A Dangerous Place (8 page)

To her left a stone staircase led down into a barely visible chasm. Carrying a lantern, Miriam led the way. Selecting another key on the ring, she opened an unpainted wooden door and stepped into the cellar.

It took a second or two for Maisie's eyes to become accustomed to the lack of light before Miriam flicked a switch, and an electric bulb in the ceiling came on. Maisie blinked.

The walls were of rough stone, though wooden shelving had been set against the far wall. The shelves held demijohns of various liquids, which she assumed were used in the development of photographs. Maisie also noticed a shade set to one side, made of a transparent dark
red material, which she suspected might be used to change the light in the room when Babayoff was processing his film. There was another light fixture close to the wall, where Maisie could imagine the photographer holding up negatives to choose which he would print. It was a simple, unsophisticated studio; Maisie imagined Babayoff had furnished it over the years as his income afforded new equipment and materials. Though it was more cramped, this photographic lair reminded Maisie of another similarly converted cellar at a house in London. She had been investigating the death of an American soldier in the war, a mapmaker who had joined the British army because his father was born in England. Her visit to that studio had resulted in her identification of the man's murderer. She shivered and moved toward a set of narrow drawers, on top of which were stacked wooden boxes that she suspected held photographic equipment. She opened the top drawer, stopping for a moment to look around toward Miriam, who was still holding the lantern, watching her.

“Do you mind, Miriam?”

The woman shook her head, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I'll go back upstairs. Bang on the ceiling when you're ready to leave, Miss Dobbs, and I will come with the lantern.” She pointed to a broom leaning against the wall in the corner. “I am the only one who ever used a broom for sweeping in this house, after my mother died. My brother used it to summon me to help him, and Chana bangs on the floor with a broom handle by her bed.”

After Miriam left the cellar, Maisie stood for a moment, listening to the woman's footfall ascend the stone staircase, as if each step were a mark of her bitterness. It was the resigned march of the put-upon, to a theme of one deep sigh. Maisie turned back to the chest of drawers. One drawer was filled with negatives, one with processed prints, and others with film that had yet to be developed, each dated. It was clear
that Sebastian Babayoff had needed to be parsimonious with chemicals, so he was selective about the films he chose to develop. Maisie went through one pile of prints, mainly portraits, each with a scrap of paper folded around it, bearing a name and the amount of money still outstanding, after the deposit was paid before the sitting. The print would only be handed over when he received the balance owed.

Based upon the number of prints ready for collection, the photographer was owed a pretty penny. Maisie wondered how she could help facilitate their final sale to the advantage of Miriam and her sister.

Another collection was possibly taken in the company of Carlos Grillo while out on the fishing boat. Maisie squinted at these images, then moved closer to the light to better view them. The Rock of Gibraltar—the northernmost of the two Pillars of Hercules guarding the entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar—loomed large in several photographs; others showed ships coming into port. Another half dozen, taken on ship, were of men and women in evening dress. Since the war ended, travel had boomed by road, rail, sea, and air, and Gibraltar had seen more visitors as a result. Decommissioned naval vessels had been bought on the cheap, reconditioned, and sent on their way with cruise passengers, who enjoyed visiting a little piece of England that was at the same time so very foreign, and relished the sunshine. Oh, how the younger set had yearned for sunshine, especially those who had suffered the bitter cold mud of Flanders. Maisie suspected that Babayoff earned a tidy sum from photographing the new breed of traveler. He had just enough time to go on board when the ship docked, take orders for photographs and then deliver prints before the ship sailed again. He probably took hundreds of images in this manner—if a dozen or so didn't sell, it was probably not a huge loss.

There were photographs of fishing boats and, surprisingly, a few of Carlos Grillo's niece, hidden in an envelope at the back of the drawer.
Instead of the black clothes she'd been wearing at Catalan Bay, in these photographs Rosanna wore a flounced skirt and a ruffled white blouse that was slipping down from her right shoulder, its bareness concealed only by her hair, which, instead of being tied back at the nape of her neck, was carefully styled to cascade to one side, brushing her neck in a suggestive manner. The photograph had been taken outside, possibly on a secluded stretch of rocky beach. Maisie replaced the photographs in the envelope, committing the images to memory, though she was not sure of their significance at this point.

Rummaging toward the back of the drawer, she drew out another envelope, this time thicker. More photographs taken at sea. Maisie looked at each in turn—there were about half a dozen—and then again at the ones she'd studied first. There was a difference. The previous batch were taken looking out to shore from on board a vessel—she assumed Carlos Grillo's fishing boat; in fact, in one photograph, Carlos was smiling directly into the camera, having looked up while hauling in a full net. But which shore? It was not Gibraltar; the Rock would have been evident, even from a distance. Was this the shoreline of Morocco? Or somewhere along the Spanish coast? How far would the boat need to go before her skipper received a warning from the Spanish that she was in their territorial waters? Or another patrol boat, instructing them to leave the area? She looked at the second set of coastal photographs, squinting. There was another fishing vessel close by, and in the distance something else, though she could not quite ascertain what it was. Land? An illusion caused by waves? Or the coast? She went through the photographs, sighing in frustration. She needed a magnifying glass.

Maisie searched the drawers, ran her fingers across the dusty shelves, and then looked around the room.

“Oh, there it is,” she said out loud. She stepped across to the chest
of drawers and reached along the side, where a magnifying glass was hanging on a hook from a piece of string looped around its handle. As if to Sebastian Babayoff's ghost, she said, “Well, I can see why you'd hang it there—if you put it down, you'd never find it again!”

Maisie held the magnifying glass above the photographs, leaning to one side under the light to better view the images.

“Oh,” she said, and looked up. She took another photograph and looked at it through the glass. “Oh, dear Lord, Sebastian, what on earth did you see?”

Maisie collected the photographs and slipped them into the envelope. Should she take them with her? Yes, she would ask Miriam if she could have the photographs, take them to her room, and hide them somewhere—they would not be safe here, in this house. She wanted to look at the images in better light, where she could study them in greater detail. And she wanted to know about that coastline. Where was it? Perhaps Carlos Grillo's niece could help her. She had a feeling that the disdain the young woman had shown for Sebastian Babayoff was meant to disguise her affection for him.

She still had her satchel with her, and there was enough room to slip the envelope into the bag. It would be better, after all, she decided, for Miriam Babayoff if she had no knowledge of the photographs. But now Maisie was even more intent upon having the film from the camera she had lifted from the flower-filled rockery, above the path where Sebastian Babayoff lost his life, developed. She could not ask just anyone to do it, though. The images held on the film
could
be innocent enough, but they could also be the catalyst for increased danger. And that danger would not only compromise her own safety, but that of the two sisters, one of whom was scared enough anyway.

She looked around the darkroom once more, then picked up the
broom and banged on the ceiling with the handle. Miriam Babayoff's footfalls moved across the kitchen, then down the stairs toward her.

Five minutes later Maisie was sitting at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. Miriam was sewing, her thimble-capped finger pressing the needle through the fabric, then pulling on the other side. She looked up as Maisie asked a question.

“Miriam, do you know anyone—perhaps a friend of Sebastian's—who can develop film? Someone discreet, someone who would not reveal the source of the film to anyone, or—more crucially—what was on the actual film.”

“Sebastian's film?”

Maisie nodded. She explained about finding the camera.

“His Leica?”

“Yes, I think it must be his.”

“It was secondhand. He saved for a long time for that camera—he liked it because it was easy to take with him. He said it was good for quick photographs, for the newspaper and such like. He sometimes saw famous people at the Rock, and would snap photographs and take them down to the editor of the newspaper, so they could write about them—Errol Flynn, people like that. And he was there when HMS
Hood
tested a new gun offshore. He rushed up there with that Leica to take photographs last year, after it was hit by a bomb.”

“Do you know someone who could develop the film, Miriam?”

The woman paused and set her sewing down on the table. She resumed tapping her thimble before looking up at Maisie, whereupon she began pulling her thimble off and pressing it quickly back onto her finger, over and over again.

“I can, Miss Dobbs.” She blushed. “I know the cellar better than I admitted.”

“You know how to process film?” Maisie looked at Miriam. “I mean,
forgive me, I'm not questioning your ability, but I thought Sebastian seemed such a perfectionist, he would want to do everything himself.”

“Oh, that was Sebastian, Miss Dobbs. You're not mistaken there. But when he went to the ships, or up to the Ridge Hotel to do photographs, he had to process them in a hurry, before people left—he needed to come home, develop the film, make the prints, and get back there so he could get his money. He could not have done that on his own, so he taught me how to get the job done.”

“Would you do it for me?” asked Maisie.

“I may be filled with fear at times, Miss Dobbs, but I would do anything to find my brother's killer.”

Maisie opened her mouth to say something else, but the sound of a broom handle on the floorboards above—
bang-bang-bang
—drew her attention.

Maisie looked up at the ceiling, then at Miriam. “Thank you, Miriam—thank you so much. I will be back soon with the camera. Would that be all right?”

“Yes. Yes, please bring it to me.”

Maisie nodded. “Of course.”

As they stepped toward the door, Maisie placed her hand on Miriam's arm. The young woman stopped, looking at her arm as if expecting to see an imprint of Maisie's fingers branded onto her skin.

“Miriam, did Sebastian travel into Spain in the weeks before his death?”

Miriam nodded. “Yes—he wanted to photograph the war. My brother wanted to be important. He wanted people across the world to recognize his work.”

“Do you think he took unnecessary risks?”

Miriam shrugged. “He considered himself an artist, whereas others mostly saw him as Babayoff, who took a portrait of your new baby, or
went on the ships to photograph the rich. But he wanted to change the world with his work, so yes, I suppose he took risks that others might not.”

“And how about the people he photographed? Not the ones who posed in Mr. Solomon's shop, but others, perhaps those caught up in a scene your brother wanted to capture.” Maisie paused. “It's just a thought, having looked at his work in the cellar.”

Miriam shrugged, then motioned Maisie to the door. She slid back the bolts, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door just enough for Maisie to slip through. Once out in the street, Maisie turned to say a final good-bye, but the door had already closed. She could hear the bolts being rammed home and the key turning once again.

As she walked away across flagstones that led to another alley and finally onto Main Street, Maisie felt the weight of the photographs in her shoulder bag. Why, she wondered, was something that looked very like a submarine, floating in the waters between Spain and Gibraltar, of interest to Sebastian Babayoff? A photographer might be curious about such a thing, if that's what he thought he had seen in his viewfinder. Perhaps the increased shipping, the neutral countries keeping tabs on the situation in Spain, was of interest to the press overseas. But why had he then hidden the envelope at the back of the drawer? And why were Carlos Grillo and Sebastian Babayoff in waters that seemed so far from the coast of Gibraltar? She would have to show the images to someone more familiar with the neighboring seas if she hoped to identify the location.

And that—perhaps unfortunately—brought her back to Arturo Kenyon.

I
t was early evening by the time Maisie approached the café. It would not be long now before Mr. Salazar began to bring in chairs and tables from outside, then sweep the flagstones and close up for another night. A few soldiers were sitting at the bar, talking in low voices. A couple sat by the window, sipping coffee. As Maisie closed the door behind her, she saw the man pull a handkerchief from his pocket, lean across, and dab the side of his wife's mouth. Was it his wife? His fiancée? Or perhaps they were lovers seeking privacy in the shadows.

“Miss Dobbs!” Salazar emerged from the kitchen, approaching Maisie with both hands held out to grasp hers. He bowed and then extended one hand toward her usual seat underneath the mural. “There, I've saved it for you.”

Maisie wagged a finger at him. “Oh, you are flattering me again, Mr. Salazar—it's almost closing, and most of your customers have gone on their way.”

“For once. At least I don't have to throw anyone out onto the street
and point them in the direction of their hotel or the port.” He had pulled out the table so that she could take her place, and shifted it back again. “A coffee with lots of milk? Cocoa? Or something stronger?”

“I'd like some milky coffee—quite hot, please.”

“As good as done.”

She leaned back on the padded banquette and closed her eyes.

“It seems you are one of Salazar's favorites.”

The voice was unfamiliar. Maisie started, and looked to her right. A man was smiling at her and raising his glass—whisky or brandy, something smooth and golden, reflecting dregs of light in the shadowed café.

“I'm sorry—I did not mean to startle you.” The man reached across to offer his hand. “Antonio Vallejo. I am a regular here at Mr. Salazar's café when I am in Gibraltar.”

“Maisie Dobbs,” she introduced herself. “And I don't think I'm a favorite—Mr. Salazar knows how to woo his customers so that they come back again.”

Vallejo laughed, then seemed more serious. “And you are out alone at this hour?”

Maisie was about to respond that it was still barely twilight when she saw Salazar approaching. He set the coffee in front of her, and a plate with what looked like a sugar-covered doughnut placed on a doily.

“A little something extra for you, Miss Dobbs—it would not last until tomorrow.” Salazar waved his hand. “On the house. It's
japonesa
—we fry sweet dough and then fill it with our own special-recipe custard.”

“It will be lovely with this cup of your wonderful coffee—thank you!” Maisie wasn't sure she really wanted anything sweet, but she didn't want to disappoint Salazar.

“And you have met our professor? Miss Dobbs—the Professor.” Salazar bowed toward Vallejo.

Maisie looked at the man who had just introduced himself to her. “Professor?”

“He knows everything,” said Salazar. “Together we rearrange the world to our liking here in my café, in the evening, when other customers have gone. But this evening, well, you have the lady to talk to, Professor.” He bowed again and left the table.

Maisie lifted the coffee to her lips, blew across the foam, and took a sip.

“You really should have some of the
japonesa
—it is delicious, and a local delicacy,” said Vallejo.

She took the knife set alongside the
japonesa
and cut off a small wedge, lifting it to her lips. Its sweetness caused her tongue to tingle, the sugar crunching along her teeth as she chewed the dough. She took another sip of the coffee.

“You need some of the custard with it—it smooths out the sugar,” offered Vallejo.

Maisie nodded and took a handkerchief from her bag to wipe her lips. She turned to Vallejo. “You are a professor. I wasn't aware of a university here.”

Vallejo shook his head, setting down his drink on the table, though his right hand still held the glass. “Across the border. I work in Madrid, but my family came from Gibraltar, so I return when I can.”

“For a short visit? Isn't it difficult to cross the border at the moment?” Maisie asked the question while cutting another piece of
japonesa
. The smooth yellow custard oozed out, and she used the knife to sweep it back across the slice. She lifted it to her mouth, leaning forward in case the custard slipped. She took up her cup once more and looked at Vallejo.

“Sometimes a short visit, and sometimes not—and it is not difficult
for me to cross the border. I am not required at my post for a little while, so I decided to come for a few days.” He stared at the liquid in his glass, and sipped again. “If I had my choice, I would stay here until Spain becomes, well, quieter, if you will.”

“I have been struggling to understand the war. I have asked different people, but I still can't grasp who is on the side of good. It seems to be confusing.”

“There are many oppressed people across the border, people who are dirt poor and have little chance in life. Then there are those who don't want them anywhere near the table, let alone sitting at the feast. In 1931 the people of Spain voted in their first free election in sixty years. Until that point the country had been controlled by the rich—the landed aristocracy, the church, and the industrialists. But the new Republic had its problems, though the poor saw more in the way of education and public money. So if you are looking for the roots of the war, they lie in discontent—and discontent always rises up like froth on beer. Look at Russia. The revolution is a fine example of what might happen in such a society.”

“And what about the Communists?”

“Communism is the anger of the people—but if not tempered, it is an anger that turns on itself. It must be managed with care, or it can result in an oppression that could be as bad as the all-powerful rich pushing those who have nothing into the ground.” He set down an empty glass. Maisie watched as Salazar approached with the bottle, but Vallejo held up his hand:
No more.

Maisie leaned forward as if to ask another question, but Vallejo began to speak again.

“And Britain is complicit in the bloodshed. Your country walks a narrow path. The British government is happy to have Communists banished from their doorstep, and they are not sorry to see the poor
kept in their place—your British and their classes; the last thing they want is a powerful peasantry too close to Gibraltar. They'll appease Germany, and Italy too. They're turning a blind eye to Germany's collusion with the Nationalists—yet Germany would love to get her hands on Gibraltar. What a coup that would be! The gateway to the Mediterranean, an impermeable rock to protect interests in Europe and Africa, and then on to the rest of the world.”

“Please, Professor Vallejo, I'm afraid I don't quite see how Britain is turning a blind eye to Germany and Italy—are they involved? Please forgive me, I have been here in the town only a matter of weeks, and—”

“And you haven't seen the German or Italian aircraft given the freedom of the skies overhead? And you don't know that there are rumors they have refueled here? That they are supplying arms to Franco's Nationalist armies? Your politicians are tap-dancing on the fence while trying to protect their own interests.”

Maisie held her cup in both hands for the heat it offered. She seemed to be seeking comfort everywhere she went, yearning to be tightly held by warmth. A heavy fatigue enveloped her, and she felt the urge to leave. She was about to speak again, to offer her apologies and then depart from the café, when Vallejo leaned forward.

“May I ask, Miss Dobbs—have you recently suffered a loss? You use the title of an unmarried woman, yet you have the bearing of a widow.”

Maisie flinched.

“I apologize,” continued Vallejo. “But I could not help but feel that you wear the cloak of the bereaved.” He paused. “And you wear a wedding ring on a chain around your neck.”

Maisie felt for the ring. When she dressed each morning, she took pains to ensure it was close to her heart, but never visible above her clothing. She lifted the chain and dropped it under the collar of her blouse, feeling it brush against her skin once more.

“I am sorry for your loss—you are young to be a widow, and you must surely miss Mr. Dobbs very much.” Vallejo looked away, then back at Maisie.

“Dobbs is my maiden name, Professor Vallejo. Mr. Dobbs is my father. My married name is Compton. My husband's name was James. James Compton.”

She wondered how callous she might seem, abandoning her husband's name, though the choice was in part to protect herself.

“It must be balm for the wound across your heart,” said Vallejo. “Using your father's name.”

Maisie nodded, but moved to change the subject. “Do you know a man named Sebastian Babayoff?” It was a question without preamble.

Vallejo shook his head. “No, the name is not familiar to me. Why do you ask?”

“He was a local man, a photographer—a yeoman, if you like, taking work where he could; weddings, tourists, portraiture, some for the press. And he was murdered several weeks ago. There is a suspicion that he was a Communist.”

Vallejo inhaled audibly, the sound underlining his opinion. “If this man were a Communist, then he would be in a difficult position here in Gibraltar. Why are you interested in him?”

“He was murdered recently. I discovered his body—in fact, I probably disturbed the killer, though there was no chance of saving Mr. Babayoff.”

Vallejo gave a slow nod. “What do the police say?”

“That his life was taken by some ne'er-do-well, a poor refugee in difficult circumstances. Apparently, even though many had returned to Spain, there was another influx after the fall of Malaga—more people who were left with nothing.”

The man's expression changed, his bottom lip jutting out as he
shrugged, demonstrating his doubt. “It could have been so. But had the man, this Babayoff, been putting his hand among the vipers?”

“The vipers?”

Vallejo sighed. “This is what troubles me, Miss Dobbs. I wonder how any man professing to be a Communist could ignore what is happening in Spain. I wonder if Babayoff might not have become involved in something too big for him to manage.”

“What do you mean? How could he have been involved?”

He shrugged again. “To wage a war, both sides need money, arms, sustenance, medical supplies, a place of refuge. Sympathizers must be courted. People who can supply these necessities of battle, even a guerilla battle, must be brought into the fold. Many could be termed tea boys, runners—the little men and women who contribute here and there, perhaps sending food, perhaps offering a place to sleep, or blankets. There are men and women coming from your country, from America, Italy, and France, Russia too, and from other places, to fight with the International Brigades. More help, more support for Republicans who fight Franco—and a good number of those men and women were recruited by Communists overseas to help those of us who fight for the Republic.”

Maisie felt herself shiver, and rubbed her arms.

“Does what I say scare you, Miss Dobbs?”

“War always scares me,” said Maisie. “People swarming together to kill each other scares me, even when they are fighting for their freedom.”

“Freedom always has a high price. Look at your war of 1914. I wonder how people who have borne such loss can ever be free.”

“The cloak of bereavement always around them?”

“Yes, exactly,” said Vallejo.

Maisie raised her hand to catch the eye of Mr. Salazar, who stepped from behind the bar to approach the table. She reached for her bag.

“Please, Miss Dobbs—allow me.” Vallejo pulled a handful of coins from his pocket.

Maisie hesitated and then said, “Thank you—that is most kind of you, Professor Vallejo.” She moved to stand as Vallejo waved Salazar to his table, then added, “Tell me, Professor Vallejo, what subjects do you teach, at the university?”

“Politics and philosophy—subjects that many students are drawn to, until it comes to the actual work.”

Maisie smiled. “I taught in a college once. I enjoyed it very much.”

“I am sure you were a very good teacher,” said Vallejo, waving away Salazar's offer of change.

“I hope so—I did my best. In any case, Professor Vallejo, I must leave now.” She held out her hand.

“Until we meet again, Miss Dobbs.”

“Indeed. Until then.”

Maisie smiled at Salazar, who held open the door and bowed as she stepped out onto the street. As she walked away, she looked back and saw the lights go dim and hear Salazar push home the bolts at the top and bottom of the door. She and Vallejo had been the last customers, and Vallejo had not left with her.

It was not far to Mrs. Bishop's guest house, and Maisie's step was light across the flagstones as she made her way to the front door, slipped in the key, and closed it behind her. She was sure there was no one in the shadows waiting for her, though when she arrived at her room, she stepped across to the window without first turning on the light, just in case. She gave a sigh of relief, closed the curtains, and lay down on the bed. It was too late now to ask for soup, but as she switched on the light, she noticed a sandwich on the side table, and a small carafe of wine, together with a note from Mrs. Bishop to the effect that she was sure Miss Dobbs would like a “little something” when she returned.

Maisie did not reach for the plate, not at first. She closed her eyes to marshal her reflections upon the day. Instead of feeling closer to finding Sebastian Babayoff's killer, she felt as if the landscape from which she could pry her evidence was becoming broader and deeper. And now there was one more thing, something she had not alighted upon with a comment during her conversation, but let pass like a cloud in the sky. It was the look on Vallejo's face when he said, “and many of those men and women recruited by Communists overseas to help those of us who fight for the Republic.”