Message From Malaga (38 page)

Waterman said peevishly, with the usual annoyance at having been wakened from a beautiful cat nap in the sun, “Hey—order your own.”

“No time. I need Max. Would you get him?”

“What’s this—some kind of emergency?” Waterman came fully awake. “Action at last, eh?”

Ferrier became aware that the two young Spaniards had fallen quite silent. So he shook his head and said, “Nothing like that. Just another conference I guess. Where do I find him?”

“He’s in the bar.”

“The Frenchman?” Ferrier finished the glass, poured some
more beer carefully. So that was Max, on whom so much depended.

Waterman was smiling broadly. “From Montpelier, Vermont. Do you want me to tell him you’re here? But why—”

“Yes. Tell him. And keep your voice down.” Ferrier glanced at the two Spaniards seven tables away.

“No need to worry about them. They’re Max’s watchdogs.”

“Did they scare away everyone else?” The loneliness of the terrace was a surprise.

Waterman lumbered to his feet, gathered his papers. “Sunday begins at one o’clock for the in crowd.” Then as a waiter came out, he said breezily, “Well, I’ll just tidy up and meet you later.” He moved away, took charge of the waiter, too, steering him back inside the bar with a nothing-needed-here explanation. At the doorway, he almost collided with Max, who had seemingly decided to stroll out and have a look at the view from the terrace. Apologies, of course. And a small aside slipped in by Waterman: “That’s Ferrier. Wants to talk with you.”

Max nodded briefly, and stepped on to the terrace.

Waterman hesitated. But he hadn’t been invited, and he could think of no reasonable excuse to join them outside. Between them, they’ve driven me away from the pleasantest front porch in Granada, he thought with annoyance. What has Ian got to say to Max, anyway?

* * *

Ian Ferrier was saying exactly what O’Connor wanted said. He only added one thing. “Look out for tricks.” He didn’t have to add Tomás Fuentes’ name.

“That’s my business,” Max said. He had a quiet, incisive voice. An incisive man, Ferrier thought. He watched him rise,
light a cigarette as he rested his elbows on the terrace wall, look intently at the steep plunge below him. The bedroom eyes, the bored manner were gone. “Give us five minutes. Take off then. I know where your car is parked. I’ll be ready to follow.” He glanced along the terrace, caught the attention of the two young men, nodded slightly, and left. They decided to leave, too.

Ferrier finished his beer, let the young men pass his table. They walked like Spaniards, dressed like Spaniards, were arguing politely about Garcia Lorca and his poetry, but Ferrier wondered what part of the States they were from. Southern California, New Mexico, or just good old plain Nebraska? He’d never learn, of course; but it made interesting speculation. Who’d place him as Montana? Then he rose, too—he was ahead of time, but he wanted to get in place and not risk any delay—left a tip, and braced himself for his walk through the bar. Amanda Ames... It was too much to hope that she’d be still so engrossed in her postcards that she wouldn’t look up. And she’s the most attractive piece I’ve seen in years, he admitted now. Except Tavita. But Tavita is something quite apart from any other women I’ve ever known. Possibly too much for one man to handle. Is that why she has never married? And who the hell are you to speculate about the reasons why people don’t choose to marry? You’ve always found plenty of good ones for yourself.

He stepped into the bar. There were now about eight people at various tables. But no Amanda. So that problem was solved.

The lobby was more crowded, yet cathedral-like in its restraint. Outside the expensive souvenir shop, he saw Ben Waterman. To his amazement, Waterman stopped him.

“Hello, hello,” he said, as if he hadn’t left Ferrier only a few minutes ago. “Just choosing a fan for Alice. The black or the
white, what do you think?” He had his hand on Ferrier’s arm, pulled him over to look at the window display, stood close.

“For God’s sake—” Ferrier began in a low, intense voice. His annoyance changed to shock as he glanced inside the little shop. He’d recognise anywhere that smooth dark-brown hair plastered over a neat round head: Jeff’s visitor, Jeff’s killer. He was buying a guidebook, spreading out its folded map for approval.

“I know, I know,” Waterman said just as quietly. “I’m helping a lady in distress. She slipped this to me so that I could slip it to you.” Waterman did just that, inserting a postcard neatly into Ferrier’s pocket. Then he released the arm, eased away from Ferrier’s side to a more normal stance. “She’s the pretty girl in the bar. The extra-pretty girl. Don’t tell me you’ve stopped noticing,” he added with a laugh, then raised his voice to normal. “All right. It’s the black lace. And if Alice doesn’t like it, I can blame it on you.” He moved into the shop.

Ferrier turned quickly away from its window—the man inside, too busy examining the map, hadn’t noticed him. Or had he, and the guide-book was only a disguise? Ferrier searched for a cigarette, felt Amanda’s card in his pocket. What the hell was she up to? But thoughts about her were quickly driven out of his head by a second shock. Two men had just entered the hotel, passing him without a second glance. They stopped to ask directions from the white-gloved pages who were on duty near the potted palms, then headed for the bar. They noticed me, Ferrier thought, but they have an appointment to keep. For half past twelve? His glance at his watch told him he had ninety seconds to reach his car.

Ferrier moved quickly out of the hotel, pausing only to light his cigarette and look around him. He was brooding about
those two men: one black-haired and overweight, a round fat face set in a nervous smile, the pessimist who carried both a gun and a knife, the other dark-haired, too, but small and thin, with a stream of commands backed up by a long-nosed revolver—equally aimed last night at Ferrier. And where was the third of that trio? The tall blond man, powerful shoulders, arm upraised as he stepped out from the shadowed doorway into Jeff’s living-room? As long as I carry this bump on the back of my head, thought Ferrier, I’m not likely to forget him. Only, I didn’t see his face. I’ll need him grouped beside his two comrades to make sure it’s the same guy. And
there’s
one that could be a likely candidate—good God, it’s the same big bruiser who blocked my view of Jeff’s door in the crowded hospital corridor. The man had been standing near a dark-blue Fiat, talking with a friend. As soon as he had glimpsed Ferrier, he turned his back. Too obvious, Ferrier decided. What was the friend like?

Ferrier was curious enough to make a small detour to reach his rented car, which was parked not far from the hotel door—one advantage of getting here bright and early. He had a quick side look at the friend. His depression increased. It was the man who had trailed Amanda and him to the beach, the man who had driven Jeff’s murderer safely away from the hospital. So they were gathering here, a bunch of vultures. Meeting whom? For they weren’t following him, that was sure. The big fellow and his friend had started to saunter to the hotel’s entrance. So they were all here, all of them, Ferrier kept thinking. We were supposed to be so damned smart that we slipped out of Málaga unnoticed, came into Granada quietly and carefully—and they are all here. And to add to the irony of the situation, as the two
men reached the hotel, Max came strolling out.

Ferrier stepped into his car, the ignition keys ready. Twenty seconds to spare, but he might as well start up the engine and begin to move. It wouldn’t start. He tried again. Again. Again. Just an asthmatic wheeze that kept protesting, louder and louder, across the wide plaza. So that’s why they weren’t following me—didn’t have to—what did they do to this damned thing? They had heard it, for the big man and his friend had turned at the hotel doorway to watch. Max had heard it, too. He had been about to get into a car that had already drawn out of its parking space. He stopped, seemingly giving his driver some directions; his back was to the hotel, his face looking in Ferrier’s direction.

Ferrier was out of his car, walking rapidly to the little white Simca. Keep your eye on me, Max, keep your eye on me, he said silently as he stepped in and didn’t risk any more glances at either Max or the hotel entrance. The Simca’s engine turned over nicely. He backed it out from its sheltering place beside the huge Rolls, started slowly at first, his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Max must have climbed into his Mercedes, a nice powerful 280 but restrained in appearance, nothing flashy, not even too large in size; it began moving, too. And behind it came a Renault in subdued grey, not as old as it had been made to look, and much stronger in horsepower than might be expected. Ferrier put on some speed as he headed out of the plaza, noted with relief that the little caravan was not too obvious: the Renault even tried to pass the Mercedes and was waved back by the chauffeur.

Then suddenly, ahead of him, travelling straight towards him in the direction of the hotel, Ferrier saw the big yellow
sports car. It was in a hurry. He had time to turn aside his head, pretend to reach for something in the tiny back seat, and avoid being noticed. But Gene Lucas, who was driving, only had his eyes on the Renault, which was again edging out as if to pass the Mercedes. There was no Bianca with him today, no clutter of liberal chic to lighten his journey. He was alone, a large suitcase his only company. He looked hot and tired, dust-covered and tense. A man, thought Ferrier, who is almost late for a most important meeting. Then he put aside all speculation and turned the blunt hood of the little Simca down into town.

* * *

Ferrier had decided not to play coy, become too involved in small twisting streets in the hope of greater safety. The most direct route was the best. Security lay not in detours but in the unexpected speed of O’Connor’s decision. Their abrupt departure from the hotel was a help, too. So were the main streets, now crowded as Sunday came to life. Even Max and the Renault that followed were hard pressed at times to keep Ferrier in sight. For once, he thought, we’ve caught the opposition off balance. He began to enjoy himself.

He found a parking place in the lee of the Church of the Martyrs, set out quickly for the museum, with only seven minutes to spare. He glanced back as he approached the big gate to its courtyard. Max had arrived. His car had drawn up about fifty yards away, well to one side of the narrow street, the driver at the wheel, the engine idling. The Renault was behind, looking for a free space.

All right, thought Ferrier as he saw Max leave the car, here we go. He walked into the courtyard, paused inside the gates (do you see me, O’Connor, is this clear enough?), and looked
around as any stranger would. Then he turned towards the museum steps. At their top, he was stopped by a middle-aged man in grey with an iron hook for a right hand. “The museum is closing,” he was told. “In ten minutes, we close.”

“I could have a look at the main hall.”

“No. A waste of your money. Come back this afternoon.” The man was tired, but the brown eyes were friendly even if the lips looked severe under a heavy dark moustache. “There is a lot to see. It takes more than a glance.”

A gentle reprimand, thought Ferrier. “Of course. It was just my disappointment at arriving so late.” And now, he thought, I’ll have to put in time, waiting for O’Connor to leave. Or else I’ll find myself walking out with him and Fuentes. And there they were—yes, there they actually were, already out of the house and with no one seeming to notice or pay any attention to the two men who were skirting the courtyard at the slow pace of interested tourists. Either you could say O’Connor was lucky or you could credit him with being quick to choose his moment. Whatever it was, luck or skill, it was bringing him safely into the colonnade that stretched along the other side of the broad patio. He was leading the way, about six paces in front of Tomás Fuentes. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with each other.

The attendant broke off his advice to the foreigner about what he could expect to see inside the museum, said shrewdly, “You like architecture? Yes, that colonnade over there is old, fifteenth century. It was built before Columbus sailed for America.” His iron hook waved in the air as he pointed. (Ferrier controlled his flinch, not so much at the hook, but at its direction. If Fuentes had seen that, he was likely to start running.) “It’s just as it
was—except for the tinsmith’s shop in the corner near the gate. Commercial.” He shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips. Then he turned to warn some youngsters to take the steps more carefully, limped back to his post at the museum door to watch the visitors who were starting to trickle out. Ferrier joined a small group of them, followed their slow progress down the broad stone stairs. Now he could watch the colonnade in safety.

And it was worth watching. O’Connor, walking leisurely, was past the tinsmith’s shop and strolling towards the gate. Fuentes had just reached the tinsmith’s, seemed interested by its window display, then halted at its door. He was kneeling, tying a shoelace. And Ferrier almost halted, too, in his surprise. For as Fuentes rose, he slipped something under the door. Or touched it? Or what? (Had he actually slipped something—an envelope, a letter—something that had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared in Fuentes’ hand? Ridiculous, Ferrier told himself: you are just too damned suspicious of that character.) Now he was following O’Connor again, walking a little more smartly to make up for lost seconds.

Ferrier came down the last two steps into the courtyard, let the thickening clot of people jostle around him. His impulse was to cross over to the colonnade, have a look at the tinsmith’s door. But it wouldn’t be particularly wise to draw the attendant’s quick eyes back in that direction; he had already noticed Ferrier’s interest. Once was understandable; twice would be emphasis. So Ferrier walked thoughtfully towards the gate. Possibly, he decided at last, he had imagined too much: Fuentes might only have been steadying himself as he rose. But with a man like Fuentes, you came to expect tricks. He enjoyed them, that was the truth of it. The detailed attention
to his disguise must have given him a lot of pleasure. He was determined to be a winner, even in the smallest things. His dark suit, for instance, must have had a much larger chest size than his light dapper grey. Yet it had been well filled, as if he had added several inches to his girth and a full twenty pounds to his weight. Padded, or bulging with his special possessions? His movements had also changed: stride shortened, head and shoulders pitched slightly forward, hands scarcely swinging. From across the courtyard, he had seemed older, a little stiff in his joints. Thorough, that was Fuentes.