

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  OPENING GAMBIT

  CHAPTER TWO

  A WIDENING WEB

  CHAPTER THREE

  DARKNESS IN THE CITY

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE MAN WITH THE SPARKLING SECRET

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE FOURTH DEGREE

  CHAPTER SIX

  BETWEEN TURTUCAIA AND OLTENITA

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DARK REVELATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  OPENING GAMBIT

  The crescent-shaped, sandy cove flanked by huge rocks and pine trees glowed brilliantly in the light of the setting sun and the stiff breeze blowing onshore had whipped up the waves that came rolling in on the beach from somewhere far out near the horizon. Inshore, the white-sailed fishing boats bobbed slowly up and down at anchor as the tide came moving in on a surging swell. Leaning his shoulders back against the small breakwater, Steve Carradine thrust his legs out straight in front of him, feeling the smooth, dry sand working its way between his toes. He let his gaze wander idly over the whitewashed houses of Tamariu. He had chosen this spot deliberately. It was, even now, sufficiently unspoiled and away from the main tourist routes for his liking; yet there were wooded mountains close at hand and he had spent much of his time skin diving among the coral beds just offshore, spearing fish.

  The sun was getting lower, but the air still held that deep, balmy warmth which he had now come to associate with this part of the Spanish coast. There were few other people on the curved expanse of beach. Two healthy-looking men, their skins tanned to a deep brown, which showed they were natives of the place, were seated on the deck of one of the fishing boats less than a quarter of a mile out in the bay. Further along the beach, in the direction of the small hotel, set among the trees which, at that point, almost reached to the water’s edge, three girls came up out of the sea, ran towards the breakwater, their arms and legs throwing a cascade of sun-glittering drops onto the sand as they snatched up their towels, drying themselves vigorously. Carradine let his glance slide over them, stiffened a little as a sudden, brief flash of sunlight, reflected off glass caught his attention. It came again a few seconds later, enabling him to pick out its position quite clearly. The window of the room immediately above his own, sunlight reflecting off the lenses of powerful binoculars. He peered more closely at the sun balcony just outside the window, but could see nothing. Whoever was up there, watching the beach, evidently did not intend to be seen from below and only the chance gleam of sunlight on the glasses had given his presence away.

  He turned his attention away from it, got slowly to his feet, feeling the soft touch of the sea breeze on his body. The three girls had run up the beach, along the white pathway, which led around towards the hotel. Now, apart from himself and the two men on the boat, the place seemed to be utterly deserted.

  The air was still warm, the sun still sufficiently high for one last dive in the sparkling clear water just off the rocky stretch of coast where the coral beds glowed a rich, warm pink beneath the deep blue of the ocean. As he walked slowly towards the water, he donned his gear, checked the spear-gun, then climbed out on to the outjutting rock which overlooked the deep pool, the multi-filamentous coral just visible several feet below the surface. He dropped feet-first into the water, dived through the upper layers where the slanting rays of the sun still managed to penetrate, then further down into the deep blue depths. It was a breath-taking panorama down here in the utter silence of the ocean bed, a heart-catching beauty such as he had known nowhere else in the world.

  Pink blended with blue and indigo violet at this depth and he swam lazily over the stretching coral beds, the spear-gun nestling lightly in his hands. Multicoloured fish darted in profusion over the bottom of the ocean, gliding in and out of the coral strands, scattering as he swam close to them, vanishing into the blue distance, then reappearing with an almost startling rapidity. He idled below the surface for the best part of fifteen minutes without taking a shot at any of the denizens of the sea-bed, then decided that the feel of the water was becoming cold on his body, took a snap aim at a silver fish which glided between two rising pillars of pink some twenty feet away, saw with a faint sense of chagrin the spear miss by at least a couple of feet. In a way though, he was glad that he had not scored a hit, it would have been –

  His thoughts gelled abruptly in his mind as something sleek and brilliant shot past the edge of his vision, just glimpsed out of the corner of the goggles he wore. There was an uneasy tensing of the muscles of his stomach as he recognised the object before it disappeared into the dimness. Another slim metal spear fired from a weapon similar to that he carried.

  Squirming swiftly, instinctively, he threw a quick glance over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of the dark shape swimming swiftly away among the coral. A split second later, the would-be killer had vanished. He thrust himself cleanly through the water, sliding a spear into the gun, cocking the weapon, ready to fire. Reaching the spot where his assailant had vanished, he glanced curiously about him. The other, whoever it was, had swum deliberately out to sea, moving into deeper water. Reluctantly, Carradine moved back in the direction of the beach. By now, the man would be among the fleet of fishing boats and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack trying to find him.

  He bobbed his head above the surface as he came up from the deep blue depths, looked about him. The two men he had noticed earlier were still lazing on the deck of the boat riding up and down at anchor. One glance was sufficient to tell him that neither of them had been the silent attacker. Nothing moved among the other boats. Pausing for only a moment, he pulled himself out of the water and stood on the rock as he pulled off his diving gear. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes where the rims of the goggles had bitten into the flesh. There was a feeling in his mind at that moment which was so familiar now that it had almost become a part of himself; the feel of danger all about him. It was something he had to come here to get away from, if only for a brief period.

  Smiling wryly, he picked up his gear and walked slowly in the direction of the hotel. It seemed that danger and he were inseparable, that the more he tried to get away from it, the more it followed him. Unconsciously, almost, The sun was touching the skyline now where the blue ocean blended almost imperceptibly with the sky and there was a slight chill in the breeze. Climbing the whitewashed steps swiftly, he made his way inside the building. The thought flicked through his mind that perhaps now might be a good time to try to discover the identity of that quiet, watchful observer who had been taking such a studied interest in what was going on along the beach. It was just possible that whoever it had been, may have seen something out there, which could give him a clue as to the identity of that underwater assassin who had tried to kill him. He quickened his step as he passed through the doorway of the hotel, made his way towards the desk in the long, spacious lobby.

  The receptionist looked up, gave an oily, ingratiating smile: “Ah, Senor Carradine. You enjoyed your swim in the bay?”

  Carradine gave a slight nod, took the key to his room from the other, held it in his hand for a moment. “The room immediately above mine,” he said. “Can
you tell me who occupies it?”

  The other smiled wetly. “Of course, Senor.” He ran a forefinger down the page of the register. The smile widened appreciably. “I think I understand. That is Senorita Francesca Romano’s room.”

  Carradine gave him a cold smile. “Somehow, I don’t think you understand at all,” he said, turning on his heel. He made his way up to his own room, turned the key in the lock. The tiled floor near the window was warm under his bare feet and the filmy curtains billowed into the room, flapping against the side of the half-open window. He glanced out, on to the sun terrace below. There were a few brown bodies stretched out in the inclined deckchairs, sunglasses still covering their eyes although the sun had gone down and the sky had lost its harsh, glaring appearance. The smell of flowers and suntan lotion drifted up to him and he wrinkled his nose for a moment, then moved away from the window, stepped into the shower and doused himself with cold water, the fine needle sprays stinging his flesh, icy-cold but invigorating. Towelling himself dry, he dressed, glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost nine o’clock.

  Dinner was served at nine-thirty and acting on impulse, he left his suite and wandered up the winding stairway. He had reconnoitred the hotel on the day of his arrival, knew every corner, every turn, in the building. Two minutes later, he was standing outside the room directly above his own. What could he say when he knocked on the door and confronted the girl who occupied this room? He couldn’t very well come right out and say: I noticed you watching me with high-powered binoculars and I was wondering if you noticed anyone in a skin-diving outfit shortly after I dived in, because whoever it was tried to kill me. There had to be a more subtle approach than that.

  If the girl spent her late afternoon and early evenings spying on people on the beach, then the chances were that she had a very good reason for doing so, that it was something more than mere curiosity. Francesca Romano. He turned the name over in his mind for a moment, but the file he kept in his brain failed to come up with anything; he had never heard the name before.

  He knocked and there was a long pause before the door opened. Carradine’s first view of Francesca Romano was startling. She was tall, the deep blue-violet eyes almost on a level with his own. She had pale blonde hair that swept down to her shoulders, framing a perfect oval face, the skin lightly sunburned, mouth warm and generous, although now there was a set of suspicion about the way her lips were pressed together, and her brows were arched in a mute question.

  She said in a low, smoky voice: “Yes, what do you want?”

  There was a faint trace of accent to her voice that Carradine did not recognise – Eastern European probably.

  “My name is Carradine, and I’d like the answers to a few questions,” he said lightly. He inclined his head towards the interior of the room. “I’m sure we can talk more informally inside.”

  For a second, the girl hesitated and he felt certain there was a faint gleam of fear in her dark eyes, a look which she tried to force away as she stood on one side to allow him to enter. Going inside, he threw a quick glance through the window, saw that from there, as he had guessed, it would be possible to see the entire sweeping curve of the beach and the fishing vessels out in the bay; and with binoculars one could see a lot more besides.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re here or how I can help you.” She stood with her back against the wall near the door, letting her gaze wander over him, brows still raised appraisingly.

  Carradine smiled at her. “It’s very simple really.” Going over to the window, he said softly: “You’ve got an excellent view of the bay from here, even better than I have, just below. I should think you could see everything that goes on out there.” Turning, he walked over to her, took out the slender cigarette case and held it out to her. She took one, bent forward as he flicked his lighter, sucked the smoke into her lungs, the movement emphasising the line of her high cheek bones.

  “That was the reason I took this particular room.”

  “I see. And also why you brought along a pair of binoculars?” He saw her start, saw her face immediately tense.

  “Binoculars? But why should I – ?”

  Carradine shrugged, slipped the lighter back into his pocket. He saw that she was concentrating on trying to find an answer to him, that she was instantly on the defensive. Her eyes probed him, wondering how much he knew and why he was there; what all this meant to him.

  “It’s quite immaterial to me why you should be so interested in what is going on out there,” he said quietly. “But maybe you ought to realise that when the sun is setting, there’s a good chance of sunlight reflecting through the lenses. That’s how I spotted you late this afternoon. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something.”

  “If I can.” Still on the defensive, she now watched him with a strangely curious stare.

  “No doubt you saw me skin-diving about half an hour ago. Did you see anyone else go into the water shortly after I did?”

  Was there a faint flicker of something at the back of her eyes as she studied him more closely? He was unable to make up his mind. It was, he thought, as if she had, just for a second, lifted a veil from them and allowed him to see all the way down into her mind and then, equally swiftly, the veil had been drawn back over them and they were almost as expressionless as before.

  “You were alone on the beach when I saw you,” she said flatly. “There was no one else around while you were under water.”

  “The two men on the nearest fishing boat – you saw them?”

  “Oh yes, but they were there all the time. I assure you that neither of them left the boat.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He nodded, sucked deeply on the cigarette.

  “Why are you so interested in what happened while you were diving?”

  Carradine smiled. He closed his fingers around her arm. “It’s a long story and I’m not sure whether you’d believe it. Suppose you let me tell you about it over dinner?”

  For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse, then she nodded her head very slightly. “Very well.” Her lips parted in a smile. “Who knows, it may prove to be a very interesting and entertaining evening.”

  *

  She was seated at the table looking out on to the terrace when he entered the long dining room, her chin in her hand, eyes focused on the far reaches of the sea for it had now assumed a deep blue colour, matching her eyes.

  “I’ve already ordered,” she said as he sat down. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  Two vodka martinis arrived, each with a thin slice of lemon peel in them and Carradine sipped his appreciatively, watching the other guests moving into the room to take their places. He recognised several of them; the three girls he had noticed on the beach that afternoon had a table to themselves in one corner and were talking among themselves in low voices, occasionally throwing glancing looks in his direction.

  “I always find that the vodka here is the nearest to that of Russia I’ve ever tasted,” said the girl after a brief pause, during which she eyed him with a faintly amused glance over the rim of her glass.

  He lifted his brows slightly at that. “I wouldn’t have said you were Russian,” he observed.

  “I’m not.” She smiled now, probing him with her eyes. “My mother was Romanian and my father English, but I was in Russia for five years just after the war. Foreign correspondent on a London newspaper.”

  “What happened?”

  Francesca looked down into her drink for a long moment, turning the glass between her fingers. “How do you know that anything happened?” she asked.

  Carradine shrugged. “I suppose it’s just natural to assume that something did. Several friends of mine have worked behind the Iron Curtain, but after a few years, they had to return home. I got the impression that the Reds disliked anyone working there for too long. At the end of a few years one can generally become reasonably fluent in the language and it’s conceivable that one can pick
up something they would have preferred not to become known.”

  Francesca smiled grimly. “You’re right, of course. It was nothing definite. Just a series of little incidents designed to make my life more difficult. Finally I got so mad at the game – I didn’t show it, of course – that I just wired my paper and asked to be allowed to return to London. I think they must have understood, because five days later I was back in England. I suppose you could say I was running away, but it isn’t easy for anyone who hasn’t been there to know how they run things when they want to be rid of someone.”

  Carradine felt amused at the change in the girl. He had already decided that she was well able to take care of herself in any situation. Now it was obvious that she had plenty of experience. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said, setting down his empty glass on the table.

  The look in the girl’s eyes said that she had suspected he might, that she had guessed he was a little different from the usual run of tourists who came to Spain.

  Two waiters came, hovered over them as the main meal was served: shellfish and a sauce made of melted butter and spices in a lavish boat. They ate in silence and Carradine was forced to admit that the girl had taste when it came to choosing the food served there. Champagne followed, bubbling and sparkling as it poured from the slender bottle, the ice forming a pale mist on the glass.

  Finishing his second glass, Carradine sat back in his chair, nodding his head appreciatively. “That was an excellent meal,” he agreed. “I admire your flawless taste, Francesca.”

  “Thank you. And now, may I ask how I can help you? I gather you did not ask me to have dinner with you just to talk of Russia and the work I did.”

  Proffering his cigarette case, Carradine waited while the girl had taken one, lit it for her, then drew deeply on his own and said quietly: “I know this may sound strange, possibly hard to believe, but someone attempted to kill me while I was diving this afternoon. The beach was deserted when I went in for the last time, and I guess I was submerged for about a quarter of an hour when someone took a snap shot at me with a spear-gun. Fortunately their aim was somewhat worse than mine normally is; even so, it was a near thing. I’m hoping I can find out who it is that wants me out of the way so drastically.”