Message From Malaga (39 page)

The narrow street was busier now. Ferrier could risk walking smartly towards the church, cutting through the flux of people trailing out from the museum courtyard. Ahead of him, he saw a door being closed on Max’s Mercedes, and at once the car started moving, careful not to brush any of the pedestrians. Then, reaching a freer space, it increased its speed to the legal limit. Ferrier barely glanced at it as it swept past him. He noted, with interest, a man sitting beside the driver. Max was in the back seat with Fuentes, who was now wearing a tilted beret to add a new touch to his bald head. Behind them came the Renault, not too near, not too far. There were three men in this car—two unknowns, one recognisable. He was one of the two young men who had quoted poetry on the hotel terrace. I bet Garcia Lorca is far from his mind now, thought Ferrier. And Max has increased his quota. He has taken along not a couple of men, but three, excluding the drivers. That makes five of them to back him up, if need be. Max, I like your style.

Ferrier reached the Simca. (He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Robert O’Connor, which was as it should be.) All over, he kept thinking, all over. Goodbye to Tomás Fuentes. All over, and
thank God for that. Then he remembered Amanda’s postcard.

He pulled it out of his pocket, switched off the ignition. The writing was hurried, and depressed—its line descended in a trailing slope. Like Jeanne Moreau’s mouth, he thought. An unhappy sign. The message began bravely, ended strangely.
Can I take you up on that lunch? I’ll have a table for two o’clock. Inside. If you’re late, don’t worry. I’ll wait.

He turned the card over. It was a colourful view of a garden restaurant, a sort of green terrace, with a venerable building as close background. This, the descriptive small print told him, was the Parador Nacional de San Francisco, where Washington Irving, the celebrated American writer, had spent many happy years being inspired by the great beauties of the Alhambra. Which beauties? Ferrier wondered irreverently. Then he became serious again as he looked at Amanda’s writing.
I’ll wait
. It wasn’t the kind of phrase that a girl as pretty as Amanda Ames ever needed to use. Translated, it probably meant
Vital that I see you
. And it had better be: the last thing he needed today was luncheon with a charming question mark; what he wanted right now was an hour stretched flat on his back, with his eyes blissfully closed. It was the warm sun pouring into the little front seat of the car that had made him feel the full extent of the effort and strain of these last twenty-four hours. All over, he thought again.

He slipped the card back into his pocket, turned on the engine, forced himself to stay awake as far as the hotel. He’d cat nap in his room. Leave instructions to be called at a quarter of two. The Alhambra grounds weren’t far away from the hotel—a few minutes by car. And the
parador
was at the edge of their walls; no problem in finding it. Cat naps were no
problem, either. There had been many times when he had lived on them for several days.

I’ll wait...
Pathetic and sad. Or was that just a part of the act?

Ferrier was twelve minutes late even before he reached the
parador
and annoyed with himself. (He had not allowed for the possibility that he might be followed from the hotel. Perhaps it had been a false alarm—he was inclined to think not—but he had taken the precaution of a roundabout route instead of the direct road.) He managed to find a small space for the Simca near the gatehouse, with a tip for the grey-coated attendant—the quadrangle was full of cars—and that added some more minutes. Then he had to make his way through a garden with fountain and cloisters, all very charming except that he was in no mood to appreciate the attractions of a sixteenth-century convent; and after that through a series of small rooms—elegant in the Spanish style, with wood beams, white walls, tiled floors, native rugs, hand-woven linen massively draped, dark rich colours, heavy candlesticks, wrought iron, large bowls packed with bright flowers. Beyond
all this was the dining terrace and garden, filled with tables and crammed with guests. People everywhere, indoors, too. Amanda had certainly chosen a lonely spot for her rendezvous. And he had come too far, must have passed the room where she waited. He was closer to being twenty minutes late when he found her, tucked away at a corner table with her back to the room. He had been looking for a girl in a blue dress, and she had changed to brown. In spite of his annoyance, rapidly mounting, he had to smile.

She noticed his smile with relief, brushed aside his apologies. “You
did
come,” she said thankfully. “After I sent that card—”

“How did you know it would reach me?” He had taken the seat on her right, the chair opposite her being already filled with a white silk coat and her white duffel bag type of purse.

“Simple. From where I sat in the bar, I could see the back of your friend’s head. When you went out to the terrace, he turned his head and began to speak in your direction. I couldn’t see you, but who else was there? Unless he was talking to himself, of course.”

They shared a laugh, small, tentative. Then seriously, he looked at her. Her face was a little drawn and tired, but she really was a stunning girl. That brown dress, for instance—not a colour he’d choose as his favourite, but it looked good on her, lightened by a white coral necklace that curved down to her breasts, lay between them. It was the quality of her skin, of a tan that wasn’t too deep; honey and roses, he thought. Brown highlights were emphasised in her dark hair, lashes and eyebrows black, and those deep-blue eyes looking back at him so frankly.

“Yes?” she asked him.

“Oh, just admiring your earrings.”

She was amused again. The earrings were simple little studs to match her necklace. She shook her head, as if he baffled her in a light way.

“So you saw me walk through the bar. Why didn’t you say hello?” he asked.

Her voice dropped to a low level. “Too many strange people around. Gene Lucas’ friends were all over the place—oh, not staying at that hotel. Lucas is, though. They are meeting there, right now. In my room.”

“What?” He was taken aback, and showed it. He looked around quickly, just to make sure they wouldn’t be overlooked even speaking as quietly as they were. The well-spaced tables reassured him. Indoors wasn’t as tightly packed as the open terrace. And the tables were self-absorbed, buzzing with tourist talk in several languages. Although none of the other guests were bothering to lower their voices, the only distinguishable words were an emphatic no or a clear yes that shot out from the mixed brew.

Amanda had been saying, “Lucas came panting along—he had arrived a little late—and asked me if he could use my room to meet a few friends. His own room wasn’t ready to receive him. He said. It could be true, it could be a lie. You never can tell with Lucas.”

“But you didn’t have to let him—”

“But I do. Or are you forgetting my job? It is to penetrate the Lucas set up. I’ll never do that by refusing—” She stopped as his hand touched her arm, warning her that a waitress was approaching. “Sherry,” she told him. “Amontillado.” She kept silent after that until the girl left, watched him curiously. “You
look so dubious, Ian. The waitress will bring you real Scotch, just as you ordered. They are geared for foreigners at these inns. They’re tourist industry.”

“Dubious?” he asked jokingly. Had he really let his feelings about Amanda’s job show so clearly? And there was a twist there: Amanda’s job, according to Martin last night, might be just the opposite of what she had stated so calmly. Her mission might be—if Martin’s doubts were on the right wavelength—the penetration of Martin’s Málaga network.

“Too much word,” she agreed. “Something half-strength would have been closer. You looked just a little—on guard, leery, expectant of the worst, slightly sceptical. That was all. Or were you nervous about me? I shouldn’t have told you about my exact job in so many direct words. I know—I shouldn’t have. Only, I’m scared stiff, and you are the only person I know in Granada whom I can trust.”

She was deadly serious, intense. Too intense. She’d be likely to break down any minute. So he tried to lighten the mood. “Come on, Amanda, you know better than to take anyone at face value. I could be—”

“You couldn’t.” She paused, then said slowly, “I heard about Jeff Reid.”

He was silent.

Her voice dropped even more. “It was murder. Did you know that?”

The blue eyes were fearful, sad, and so completely honest. Damn Martin, he thought, for the suspicions he planted. Martin would say right now that this could be a small probe to find out if he had any proof of assassination, and if so—as the only person so far who had any evidence to offer—Ferrier was
putting himself in some real danger by admitting it. He looked away from those blue eyes. “How did you find that out? Or am I making you break security again?”

“How I found out doesn’t matter. What I’ve found out is the important thing. Ian—remember that man Lucas asked you about yesterday?”

Tomás Fuentes. “I remember,” he said carefully.

“He is in Granada,” she said, almost in a whisper. “That is why Gene Lucas is here.”

And much good it will do him, Ferrier thought with a touch of satisfaction. He hoped his face was totally blank of expression.

“And that is why Martin sent me here.”

“Martin?”

She nodded. “At least, I now think that is why. Martin didn’t explain, just told me to leave early this morning for Granada. He had reserved a room for me at the Palace. He said Lucas was going to be there.”

“And when did you see Martin?” Last I heard, Ferrier thought, Martin was going to start investigating. A strange way of making an enquiry, to send a suspect right into the middle of a highly sensitive, top-secret operation. Or was this some kind of test?

“I’ve never seen him. Just instructions and messages.”

“And when did you get this one?”

“Late last night—almost half past eleven—I got a phone call to go to—” she hesitated—“to a place where I pick up any important message. When I got there five minutes later, I was given a number to phone. There was a woman at the other end. She told me to hang up and wait. I did. When the call
came through, it was from Martin.” She tried to smile. “He’s a most untraceable person. I suppose it is necessary. Only—yes, I do get irritated. The others who have dealt with me—more important than Martin, I think, although that’s possibly sacrilege—well, they just don’t behave like that. Careful, yes; but they keep everything simple and direct. I don’t think Martin trusts anyone.”

“Except himself?” Ferrier asked. Martin’s super caution was beginning to look comic, now that the Tomás Fuentes incident was definitely closed as far as Málaga was concerned. Trust Martin to fuss and blow smoke screens after he arrived too late. I suppose, Ferrier was thinking, Martin wanted a part of the action and some of the credit. This wasn’t his business—O’Connor had made that clear—but Martin had the excuse that Málaga was his special thing and what happened there was his responsibility. At least, he was making it so. But in what an inept way: sending a girl on a man’s errand—this job was far too tricky, too dangerous for Amanda to handle alone. And a girl of whom he wasn’t sure, at that. “He’s a fool,” Ferrier said in sudden anger.

“Not that,” she said loyally. “It’s just his peculiar way. You know—”

“Here are the drinks,” he warned her, as the waitress with the friendly eyes and fresh complexion came slowly into the room with a carefully carried tray. “And we’d better order, don’t you think?” Service was dependable but slow; white starched aprons and intense concentration.

Amanda picked up a menu, looked at it without much interest. Her thoughts were far away from food. “You choose.”

“Well, for the first course: some light talk. For the main
dish: conversation. And we’ll postpone all business until we are drinking our coffee. How’s that?”

“Business may take some time,” she said worriedly.

“I’ve all afternoon,” he assured her. Sure, O’Connor had said something about slipping into Room 307 for a small chat; but if anything important had developed, O’Connor would certainly have sent for him, wakened him out of his brief sleep if necessary. And Ben had no doubt squinted at the postcard. They’d know where to find him.

“I have to leave by a quarter of four—at the latest.”

“Then we’d better get the food on the fire. Have a good swig of that sherry. You look as if you needed it.” And while she sipped the sherry, he decided quickly on gazpacho, broiled mountain trout, wild strawberries. For wine, there was a white
vino de la casa
which seemed to be going down well at other tables and would possibly arrive more promptly than some special Rioja, which would take more time in service. And lastly, at the risk of appearing a barbarian, he told the apple-cheeked waitress they must leave, unfortunately, what a pity, unavoidable, in just over an hour. Would she attend to that, please, thank you, that’s very kind of you, it is possible?

Amanda watched the girl hurry away. “She likes your smile.” Then she looked at him. “So do I. But it has been in short supply, today. Yesterday, of course, was pretty rough on you.” Her voice trailed away, her eyes looked down at her glass. “Jeff Reid... Am I next on the list?”

For a moment, he said nothing. Was this why she was so upset? “Now stop that! You and I are going to relax for the next hour. D’you hear? Look, Amanda, I haven’t had a decent meal since yesterday’s lunch—and you haven’t had one, either.”

“I didn’t even have lunch, yesterday. The picnic was a complete flop. It was really comic. We didn’t get one nautical mile out of that little harbour. Something went wrong with the boat’s engine, and Lucas twisted his ankle—beautifully staged, both items—and so we came back into port. Bianca and her friends were furious: they had all stripped down for a lazy afternoon and, instead of that, they had to put their clothes back on and take taxis to another beach. The one at the dock was much too crowded, they said. Lucas gave them the picnic baskets along with his regrets—sort of a consolation prize. Then he went off to find a doctor and get his ankle taped.”