A Dangerous Place (3 page)

M
aisie Dobbs sat inside the small café on Main Street, having taken a seat on a banquette underneath an embossed mural of Gibraltar in earlier days, when there was no such thing as an airfield, little in the way of a port, and when almost all inhabitants were army, navy, or marines. Sailing ships floated offshore, sails furled, and one could almost distinguish small figures clambering up the mast of the vessel closest to shore. She knew that in choosing this particular seat she might not be quite so visible to anyone walking by; the busyness of the painting at her back was a distraction to the eye. There was one pair of eyes she was determined to deceive if she was to have anything resembling quietude for a few hours.

She had discovered already that his name was Arturo Kenyon, and that he lived in the upper rooms of a whitewashed house in one of the oldest streets flanking the Rock of Gibraltar. He was known in the town as a jobbing carpenter; apparently he'd been mustered out of the Royal Navy due to a shoulder injury, and had taken up a trade
on home turf. She was willing to bet he was working on behalf of her father-in-law, no doubt through someone else, but she could not be sure. In all likelihood he would not know who, along the chain of communicants, had assigned his remit.

There were those, she knew, who would not understand or sympathize with her decision to adopt her maiden name once again. But there was comfort in hearing herself say “Maisie Dobbs
.
” Her surname carried a sense of belonging, now that James was gone. It had her father's down-to-earth roots in its very sound, reminding her of the way even his footfall seemed grounded with meaning. It was as if the name were stamped on her very being, like a brand. Her father was the most stalwart person she had ever known, perhaps even more so than her late mentor, the famed forensic scientist and psychologist Dr. Maurice Blanche. And as much as she knew her deceased husband's parents loved her, she did not feel as if she were a Compton. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried again to banish the images from her mind, images that came to her often and unbidden, with no warning of their imminent arrival. There it was again, the aircraft gaining speed, swooping low across the escarpment. Once more the memory was so strong that she might have been swept back in time, to the day John Otterburn's cadre of engineers, designers, and a selected aviator were due to test a new weapon on board the aircraft. James was not meant to be flying. He was to be making notes, having discussions on the ground, and peering into the sky through his binoculars. She was sitting on a rocking chair on the wraparound porch of the old farmhouse used as headquarters for the engineers and aviators, where lunch had been laid out. One hand rested on her rounded belly, while the other shielded her eyes from the sun. John Otterburn had come back to the house twice to see if his indulged daughter—indulged, as far as Maisie was concerned—had arrived for the flight. Elaine Otterburn had
claimed the piloting of this particular test for herself, arguing that a woman with her expertise could handle the craft just as well as a man. Otterburn had cursed when Maisie informed him that Elaine had yet to appear, then left to walk back to the other men, clustered alongside the landing strip. Maisie stood up as she watched James meet Otterburn, still shielding her eyes with one hand. The two small figures in the distance appeared to be in some discussion. She left the farmhouse and began to walk across the field toward her husband and the man he had agreed to help in his quest to provide a new fighter aircraft to support Britain's air defense, should war come once more. They had waited and waited at the airfield—a most secret airfield on Otterburn land—and still there was no sign of Elaine. Then, as Maisie reached the men, a messenger came along on a motorcycle. He brought a note from Otterburn's wife, informing her husband that Elaine had been to a party the night before, and could not even construct a sentence that morning, let alone fly. She was spending the day in her bed, sleeping off too many champagne cocktails. Maisie remembered thinking that only this spoiled young woman could have found a party in such a rural area.

Then James offered to fly the test. Just one flight, just one test. A takeoff and landing, and in between a burst of gunfire to make sure everything worked, after which he would report on the aircraft's stability, the effect the gun had on trim when firing, and how changes in weapon emplacement affected handling. Once again James was stepping forward in the service of his country. The thought crossed Maisie's mind, though, as she watched her husband don the padded overalls and his sheepskin aviator's jacket, then pull a leather balaclava over his head, that if push came to shove, his country would know nothing of his work. On behalf of his friends in high places, Otterburn would deny that James Compton had been anything more
than an enthusiastic aviation hobbyist. She regretted ever having had that thought, but James had gone back on his word that morning. He'd promised her he would not fly, not now, with a child on the way. He'd given her his promise that from now on he would only ever be an observer, working in an advisory capacity; his feet would not leave the ground. With the baby coming, he had too much to look forward to, and too much to lose. After all, the doctor had instructed them that, given problems she'd already experienced, Maisie should do everything in her power to have a calm final month before the child was born.

A
rturo Kenyon walked past the café and finger-combed his hair in the window's reflection. Maisie could see him trying to peer into the café. Why didn't he just come in, sit right next to her? She put her head down so her hat shielded her face, and waited. Glancing up at last toward the window, she saw Kenyon walk to the other side of the road, and look both ways.

She called the proprietor over to her table. “Mr. Salazar, would you mind if I left by the back door? There's a man lingering outside who's been bothering me, making a nuisance of himself, and I want to avoid him.”

The proprietor looked around. “You tell me who he is, señora, and I'll give him something to look at. You're a good lady, a good customer—there's too many bad men on the streets now, so I have to watch out for my lady customers. Here, come with me.”

Maisie left by the rear entrance, following Salazar along an alley that snaked around to Main Street. There she thanked her guide and slipped out onto the hot stone thoroughfare behind Arturo Kenyon. As she watched, he approached another man waiting in the afternoon shadows, just as Kenyon had waited for her. Looking into a shop
window, she could see reflected in the glass a piece of paper changing hands—it might have been money, it might not. Kenyon nodded at something the other man said.

She recognized the man Kenyon was meeting, though he'd pulled his hat down at the front, perhaps to avoid identification. His name was Michael Marsh, and he was an inspector with the Gibraltar Police. Inspector Marsh had taken her statement after she found Babayoff's body. She had thought then that he was a good man, though he'd been annoyed by her insistence that perhaps it was not a simple case of robbery, not when the man's Zeiss camera was still on a strap around his neck. It was Marsh's conviction that the case was cut-and-dried—one had to remember the sheer numbers of broken ne'er-do-wells entering Gibraltar, he'd said—that had inspired Maisie to do something later, something that she knew was a crime in itself. It was as if she could not help herself, as if she were at the mercy of her own reflexes.

Maisie had revisited the scene in daylight, after the pathologist had left, after the police had allowed the path to be used again. It seemed that someone had poured bleach on the gravel in an attempt to clean it, should guests wish to meander. She stood for a while, inspecting the ground, retracing her steps from the hotel, looking at first for something the police might have missed and then simply admiring the blooming shrubs, which seemed so uplifting on such a day. It was as she moved that something glinted, catching her eye. Setting one foot on the low wall, she leaned forward, moving a branch to one side. A Leica camera lay on the ground underneath, obscured by foliage. It did not seem to be a professional camera, though she knew it was expensive. It was the sort of camera used for speed, for catching a scene before it changes, not, perhaps, for a more formal portrait. She reached for the camera and put it in her satchel.

T
here was no reason now to follow Kenyon. He would look for her, and then send a report to whoever was instructing him—yes, it must be Lord Julian, perhaps through Huntley. She sighed. That was all she needed—Brian Huntley of the Secret Service keeping tabs on her. She just wanted to be alone, with more time to steel herself for her return. She needed more time to be strong, more time to prepare herself to settle once again in England, and to face Chelstone. She had not been back since she'd departed for her honeymoon, a precious time when she believed all that awaited her was a contentment she'd never before imagined. Now it would never be again. It was as if she could feel her blood running colder, hardening her heart.

Maisie watched as Kenyon and Marsh parted, and the agent—she had no doubt he was someone's agent—went on his way, walking along Main Street toward Grand Casemates Square as if he had not a care in the world. But Maisie had a care—though she knew it might be a means of deflecting her thoughts away from her father and Brenda, from the expectation of others—and the care at that moment was Miriam Babayoff, the dead man's sister. Miriam, too, was being watched. The poor woman was scared, and she had every right to be: she knew something that others wanted kept silent. The trouble was, as far as Maisie understood it, Miriam Babayoff had no idea what that something might be. And Maisie could not protect the woman unless she, too, had such knowledge at her fingertips.

She continued on her way toward a cluster of houses where Gibraltar's Sephardim lived. Maisie reached into her satchel for a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and drew upon it as if she had been smoking her entire life. Now she knew why Priscilla smoked. It calmed her. Holding a cigarette was something to do with her hands when she began
shaking. It sharpened her mind while dulling her emotions. And at least it wasn't morphia.

A
s she walked back along Main Street away from Grand Casemates Square, with its Moorish buildings and their ornate arches built by Moroccan invaders centuries past, Maisie considered, again, the evening she'd discovered the body of Sebastian Babayoff. She'd been staying at the Ridge Hotel at the time, where she'd remained longer than anticipated, given the difficulty in finding simpler accommodation. Earlier in the day she'd noticed Babayoff in the hotel, taking photographs of the interior and then moving out into the gardens. Was he recording a wedding party? She hadn't really paid much attention, though by instinct she avoided anyone with a camera. Later—after what might have been suppertime had she felt like eating—she'd wanted to walk, to be outdoors in the dark. There was something comforting to her about darkness, about being shrouded only by that which she could smell, touch, and hear. Without light her eyes became accustomed to shapes, sounds became more acute, and as she ambled along some distance from the hotel, she became aware of an unfamiliar noise. Was it a curious, treat-seeking monkey? She'd been told about the Barbary macaques that infested Gibraltar, making a nuisance of themselves. Or perhaps a stray dog, or a cat? Then another noise, and footsteps receding along a narrow alley—human footsteps in heavy boots, running away. After a moment she continued, but took only a few steps before she tripped over something. Her heart leaped, for even before she knelt down to touch the thing in her path, she knew it was flesh and bone.

In the dark, by feel, Maisie distinguished an arm, and then the wrist, searching for a pulse. She reached toward the man's chest—by
the size of the wrist, it must be a man—and then his neck. She fingered his skin for the carotid pulse, but there was none.

M
iriam Babayoff lived along a narrow cobbled street that resembled so many other streets in Gibraltar. The terrace houses on either side were like ill-kempt teeth, their roofs uneven, their foundations having shifted with the years. The whitewash was dingy, though window boxes planted with summer blooms demonstrated evidence of care by a few of the residents. Maisie Dobbs came alongside the house—it was not numbered—that she knew to be the home of Miriam Babayoff, her sister and, until recent weeks, her now deceased brother. Maisie had met Miriam once before, at a time when the woman was still so shocked she could barely speak. It was a meeting during which she sat on the very edge of a chair at the kitchen table—the front door opened into the small square kitchen, the only room downstairs—her eyes darting to the bolt drawn across to lock the door, as if it might fly back at any moment and the house be invaded. Maisie had offered her condolences, a basket of fruit, and some flowers. She had remained with the dead man's sister for some ten minutes—long enough to sense the woman's unease, to observe her movements, and to know by the cast of her eyes that there was cellarage below the house, and that something of importance was held there.

Now Maisie was visiting again, by invitation, having sent a note to request a little of the woman's time. She would not push too hard for information; in fact, she wasn't sure why she was doing this. Perhaps she should leave well enough alone, especially when she felt so very fragile herself, as if she were made of the finest glass and could shatter at any moment. But she wanted to find out more about the photographer, and why he was killed. It was as if the act of searching, of
fingering the facts and mulling over suppositions, would help her excavate something inside herself.

She knocked at the door.

M
iriam Babayoff was not a tall woman, probably just over five feet tall. Maisie found it difficult to guess her age, as her sallow skin and the way her lustrous dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun might have made her seem older than she was. Sebastian Babayoff, she knew, had been thirty years of age at the time of his death. There was also another older sister, confined to a wheelchair, or more likely to her bed, now. Maisie suspected Sebastian had been the one who'd helped her out of her room and pushed her up and down the street in her wheelchair. Maisie could not imagine Miriam having the strength to carry her sister down the narrow stairs she suspected lay beyond the curtain-draped door across the kitchen. Miriam must have been the youngest of three, around twenty-five. She had probably not married because she was needed at home.