A Dead Man in Malta by Michael Pearce Page A

easy for a technician on another balloon to pick his moment, just as they were launching—and after they’d done the checks—and make a little cut. A little one would do. The pressure inside would do the rest.’
    ‘So you think it was sabotage on the part of a rival?’
    ‘I think it could be. These people are very competitive, you know.’
    ‘ That competitive?’
    The Inspector shrugged. ‘I go to Marsa racetrack every weekend. My wife likes to see the horses. Everyone likes to see the horses. Half of Malta goes. And the races! Talk about rivalry! I tell you, I see more than this—’ he gestured at the rent balloon—‘every Saturday!’
    ‘But he died in the hospital,’ said Seymour. ‘Are you saying that a rival followed him here?’
    The Inspector shrugged. ‘It seems unlikely, I know. But I’ve seen these sportsmen! And is it more unlikely than someone creeping into the hospital and … I mean, without any apparent motive. I believe in motive. In my experience, when people kill, they do it for a reason. This at least suggests a reason.’
    ‘Two other men died,’ said Seymour.
    ‘They died, yes,’ said the Inspector, ‘but were they killed? Whereas in the case of the German—’ he looked down at the rent balloon—‘there is independent reason to suggest an attempt to kill.’
    When Chantale stepped off the boat in Valletta she was still under the spell of recovering the Mediterranean. The recovery had begun the moment the train had got south of the Loire and continued as it went south to Marseilles. The clouds suddenly cleared away, the sky became that marvellous blue that she had grown up under, the sun—The sun. She had forgotten about the sun and the difference it made: in your bones, in your heart, in your mind. Why had she ever left it? The past winter in London had been like living in a dark tunnel with no end to it. It cramped you, chilled you, stiffened you all over. And also inside. Chantale suddenly realized that she had been stiffened inside too. Why had she ever agreed to leave Tangier?
    She knew very well why she had left Tangier. Seymour. Well, she didn’t regret that. At least, not deep down. For the sake of their life together she would put up with the tunnel. But, oh, it was good to get out of it occasionally!
    When Seymour had told her he was being sent to the Mediterranean for a time, she had at once assumed that she would go with him. She had been unable to understand it when he had said that she couldn’t. There were the rules, yes; but surely rules were meant to be broken? Or at least, slid round. She had grown up in the Arab world and in a military world and had imbibed early the understanding that to live in those worlds, particularly if you were a woman, you had to show a certain agility.
    So when Seymour had told her about Mrs Wynne-Gurr and the projected visit of the St John Ambulance to Malta she had at once seen the possibilities. She hadn’t been too sure what the St John Ambulance was: something to do with ambulances, obviously. Well, she wasn’t against ambulances, she thought that on the whole they were a good thing, so if enthusiasm for ambulances would get her back to the sunshine of the Mediterranean enthusiastic she would be.
    She then learned that it wasn’t just ambulances, or even necessarily ambulances at all, but by then she had the bit between her teeth. How did you join forces with this St John Ambulance? Well, Seymour’s sister explained, you joined the local Association. Just around the corner? Perfect. Well, not so perfect, actually, because this branch of the Association was not going to Malta.
    The Association’s Headquarters, however, was in London and she went there. A possible recruit? Excellent! and from … Tangier, was it? They had never had a recruit from Tangier. Might not this open up possibilities? Chantale cottoned on at once. What was in her mind, she said, was the possibility of opening a branch in Tangier.
    Even more