She was waiting for him as she had done so often years before, and it might almost have been a dream. She was waiting for him in the shadows, and there was a hint of laughter and a well-remembered scent. The lamplight from an uncurtained window caught the green of her slanting eyes, eyes which held him now in a steady, rather enigmatic look. He felt they’d recognized each other instantly across the span of the years, and for his part nostalgia swept him with a sudden and blinding wave which took him somehow off balance — off guard, certainly. Anyway, he hadn’t drawn his revolver; but then she’d probably had him covered all the way along. He saw the small round mouth of her pistol facing him, a little pistol which he recognized. It was the small, jewelled one, almost a toy really (though it was effective enough at close range like this) which she had treasured and always liked to use in the old times.
In a low voice, and smiling as she used to in the way that crinkled up her nose and brought something utterly nameless to the eyes and the oval face, she’d said rather mockingly, “Well, my Esmonde? Have you nothing to say to me, after all this time?”
Running his tongue over dry and gritty lips, he’d found the words he wanted had all gone. All he’d managed was: “I was coming to the—”
“The brothel.” She gave a low ripple of laughter. “You don’t need to euphemize with me, my Esmonde. We know each other well enough for that, I think. As it happened, I preferred to meet you here — the other was risky, for the Madame is not in my confidence. To her I am just another of her girls.”
“It’s not risky here, then?”
She said, “Not in the least. No one would interfere with a señorita and her bargaining with a client in the Calle del Virgen!” The green eyes smiled at him; he could have sworn in that instant that he’d caught a hint of wistfulness in them. But she went on, in a crisper tone, “You will turn round now, please. You will walk back along the alley and turn to the left at the end. There you will find a car waiting, and you will get in.”
Shaw didn’t move. Coming out of his dream now, he asked, “What’s the idea, Karina?”
“That I will tell you when you are in the car.”
“You’ll tell me now.”
She shrugged. “Very well. I wanted anyway to see you again for old times’ sake, but now there are other things.” Her voice had become harder. “In a nutshell, my dear Esmonde, I want to have you out of the way until the man Ackroyd is clear of Spain — oh, yes, I have him!” she added, as she saw the query in his eyes. “He is no longer in La Linea. He is where you will never find him, but I believe in making quite sure, you understand? And I want you for something else — information. The man Ackroyd, he is a useless worm. If necessary you will come back to my country with me.”
Other things, too, returned to Shaw. Through the mists he realized that there was one satisfactory aspect: Ackroyd hadn’t talked. That must be true, for otherwise Karina would not want him for ‘information.’ He wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant by saying Ackroyd was a useless worm. But, with a growing sense of dread, he recalled something else she’d said, and that was that she knew through her contacts in London about Debonnair’s flight, knew she had arrived in Gibraltar — and had threatened that if Shaw did not talk, she would bring Debonnair out from Gibraltar, make him talk under threat of what might be done to her. In this there was one patch of light: Karina could not know of the danger threatening Gibraltar, or she would scarcely use the removal of Debonnair as a threat. Security was, as yet, intact.
He’d stood firm, and he hadn’t gone towards the car. Instead he’d asked, “What if I don’t move?”
“I will shoot, even though I do not wish to do that to you.”
He grinned down at her. “You’d never get away with that.”
“On the contrary.” She gave a short laugh. “In the Calle del Virgen they look after their own kind. Turn, please. Esmonde, I do not wish to harm you.”
She’d sounded as though she meant that.
Shaw had given a slight shrug then and turned. But as he did so he’d brought his left hand smashing down on her wrist. As her small pistol fell with a click on the ground he’d brought out his own revolver, pushed the muzzle at her. She was close enough for him to see the firm roundness of her breasts through the thin suit, close enough for him to draw in her perfume, that wonderful perfume… and then, as she gave a sudden cry, as though of warning, he saw her glance flick upward and he caught a glimpse of a figure in deep shadow on the balcony above, the balcony towards which she had drawn him, and something swinging on the end of a rope.
As the sandbag took his skull Shaw went out like a light, stone cold on the filthy paving-stones. Just before the bombshell burst in his head he’d seen Karina dart a little to one side and, just as the sandbag hit, some reflex action made his fingers tighten on the trigger of his revolver. As he fell Karina flitted unhurt into the shadows, but a uniformed member of the Policia Municipal, coming with a companion into the mouth of the alley, cursed as Shaw’s bullet snicked through his coat-sleeve;-the bullet went on and spun the carbine on the shoulder of a Civil Guard passing along the other side of the street beyond.
It was morning before Shaw realized where he was.
The filthy, smelly cell, the calabozo with the tiny, high-set grille window through which the sun now faintly struggled, had meant nothing to him until the door had been swung back and the light from the passage showed up the municipal coming in with a tin platter of revolting-looking food and a mug which gave off a thin trail of steam.
The policeman was quite jovial really, told Shaw that it had been lucky for him that a police patrol had been entering the alley when he passed out, or he might never have been seen again — as it was, said the policeman, the figure of a woman had vanished with most suspicious haste — vanished altogether — at their approach. The man seemed to take it for granted that Shaw had been bargaining with a prostitute, that he knew — or should know — the dangers of being discovered drunk on the paving-stones by the scavenging men and women who inhabited the Calle del Virgen.
Shaw asked, “What am I being charged with?”
“With firing — fortunately harmlessly — an offensive weapon at the Policia Municipal.”
“How long will I be kept here?”
The policeman shrugged. “I do not know. Possibly a long time.”
Shaw glowered, but knew it would be no good arguing with this man. The policeman said, quite kindly, “Hombre, you must indeed be considered very fortunate in being alive at all. Perhaps you will be more careful in future.”
He set down the food and went, locking the door behind him. After the man had gone Shaw felt in his pockets. All his papers had gone, and so, naturally, had his revolver. He didn’t know what construction they would place upon a British Service revolver being found in his possession, but since (as it appeared from the way the municipal had spoken) they seemed to be taking his worker’s pass into Gibraltar as genuine, and had no other apparent reason for not believing him to be a bona fide Spanish citizen, he could probably say that he’d pinched the weapon from somewhere in the dockyard and trust to their not being over-concerned about British property. He didn’t think he would be unduly pushed over that aspect; the big questions were, how long would they keep him locked up, and how could he skate from under the charge of actually firing the gun at the police— an act, incidentally, which he himself didn’t remember in the least? There was a chance — just a chance — that it mightn’t be all that serious; the policeman had seemed more kindly disposed toward him than he would have expected, considering that the charge was one of firing at the Policia. The inference, if anything at all was to be inferred from that, was that he had the excuse of being drunk. They understood that kind of thing in Spain. But — the Spanish legal formulae were timeless, might go on for days or even weeks.