A Dangerous Place (12 page)

This morning, though, as she read the copy of the
Times
that Mrs. Bishop had left for her, she felt as if she had seen the bombers overhead once again, and felt a shiver when she recalled shadows the aircraft had created across the sands of Catalan Bay. What must it have been like to witness this murderous attack? And for what purpose was it mounted? Surely the world would not sit back and watch while Fascist Germany and Italy bombarded a civilian population?

She closed the newspaper and put it to one side. A shaft of sunshine had moved across the table, as if it were an ancient sundial. Maisie realized she was staring at the arrowlike shadow, struggling to plan her next steps. There were threads everywhere. She did not want to walk all the way to the fisherman's beach again, so instead mapped out another tack for her day—she would visit the Ridge Hotel, and then come back to Miriam Babayoff. She wanted to ask about Arturo Kenyon—or, as Mrs. Bishop would say, “little Artie Kenyon.” It seemed to her that Gibraltar was large enough, with its transient population living alongside those who had spent their lives here, that people with
disparate backgrounds might never know each other. She remembered growing up in Lambeth, where there were families living several streets away that she had never passed on the street. Yet in the village of Chelstone, so far from Lambeth's grime, everyone knew everyone else for miles around, and local gossip took a mere snap of the finger to whip from one end of the High Street to the other.

Maisie finished her tea, read the article again, and folded the newspaper. She looked at her watch, and collected up the crockery and remains of the toast. She had eaten only half a slice, all appetite gone in the wake of the news from Guernica. She stepped across the flagstones to the door that led into Mrs. Bishop's quarters, intending only to set down the tray on the kitchen table. It was as she was walking back out into the sunshine that she stopped to look at framed photographs on the wall of the narrow passageway. She had always liked to look at photographs, at happy scenes of family life, or a wedding in a long-gone era. She had visited so many people over the years, stepped into grand country mansions, Mayfair townhouses, and small terrace cottages in the damp streets of London's backwaters. She had looked at posed photographs and informal snaps, and taken her own with a camera bought in a pawn shop, framing her more successful photographs and putting them in pride of place on the wall, as if to create a family around her. Somewhere in her suitcase was the last photograph of her and James together, his arm around her, his hand atop her belly. She had been laughing. When she looked at that photograph for the first time, she had seen her own happiness and ease. It had all come right. And then it all went terribly wrong.

Mrs. Bishop and her husband made a handsome pair. There was a wedding photograph, and then one later—a professional photograph taken in a studio while on a holiday, she suspected—along with other family photographs. Without doubt, in her younger days the landlady
had more of a Mediterranean look about her, even though now she appeared like so many British housewives of her generation. Maisie suspected that Mrs. Bishop had worked at the latter.

As Maisie walked toward the door leading out onto the courtyard, so the photographs took her back in time. There was Mr. Bishop in the uniform of a policeman—taken in London, it seemed, for Maisie was sure the door behind Bishop was an entrance into Scotland Yard. Then another of him with several uniformed colleagues, and finally a photograph in which he was still outside Scotland Yard, though he was in civilian clothes. And that is where Maisie stopped. The man with him was almost unrecognizable—he was younger, for a start, and there was a bit more hair atop his head. Maisie cast her eyes toward the photograph of policemen in uniform, then opened the door to shed more light along the passageway. There he was again, looking for all the world like a boy. Maisie wanted to laugh—she would love to bring this up in conversation. But for now she was concerned.

Hearing the heavy outer door whine its way open, Maisie stepped out onto the courtyard, closing Mrs. Bishop's door behind her.

“May I help you, Mrs. Bishop?” she asked the woman, who seemed to stagger in with her collection of hessian bags filled with groceries.

“Oh, you are a dear—here, if you could take these two, then I can balance again.”

Maisie took two bags from the woman's right hand, allowing her to lead the way back into her quarters.

“I took my tray through, Mrs. Bishop—I hope that was all right.”

“You needn't do that, Miss Dobbs—you're my paying guest, and you should be waited upon.” The landlady bustled in, along the passageway and into the kitchen.

Maisie followed, setting the two bags on the table. “There. Now then, I'll be out most of the day, Mrs. Bishop, back late this afternoon.”

“I'm making a fish stew this evening—you can have supper on a tray in your room, or join myself and a couple of other guests here in the courtyard—it should be a fine evening, but you might need a cardi.”

“Right you are, Mrs. Bishop. I think I might remain in my room, if you don't mind—but I'll let you know.”

“It doesn't do to lock yourself away on your own, Miss Dobbs. You've got to keep on living.” Mrs. Bishop blushed as she finished the sentence, as if realizing she'd revealed that she knew more about her guest than she should.

“Well, this will never do,” said Maisie. “I have things to get on with. I'll see you later, Mrs. Bishop.” She smiled and turned away, trying not to walk too quickly out into the courtyard. She went up the stairs to her room, locked the door behind her, and leaned against it while she caught her breath.

Mrs. Bishop knew about her past.
The woman knew she had been bereaved and that she had lost more than a husband; she was sure of it. But then, was it surprising, really? Though the light was poor and the photographs grainy, it was clear that Mr. Bishop had known Robert MacFarlane very well indeed. In fact, given the youth of the fresh-featured MacFarlane, the friendship was long-standing.

And Maisie was now convinced of something else. When she had made inquiries at the Ridge Hotel regarding small guest houses in Gibraltar, situated in easy walking distance of Main Street and Grand Casemates Square, Mrs. Bishop's name had been at the top of the list. At the time the clerk had smiled in a manner that unsettled Maisie, though she conceded that it did not take that much to unsettle her. But she wondered, now, whether Mrs. Bishop had been in touch with the hotel and asked them to give Miss Dobbs her name. If that were so, it meant that MacFarlane had been notified when she left the ship,
and had guessed that she would not want to stay long in the luxurious hotel. That in turn meant she had been taken for a puppet on a string—and been followed for longer than she had at first thought.

As she made notes on the case map, she wondered how badly she had been manipulated. Was she
meant
to come across Babayoff's body almost immediately after the crime had taken place? Was she being directed into the case, or away from it, as MacFarlane maintained when he warned her that she should go home to England? Could she be a dispensable, and therefore useful, small player in a game she had yet to understand? Certainly MacFarlane did not appear to anticipate pressing her to take a significant role—he would have considered her too vulnerable and therefore too great a risk. Or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time and therefore, with her background, a huge problem for the Secret Service—for whom MacFarlane was now working, as far as she knew?

She made some additional notations in her book, then folded the case map, hiding it in the chest of drawers underneath her clothing. It was time to leave, though given how much had happened, she thought she might drop in to Mr. Solomon's haberdashery shop. She wanted to talk to him about the lock on Miriam Babayoff's door.

T
he Ridge Hotel was late-morning quiet when Maisie walked up the hill, cutting along a path that ran parallel to the hotel. She stopped twice to look out across the sea, then back toward the white building with its name emblazoned across its front in large modern letters. From a sailing boat, it must appear like a ship en route, plying the waves to cruise an exotic clime. It looked, well,
rich
, as if the only guests would be the well-heeled, those who wanted to rise above the ordinary people of the world, to be acknowledged at their elevated station. And that was why she had wanted to find another place to stay, one that did not demand that she be a certain person, to act in a given manner or have this attitude or that opinion. She'd never be invisible, staying at such a magnificent hotel—but had she made the right decision in going to Mrs. Bishop's guest house? Perhaps, from another perspective, she could have been less obvious among so many more people, even if they were different from her. There again, Maisie had to admit that she might be giving too much weight to that which
separated her from others, rather than seeking out connections—but it had become her way, this retreat once again into the shell of aloneness. Solitude was her soul's hermitage.

Paths had been cut through the grounds to create places for guests to walk alongside rockeries, through arbors casting cool shadows, up steps, and around the perimeter of the hotel. Maisie wanted to talk to a clerk at the reception desk, but perhaps not someone she had spoken to before. She looked about her before entering the palatial main lobby, with columns seemingly plucked from a Greek temple, holding up the ceiling as Atlas supported the world on his shoulders. The floor appeared just-polished, gleaming under the lights. She had chosen her time well—there was no one else in the entrance hall, no guests rushing to check out or in, or inquiring where they might find a certain type of restaurant or a good sightseeing expedition. She suspected that some of the guests were wealthy Spaniards, at the hotel for an extended sojourn until they felt it safe to return home. The thought brought images of the Guernica tragedy to her mind, which she banished as she approached the clerk. The man looked up and smiled. She recognized him as the person who'd been on duty when she'd first arrived to register at the hotel, and also when she left for Mrs. Bishop's guest house. His jet-black hair was swept back and oiled, his skin seemed dark against the bright white of his collar, and his tie was knotted just so. He pulled at his shirt cuffs to adjust them as Maisie approached.

“It's Miss Dobbs, isn't it?”

“Oh, well done for recognizing me—though forgive me, I cannot remember your name.”

“Mr. Santos, at your service. Will you be joining us here again, Miss Dobbs?” He flicked a page of the register, ready to check the availability of a room.

“Not quite yet, Mr. Santos. Perhaps I will come back for a few days before I leave Gibraltar. We'll see. In the meantime, I wonder if I could ask you about Mr. Babayoff, the photographer.”

“Oh dear, yes, of course.” Santos rubbed his forehead. “I had forgotten that it was you, poor lady, who discovered him following the terrible attack.”

“Yes, it was me, and—”

“Miss Dobbs, I know why you are here—you are trying to put this terrible thing that you have seen behind you, to banish it to the past. If you wish, I will walk with you, if it makes you feel better.” The man bore a look of genuine sympathy, his eyes glistening as if he shared her tears. “Goodness knows, Mr. Babayoff was known to everyone here, and we all liked him. A terrible, terrible thing.”

“It was, yes. But please do not think of leaving your station here—I am perfectly at ease walking the paths on my own. I do, however, have a question, if you don't mind.”

“Of course, Miss Dobbs—anything I can do to settle your heart.” The clerk put a hand to his chest to demonstrate his compassion. “But I must warn you, we have been asked not to discuss the tragedy. It is for obvious reasons. We cannot have our guests disrupted by this event, and now the dust is settling upon it, we must let it rest. You understand?”

“I just wondered about a couple of things. If you prefer, we can move over here to the end of the desk, just in case someone comes along.” She looked around. “It seems pretty quiet to me, and I'll soon be away for my walk.”

The man's expression changed, and Maisie thought not for the better. His eyes lost their welcoming sparkle, and he seemed coated with indifference, his willingness to help diminished. Then he appeared to correct himself, and at once his smile was as warm as it had been when she first approached him.

“Please, continue. I will assist if I can.”

“I know Mr. Babayoff came here to photograph parties, sometimes at the request of guests who wanted a photographer to record a special occasion, which accounts for his presence. However, I want to know—had you noticed any refugees loitering in the area?”

“Certainly I've seen a couple—there is wealth here, and many poor souls have flooded in with nothing, barely the clothes they stand up in. We've tried to deal with the situation with some delicacy—we do not want to seem harsh, in light of circumstances, but the well-being of our guests comes first.” He paused. “I have heard that a couple of refugees were seen earlier, but sent on their way with some money to help them. They were asked not to return—after all, if summoned, the police would not be handing out gifts of coin.”

“I see,” said Maisie.

“Will that be all?”

“I have one more question. Before the attack, before Mr. Babayoff left the reception where he was working, he took one or two photographs of a man and woman talking—they certainly looked as if they were having a very nice time. The man was quite tall and had either blond or gray hair, though he wasn't old—probably in his thirties. He had quite sharp features, and his eyes—I would imagine they were blue or gray. He was with a woman—a very beautiful woman—with long, dark hair and dark features. Her hair was swept to one side. Do you happen to recall them? I remember you telling me you were working at the hotel that evening.”

The man said nothing, then inclined his head. “May I ask how you know this, about the guests?”

Maisie hid her fluster—she had inadvertently given herself away. “Forgive me, I should have said—I recently met a couple of people, also guests of the hotel who had been at the party. I think they've left
Gibraltar now—in fact, didn't the SS
Beatrice
sail yesterday? So, yes, they've departed . . . but they mentioned seeing Mr. Babayoff, and that he took quite a few photographs of the couple. I simply wondered who they were—they might have observed someone following Mr. Babayoff from the hotel.”

“Of course, I see now. But no, I don't remember any gentleman or woman such as those you describe. I'm not saying they were not there, but you will appreciate, as a member of staff when the hotel is busy—and I shouldn't admit this—one face looks much like another, after a while.”

Maisie smiled and held out her hand. “Not to worry—it was just a thought. It's been bothering me, you see, that a man could be killed, leaving relatives to grieve his loss, yet with no knowledge of his attacker's identity. I wanted to see if I could find out anything.”

“Best left to the police, Miss Dobbs.” The man picked up his pen and smiled past Maisie. Two new guests were arriving, followed by a porter carrying their luggage.

“Yes, best left to the police,” agreed Maisie.

She turned away and walked toward the doors, but before she reached them, she glanced back at the clerk. He had summoned a junior clerk and moved to use a telephone some distance from the new guests, who were loudly proclaiming their room preference. Maisie stepped around the edge of the entrance and moved with barely a sound in the direction of the far end of the desk where Santos was now dialing. The pillars were useful in hiding her approach, though he was looking down at a piece of paper he had unfolded and placed before him. Maisie positioned herself so that she could listen to the conversation, but not readily be seen. Santos continued to consult the note. Maisie strained to hear.

“Yes. Thank you. I can wait.” There was a pause, then Santos gave a
half-smile, as if greeting whoever was on the end of the line in person, rather than via telephone. “You were right. Yes, she came back. Yes. She asked about a man at the party, a man that Babayoff had paid some attention to with his camera—he was with a woman. No. She said she was told about them by another couple she'd met who were at the hotel when it happened—but apparently they've sailed now.” He gave a half-laugh. “I thought so too, sir. Yes. Very well. Thank you, Mr. MacFarlane.” He replaced the receiver on the cradle and turned toward the other clerk, who was smiling up at the new guests and telling them that of course they could have a room with the best view of the sea.

Maisie closed her eyes and shook her head, then slipped out of the hotel and back onto the path. She wanted to look at the place where Sebastian Babayoff had been killed. Just one more look.

S
he felt as if a cold blanket had enveloped her body as she walked along the path, closer to the place where she had discovered the mutilated body of Sebastian Babayoff. She recognized the exact point not by any sign of blood spilled, but by the very cleanliness of the area, as if acid had been poured liberally across the path, causing the ground to become almost white in places. She knelt down, touched the soil, and closed her eyes, reliving the evening she had first meandered along the path, soon after she had disembarked with no purpose but to become lost. She wanted nothing more than to slip away, as if she had never been known by anyone. Even that recollection grieved her now, because it was her father's face that came to mind as she stood in the bright sunshine, thinking of the terrible pain he would feel if he knew how she was enduring an existence rather than living a life. Soon she would have to square up to the business of sailing for England, if only to see the face she loved so very much behold her in return.

Breathing deeply, Maisie sat on the low wall that flanked the path. First she looked behind her at the bushes where she had discovered the Leica camera. Was she sorry she had not handed it over to the police? No, she wasn't. It would have been either destroyed or put away somewhere, never to be seen again. Not that she blamed the local police—far from it. She believed strings were being pulled to control their actions. It was a delicate time, after all, and they had enough on their plates, dealing with the local civilian consequences of a war too close for comfort.

It was while she was sitting in quiet contemplation, that she realized she had no idea what Babayoff looked like. When she encountered his body, it was twilight, a time when shadows crossed a grainy darkness, and even a silhouette seemed larger and without human form. She had taken his hand, felt the fading warmth as life ebbed from his body, and seen enough to know his face was bloody and bruised. A heavy weapon must have been used to beat him about the head, along with the knife used to run through his heart. The perpetrator had been intent upon his quest—which Maisie believed was not to rob, not to take money or valuables. Sebastian Babayoff was, she was sure, the intended target—there was no mistaken identity. She thought her investigation—if it could be termed such—revealed activities on the part of the photographer that were too unpredictable for her to take what she encountered of him at face value. His job was to see the world from a narrow perspective, to reveal smiles of joy, or a view of the ocean, or a landscape to be remembered. With his camera he laid down moments in time for posterity—images never to be forgotten because they were there forever, in black and white and shades of gray.

And as Maisie sifted through these thoughts, as she imagined Sebastian Babayoff, again, going about his work, she realized she could not search for the truth in black-and-white evidence, but in the grainy
shadows, among the people who lurked there, hoping never to be seen. If that were so, then who was the man with the fair hair, photographed with Carlos Grillo's niece—who at the time bore little resemblance to the black-clad young woman from a family of Genoan fisherfolk? There was something so very blatant about his demeanor, as if he were afraid of no one.

She realized, then, that she didn't really want to come face-to-face with that man, though she anticipated it might well happen.

J
acob Solomon was behind the counter of his haberdashery shop when Maisie entered, the bell above the door clanging as she crossed the threshold. She quite liked the musty warmth in the store, as if particles of fabric had come together to reignite a childhood memory long forgotten. There had been a haberdashery shop not far from the small terrace house where she'd lived with her mother and father. She remembered being sent to the shop by her mother to buy a new transfer for her embroidery. There were many intricate designs, and Maisie knew that the greater the challenge, the more it might draw her mother's mind away from her pain. This was before her father had spent every penny he earned taking his wife to doctors he hoped might hold a cure. Maisie would step into the shop, the floorboards dark underfoot, flanked by chests of drawers full of all manner of linen and cotton goods, many wrapped in paper to protect the delicate materials from from damp and dust. The proprietor would bring out a selection of transfers for Maisie to pore over. There were flowers and paisleys, and embroidery transfers depicting Little Bo Peep and Jack and Jill. “Well, your mother will have her hands full with that one,” the proprietor would say, and Maisie would nod and hand over the requisite number of pennies, telling the woman that she did not need
silks; her mother had a basket full of thread in many colors. Maisie wondered, now, where all those squares of her mother's fine embroidery had gone. Had her father burned them in his grief? Or had they been given away, or sold to bring in a little more money? There was medicine to pay for, toward the end, medicine that took her mother into a netherworld, as if she were standing at a station in gauzy light, waiting to pass into another life, free from pain.