“I’ll look for him.”
“Thank you,” Sanchez said dryly. “And call me back if you find him, hear? I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll call.” There was a sudden chuckle from Duarte. “Give my love to Rosa. Don’t let her tire you out too much...”
If anyone in the world tires me out, Sanchez thought bitterly, it’s you! “Good-bye,” he said and hung up without waiting for a reply. He glanced down at the curvaceous woman half sitting, half lying on the bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes. Her face had a bit too much makeup; her robe draped open, exposing undergarments that barely contained her lush flesh. Her mouth was pouting.
“Well? What did he say?”
Sanchez stared at her. “What business is it of yours?”
“I just wanted to know how long we’re going to be here.”
“It doesn’t depend on him or what he says,” Sanchez said. “Anyway, we stay as long as it takes, as long as I say. You’re getting paid by the day, aren’t you?”
Rosa ran a red tongue over even redder lips and smiled at him. “I like to earn my keep, though,” she said and swung herself from the bed, dropping the robe, holding a seductive pose a moment and then reaching behind her for the catch to her brassiere. She dropped it to the floor and cupped her full breasts provocatively, smiling at Sanchez invitingly, and then slipped a finger under the waistband of her panties.
Sanchez sighed. He must be getting old, he thought; at the moment he was more interested in the suitcase than in sex. Of all the girls he might have brought from Manuela’s place in Barcelona, he had to pick the one nymphomaniac there! Still, the fact remained that there were several days to waste, at the least, and he had to stay near the telephone in case Huuygens called, and the telephone wasn’t far from the bed...
He smiled at the thought and started to loosen his necktie. The beauty of pure logic, he thought, and watched admiringly in the mirror as Rosa completed undressing.
André Martins, wandering down the Ramblas toward the Puerta de la Paz and the port, cap tipped back on his head, hands stuffed into his pockets, wondered disconsolately why he had ever permitted Kek to hand him this impossible assignment. Why hadn’t he spoken up and said he wasn’t suited for the job? The fact was he hadn’t a clue as to where to start. True, on the plane coming down, still buoyed up by Kek’s faith, a series of minor miracles had appeared before him: A friendly bartender would lean over and whisper the answer to his problem; a girl at Manuela’s place would pause in dressing to tell him, in appreciation, that she had heard of a mysterious suitcase from her last client, etc., etc. Dreams, all dreams! The fact was, his return was a complete waste of time and money. He hadn’t the faintest idea of where to begin.
He paused in the shadow of the Columbus monument a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and reset his cap and then continued on toward the docks. It was not that he felt the docks were a better place to begin any investigation — for no place could be better or worse if the proper place did not exist — it was simply that he felt more at home near the water. He crossed the street at the far side of the large square, continued on to the waterside, and turned up past the huge warehouses, pleasuring in the sharp salt smell of the sea, the tang of fish and kelp, the pungency of tarred rope. Ships towered above him, leviathans tethered to land by straining cables, their bilges pumping constantly; dock cranes creaked and groaned as they dipped and swayed from holds, swiveling like ill-jointed Tinker toys. Gulls wheeled in the sunlight, screaming at each other, searching the pulsing ripples of the harbor for food. It wasn’t all that bad here in Barcelona, he thought; what did he want with Paris, anyway? It was too far in the past; he shouldn’t have gone back. All he could do for his old friend, Kek, was add to his problems. Maybe it would be best if he just mailed back the money Kek had given him and get a job on one of the ships. Go away, far away. Maybe to South America — Argentina, maybe.
The thought of the country brought him to his senses. No, that wasn’t the answer; he had never run from anything in his life. He had to try, at the very least. But how?
He paused to watch a battered freighter edge its way into the harbor; from his position on the quay it seemed sure to strike the mole, but it steamed ahead, cautiously but surely. Confidence, he thought bitterly; that’s what I need. Where to start? Well, a little voice in his head said — possibly encouraged by the freighter’s entrance into the harbor — why not start with your wild dreams on the plane? The bartender, remember? Or the girl at Manuela’s place? At least failure in either of those places would be better tolerated. He tried to gain comfort from the thought, but it helped little. With a sigh he turned away from the sea and the breakwater and sought out a bar he had known since his first days in Barcelona.
The bartender was a person he had never seen before in his life. He was an old man whose wrinkles almost hid his cataracted eyes. For a moment André almost walked out, but then he squared his shoulders and strode up to the high marble counter with a slight swagger. He leaned over the counter confidentially.
“What do you hear from Sanchez?”
The bartender paused in his task of shakily wiping a glass and looked around blurrily, finally locating the source of the interruption. He had been thinking of the south.
“Who?”
“Sanchez,” André said and made himself sound impatient. “Luis Sanchez.”
The bartender shook his head sadly, his wattles swinging back and forth.
“I never heard of him, señor. But then, I’m a stranger to these parts. I come from Marbella, in the south.” He leaned over the counter hopefully. “You know it?”
“No,” André said shortly.
“Oh,” the bartender said, his voice steeped in disappointment. He started to polish a glass and then stopped again, as if remembering something. “It’s warm there,” he said, as if André had denied it. “It’s cold here. Not now, but pretty soon. I know. I was on a ship that docked here in December once.” He peered at André myopically, challenging him to doubt. “It was cold.”
“Yes,” André said.
“I just started yesterday,” the old man confided. “They won’t have me on the ships because of my sight, but I can see good enough to pour drinks.” He didn’t really sound so sure he could.
“I’m sure,” André said, wishing he hadn’t stopped in. He didn’t even feel like a drink. “Take care,” he said and walked out to the street. The old man inside looked hurt and then returned to polishing his glass, remembering the sun of Marbella.
André paused on the curb, looking about, not seeing any of his friends or even acquaintances. One lousy day gone from Barcelona and everybody’s disappeared, he thought bitterly; one miserable day out of town and even all the bartenders have changed jobs. Incredible! Well, what now? Another bar? Or Manuela’s place? Manuela’s, he decided and started off in that direction. And after the whorehouse he would sign on a ship and get as far away from Paris and Barcelona and Kek and Sanchez and everyone else as he could. What a laugh, his thinking he could simply walk down the street and people would force information on him! Kek should have given him a job requiring muscle, or even skill with his hands, and it would have been done. But a job like this, requiring not only brains but subtlety as well, a talent for investigation? Like asking a rhinoceros to tie a shoelace!
A clock struck in a nearby steeple as he entered the street that housed Manuela’s place of business. Two o’clock; he hoped someone would be awake. Two o’clock, which also meant it was four hours since he got off the plane, and he hadn’t accomplished a single thing. Nor did he expect to here. He sighed and climbed the worn steps of the familiar building, ringing the bell and entering without waiting for a response. The door was always open at Manuela’s.