On arrival Shaw found the fiesta in full swing, and he had to fight his way through the gaily dressed, laughing crowds who were dancing in the streets and squares to the all-pervading flamenco music. The noise drummed at his brain, and he felt quite sick with the greasy smell of frying-oil from the stalls where the churros and bunuelos—light pastries fried in deep oil—were being cooked. He pressed through those crowds, many of the men half-drunk sailors from the ships in port, prey to the pimps and women of the town; past the brothels, the usual tiny bars and cafes which were filled with light and sound and laughter and singing, with the strumming of guitars and with the occasional tinny notes of a junk-heap piano. Over all that flamenco music, the traditional music of Andalusia.
On the fringes of the crowd Shaw somewhat breathlessly asked the way to the Calle Santa Marta. When, following the verbose directions, he found it, it was a bleak contrast to the gaiety and the life and friendliness which he had now left behind him. It was a foul, filthy-looking alleyway full of dark doorways and deep shadows and overhanging balconies which seemed about to drop from the walls, with the same fetid smell of rotting dirt and lack of drainage as he’d smelt in La Linea not long before. Shaw walked along that stinking way, his flesh crawling; half-way along a twist in the alley took him from sight of the street at the end, and horrible thoughts crowded in on him as he reached Number Thirty-seven. The woodwork of the door almost fell away from him as he knocked, the whole frame heaving and falling back, feeling soft and crumbly and rotten to the touch, damp and putrid with slime. Round the sides of this door escaped some unnameable stench which nearly knocked Shaw off his feet. He retched violently; the thin outline of a face appeared briefly as a lightish blur against a window; a moment later the door was dragged protestingly back.
A voice whispered hoarsely, “Who is it?”
“Pedro Gomez.”
“Your credentials—your number?”
Shaw gave his departmental identification number, asked for the other man’s. Felipe told him, inquired, “You are satisfied, señor?”
Shaw nodded, trying to still the dreadful flutterings of his stomach, which was heaving up into his throat with a sharp, bitter taste.
“Come inside, and quickly, amigo—quickly.”
He went in.
The place was in utter darkness, and he stumbled into something which moved. He shrank back in horror, instinctively, and felt the skin pricking at the back of his neck and along his shoulder-blades, and a slow, crawling sensation in his legs. Then a flick of something furry swept his ankles, there was a mewing sound, and he relaxed. It was only a cat. The smell was really dreadful inside, with apparently no inlet of fresh air to drive the foulness away. The man who had admitted him came up to him in the pitch-darkness, drew him farther into the hovel, apparently into a back room, for Shaw stumbled and nearly fell over a low step and cannoned into what seemed to be a doorpost.
The man struck a match and a candle flickered up in an empty Fundador bottle. Shaw looked round the room, at its grimy, peeling walls and the heap of filth on the floor, the food cupboard hanging open to reveal one of the nastiest sights Shaw had ever seen: an assortment of rotting food covered with dust and mould and a heap of what had once been fresh meat crawling with thick white maggots. He shuddered, forced his attention away, gulped down his mounting nausea. Then he looked at the man who was moving about behind him.
He was a tall, emaciated figure, heavily pock-marked, and with several days’ growth of thin, straggly beard on his sunken cheeks. Half his nose was gone, eaten away by some foul disease, so that it was little more than a piece of bone and one misshapen nostril formed by thin, transparent white flesh; the other nasal opening was a mere hole farther up in the face. From between this hole and the shaggy grey brows bright eyes peered out at Shaw.
Shaw gazed in horrible fascination, and the man gave a bitter grin. There were no teeth; the gums were white and bloodless like the lips. As Shaw flushed a little, conscious now of his rude stare, Felipe said in a half-whisper, “Do not be alarmed. Appearances—bah! I care nothing for them—what do they matter, my friend, my friend Gomez? It is information you want—is that not so?”
“That’s quite right, señor. I am sorry.”
Felipe waved apology aside. A welcome draught came from the doorway then; blew fresh air into Shaw’s nostrils momentarily; caught the candle, making it gutter until it nearly went out. Shaw had a horrible and painful moment of claustrophobia, worse than he had experienced in Ackroyd’s tunnel-workshop; he felt dread at the idea of being in that room again in the dark. The man, sensing this, laughed; then he grew serious.
“Sit,” he ordered suddenly.
Shaw moved over and sat on the edge of a filthy chair from which sawdust stuffing flew in all directions as the weight of his body came on to it.
“Coñac,” said Felipe. He poured out two glasses of Fundador and pushed one over to Shaw. The glass—and the man’s fingers—were as filthy as everything else, but Shaw felt in need of brandy, and he drank thankfully and felt a little better. He asked, “Why did we not meet as arranged, in the bar in Torremolinos?”
Felipe’s bright eyes looked into Shaw’s all the time now. He shrugged, his shoulders coming nearly all the way up his long neck, and his mouth turned down at the corners. Suddenly the gesture made him appear sad, almost pathetic. He said, ’’because I dare not go out any longer, that is why, señor. I am watched.”
Shaw thought, So Don Jaime was right. He asked, “And yet—you sent for me to come here? Will I not be watched now too?”
Felipe smiled. “You? No, no, señor, you will not be watched! This is not my house, and the policia do not know where I am. It is they—the Policia Secreta—who watch for me, not the people whom you seek. I have other interests, you understand, which make the policia watch me.” The eyes seemed to grin at Shaw from the death’s-head. “Even if the policia knew where I am living, not one of them would dare to enter the Calle Santa Marta. They would be murdered so easily—they are not liked, and I have friends, many friends. Nevertheless, it is not wise for me to be on the streets at present, and the information which I have for you, my friend, it cannot wait.”
Shaw nodded. “I see.” Then he added, “But there is one thing I had better tell you. I was followed and attacked last night.” He explained what had happened, but Felipe shrugged it off, though he said that it might well mean that Shaw’s whereabouts were known to the people whom he sought.
Shaw agreed; then he said, “Now, señor—the information, if you please.”
“First, the money.”
Shaw drew a pile of notes from his pocket. “This is the amount authorized by London.”
Felipe nodded, carefully counted the money, stowed it away in a recess of his trousers. Then, lowering his voice still more, he said, “It has come to my ears, señor, that a car left the road—the road from La Linea to Ronda—below the small town of Vercín. In that car were three men. Two died, a third lives. The one who lives has been taken up to Vercín, and that is where he is now.”
“Who is this man?”
Felipe shrugged. “That I do not know for certain, you understand. No one knows his name, nor where he comes from, nor what he does. He will not open his mouth to speak in the ordinary way, and yet when he speaks in his delirium he speaks in the English tongue.” Felipe looked sharply at Shaw, the bright eyes searching. “He appears, by all accounts, to be mad—”
“What!” Shaw jerked upright. “How d’you mean, mad, for Heaven’s sake! If it’s just delirium—”
“It is not just delirium.” Felipe spoke with certainty. “I am told that beyond doubt his brain is crazed, that he behaves oddly and looks strange. And—he hums some peculiar noise continually, a tune of sorts. But I believe he is the man you seek.”
Shaw’s mind raced in circles. If Ackroyd’s mind had really gone it looked like being all up with Gibraltar. But maybe there was some exaggeration around—he could only hope so. He asked, “Why d
o you think he’s the one—apart from his speaking English now and then?”
Felipe lifted his shoulders. “Because the car appeared to be coming up from the direction of La Linea, and because his description fits that which was passed to me from certain of your Intelligence services through friends of mine. And because the woman whom you seek, señor, Señorita Rosia del Cuatro Caminos, she is in Ronda. She followed the man, the man in the crashed car who was also being taken to Ronda, but she went by a different route—the San Pedro road. I am told that when she heard to-day that there had been a car crash and made inquiries, she became interested—and less distraite than she had been since her arrival in Ronda.”
“Has she left Ronda yet for Vercín?”
“I have not heard so.” Felipe chuckled and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “There was some difficulty about the car which she was using. I have remarked that I have many friends, and for the money which I am paid I like to give satisfaction. The señorita’s car came into quite violent contact with a lorry driven by a very good friend of mine. The damage may be repaired by now, but we have done our best.”
Shaw smiled at him gratefully. “Yes, it sounds as though you have indeed. Anything else?”
Felipe shook his head slowly, “No more, señor.”
“Nothing about a ship called the Ostrowiec?”
“Nothing. Except that she is here in the port of Malaga, and that her sailing date is uncertain.”
“D’you think she might be used to get this man out of the country?”
Felipe shrugged. “It is perfectly possible, señor. But if I hear anything I will find a way of letting you know.”
Shaw said, “You can contact me through Don Jaime de Castro at Torremolinos, but for now you can take it that I’m heading for Vercín as soon as possible.” He got to his feet, held out his hand. “I’d better be going. Thank you for what you’ve done, and good luck with the police, señor Felipe!”
He met the man’s eye, and smiled. Felipe spat noisily, messily, on the floor. “The dogs! But, you see, there are my friends. The policia will have a long wait. A few pesetas dropped into the right pockets—they still speak many words in Spain. And long may the Virgin keep it so.”
When Shaw left that house, with the news of Ackroyd’s mental state to nag at him now, he didn’t linger. He went as fast as was consistent with not appearing to be on the run, and he didn’t breathe freely until he was out of the Calle Santa Marta and its filth. At the end he found two policia sauntering. They moved in to take a closer look at him, but they let him pass. He fought down the impulse to go back and warn Domingo Felipe. He had no right to take a risk like that, and the policia didn’t seem to be anxious to venture along the alleyway anyhow.
Shaw roused Don Jaime himself and gave him a brief recap of what had happened. “Can you let me have transport?” he asked urgently.
“Of course.” Don Jaime, yawning hugely, reached for a house telephone. “I will give orders at once. A fast car will be at your disposal in five minutes. Will you drive yourself —or do you wish a chauffeur?”
“I’ll drive, thanks. We don’t want anyone else in on this, but thanks for the offer, Don Jaime. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to do one more thing for me?”
“But of course!” The brown eyes gazed up at Shaw’s taut face. “What is it, my friend?”
“Would you telephone the Guardia Civil at Vercín? Tell them to hold on to this man until I get there? Whatever happens—until I get there. I believe the woman may be on the way from Ronda.”
“That will be done. Good luck, Commander—and take care.”
Shaw nodded, and hurried from the room. As he went along to his own bedroom he passed Debonnair’s. She was standing in the doorway, looking seductive in nylon pyjamas; he thought she’d never appeared so damnably desirable. She said lightly, disregarding the frown which touched his eyes when he realized why she was there:
“Hey, Esmonde, you’re going somewhere, aren’t you, darling? I heard a bit of a racket, so I got up.”
“I’m going somewhere all right.” Shaw took her face in his hands, gently, looked into the hazel eyes. “And you’re going right back to bed, nice and safe till I get back.”
She said sweetly, “Oh, but that’s what you think! I can handle a gun if I have to, and if you’re driving you’ll want some one for that, darling, won’t you?”
He was impatient. “Just listen—”
“I told you earlier not to waste time arguing. I’m coming.”
Debonnair’s determined little chin was up, and he saw the old flash in her eyes. She was pale and taut, fully conscious of what she was letting herself in for, but determined just the same. And, looking at her, Shaw guessed that if she didn’t come with him she’d beg, borrow, or steal another car from Don Jaime after he’d gone; she’d get after him somehow, and he’d rather, if that was to be, that they were together. He took her in his arms, ruffled her hair a little, feeling his inside go cold.
She said softly, “Esmonde, my darling, I don’t want you to get hurt just for the want of a gun-hand who isn’t preoccupied with driving on foul roads, and you’d better just make up your mind to it.”
Within twenty minutes they were speeding down the blank darkness of the Malaga-Algeciras road towards its junction with the San Pedro road where they would turn up for Vercín, Shaw driving with set concentration and gazing out through a windscreen already spattered with the burst bodies of countless night-insects. The cool night wind tore in at the open driving window, blowing up his brown hair. He drove fast, sending the car along the road like a big black arrow, its twin headlights beaming out along the track, and Debonnair’s body pressed close and warm against his. In the glove compartment in front of Debonnair was a revolver which Don Jaime had lent her just before they started out. Shaw’s was in its shoulder-holster. They could need both soon; Debonnair must be told some of the truth about Ackroyd.
Before Rosia del Cuatro Caminos left Ronda for Vercín an hour or two later that night (it was actually the early hours of the next morning) she went down the stairs of the little pension where she had stayed so briefly and into the telephone cubicle which smelt of stale sweat and the odours of cooking-oil which had strayed in from the entrance-hall. She puffed irritably at a cigarette which hung loosely from her lips as she waited for the call to be answered, snapped at the constantly reiterated Oiga and Digame, the “Can you hear me?” and the “Speak to me” of the operator in the exchange. When the voice of the man she wanted came through she spoke to him briefly, and then put down the receiver.
She went back upstairs to her bedroom, wrinkled her nose once again at the stuffy smell of the bugs which crawled in the bed. Quickly she crossed over to the open window, flung the curtains back. She stood there looking out over the mountains. Ronda was set on the edge of a sheer cliff, its front falling precipitously into a deep valley which lay in shadow stretching to the distant ranges brought into relief by a silver moon. Somewhere beneath that moon was Commander Esmonde Shaw.
Karina knew from the grapevine that he’d got free of the casilla at La Linea, that he had been snooping around Torremolinos; she realized that very likely he had the same information as she had as to the whereabouts of the man Ackroyd. That, she thought, was just the trouble in Spain—the grapevine was excellent; too excellent, for it was impartial in its broadcasting, and that was not good. When she had heard not long ago that Ackroyd was safe in Vercín she had had a delectable moment in which she saw herself with Mr Ackroyd aboard the ship, sailing out of Malaga for Gdynia, sailing in triumph through the Straits of Gibraltar, under the very noses of the British, past the Rock itself.
She had quickly realized that that wasn’t quite ‘on.’
She knew Esmonde Shaw’s tenacity, didn’t doubt that he’d have ways and means of finding out about the Ostrowiec; suppose Shaw didn’t come to Vercín, where arrangements had been made for his reception, suppose he preferred to wait his chance in Malaga, watch the s
hip . . . even, perhaps, take the extreme step of having her searched at sea by the British Navy?
These things were possibilities.
Karina, however, had the answer.
Within ten minutes of her phone-call there was a light knock at her door, and she went quickly over and jerked it open. A tall, thin Spaniard, whose poor-quality suit with the sharply padded shoulders gave him a scarecrow appearance, came into the room. Shutting the door, Karina asked:
“No one saw you come?”
“No one, señorita.”
She pulled the door open again, quietly and quickly, looked along the passage, then shut it again carefully. There was a dead silence in the house but she kept her voice low.
She said, “Now, listen. For the Vercín end, all is arranged.”
“The señorita has made contact with El Caballero?”
Impatiently she nodded. “The señorita has! Indirectly only, but I have every confidence that he will not let me down.” El Caballero, one of the hill-bandit remnants of the Civil War, had been recommended to her even before she left her own country. “He meets me on the road below Vercin. He has been told to cut the telephone wire into the town, so we should have time in which to act before anything is known about our movements—and if Shaw should get there first El Caballero knows what to do.” She tapped the thin man on the chest, hard, and his willowy body swayed back a little. “My friend, what I want of you is this: I have fresh orders for the captain of the Ostrowiec, and you will take them yourself to Malaga at once.”
Karina spoke quietly for five minutes. She made the man repeat his orders, and then he left. Karina went slowly over to her dressing-table, picked up her handbag, felt for the small jewelled pistol. She fondled it. It wasn’t a lot of use, admittedly, but it gave her comfort; and the heavier arms would be in the car, the new car which she had been forced to hire at such outrageous expense after the fool in the lorry had driven into hers.
Gibraltar Road Page 15
