Message From Malaga (48 page)

“On the contrary. It was a bright idea. And necessary. It saved me a lot of trouble and a long walk. I’ll drop the suitcase just inside the second door—it should be safe at the top of the tunnel.”

He moved quickly, wasted no time, counted each second. When he got back to the hall, and the panel was securely in place, he had some necessary advice for her. “Let the suitcase stay there for the next three weeks. Don’t open the doors. Don’t go near it. After that, you can do what you like with it. But I’d burn the clothes, if I were you, keep nothing at all. And I’d drop the suitcase over one of your cliffs on a dark night,” he added. “Now where’s the fuse box? I’d like to see all the tunnel lights completely out.”

Tavita looked at him, but made no comment. And when he had dealt with the fuse box in a coatroom off the studio, she said in wonder, “How could you think of all these things?” It
was his turn to stare. How could anyone not think of these things? They were elementary compared to all the elaborate stratagems that Tavita—and Esteban, too; let’s not forget old helpful Esteban—could invent.

“And now you are laughing at me again,” she said, and she marched back into the big room.

“I didn’t even smile,” he protested.

“Your eyes did. Why do you always find me so—so comic?” she asked angrily.

“Not comic,” he said quickly. “Often amazing. And sometimes worrying.”

That was better. Her voice softened. “Forgive me. I am tired, nervous. And I don’t understand why you keep worrying about me. Everything is over.” Her words were more bravado than anything, as if she were persuading herself.

“That’s just the point. It isn’t. Not yet.”

“Tomás Fuentes?” she asked quickly, swinging around on him.

“Nothing to worry about him.” He watched her relax. “He is dead, remember? Just a name used by an impostor.”

She looked hard at him. Then she actually laughed at herself. “Then what do we fear? Let us go out on the terrace, and you can tell me about it.”

“I’d like to stay in the room, keep an ear open for someone at that front door. He’s a friend. His name is Sam. We thought we’d—well, keep you company for this evening.”

“Why?”

“The journalists who wanted to interview you are fakes. All they wanted was an excuse to get in here and search. And question you about Tomás Fuentes.”

“Then I will tell them exactly what I told Captain Rodriguez.”

“Their questions may be harder than his.”

“They would threaten me?” She was angry again, really angry this time.

“They would put their threats into deeds, if necessary. As Fuentes would.”

He did not have to explain further. She drew a deep breath. “And how will you and Sam prevent them? For tonight, perhaps yes. But tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? Men like Fuentes will not give up.”

Yes, he thought bitterly, how do we prevent them—even for tonight?

Tavita said, “I shall call the police.”

“No!”

“I shall call them.” She went quickly over to one of the small tables—the one with the Moorish tiles inset on its top—and picked up a small piece of paper from under a crystal paperweight. “Here it is,” she said triumphantly. “The policeman in civilian clothes left it so that I could get in touch with him if I were pestered by any anonymous notes or threatening phone calls. I didn’t pay much attention, frankly, but now it may solve our problems.”

“How? What are you going to tell him? You’d better have a good story ready, or else you’ll get tangled up with Fuentes.” Ferrier looked at the slip of paper. It was authentic, all right. “Was it visible under that paperweight? I meant, was it held only at one corner, or was it—”

“I’ll think of something,” she said, lost in her own predicament. “I’ll keep it absolutely simple and true. Let me see... I am very doubtful of an interview that has been arranged.
I cancelled it. But the journalist insists on appearing.”

“He hasn’t yet. You’ll have to wait until he and his friends arrive before you can make that complaint. And I doubt if you’ll be allowed anywhere near that telephone once they do appear.”

“We won’t let them inside. We’ll keep them waiting at the door while I telephone.”

“Waiting like me?” a cheerful voice asked, and Sam propped his elbows on the banister of the staircase that led up into the hall from the floors below.

Tavita’s reaction was to switch on some lights and then pick up the paperweight again.

“Quick, isn’t she?” Sam asked, looking at the paperweight poised and ready. “But we really don’t need all these lights. One will do, meanwhile.”

“How did you get in?” Ferrier’s annoyance with himself turned to anger. “All right, all right, drop the smile. You’re the cat that swallowed the bowl along with the cream. Tavita, don’t worry—this character is harmless.”

“Not a flattering introduction,” Sam said, and came up the rest of the staircase. He looked around, nodded appreciatively. Then in quick succession he visited the studio and Tavita’s bedroom, crossing the main room silently, flicking on and off lights as he needed them. “These are all the rooms on this floor, Señorita Vergara?” He spoke in Spanish, and fluently.

Tavita nodded, replaced the paperweight. “We are in good hands,” she said to Ferrier, half-ironically, half-seriously. So young, she thought, looking back at Sam with growing interest. He was a Spaniard. That was definite. What a relief to be able to pour out her feelings in her own language. “Where do you come from?”

“Just one minute, Tavita,” Ferrier said. And to Sam, “How did you get in here?”

“By way of the garage. I put the Simca inside—thought it better be out of sight.”

Hell, thought Ferrier, I forgot that damned Simca. “I didn’t hear you move it.”

“All it needed was a shove.” Sam was now standing at the entrance to the terrace, looking around out there. The light was fading rapidly.

“So you found a door in the garage,” Ferrier tried.

Sam finished the brief inspection. “Yes. At the back. It opened easily, led down a long flight of open stairs on to a terrace. Another door there, unlocked. Servants’ rooms and a kitchen et cetera, et cetera. Stairs up through a dining-room and its terrace. More stairs—and then this floor. Simple.”

“Too simple,” Ferrier said worriedly.

“Yes. I don’t like this set-up one bit. Doors and windows everywhere.”

“Damn all terraces,” Ferrier said softly. He didn’t insult Sam by asking if he had locked any open doors he had discovered.

“Three terraces by my count. Linked how?” Sam looked over at Tavita and repeated his question in Spanish, taking considerably more wordage.

“By stone steps,” she said. “They are short flights, but steep.”

“And that,” Ferrier decided, “is our weak point.” He visualised that flight of open stairs which had brought Sam so easily down from the garage on to the lowest terrace, and didn’t like what he was seeing. An intruder wouldn’t need to come back into the house to reach this room; all he needed to do was come up by way of terraces to this large wall of
window. Ferrier frowned at it as if one of Gene Lucas’ men had already appeared out there.

“At least they don’t know about it. And I don’t expect they’ll waste time in scouting around the garage. And if one of them does, then he’s going to give us warning: I stuck a watering can and a couple of tin buckets just behind that door at the top of the stairs.”

“We may need that warning. Waterman was with O’Connor this morning. They had a good look at this house. With binoculars. Was that long flight of open steps visible, do you think?”

Sam looked at him quickly. So he guessed. He’s not easy to fool. “It was,” Sam admitted slowly. Then he grinned and said frankly, “Bob told me about it, warned me to check on it.” He laughed it off. “I wasn’t as bright as I seemed, eh?”

“Or I wasn’t as stupid as I felt.” Ferrier glanced at his watch. Not long to wait now. “What’s the plan of operation? Have we any?”

“Bluff. That’s all we have going for us. Bluff, and keeping our lines of communication open. Come on!” Sam pulled out a king-sized cigarette case from his pocket, extended its two small aerials, adjusted them as he moved toward the terrace. “Al?” he asked quietly. “Everything okay? Yes, I’m in place. Here’s Ian—get his voice level—just in case.” Sam handed his two-way radio to Ferrier. That’s the off switch, this is the on. You speak a couple of inches from there, and listen here.” He stopped pointing, “Or do you know all about it?”

“Not this type. Nothing so neat and sophisticated.” Like you, thought Ferrier. He spoke to Al. “This is Ian. Coming over clear?”

“My God—it’s Gary Cooper.”

Another joker, Ferrier thought. “Okay. Hickory dickory dock. Over to you. And away we go.” He handed the radio back to Sam. And at that moment, the telephone rang. Ferrier and Sam looked at each other, then Ferrier stepped indoors. Tavita had picked up the receiver. She was speaking in Spanish, quickly and at some length.

“Anything important?” Sam asked, joining Ferrier.

“Something about a photograph—a private call, I think.”

“You take this.” Sam gave him the radio that looked once more like a cigarette case. “I want you to stay outside, on the terrace. Keep out of sight—Lucas knows you, doesn’t he? I’ll be with Tavita. I’m her cousin, spending the night here. At least, we’ll see if that will keep them more subdued. Sure, they’ll search the place, and we’ll let them. And if they threaten Tavita, I’ll threaten them right back.” He opened his jacket, showed a revolver tucked into his belt. “That’s when you call Al. He will get help here right away. And then you join me, waving this around to back you up. You’ve used an automatic before, have you?” Sam had produced a very neat model indeed from a trouser pocket. “That’s the safety. Then you just point and pull. Tenderly.”

Ferrier took the automatic, made sure of the safety catch. “Bluff?” he asked sardonically.

“Until it’s called,” Sam said grimly. “By the way, Al reports that there’s activity around the cars outside the hotel. They are getting ready to leave.” He glanced over at Tavita, who was remarkably silent.

Tavita had replaced the receiver. She stood looking at it as if it were a viper coiled on her table. Sam, who had been about to start explaining to her what to expect in the next hour, exchanged a puzzled glance with Ferrier. She said slowly,
“They’ll never stop. They’ll keep after me, after me, after me.” She drew a deep breath, raised her eyes to meet theirs. “The police are coming here again. Inspector Cruz is sending two of his men to show me a photograph. I have to examine it, try to identify it. He thinks it may be the man who threatened me—the impostor—the man who wrote the anonymous letter. If so, they will arrest him tonight. It is urgent—most urgent—”

“Cruz telephoned? You recognised his voice?” Sam asked quickly. “Are you sure—”

“It was his assistant who telephoned. And from the right police station. I checked. I am not stupid.” Her voice had sharpened. She picked up the paper that Cruz had left her. “And there is its address. Read it for yourself.” She held it out tensely to Sam. He took it, glanced at it, handed it to Ferrier. “He was polite, but definite. Either I look at the photograph here or Inspector Cruz will ask me to come down to his office.”

“When are they coming?” Sam asked.

“Eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock?” Sam almost swore, managed to choke the word into silence. He said to Ferrier, “That’s the way it goes: you prepare a plan and then you never use it.”

“We may need it yet.” Ferrier’s frown deepened. “There’s something I don’t like—”

Tavita broke in. “Oh, Ian—why must you always question everything? You give yourself so much worry, so much trouble. And for nothing. The police are coming. So let us think how they can help us. I’ll tell them I’ve been threatened again, this time by men who pretend to be journalists and—”

“No,” Sam said sharply. “Better not mix the police in this.”

“But I will. This is my house. And I will.” She stamped her
foot; her eyes flashed. “You are so stupid, both of you. The police will frighten away these men—”

“No,” Sam said. “No police.” Stupid, are we? These men wouldn’t be scared away permanently. They’d return, to search and question. She was only postponing her troubles, even adding to them. He looked at Ferrier for help.

Ferrier said, “Tavita—Inspector Cruz came to you about the letter. Right? And Captain Rodriguez came to you about Fuentes. Isn’t that so? Their business was separate. Rodriguez didn’t question you until Cruz had left.” But Waterman had listened to Rodriguez, Waterman had heard Tavita’s answers. He most certainly had. “So how could Cruz have learned about any impostor?”

“From Rodriguez himself,” she answered impatiently. “They met together and talked afterward. Didn’t they?”

“We don’t know that,” Sam said.

She ignored him. “Couldn’t they?” she asked Ferrier.

“They could have, but—”

“Then you frightened me for nothing.” She turned abruptly away. “I shall be in my room until they come,” she said coldly, ending all argument At its door, she paused with one last question for Sam. “Why are you so afraid of our police?”

“Afraid? You’ve got me wrong, señorita. I just don’t believe in lying to them—any police, anywhere. Never pays off. Think that over for the next few minutes, before you come out to meet—?”

She closed the door in his face.

“Four minutes,” Ferrier said, “if they are punctual.”

Sam calmed down. “Quite an act,” he said, giving one last look at Tavita’s door.

“She has been putting on a damned good act. She’s scared, far more than she’ll admit. She’s exhausted and frightened, and she has just about had it. Do you blame her?”

Sam looked at Ferrier reflectively. “So that’s the reason you didn’t press too hard.”

“Well, she may have been right. They could be real cops. I think they’re fakes, but I don’t know. There’s one sure way of finding out, though.” He moved over to the telephone, looking at the paper with Cruz’s number on it.

Sam reached the telephone first. “No,” he said softly. He put his hand down on the receiver, held it in place. His eyes were determined.

“Then I’ll try it another way,” Ferrier said angrily. Quickly, he crossed to the window, flipping open Sam’s cigarette case, and stepped out on to the terrace. Luck was with him. He got Al almost immediately. “Urgent. Get to a telephone. Is that possible?”