A Dangerous Place (7 page)

T
hough she had only accomplished two things—bringing Arturo Kenyon under her wing, though his loyalty was in question, and visiting Solomon—Maisie was tired. And she was fearful, anxious again about the night ahead. She felt hungry and light-headed, but she also wondered if the listlessness would usher her into a dreamless sleep, or whether nightmares would return. Or would she succumb to the precious tablets in the small brown bottle, now hidden and locked in the leather case; locked against her desire to be lifted above the responsibility for living a life.

She opened the door into the courtyard and stopped to speak to Mrs. Bishop, who was bringing in the dry laundry.

“Miss Dobbs. How was your day?” asked the woman.

Mrs. Bishop was in her mid-sixties, in Maisie's estimation. She was well-built, with wide hips and an ample bosom, and though she was a good head shorter than Maisie, she gave the impression of muscular strength about the arms. She picked up the wicker laundry basket and set it upon one hip, her right arm holding it steady as she shielded her eyes from a shaft of sunlight with her free hand.

“Very good, Mrs. Bishop—thank you for asking.”

Mrs. Bishop nodded toward the door leading into her private quarters. “Come along and have a cup of tea with me. You look tired.”

“Oh, that's not nec—”

“Come on, no arguments. A cup of tea brings your temperature down. Why people drink cold beverages on a hot day, I'll never understand. Hot tea is the ticket.”

Maisie smiled, thinking that Mrs. Bishop sounded a little like Lady Rowan, and at that moment, a sudden affection for the guest-house landlady caught her unawares. “All right,” she said. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”

As they stepped onto cool tiles and made their way along a narrow corridor, Maisie's eyes adjusted to the shadows. Mrs. Bishop opened a door on the right and put the laundry basket inside, then with her thumb indicated that Maisie should follow through another door, which opened into a small kitchen. It was not unlike the kitchen in the Babayoff house. A kettle was already boiling on the stove, and on the table a cake had been turned out onto a cooling rack. Mrs. Bishop pointed to a chair, instructing Maisie to sit down while she brewed a pot of tea. While she made tea and placed the cake on a plate, cutting two slices, she asked questions about what Maisie had seen in Gibraltar, not always waiting for an answer before commenting on what she should not miss.

“But this war over there, it's a terrible, terrible thing. And right on our doorstep—though I can't say I haven't been glad of the business. A lot of them have gone home now, though. It's not like it was on fair day in La Linea; I thought everyone would die. There was such a rush across the border to get home to Gibraltar when the firing started—we love fair day, you know, there were a lot of people from the town there. I didn't breathe again until I was through that door.” She pointed across the courtyard. “I locked it tight and hardly slept that night.”

“I was lucky you had a place for me,” said Maisie. “And such a large room—it's perfect.”

Mrs. Bishop looked at Maisie as she pushed a cup of tea toward her—she had added milk and sugar without inquiring if it was to
Maisie's taste—and then placed a plate with a slice of cake in front of her guest. “Eat that up—it'll do you good.”

Maisie sipped the hot tea and looked up at Mrs. Bishop. The woman held her cup to her lips but did not drink, nor did she speak for a second or two.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Bishop?”

The woman shook her head and took one sip of tea, holding the cup as if she was grateful for the warmth on her hands.

“You know, Miss Dobbs, you've probably wondered why my English is good, so let me tell you. I was married to a military policeman who was stationed here, and I went back with him to England. I lived there until he died, and then it was time for me to come home. Both my children were born there, and they decided to stay, but I wanted to come back to my roots.” She shrugged. “I miss seeing the grandchildren grow up, but as you English say, ‘You make your bed, and you have to lie in it.' I've made my bed here.” She shrugged again. “I bought this place ten years ago.” She cleared her throat and leaned forward, picking at the cake on her plate but not lifting the crumbs to her mouth. “When my husband left the army, he became a policeman. Scotland Yard. He never talked about his work much—I don't think it was that thrilling, not at his end of things anyway. But I learned one thing, Miss Dobbs, having seen his mates come to the house and watching policemen at work—I can tell a copper a mile off. They all have to start somewhere, you see, and I think that walking the beat gives them a way of holding themselves—you can see it in the shoulders.”

Maisie reached for the tea she had set down as Mrs. Bishop began speaking. “I'm not sure I'm following you, Mrs. Bishop.” She took two sips of the now-lukewarm brew. “Why are you telling me this?”

The landlady raised her eyebrows and sighed. “I'm telling you because a man came here asking for you today, and though he didn't
introduce himself, I know he was a policeman—and not from here, either. He wasn't in uniform, and he seemed . . . serious, if you know what I mean.” She folded her arms. “Now, I didn't pay much attention to that scallywag, Artie Kenyon, hanging around. I thought he might be keeping an eye on you because you were the unlucky one who found Sebastian Babayoff. Anyway, you knew he was there—I watched you go down the street once, with him on your tail like a lost pup, and I could tell you knew he was following you. It was the way you seemed to glance sideways, checking your hair or your hat long enough to see him out of the corner of the eye. Anyway—”

“Tell me about this man,” Maisie interrupted. “The man who came to the door asking for me. What was he like?”

“Big.” She sat up and pushed back her shoulders, as if to suggest the size of the inquirer. “Tall, a bit of a belly, but not too much. Seemed no-nonsense, as if being cordial wasn't a natural talent.”

“He didn't identify himself? No name? No identification?” asked Maisie, who had decided that subterfuge or feigned surprise would cut no ice with Mrs. Bishop.

“No. I asked if I could pass on a message, and he shook his head.”

“Anyone with him?”

“I looked down the street as he left, but I couldn't see anyone waiting—but that's not to say he works alone.”

Maisie nodded. She rested her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, feeling tears prick her eyes.

“Are you all right, Miss Dobbs? Not in any trouble?”

Maisie gave a half-laugh and then raised her head and sighed. “No, not in any trouble, Mrs. Bishop—though I suppose finding a dead body counts as trouble.”

“You could leave it alone—you don't have to go sniffing around.” Mrs. Bishop reached for Maisie's cup, and poured more tea.

Maisie's eyes met those of her landlady, and she smiled. “But I do. That's the trouble—I do have to sniff around, as you put it. The police believe the man's life was taken by a refugee or some ne'er-do-well robber. But, you see, he wasn't robbed. And because I found him, I believe it's my responsibility to bring truth to the matter of his death—for the sake of his family, if nothing else.”

“And the man who was here? Who is he?”

“If he's who I think he is—and because you know Scotland Yard through your husband and you've spoken your mind to me, I will tell you—his name is Robert MacFarlane, and he is indeed a policeman.”

“With one of those special offices they have there?”

Maisie sighed, as if chagrined to be revealing so much. But she was tired, and there was some comfort in sharing a secret with this woman. “Yes, he's with a special office.”

“And why does he want to speak to you?”

“Because someone wants me back in England, and I'm not ready to go, not yet.”

Mrs. Bishop nodded, slowly. “You must be important, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie laughed. “No, not important. But there are important people who worry about me. And a few other important people who worry what I might say.” She stood up from the table. “Now I must go, Mrs. Bishop.”

“Would you like me to bring you some soup in an hour or two? And a little glass of wine? You've got to eat, and I notice you don't go out for supper, come evening.”

“Yes, why not? I love soup. What kind do you have?”

“Chicken and lemon. Hearty and a little tart.”

“I could eat that—thank you.”

“What shall I do if the man comes again, Miss Dobbs? I know he'll be back, even though I said I didn't know you.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Bishop, MacFarlane will find me when he's good and ready. At the moment he's like a cat with a mouse. He thinks he's playing with me.”

“What will you do, then?”

Maisie pushed her chair back in under the table. “Oh, I'll just play him for the mouse myself, just for a while.” She smiled, thanked her landlady for the tea and cake, and left the kitchen, making her way across the courtyard and up the stairs to her room, and set the key in the lock.

As she opened the door, she saw a plain brown envelope on the floor. Picking it up, Maisie noticed it had been used before, the previous address struck through so it could not be read and her own name penciled in above. The flap had been glued in place, but she raised a corner, tore across with her finger, and lifted out the note. It was from Arturo Kenyon. It informed her that a policeman from Scotland Yard had joined Inspector Marsh, and was interested in speaking to her. He would find out more and report back to her. He also said that he had some information for her about Sebastian Babayoff, and suggested they meet—but not at Mr. Salazar's café. He indicated another place, close to the American Steps, the memorial to a collaboration between the US and British navies in the Great War. He would meet her tomorrow morning. She sat down on the bed, set her bag down beside her, and tore the envelope and letter into tiny pieces, which she sprinkled into the ashtray on the bedside table. She took a match and lit the shredded paper, and once it was destroyed, she picked up the packet of cigarettes alongside the ashtray. She shook out one cigarette, placed it in her mouth, and struck another match. Before she could light the cigarette, she blew out the flame, took the cigarette from her mouth, and pushed it back into the packet, which she took to the wardrobe. She released the straps on the leather case and pressed down on the lock
to open the case. Slipping the packet of cigarettes inside, she wavered, touching the bottle of morphia tablets. Just one to get her to sleep. Just one to help forget the scar on her belly, to let her rest without the image of a crashing aeroplane in the distance, then the explosion. She closed the case, snapped the lock, and buckled the leather straps. Soon Mrs. Bishop would bring her soup, and a glass of wine. Then she would lie back on her bed, hoping a dreamless sleep would claim her until the morning. She would deal with “little Artie Kenyon” tomorrow. She was beginning to think that Mrs. Bishop herself might have been a better choice of assistant. Time would tell if her faith in the local runner for the British Secret Service had been well placed.

M
aisie was restless, waking every hour or so, then slipping into a half-sleep before she began to dream again, as if she had fallen through a fissure in consciousness and was aware of herself sleeping. In the end she opened her eyes. She would struggle, toss, and turn no longer. But she did not rise from the bed. Instead she stared at a crack in the ceiling, allowing her gaze to follow it. She thought it looked like a river on a map, or a mountain path. It was a scar on otherwise perfect white rendering. She knew about scars.

She planned her day in her mind as she felt the room grow warmer, and watched dust motes dance in shafts of sunlight beaming through the window. She had opened the curtains again after undressing and slipping into her nightgown last night. She wanted to be woken by daylight, to hear the gulls above the rooftops; she wanted to know as soon as her eyelids lifted that she was not back in the past. She hated waking up only to experience the jolt of remembering why her heart
felt heavy in her chest. The light might allow the ache of recollection to enfold her gently.

First she would meet Kenyon at the American Steps memorial. It was still considered a new fixture in the architectural mishmash of Gibraltar, not yet inaugurated in ceremony. She would wait at the bottom of the steps, looking for all the world like another tourist. Then she would go to the Babayoff house, this time taking the Leica. She had no idea how to make a raw film into a print, but she hoped Miriam Babayoff might put her in touch with someone; she wanted to look at the cellar darkroom anyway. When she had accomplished these tasks, she would go to Mr. Salazar's café. It felt like such a haven each time she took her customary seat inside, camouflaged with her back against the mural. Was she ready to confront the person she knew might come? Or would she draw back and avoid meeting?

Her plan was made; it was time to begin. She pulled the covers aside and stood up, drawing her hand across her nightclothes. It was habit, now, as if one day she would feel the child she had lost, as if the turmoil would end and all would be well again.

M
aisie remembered seeing a photograph of Thiepval's new memorial to the missing of the war that ended in 1918—a stark, imposing edifice that held the names of those men for whom no remains had ever been found, and who lay under farmland still marked by the scars of battle. She was reminded of it now as she looked up at the American Steps. Though not as grand, nevertheless it bore the same broad, deep, square design with a rounded arch, and it had the same sense that this was a place of remembrance and reverence. She stood at the bottom of the steps, her hat low across her eyes, protected by dark glasses with round metal frames.

Looking up, she knew she appeared as if she were any other interested tourist, marveling at an example of modern architecture. Gibraltar was a place of memorials, it occurred to her; a military town where so many who left its shores had been lost. Here women waited for a widowhood that came too soon, and black was the color of both fisherfolk and garrison families. It was a place where men had been brought from the bloody fighting in Gallipoli, to recover or die from their wounds. Yes, it was a place of memorials—that very fact alone might have been at the heart of her desire to stay; perhaps there was a comfort in belonging here. Perhaps someone who felt the depth of scars across her heart every day could be at home in a place with so many reminders of war, with war still so close, across the border.

Hearing steps behind her, she turned to see Arturo Kenyon, holding a cigarette as if to inquire whether she had a match to light it. She shook her head, and he smiled and began to speak. A couple walked past, arm in arm, so he asked Maisie if she were enjoying her stay. She pulled a map from her bag and leaned toward Kenyon, unfolding the paper and pointing. He nodded and motioned to a bench underneath the wall alongside the steps. Resting the map on her lap, she turned to him.

“You said you had something to tell me,” she said.

He nodded. “There is a man here, from London—his name is MacFarlane.”

“Yes, I know that—he's been looking for me. But surely he's not here because a photographer was murdered. That's not his bailiwick. I can't see why Babayoff would interest him.”

Kenyon raised his eyebrows—his default countenance when surprised, it seemed. “You have seen him?”

“I know a man who fits his description has been asking after me,” she said. “But I cannot imagine what he might be doing here. MacFarlane is with Special Branch.”

“That's not what I've heard. He might be with special something, but no more with the Special Branch. He's been transferred, and is now the linchpin between the police—all branches, but admittedly mainly Special Branch—and the Secret Service. Their work overlaps, and apparently he's done this before on a case-by-case basis, but now it's official—but hush-hush.”

Maisie smiled, giving a half-laugh.

“What is it?” asked Kenyon.

“You saying ‘hush-hush.' Even though you don't have an accent, it's amusing. I'm sorry.”

“I was told you never laughed, that you had no sense of humor.”

“Really? Well, I haven't had much to laugh about recently, but I'm quite able to see the funny side of things.” She sighed. “I suppose I also take murder seriously—it's a death, after all, which means that usually someone, somewhere, is grieving. Someone is feeling their heart ripped out with the ache of loss. So no, you don't usually get me laughing about that.”

Kenyon apologized.

“That's all right. Now then, do you know what MacFarlane is doing here?”

“The official story is that he's here to look at how the flow of refugees from Gibraltar to England might be stemmed, and where the others might be going, and how it affects Britain's security. But many have gone home, and the fighting is not so close to Gibraltar now. A good number have gone across to North Africa, to Morocco. It's about that, mainly.”

Maisie looked at Kenyon. “I see. And is that it? Do you have anything more about Mr. Babayoff?”

Kenyon shook his head. “Not yet, but I do have some news about Carlos Grillo.”

“Yes?”

“I've heard he left letters for both his sons, as if he knew he was going to die.”

“If he was ill, that would not be unusual, would it? A note to sons who never come to visit? A last word in case he never sees them again? That doesn't surprise me, Mr. Kenyon.”

“But what if he were afraid, if he knew his days were numbered?”

Maisie nodded, folded the map, which had remained open on her lap, and stood up. “I should be on my way, Mr. Kenyon. Yes, you're right—the letters are somewhat suspicious.” She paused, looking up at the monument to collaboration. “The note you poked under my door was a good idea—you should have been a cat burglar. Let me know if you have anything else I might be interested in.”

“Where will you go now?”

Maisie looked at Kenyon and smiled. “Well, I'll tell you this—I may have an opportunity to see Robert MacFarlane today, though I may also decide I don't want to see him. I doubt he'll be calling himself ‘Chief Superintendent' or any other title at the present time—not if he doesn't want anyone to know who he is.” She sighed. “I suspect he won't be able to wait any longer before he approaches me, so I may have to be nimble on my feet if I decide to avoid him.”

Kenyon nodded. Maisie saw his feigned nonchalance. She slipped her hand into her bag and touched a bank note, folding her fingers around it until it was firm in her palm. Withdrawing her hand from the bag, she held it out toward Arturo Kenyon. He took the note with the handshake.

“Thank you for helping me with the directions, sir. So I go this way, if I want a taxicab?” asked Maisie, her voice raised.

“Of course, madam. Just along there.”

She took a step as if to take her leave, and Kenyon began to walk in the opposite direction. She turned and watched him for a moment, then continued on her way on foot.

Now the game would begin. Kenyon would give her information fed to him by the Secret Service, and she would rattle their cage when he gave them an account of his meetings with her. But at least Kenyon was out in the open now, and she could get on with her job. Her job? Yes, it was her job. She wanted it to consume her as it had in the past, when she had first worked for Maurice and struggled to forget the war. She didn't want to lie in bed until late morning anymore, nor to linger over the straps and lock of a leather case, drawn by the promise of half-consciousness held within. She wanted to work until she felt herself raw from thinking, weary from trying to answer questions that could hardly be framed.
Work.
Investigating the death of a Jewish photographer was her sword, and at that moment, it was the only way she knew to slay the dragon of memory.

L
ace curtains twitched a half moment after Maisie rapped her knuckles on the door of the Babayoff house. She leaned closer, her lips almost touching the wood.

“It's Miss Dobbs, Miriam. I'm alone, and there's nothing to fear.” Her voice was loud enough to be heard by the woman on the other side of the door, but low enough not to be discerned by neighbors.

She heard the bolts slide back, and the door opened.

“Come in, please—quickly.”

Maisie felt the woman's nerves taut, pulled to the extreme, as she closed the door and pushed home the bolts, then turned a key in the lock for good measure. It was as if a coil inside her wound tighter with every noise from outside, every footfall on the flagstones or voice heard
on the street, and then released just a little as the source was revealed, and deemed safe.

“You've come again. Is there news?” Miriam Babayoff pulled out a chair for Maisie. She folded a dress that had been spread across the kitchen table and pushed it to one side, along with her needlework box. She nodded toward the now-neat pile. “I take in mending too.” She shrugged. “Clothing repairs and alterations. I'm very quick, and I charge a good price, so word gets around.” She began to tap her finger on the table. She still wore her thimble, so the rhythmic sharpness of the sound seemed to exaggerate her tension.

“There is no news from the official sources,” said Maisie. “Nothing from the police, and I don't think they'd be telling me anyway. But I have talked to a few people, and I have some more questions for you—if that's all right, Miriam?”

The woman rubbed a hand across her forehead, the thimble leaving a mark in its wake, as if another worry line had formed in an instant. “So many questions, and so few answers about my brother.”

“I understand, Miriam. Truly I do. But questions are a means of discovery—they may take us down a deceiving path or two, but they're like stepping stones, a way to break down the wall to find a door, perhaps.”

Miriam nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“I've been told that Sebastian was a Communist, Miriam. Was he? Did he have political beliefs that might have upset someone?”

Miriam shook her head. “This is a British colony. The British want everyone to stay in their station, never to—how does the saying go? They don't want anyone to upset the apple cart. You should know that, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie nodded. “That doesn't answer my question, though I agree with your summation, to a point. Was your brother a Communist?”

“My brother believed in equality—we all do. Our father and mother believed too. Go to the big new hotel—see the people there, high above the rest of us. The rich always like to live on the top of the mountain, don't they? Perhaps they think they are God, able to look down on their earth.” She began tapping her thimble on the table again.
Tap, tap, tap, tap
.

Maisie touched her right temple with her fingertips. “But Sebastian made money out of those people. He photographed them at the hotel. They paid him.”

“Hmmph.” Miriam turned away, then back to Maisie. “Yes, my brother had the political beliefs of a Communist—we all do—but he would take work where he could. I will work my fingers to the bone until I die, caring for my sister.” She looked up at the ceiling, as if the woman were floating above her. “No man will look at me—I will never marry, never have children—because I am here with a burden. I have no money to speak of, and I have my station—I cannot rise, even with the help of my neighbors. And we are strong together, we look after each other.”

“I understand, Miriam.”

The woman made a show of looking at Maisie's shoes, at her clothing. She leaned forward and took the hem of Maisie's skirt between thumb and finger, as if to measure the quality of the fabric. She let it go and leaned back.

“Yes, I am sure you do.” Her words had the edge of spite.

Maisie held Miriam's gaze. “Miriam, I wonder if you wouldn't mind showing me Sebastian's darkroom. It's down in the cellar, I believe.”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“I'm interested in seeing his work—and he must have spent a lot of time down there.”

“It was not my place to go to his cellar, Miss Dobbs. It was his private room where he worked. I haven't been down there since he died.”

“Did the police ask to see the darkroom?”

Miriam shook her head. “They probably didn't even think to ask. Not all the houses have cellars, only a few.”

“Didn't they ask where he developed the film?”

“No.” Miriam Babayoff paused. “I wondered about that, to tell you the truth. I mean, I wasn't going to tell them, but I wondered where they thought he had the film developed. Or maybe it didn't occur to them, especially as they thought he was murdered by a desperate refugee.”

“Perhaps.” Maisie nodded toward a narrow door to the right of the stove. “May we?”

Miriam Babayoff pushed back her chair, the feet screeching against tile. She took a key from the mantelpiece above the stove, and opened the door. Maisie followed her onto a small landing. Directly in front of them a staircase led to the upper floor, where Maisie imagined there were two rooms, and perhaps another smaller set of stairs to the roof. One room would have been occupied by the sisters, and one by Sebastian. Did Miriam still sleep in the same room and even the same bed as Chana? Or would she have moved into Sebastian's room? Maisie made a mental note to ask later, another time, perhaps.