Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes

amused. “And it is I who decide when I leave El Fenicio.” Reid turned abruptly to the door, unlocked it, looked out into the corridor to make sure it was empty. “Why the hell did you have to choose Málaga?” he asked bitterly, and thought he had the last word.
    But he was wrong. “Who would expect me to come back here?” Fuentes asked derisively. “Walk right into the arms of my oldest enemies?” He slipped past Reid, turned right, and vanished around the corner at the far end of the corridor.
    Reid picked up his jacket, made a last check of the room. If any of Tavita’s admirers came up here after the performance, they’d find everything as usual: pink lights softening white plaster walls decorated with clusters of photographs and bright artificial flowers, lush silk curtains, satin mats, a plethora of chairs. He went to the centre table to pick up his cigarettes and lighter. The lighter was gone.
    He drew a deep breath. The substitution had paid off. He had little fear of detection—the missing lighter was an exact duplicate, outwardly at least, of the one now safely in his pocket. But the whole thing had been so quick, so close, that he couldn’t even enjoy this small sense of triumph. Next time, he wondered, will I be able to outmanoeuvre Fuentes? I had luck tonight. Tomorrow?
    He left the placid room. Fuentes, by this time, would have skirted the courtyard, following the long narrow passage that ran on this level inside the blank wall behind the stage. The passage had no windows, no doors to other rooms. It was bleakly lit, bare of furniture except for a large wardrobe at its end. But inside the wardrobe was a concealed door. Once through that, Fuentes would be in the ancient warren of Esteban’s house.
    On impulse, Reid moved to the corner and made sure that Fuentes was not loitering. The passage was empty; the wardrobe was closed and innocent. Fuentes was safe on his own side of the courtyard, in a top-floor room where one small window looked out on a narrow street. It wasn’t the most luxurious accommodation, but it was well insulated from the rest of the house. On the floors below, Esteban’s usual guests were some not-too-successful bullfighter and his nondescript entourage. Esteban, like Tavita, was strong on old loyalties.
    Reid retraced his steps, headed back down the corridor. Old Magdalena was now in Tavita’s dressing-room, the shutters slightly ajar to let her hear the guitars and castanets and the deliberate rhythm of slow-moving heel beats. Her hands struck crisply together in perfect timing. Once, she too had danced the sequiriyas. She looked at him as he stopped briefly at the door. “Tell Tavita this one is important. Keep him safe. I’ll get him away from here by dawn.” She nodded. As he hurried on his way, her fingers began that sharp hard clapping again.
    Reid increased his pace. His guess was that Tavita was almost two thirds through the dance: he could hear Pablo’s feet now, stamping, dominating; then dominated in turnby Tavita’s own rattling heels. He’d have time yet to see the climax. Perhaps it would inspire him a little, give him some idea of how to combine the entertaining of Ian Ferrier with the necessary arrangements for Tomás Fuentes. How much could he be believed, that fellow? The hell was, one couldn’t afford to disbelieve him.
    Reid pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie, started down the stairs at a light run. Halfway, he stopped abruptly. He stared at a pile of wine barrels in the storage room below. A shadow had formed, was moving, came into the half-light at the foot of the staircase. It was the American called Lee Laner.
    Laner put a foot on the bottom step, looked up at Reid with a friendly face. He was slightly built, of ordinary height; a man in his mid-twenties, with hollow chest and hunched narrow shoulders. A tangle of long lank hair, indeterminate blond, sun-streaked, swept heavily across his brow and covered his ears. The eyes were bright