Message From Malaga (22 page)

Ferrier, no more than thirty tantalising feet away from the blue Fiat, saw it make a right on the avenue, slip into a heavy
stream of traffic. He stopped, staring after it, helpless and angry. It was the same car that had waited outside Reid’s house this morning in the Calle San Julian, the same car that had trailed him and Amanda Ames down to the beach. And the same driver. The passenger beside him, shoulders clearly visible as the car had made its quick turn even if his face had been averted, wore a dark suit, and the back of his head, brown-haired, was neat and smoothly brushed.

Ferrier took a deep, long breath, started back towards the hospital. What could you have done, actually? he asked himself. Yelled at the car, got the policeman to stop it, and then what? There were no charges he could make except to sound wild, crazy. There was no proof at all. Short of searching that man, of having an expert standing by who could recognise a cyanide spray gun when he saw it, there was no proof possible. He approached the hospital steps, skirted the handcarts piled with bunches of flowers, a brilliance of reds and yellows and pinks and purples, thought of red roses and Tavita, and wondered how he was going to tell her. And when. Don’t panic Fuentes, Jeff Reid had said. Don’t panic Tavita, either, he told himself. Then suddenly he had his own mild panic, thrust his hand deep into his trouser pocket. It was still there, Jeff’s lighter. My God, he thought in horror, I might have lost it in that wild run along the street—it might have dropped out, or it could have been lifted by pickpocketing fingers when I got jammed in a crowd. But it was there. He reached the steps, mounted them slowly.

“Señor Ferrier!”

He stopped and turned, saw Captain Rodriguez leave his car, which had been parked across the little square in front of the steps, and walk toward him. How long has he been there?
Ferrier wondered. The car looks well embedded in the rows of automobiles over on that side of the square, and I saw it—yes, I’m pretty sure I saw it when I came out of the hospital—but I didn’t see Rodriguez. What was he doing? Loitering behind one of those palm trees or ducking down behind his chauffeur?

“Yes,” Rodriguez said lightly as he reached Ferrier and halted beside him on the top step, “my lieutenant was right. You are an angry man.”

Ferrier glared at the small grey car and its driver.

“He saw you come running out of the hospital and he—”

“Didn’t you? Or were you tying your shoelace?”

Rodriguez’ attempts at a friendly joke ended. He looked hurt, then angry. And then he decided to ignore the rudeness. “Something is wrong, I think,” he said softly, studying Ferrier’s face.

“Yes. Very far wrong.” Ferrier made an effort, brought the harsh words out. “Reid is dead.”

“
What
?” Rodriguez was bewildered. “I was waiting to see him—seemed better to let you finish your visit.”

Much better, thought Ferrier bitterly. If Rodriguez had managed to place a bug in that room, all he needed was to let Jeff and me talk ourselves out. I wish I could see his face when he plays back our conversation. All he will hear is the Haffner and Brahms’s Fourth and a mumble-mumble background.

Rodriguez recovered. His face was grave. “When did it happen?”

“Ten minutes ago. Perhaps less.”

“And the cause?”

“They’ll say it was a heart attack.”

Rodriguez stared at the American, frowned. His lips
tightened. He said stiffly, “Are you implying that our hospitals are careless?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps I did not understand your English correctly?”

“Perhaps.”

Rodriguez again studied Ferrier’s face. I am a patient man, he reminded himself. “Let us go inside,” he said politely, pulling the door open, stepping aside and as he held it. “After you, Señor Ferrier.” The golden glare of the street gave way to dim shadow; a warm breeze stirred around the hall from its ceiling fan. The sharp noises of traffic faded. There was an illusion of coolness and peace. An illusion... Ferrier looked around, for Medina. He saw two white-coated doctors, a nurse, a few people grouped at the reception desk, two harried attendants, but apart from that the hall was almost empty now. Was Medina in Jeff’s room?

“Tell me one thing,” Rodriguez said. “Why did you go racing into the street? What were you searching for?”

So he did see me; may even have followed me, Ferrier thought. “A man in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase. He had been visiting Reid. Just after he left, we found Reid dead.”

Rodriguez’ dark eyes sharpened. “What was his name?”

“No one seems to know.”

“Nonsense. All visitors to private rooms have their names noted, along with their times of arrival.” He moved over to the desk, spoke authoritatively, argued for at least two minutes while the reception clerk checked and rechecked his file, then came back to where Ferrier waited. Rodriguez was annoyed and puzzled. “There is no entry for that man. He passed through with a young visiting doctor called Medina, and it was assumed that they were colleagues, that the stranger had been
called in for consultation.” He controlled his temper, shrugged his shoulders, excused the hospital with one final word. “Naturally,” he ended lamely.

“Naturally. But Medina doesn’t know him. He was only showing the man the way to Reid’s room.”

“Did Reid know him?”

“No. But his credentials seemed believable. He came from some business firm that Reid deals with—an urgent signature was all he wanted.”

“A strange thing,” Rodriguez said softly. Ferrier’s spine tightened, but he kept his face expressionless. “That man’s dress, I mean,” Rodriguez added. “He carried more than a briefcase when he arrived. There was also a book. And a noticeable bandage on his thumb. And a flower in his lapel. Did you notice those?”

Ferrier nodded.

“Did you see him when he left?”

“Only the back of his head. There was a crush in the corridor just then. The gong had sounded for visitors to move into the wards.”

“Then you didn’t see that he was still carrying the briefcase, but no book, flower, or bandage? But perhaps,” Rodriguez added thoughtfully, watching Ferrier’s eyes, “the need for that was over.”

Ferrier looked at Rodriguez sharply.

Rodriguez was enjoying himself. “Yes, that interested me, too. It looks as if he might have used these little additions for—well, for the purpose of identifying himself quite clearly to someone who was a stranger. It’s quite a common method in some circles. It makes sure of meeting the right man.”

Again he is prowling around Jeff, thought Ferrier, can’t he leave him alone? Jeff is dead; Rodriguez’ file on him is closed. And then he thought, But Jeff didn’t need to see that kind of identification; all he needed was one small silver pencil.

Rodriguez said softly, “I seem to have shocked you.”

I could cause Medina some real pain, Ferrier decided, if I were to open my mouth at this moment. So he kept it closed, tight. He nodded a goodbye, started toward the corridor, determined to find Medina and ask a few questions of his own. By God, he thought in rising anger, if my suspicions are right, if Medina actually did meet an assassin and bring him safely into Jeff’s room... But at whose suggestion? Was he simply being used by someone like Gene Lucas, that plausible liar? Someone who knew Medina’s vanities and weakness, and manipulated him skilfully? Medina could be just another Adam Reid, two of a kind, never realising what they were doing, never knowing how much blame they carried. Nature’s fools.

Ferrier turned the corner into the corridor, almost knocked over Medina. He had been talking to a grave-faced sister whose hands were clasped and her head slightly bowed as she listened, wordless, to Medina’s small lecture. He regained his balance, looked around sharply at Ferrier, calmed down as he saw who it was. “I was just about to leave. There is no more that can be done. Heart failure.” Then he went on lecturing the sister. She was, Ferrier noted as she raised her look at him sadly from under the sweeping brim of her white starched hat, the same one who had spoken with him last night and given him Reid’s requests. Medina was telling her, “It was a grave mistake to let him have any visitors, any excitement. That was my advice last night, and it was correct. Most unfortunate that—”

“And what about the visitor you brought him?” Ferrier asked.

“I?”

“Yes, you,” Ferrier said calmly. He was conscious that someone else had just turned the corner to stand behind him. Perhaps a doctor, another nurse; or Rodriguez?

“That was nothing, a signature; it aroused no excitement. A matter of a few minutes. Nothing.”

“So I am to blame?” Ferrier’s tone was almost conversational.

“No, no—you did not mean to endanger Señor Reid. It was simply unfortunate—”

“And you are quite sure it was heart failure?”

“We all are.” Medina was totally convinced, and perhaps glad that he could be so completely sure. No conscience at all, thought Ferrier, no misgivings, not one hint that he was puzzled or troubled or even sorry. He looked at Medina disbelievingly as the man went on talking. “They’ve taken the body into surgery now—an attempt to try to save him. The effort must be made, of course. But useless, I’m afraid. It was a quick, severe heart attack. We must face the cold fact that there is no miracle to be expected, not even here.”

The sister’s face tightened, but she kept her silence.

Ferrier said, “You told me that Jeff Reid was as strong as an ox. Your words. His last checkup—”

“Made by my uncle,” Medina said quickly. And that disposed of that.

Ferrier resisted the old American solution: one to the gut, one to the jaw. Crude, Europeans said. But it would have been extremely satisfying, right now. And he couldn’t even use a few jabs of well-aimed phrases—not the place, not the time.
Phrases such as “Well, I’m glad you’ve recovered from your hysteria. What were you afraid of finding when you put on that performance in Reid’s room? A death from unnatural causes? Thumbmarks on a throat, or signs of an injection in an arm? How fortunate it was so natural, a heart attack, nothing to be explained, something we all accept.” But he resisted hard. He took a long, deep breath, let his eyes drift away from Medina’s. He could feel the man relax. No proof, thought Ferrier, all I have is suspicions. If I had got hold of that stranger and his briefcase, forced him back to the hospital for questioning—but I didn’t. He stared at the white starched wings floating in perfect balance over the sister’s grave face. “Can I be of some help?” he asked her. Or do I just leave? he wondered. He felt useless in every way.

“Yes,” she said, gave a small bow to Medina, and turned toward Reid’s room. “If you would come with me, Señor Ferrier?”

He nodded, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that it was Rodriguez who was standing patiently a little distance behind him. It was. Ferrier didn’t resist, this time. He said to Medina, “By the way, it may not be so difficult to find the name of the stranger you brought in here. Perhaps your friend Lucas can tell you who he is.”

Medina looked at him sharply. You could almost hear him calculating how much he could deny, how much he should admit.

“Gene Lucas,” Ferrier said quietly. The sister had stopped, looked around. Rodriguez, keeping tactfully apart, was studying the vaulted ceiling.

“An acquaintance—I scarcely know him.” Medina was recovering.

“Even so, you could always ask him who the man was.”

“But how would he know?” Medina was bewildered, a study in puzzled innocence.

“He knows the blue Fiat in which the man was driven away. He also knows the driver.” Ferrier nodded a definite goodbye, started along the corridor toward the waiting sister.

“Why should we worry about that man?” Medina called angrily after him. It was a good question, and a dangerous one. And a revealing one, too: everything I say will be reported to Lucas, thought Ferrier as he halted and weighed his answer carefully. But he was spared it. Rodriguez had moved forward, was answering for him.

Rodriguez said gently, “It is a matter of straightening out the records of the hospital. It is the least you could do, don’t you think? You did escort the man—”

“He was a stranger to me.”

“Dr. Medina, I saw you waiting outside the hospital.”

Ferrier walked on slowly. So Rodriguez had seen it all.

Medina was saying, “I wasn’t waiting. I was looking at the crowds. People interest me.”

“My impression,” Rodriguez insisted, “was that you stepped forward when you saw him and—”

“Then your impression was wrong.” Medina’s anger carried clearly along the corridor.

The sister looked at Ferrier worriedly. “Dr. Medina is a difficult man,” she whispered. “He could cause us much trouble.”

“Not so much, now,” Ferrier reassured her. No one, but no one, told Captain Rodriguez that his impressions were wrong.

Rodriguez was saying, his tone satin-smooth, “In that case,
I apologise. But first, let me identify myself, and then we can talk a little more.” The voice faded. Ferrier looked back along the corridor. Medina and Rodriguez were leaving. The shock of Rodriguez’ identification seemed to have silenced Medina temporarily. But he will soon get his second wind, thought Ferrier; he will stick to his story, and nothing can be proved otherwise. I was wrong about Medina. He isn’t one of Nature’s fools. He is a natural conspirator.

“Who is that man who speaks with Dr. Medina?” the sister asked.

He hesitated, wondering whether he should add to the load of her anxieties by mentioning police or State Security.

She took his silence as ignorance. “At least,” she said, “he seemed to be a friend of the hospital. I hope he can persuade Dr. Medina that there was no carelessness, no—”

“I’m sure he will.”

“A dreadful event. We are so sorry. So very sorry.” She halted at the open doorway of Reid’s room. “I thought you might take away the things you brought for Señor Reid. And there are some more of his possessions.” She looked at the empty bed. “Was I to blame?” she asked in real anguish.

“No.”

“But Dr. Medina seemed to believe—”

“No,” he said again, firmly. “He was afraid of being blamed himself. That was all.” And you were such an easy target, he thought, watching the honest anxious face with compassion.