Gibraltar Road (18 page)

Shaw felt flummoxed. There was still really no lead of any kind, and his surmises about the
Ostrowiec
didn’t help much. He considered the possibility of advising the Embassy in Madrid to ask for unofficial co-operation from the Spanish authorities in this matter of the Polish ship—he knew the Naval Attache, and knew that he was the sort who might be able to get things like that done. But Gibraltar was a sore point, and, though the Spaniards wouldn’t like the idea of harbouring Karina’s outfit, Shaw knew that they’d have to be told rather too much before they would act—and even then, the due processes, even the unofficial ones, would take far too long. Information might be released, Project Sinker jeopardized, without any results being achieved at all . . . there was far too much behind all this to permit of any security leakage just yet, before it became inevitable. He had to have a chance of finding Ackroyd and Karina himself before anyone else was brought into this; and he was prepared to back himself a little longer yet. So the answer was as before: find Karina now, and not wait for her to move on her departure-point; but meanwhile he’d better send a code telegram to Latymer telling him of his suspicions so that the British Government could be warned.

As Shaw put the shipping-list back into its envelope and thrust it into his pocket he saw Debonnair coming towards him across the lawn, and he waved.

When she reached him she asked, “In trouble, darling?” His eyebrows tilted into that crooked line as he grinned at her. “Let’s just say I’m not making much progress!”

She looked at him in concern. “I wish I could help.”

“I know, Debbie. But you can’t, not in this.”

“I can, you know, Esmonde.” She came over to him, pulled him down to the ground beneath a tree, ruffled up his hair as they sat there together. “Listen. When you do get a lead— and you will, don’t worry—you’ll probably have to go quickly. So you won’t want to waste time arguing whether I’m coming with you or not. This is just to tell you that I am—see?”

That afternoon Shaw slipped into Malaga, sent his coded telegram to London, then strolled casually round the dock area, not taking too obvious an interest in the
Ostrowiec
. The ship was unloading a cargo and nothing out of the ordinary appeared to be taking place. Afterwards Shaw made some discreet inquiries in a couple of bars near the docks, but could pick up no hint of any likely sailing date for the ship, and after a while he went back to Torremolinos; and that night, after changing into his
hombre
rig, he made again for that scruffy little bar in the village. He was determined to find some lead to Domingo Felipe that night; and he was convinced that the bartender knew where the contact could be found. After the episode of last night, he could, he knew well, be heading into danger, but it was a risk he was forced to take.

He had a nasty feeling that conversation was stopping as he entered the bar.

As he asked for a glass of
vino
he saw a look pass from the bartender to some one at a table behind him. He didn’t see then who had met that look, for he didn’t consider it wise to display too much interest. But there was a decidedly naked feeling in his spine when he went over to sit at a table on the opposite side of the room from where the barman had glanced so meaningly. And after a time a man sitting across the gangway finished up his drink and got to his feet. He was a tall man, with a deep scar running the length of his right cheek, so deep that Shaw could almost see the bone at the bottom of the chasm of cleft flesh. As he lurched past Shaw’s table, this man dropped a coin through a hole in his trouser-pocket, gave it a little flick with his foot so that it rolled under Shaw’s table. The man swore fluently, bent to retrieve it; politely Shaw drew back his chair and joined in the search, and as the two heads came together he felt the man’s fingers squeeze his hand very gently. In a whisper so low that Shaw could only just make out the words, he said:

“Number Thirty-seven, Calle Santa Marta, Malaga.”

Cursing still, he found his coin, brought himself upright, and without another glance at Shaw he walked out of the bar.

Shaw didn’t linger after that.

Though nothing had been said in so many words, he felt quite certain that this address was where he would find Domingo Felipe and that it was genuine, for he had a good nose for a trap as a rule—though he blushed when he thought how Karina had fooled him. In any case, he would have to take risks now, for he was desperately short of time.

Leaving the bar, he caught the smelly, shaky bus into Malaga. It was the week of the fiesta in the town, and the bus was packed tight with those who had not managed to get in earlier. Shaw was hemmed in between fat and sweating bodies, scarcely able to move or even breathe, and his ears were bombarded by the continual loud, gay chatter and the horrible noises of the engine, his nose assailed by the many varied smells. The bus kept on stopping to pick up even more people en route; every one cheerfully moved along, and eventually Shaw was unable to move hand or foot. He felt he was never going to get out again as the vehicle swayed and jolted on, speeding dangerously.

On arrival Shaw found the fiesta in full swing, and he had to fight his way through the gaily dressed, laughing crowds who were dancing in the streets and squares to the all-pervading flamenco music. The noise drummed at his brain, and he felt quite sick with the greasy smell of frying-oil from the stalls where the
churros
and
bunuelos
—light pastries fried in deep oil—were being cooked. He pressed through those crowds, many of the men half-drunk sailors from the ships in port, prey to the pimps and women of the town; past the brothels, the usual tiny bars and cafes which were filled with light and sound and laughter and singing, with the strumming of guitars and with the occasional tinny notes of a junk-heap piano. Over all that flamenco music, the traditional music of Andalusia.

On the fringes of the crowd Shaw somewhat breathlessly asked the way to the Calle Santa Marta. When, following the verbose directions, he found it, it was a bleak contrast to the gaiety and the life and friendliness which he had now left behind him. It was a foul, filthy-looking alleyway full of dark doorways and deep shadows and overhanging balconies which seemed about to drop from the walls, with the same fetid smell of rotting dirt and lack of drainage as he’d smelt in La Linea not long before. Shaw walked along that stinking way, his flesh crawling; half-way along a twist in the alley took him from sight of the street at the end, and horrible thoughts crowded in on him as he reached Number Thirty-seven. The woodwork of the door almost fell away from him as he knocked, the whole frame heaving and falling back, feeling soft and crumbly and rotten to the touch, damp and putrid with slime. Round the sides of this door escaped some unnameable stench which nearly knocked Shaw off his feet. He retched violently; the thin outline of a face appeared briefly as a lightish blur against a window; a moment later the door was dragged protestingly back.

A voice whispered hoarsely, “Who is it?”

“Pedro Gomez.”

“Your credentials—your number?”

Shaw gave his departmental identification number, asked for the other man’s. Felipe told him, inquired, “You are satisfied, señor?”

Shaw nodded, trying to still the dreadful flutterings of his stomach, which was heaving up into his throat with a sharp, bitter taste.

“Come inside, and quickly,
amigo
—quickly.”

He went in.

The place was in utter darkness, and he stumbled into something which moved. He shrank back in horror, instinctively, and felt the skin pricking at the back of his neck and along his shoulder-blades, and a slow, crawling sensation in his legs. Then a flick of something furry swept his ankles, there was a mewing sound, and he relaxed. It was only a cat. The smell was really dreadful inside, with apparently no inlet of fresh air to drive the foulness away. The man who had admitted him came up to him in the pitch-darkness, drew him farther into the hovel, apparently into a back room, for Shaw stumbled and nearly fell over a low step and cannoned into what seemed to be a doorpost.

The man struck a match and a candle flickered up in an empty Fundador bottle. Shaw looked round the room, at its grimy, peeling walls and the heap of filth on the floor, the food cupboard hanging open to reveal one of the nastiest sights Shaw had ever seen: an assortment of rotting food covered with dust and mould and a heap of what had once been fresh meat crawling with thick white maggots. He shuddered, forced his attention away, gulped down his mounting nausea. Then he looked at the man who was moving about behind him.

He was a tall, emaciated figure, heavily pock-marked, and with several days’ growth of thin, straggly beard on his sunken cheeks. Half his nose was gone, eaten away by some foul disease, so that it was little more than a piece of bone and one misshapen nostril formed by thin, transparent white flesh; the other nasal opening was a mere hole farther up in the face. From between this hole and the shaggy grey brows bright eyes peered out at Shaw.

Shaw gazed in horrible fascination, and the man gave a bitter grin. There were no teeth; the gums were white and bloodless like the lips. As Shaw flushed a little, conscious now of his rude stare, Felipe said in a half-whisper, “Do not be alarmed. Appearances—bah! I care nothing for them—what do they matter, my friend, my friend Gomez? It is information you want—is that not so?”

“That’s quite right, señor. I am sorry.”

Felipe waved apology aside. A welcome draught came from the doorway then; blew fresh air into Shaw’s nostrils momentarily; caught the candle, making it gutter until it nearly went out. Shaw had a horrible and painful moment of claustrophobia, worse than he had experienced in Ackroyd’s tunnel-workshop; he felt dread at the idea of being in that room again in the dark. The man, sensing this, laughed; then he grew serious.

“Sit,” he ordered suddenly.

Shaw moved over and sat on the edge of a filthy chair from which sawdust stuffing flew in all directions as the weight of his body came on to it.

“Coñac,” said Felipe. He poured out two glasses of Fundador and pushed one over to Shaw. The glass—and the man’s fingers—were as filthy as everything else, but Shaw felt in need of brandy, and he drank thankfully and felt a little better. He asked, “Why did we not meet as arranged, in the bar in Torremolinos?”

Felipe’s bright eyes looked into Shaw’s all the time now. He shrugged, his shoulders coming nearly all the way up his long neck, and his mouth turned down at the corners. Suddenly the gesture made him appear sad, almost pathetic. He said, ’’because I dare not go out any longer, that is why, señor. I am watched.”

Shaw thought, So Don Jaime was right. He asked, “And yet—you sent for me to come here? Will I not be watched now too?”

Felipe smiled. “You? No, no, señor, you will not be watched! This is not my house, and the policia do not know where I am. It is they—the Policia Secreta—who watch for me, not the people whom you seek. I have other interests, you understand, which make the policia watch me.” The eyes seemed to grin at Shaw from the death’s-head. “Even if the policia knew where I am living, not one of them would dare to enter the Calle Santa Marta. They would be murdered so easily—they are not liked, and I have friends, many friends. Nevertheless, it is not wise for me to be on the streets at present, and the information which I have for you, my friend, it cannot wait.”

Shaw nodded. “I see.” Then he added, “But there is one thing I had better tell you. I was followed and attacked last night.” He explained what had happened, but Felipe shrugged it off, though he said that it might well mean that Shaw’s whereabouts were known to the people whom he sought.

Shaw agreed; then he said, “Now, señor—the information, if you please.”

“First, the money.”

Shaw drew a pile of notes from his pocket. “This is the amount authorized by London.”

Felipe nodded, carefully counted the money, stowed it away in a recess of his trousers. Then, lowering his voice still more, he said, “It has come to my ears, señor, that a car left the road—the road from La Linea to Ronda—below the small town of Vercín. In that car were three men. Two died, a third lives. The one who lives has been taken up to Vercín, and that is where he is now.”

“Who is this man?”

Felipe shrugged. “That I do not know for certain, you understand. No one knows his name, nor where he comes from, nor what he does. He will not open his mouth to speak in the ordinary way, and yet when he speaks in his delirium he speaks in the English tongue.” Felipe looked sharply at Shaw, the bright eyes searching. “He appears, by all accounts, to be mad—”

“
What!
” Shaw jerked upright. “How d’you mean, mad, for Heaven’s sake! If it’s just delirium—”

“It is not just delirium.” Felipe spoke with certainty. “I am told that beyond doubt his brain is crazed, that he behaves oddly and looks strange. And—he hums some peculiar noise continually, a tune of sorts. But I believe he is the man you seek.”

Shaw’s mind raced in circles. If Ackroyd’s mind had really gone it looked like being all up with Gibraltar. But maybe there was some exaggeration around—he could only hope so. He asked, “Why do you think he’s the one—apart from his speaking English now and then?”

Felipe lifted his shoulders. “Because the car appeared to be coming up from the direction of La Linea, and because his description fits that which was passed to me from certain of your Intelligence services through friends of mine. And because the woman whom you seek, señor, Señorita Rosia del Cuatro Caminos, she is in Ronda. She followed the man, the man in the crashed car who was also being taken to Ronda, but she went by a different route—the San Pedro road. I am told that when she heard to-day that there had been a car crash and made inquiries, she became interested—and less distraite than she had been since her arrival in Ronda.”

“Has she left Ronda yet for Vercín?”

“I have not heard so.” Felipe chuckled and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “There was some difficulty about the car which she was using. I have remarked that I have many friends, and for the money which I am paid I like to give satisfaction. The señorita’s car came into quite violent contact with a lorry driven by a very good friend of mine. The damage may be repaired by now, but we have done our best.”