The waiter smiled and bent confidentially over Shaw, eager fingers picking up a small pile of peseta notes which Shaw had slid on to the table as he spoke, the quick olive hand reminding the naval officer, with a little pang, of that last dinner at Martinez with Debonnair. The waiter said:
“The señor likes the perfume, no?”
“Very much.”
“Then perhaps the señor would like also the señorita who wears the scent, and who often comes here.”
“She is… pretty?”
“Señor, she is more than pretty. She is beautiful.” The man gave the word its full sound and meaning, closed his eyes ecstatically, opened them again. He made a gesture with his fingers.
“Describe her.”
The waiter did so. It sounded like Karina right enough— there were not so many women with that particular gold-dusty colouring, the colouring which he himself was always so attracted by.
“Her name?”
“Rosia del Cuatro Caminos.”
Shaw thought, Rosia of the Four Ways — so that’s what Karina’s calling herself now — he was certain it was her; the description, the exclusive scent, the fact that Karina was known to be around… The waiter was hovering expectantly, lifting his eyebrows in a question. “The señor wishes…? If the señor is in no hurry…"
“He is in a hurry.” At once Shaw’s face-muscles tautened; it had been a mistake to admit hurry, but to attempt to cover up now would make it worse. “Here.” He pushed more money over — he had plenty of Spanish currency, provided by Carberry. “Her address?”
The waiter bent lower, obsequiously. Shaw could see the dirty collar-back. He said, “The end house in the Calle del Virgen, señor.” While the man told him the way Shaw grinned inwardly. The waiter didn’t appear to see anything incongruous in that street-name. The man went on, “There are many señoritas of the establishment, but Señorita Rosia, she is the most beautiful of them all.”
Shaw thanked the man. Not too hurriedly, he drank up his coffee and left. He knew enough about the effectiveness of the Spanish grapevine to know it wouldn’t be long before Karina had the news that some one had been asking for her — and he realized that it was only too probable that she knew he was in La Linea as it was, so he couldn’t hang about and merely watch that house, wait for her to emerge from what was most likely a rabbit-warren with plenty of exits. Too much time would be lost that way, and he couldn’t risk her flying the nest now. There were snags, of course— there always were — but he couldn’t possibly pass up a lead like this.
He pressed his left arm in to his side, felt the hard, reassuring outline of the holster slung beneath the armpit under his light coat.
As Shaw sauntered away from the cafe the waiter watched from the doorway and smiled a little. Then he walked back into the room and through a door into the kitchen beyond. He called sharply, “Pablo, hijo?"
A moment later a small boy who had been in the crowd leaving Gibraltar a little way behind Shaw the night before darted out of the kitchen, through an opening into a side-alley, and disappeared.
Three miles away in Gibraltar Debonnair Delacroix had checked in earlier at the Rock Hotel off the B.E.A. flight which had touched down from London on the runway which Shaw had crossed so short a time before. There had been a message for her from a Major Staunton to say he’d intended meeting her but hadn’t been able to get away at the last minute — he would, said the message, call her later on. That, she thought, since she didn’t know Major Staunton from Adam, was all rather odd. Then, when she’d rung the Bristol, she’d been told that Commander Shaw had left unexpectedly for Tangier. After that she tried S.N.A.S.O. But Humphreys had been tipped off by Major Staunton not to raise any panic when Shaw didn’t turn up for his programme of inspections, and he was being non-committal. Staunton had hinted at goings-on of a private nature in Tangier, and Humphreys, being a tolerant and broad-minded man, had quite understood. Now he didn’t think it would be either going too far from reality or giving any games away if he mentioned to his charming-sounding caller that Commander Shaw had business across the Straits.
“Sorry I can’t be more helpful, Miss Delacroix.”
Debonnair frowned into the telephone, tapping her foot impatiently. She said politely, “Don’t mention it; it’s awfully nice of you not to mind being bothered with a private call… thank you so much.”
She rang off Then she sat down on the bed and said, “Hell.” She said it with determination and a slight pucker of her mouth, but she knew she had to be content with what she was told when Esmonde Shaw was on a job. All the same, it was a pity. But meanwhile Debonnair had a series of business engagements with the Shell Company, which acted as the agents for Eastern Petroleum in Gibraltar; for her trip, though it was undeniably a wangle, was a wangle with a firm basis, and was not to be entirely a joy-ride. So she couldn’t linger on the off-chance that Esmonde Shaw might get in touch, nor could she wait around for this Major Staunton. She lifted the house telephone, spoke into it; soon after a chauffeur kissed a pretty kitchenmaid good-bye and walked round to the Rolls which the Shell manager had placed at the young lady’s disposal. As Miss Delacroix came down the steps of the hotel with an attentive commissionaire in close attendance the chauffeur gave a low but appreciative whistle. Those legs…!
He stood and held the door open for her. As she stepped in her dress lifted a little, and the chauffeur caught a glimpse of lace. He stood there staring, until he got an indignant glare from the young lady, who was now sitting in the back.
Debonnair said crisply, “All right, laddie. Marks and Spencers. Go and get a pair for your own best girl.” She gave him a long, cool look.
As he drove her down the slope to Southport Gate into Main Street, the lights on the dial behind AFPU ONE in Dockyard Tunnel were growing just a little brighter all the time. Not very noticeably unless, like the technicians on watch, you were looking out for it; but steadily, all the same.
CHAPTER TEN
Hours afterwards Shaw’s head was still throbbing, bursting into great shafts and flickers of blinding white light. He’d never known a head like this, and it made him retch — when he had first begun to recover consciousness during the night he had felt that death must be very near, for his head felt no more than a lump of bruised, pulped butcher’s meat and his stomach seemed to be on fire; it had been a long time before he’d been able to recall what had happened, a longer time — much longer — before he realized where he was.
The one thing that stood out a mile was that he’d played it wrong, that that first sight of Karina had put him off his stroke. And he could catch flickers, as on an old and defective film, of that brief scene with Karina.
When he’d left that cafe he’d walked on towards the Calle del Virgen feeling his nerves jumping more than was usual. Once the job began he was normally all right. But not this time. He felt a shock of distaste as he reached that street and looked along its length, noted the cul-de-sac and the sleazy house at the end. He couldn’t fit Karina into this background. He went unwillingly into the slatternly alley. A small boy, half hidden in a doorway, emerged and ran swiftly away ahead of him, and odd shadowy figures passed. He walked on, beneath the overhanging balconies, the balconies which brought to his ears the low laughter of love-making.
And then, ahead of him, he’d seen her waiting for him. He’d seen her beneath a balcony, and at once a hundred memories had flooded back.