Read Online Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen MacInnes
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Thrillers, Espionage, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics
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I’m sure. No one saw me. No one paid any attention,” Laner protested. He was about to give some details, but the anger on Pitt’s face silenced him. “Hey, man, we’ve come right across Europe together—”
“And been bossed every step of the way.”
Not every step, thought Laner. And without help and instructions, money and safe rooms, where would they have been? But he wasn’t arguing with Pitt in this mood. Perhaps it was time they were travelling separately.
They reached the alley that branched to their left. “So this is where I spend my last night in Europe,” Pitt said. He didn’t think much of it, but he started along it.
“See you in New Orleans,” Laner called softly after him. There was no answer. Laner walked on toward the next streetlight. He looked at the card Torrens had pressed into his hand, slipped it into his pocket. He felt the spray-gun. He would have more ammunition for it—if you could call an ampoule ammunition—when Torrens sent his duffel bag tomorrow. What was Torrens scared of—that he had ripped it off, smuggled it across Europe, or that he’d keep on using it? Laner was smiling broadly. One test, that’s all I needed, just to get the real feel of the thing. One test, that’s all I wanted. And better here than back home. Safer is better, isn’t it? Besides,the risk was justified: no one saw me, no one noticed a thing. Everyone in that courtyard had had his eyes on the dancer.
Some of the spring came back into Laner’s light walk. With confidence and caution, he appraised the small back street where he’d spend the next twenty-four hours. It was empty, so he could cross without delay, to the number he was looking for, slip quietly inside its door. He was expected. The fat, white-faced woman at the bar stopped talking with a half-drunken sailor to give Laner a searching look and then nodded when he sat down at the nearest table. She brought him a glass of wine, asked for no payment. “Room three” was all she said, looking at the stairs beside him, and she went back to the bar. Sleazy, dirty, filled with smoke and nitwitted talk in several languages. Not the Ritz, Laner decided, but safe. There wasn’t a boozehound in here who’d remember a thing tomorrow. He kept his eyes on the table, nursed his drink, waiting for the right moment to get upstairs unnoticed. An argument was starting. This was it. Torrens should see him now; he’d be less scared. Torrens... One thing you could say for that son of a bitch: he knew how to make quick arrangements.
4
For the first fifteen minutes or so after Reid had left him, Ian Ferrier paid no attention to the empty chair beside him, but concentrated on Pablo’s excellent footwork. And after that, there was Miguel’s singing. This was the part of flamenco he least enjoyed, but judging from the constant murmur of admiring olé’ s from the courtyard around him, his taste was either poor or uninformed. Probably both, he thought with some amusement. The guitars were good by any standard. He listened to them, looked up at the stars, did some dreaming.
Then Constanza began her dance, and his eyes were drawn back to the stage again. Halfway through, he had a small qualm about the empty chair beside him: there was a thin line of people now standing along the wall nearby. He glanced at them briefly without turning his head, wondering what the hell was keeping Jeff. And in that split second he glimpsed one of the Americans from the back corner table—the thin guy withthe blond unwashed hair hanging over his brow—standing almost at the door. It may be difficult holding Jeff’s place, Ferrier thought worriedly. Esteban, who had been circulating quietly among his patrons, might have had the same idea. He came over to sit down for a few minutes with Ferrier and show that the half-occupied table had his approval, excusing himself with Spanish politeness and a touch of sardonic humour. “Do not worry,” he said in Ferrier’s ear.
“And been bossed every step of the way.”
Not every step, thought Laner. And without help and instructions, money and safe rooms, where would they have been? But he wasn’t arguing with Pitt in this mood. Perhaps it was time they were travelling separately.
They reached the alley that branched to their left. “So this is where I spend my last night in Europe,” Pitt said. He didn’t think much of it, but he started along it.
“See you in New Orleans,” Laner called softly after him. There was no answer. Laner walked on toward the next streetlight. He looked at the card Torrens had pressed into his hand, slipped it into his pocket. He felt the spray-gun. He would have more ammunition for it—if you could call an ampoule ammunition—when Torrens sent his duffel bag tomorrow. What was Torrens scared of—that he had ripped it off, smuggled it across Europe, or that he’d keep on using it? Laner was smiling broadly. One test, that’s all I needed, just to get the real feel of the thing. One test, that’s all I wanted. And better here than back home. Safer is better, isn’t it? Besides,the risk was justified: no one saw me, no one noticed a thing. Everyone in that courtyard had had his eyes on the dancer.
Some of the spring came back into Laner’s light walk. With confidence and caution, he appraised the small back street where he’d spend the next twenty-four hours. It was empty, so he could cross without delay, to the number he was looking for, slip quietly inside its door. He was expected. The fat, white-faced woman at the bar stopped talking with a half-drunken sailor to give Laner a searching look and then nodded when he sat down at the nearest table. She brought him a glass of wine, asked for no payment. “Room three” was all she said, looking at the stairs beside him, and she went back to the bar. Sleazy, dirty, filled with smoke and nitwitted talk in several languages. Not the Ritz, Laner decided, but safe. There wasn’t a boozehound in here who’d remember a thing tomorrow. He kept his eyes on the table, nursed his drink, waiting for the right moment to get upstairs unnoticed. An argument was starting. This was it. Torrens should see him now; he’d be less scared. Torrens... One thing you could say for that son of a bitch: he knew how to make quick arrangements.
4
For the first fifteen minutes or so after Reid had left him, Ian Ferrier paid no attention to the empty chair beside him, but concentrated on Pablo’s excellent footwork. And after that, there was Miguel’s singing. This was the part of flamenco he least enjoyed, but judging from the constant murmur of admiring olé’ s from the courtyard around him, his taste was either poor or uninformed. Probably both, he thought with some amusement. The guitars were good by any standard. He listened to them, looked up at the stars, did some dreaming.
Then Constanza began her dance, and his eyes were drawn back to the stage again. Halfway through, he had a small qualm about the empty chair beside him: there was a thin line of people now standing along the wall nearby. He glanced at them briefly without turning his head, wondering what the hell was keeping Jeff. And in that split second he glimpsed one of the Americans from the back corner table—the thin guy withthe blond unwashed hair hanging over his brow—standing almost at the door. It may be difficult holding Jeff’s place, Ferrier thought worriedly. Esteban, who had been circulating quietly among his patrons, might have had the same idea. He came over to sit down for a few minutes with Ferrier and show that the half-occupied table had his approval, excusing himself with Spanish politeness and a touch of sardonic humour. “Do not worry,” he said in Ferrier’s ear.
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