Read Online Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online Page A

don’t get the picture. He just wanted to have a look at his father. Because mom forbids it, I guess. He’s just a mixed-uptight kid.” Laner paused, enjoying his small joke. “Forget him, Torrens. He didn’t talk with his father. And he can’t—not now.” Laner paused again, hoping for some praise. He wasn’t being given any more reprimands,but Torrens might add a word of praise. Yes, Torrens was doing that in his own close-mouthed way. Torrens was holding out his hand. Laner took it, was given a warm shake, was astounded to feel a card left in his palm. Pitt was given the same treatment.
    Torrens was saying heartily, “Goodbye.” In a lower voice, he added, “The cards tell you where you’ll each find a room for the night. Destroy them as soon as you are alone.”
    “But I thought—” began Laner.
    “You’ll have to wait one more day. Until your travel arrangements are complete.”
    “We were to leave in three hours—” Laner began again.
    “You can’t leave until your papers get here. There has been a delay. Don’t look at me. That is not my department. You’ll leave tomorrow. So I have been assured.”
    “Your American is slipping,” Pitt told him. “So I have been assured,” he repeated with high amusement.
    Laner asked worriedly, “Tomorrow when?” The sooner he was out of Málaga, the better. He had been counting on leaving tonight.
    “Around this time. A man will contact you at each of your hotels—he will use the recognition signals you exchanged with me. And stay in your rooms until he comes. Don’t go wandering in the streets. You could be picked up for questioning.”
    “Why?” No one saw me, no one paid any attention, Laner thought.
    “Anyone who was seen at El Fenicio tonight may be picked up for questioning. The Spanish police like to ask questions. We were all noticed back there. Don’t kid yourselves about that.” He stared hard at Laner, then glanced at Pitt. “Is my American doing better?”
    “What about our clothes, money—”
    “You’ll get them with your papers. Tomorrow. And you may be travelling separately. You knew that, didn’t you?”
    “No. We weren’t told—”
    “Of course not,” Torrens said genially. “They never tell me anything either until the last minute.” He watched some men walking along the street toward them. He spoke quickly. “Both of you take this street down toward the water front. Pitt takes the first alley to his left; you, Laner, take the one on your right. You’ll find the addresses on your cards without any trouble. I’ll phone them to expect you.” He raised his voice to a normal level. The passing strangers could hear whatever they wanted to. “Well—nice meeting you. Drop in when you are next my way. Good night, good night!” He was off, heading for a telephone in the direction of the main street, its lights still bright at two in the morning, calling back over his shoulder in Spanish, “Have a good time in Madrid! Goodbye!”
    Pitt and Laner stared at each other, then at the narrow street they had been told to take. It was ill-lit, deserted, a place that worked hard through the day and shut up tight by night. “Dullsville,” Pitt said in disgust.
    Laner looked back at El Fenicio. It now seemed an oasis in a desert of new buildings. “There are other wineshops. There’s always plenty around a harbour.”
    “What bread have you got?”
    “Not much.”
    Pitt pulled out his wallet, showed it was almost empty, too. “So we do as the man says. We stay in our little rooms, don’t wander around town.” His voice was bitter. He resented Torrens’ quick goodbye that had left them both with theirmouths open. “He’s a scared cat,” he said contemptuously as they started walking down the narrow street. Torrens was already out of sight.
    “And scared of what?” Laner was derisive. “A clown tripped over his two big feet and fell off a staircase. Who’s to prove otherwise?”
    “You sure of that?”
    “Sure