Hand in Glove (54 page)

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“Except those, yes.” Another move towards the chocolate cup was aborted. “But how are you to communicate with them?”

Derek studiously erased all expression from his face as he replied.

“I think I may have found a way.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.” Their eyes met and it seemed to Derek that, quite deliberately, Galazarga allowed the veil to rise momentarily from his meaning, the screen around his intentions to slide briefly back. What lay behind was hard and cautious and cunning: Delgado’s iron hand in his secretary’s velvet glove.

“Congratulations are in order, then.” The smile returned and with it the layers of pretence. “If you are right, you may be able to render the Abberley family an inestimable service.”

“I’m right.”

“Your confidence does you credit. But permit me to utter a word of warning. You are in a foreign land of which you know very little.

Of its history, I would suspect, even less. Remember your own coun-trymen’s proverb: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, whereas ignorance is bliss.”

“What Ortiz knew was inescapably dangerous. I have his written record of it. And I’m willing to surrender it.” Derek could feel the perspiration forming on his upper lip and forehead, but knew he could not be seen to wipe it away. It was useless to hope his anxiety had escaped Galazarga’s notice. The only question was what he would conclude from it. “But my willingness is strictly conditional. You follow?”

“I believe I do.” The cigar slipped into his mouth, then was with-drawn. “I think I can safely say Señor Delgado would very much like to agree on satisfactory terms for his acquisition of the Ortiz . . . of the curio you describe.”

“Good.” Derek swallowed hard. “There’s just . . . er . . . one thing I have to explain.” Galazarga’s eyebrows shot up. “Originally, a hand-drawn map was enclosed with the document. Unfortunately, it’s been destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“By a previous . . . holder.”

“The map does not form part of what you are offering?”

“It would, if it still existed. But it doesn’t. Nothing’s being withheld, you understand. The map is lost. Gone. Not mine to offer. Nor anybody else’s either.”

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Galazarga clicked his tongue. “Oh dear. Oh dear me. This is . . . a sad development.”

“It needn’t be. What’s gone is also safe. And what isn’t gone is on offer.”

“Quite possibly. But the map . . .” He drew lengthily on his cigar.

“Incompleteness, however fractional, is anathema to the true collector. It reduces the value of an item dramatically. It may prove . . .

fatal . . . to the prospects of a sale. Yes,
fatal
is I think the word.”

“If it did have such an effect, I’d have to look elsewhere for a buyer.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. And I reckon I’d find one, the absence of a map notwith-standing. Don’t you?”

“I?” Galazarga coughed. “I really could not say. Señor Delgado may feel able to proceed despite your proviso. Or he may not. The decision rests with him.”

“When will he take it?”

“After I have apprised him of the relevant facts.” Abruptly, Galazarga leant forward, took a sip of chocolate, then rose, extending his hand in farewell. “To which task I shall give my immediate attention. Such a pleasure, Mr Fairfax.”

Derek stood up hurriedly, shook Galazarga’s hand and found himself returning the infuriating smile. “When . . . er . . . when will I hear from you?”

“Within twenty-four hours. Without fail.”

“Right. I—”

“Adiós.”
With the faintest of bows, Galazarga turned and walked swiftly from the room.

After the door had swung shut behind him, Derek subsided back into his chair and began to retrace their conversation in his mind. He was still engaged in this process when, a few minutes later, Frank Griffith appeared in front of him.

“I saw him leave,” the old man said, lowering himself into the seat Galazarga had occupied and staring intently at Derek. “How did it go?”

“It went.”

“When will we have Delgado’s answer?”

“Within twenty-four hours.”

“And what will it be?”

“I don’t know.”

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“What do you think it will be?”

“I don’t think.” He looked straight across at Frank. “You’ve told me often enough since we left England to wait and see. Well, you should be glad. Now, that’s all I’m capable of doing.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

NINETEEN

Eight hours later, Derek’s vigil in his room—which he dared not leave in case Galazarga tried to contact him—was wearing on his nerves as well as his patience. A one-sided conversation with Frank and a static-ridden call to Charlotte had failed either to calm or to cheer him. Now, as the evening advanced and the chances diminished of Galazarga being in touch before morning, he decided solitude was no longer tolerable. A visit to the bar, though it did not promise unbounded gaiety, at least constituted a change of scene. Without looking in on Frank for fear the old curmudgeon might object, he set off, pausing at reception
en route
to emphasize where he could be found.

Galician beer having proved a disappointment, he opted this time for spirits, of which Spanish measures proved gratifyingly generous.

Halfway through his second substantial
cubalibre,
he was beginning to imagine he really was a match for Galazarga and his elusive employer when a strikingly attractive dark-haired girl in a black combination of mini-skirt, polo-necked sweater and bolero jacket sat down at his table.

“Er . . . Hello,” Derek said, with a frown of puzzlement.

“
Buenas tardes
. Mr Fairfax?”

“Er . . . yes.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “I am Yolanda Delgado Vasconcelez. I must speak with you. It is very important.”

“What?” Derek could hardly believe his ears, but there was no doubting her seriousness. Nor her sincerity, to judge by the frankness of her gaze. “But . . . I was told . . .”

“That I was in Switzerland?” She nodded. “I am supposed to be. I

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would still be there now if my grandfather had not . . .” She leant closer, her eyes wide and imploring. “I must not be recognized, Mr Fairfax. If he knew what I was doing, he would be very angry.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Of course. But I cannot let this go on. Surely you see that.”

“I . . . I’m not sure I—”

“I know about your letter. And your meeting with Norberto Galazarga. I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“Could we go somewhere else?” She glanced round. “Somewhere more . . . discreet?”

“Well, I—”

“I can help you.” She placed her hand over his where it rested on the table. “But only if you help me. Will you come with me?”

“Where to?”

“Not far.” She looked over her shoulder again. “But it has to be now. Will you come?”

“I . . .” What manner of help she was offering him he could not guess. But he knew also he could not turn his back on it. The chance of a swift end to Samantha’s ordeal—and to his—was too tempting to resist. “All right. Let’s go.”

She did not accompany him to the bar to pay, but waited by the side-door that led directly out of the hotel. When he followed, she went ahead, a black-clad figure hurrying into the Santiago night. It was dry now, but still misty, the street-lamps and cathedral floodlights blurred and subdued like nurses’ lanterns. The city seemed older and more watchful than by day, its senses sharpened by darkness, its purposes concealed.

They headed downhill, away from the plaza, turning right and then left along deserted dimly lit streets. Before they had reached the end of the second of these, Derek began to regret leaving the warmth and security of the hotel. It would be all too easy to become lost in this cobbled maze of ancient by-ways. Sobered by the coolness of the air, he suddenly began to wonder if Yolanda might be leading him into some form of trap. A noise behind them made him swing round abruptly. But there was no trace of anybody in or between the shadows.

“Don’t worry,” said Yolanda, looking back at him as if she had read his thoughts. “It’s just down here. A little café I know where we can talk without being overheard.”

Reassured, he followed her into the mouth of an alley to their 388

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left. But reassurance lasted no more than an instant. There were no beckoning lights of a café ahead, no lights in fact of any kind. He pulled up and was about to turn back when he was seized around the waist and dragged to one side. He was aware of two large men hauling him into a doorway, of shapes moving vaguely around and behind him, of muffled words in Spanish, of garlic on the breath of his assailants. All this came into his mind a fraction of a second before it was swamped by fear. Then he was slammed against a heavy wooden door, his arms pinned to his sides, a metal knocker grinding against his spine. The blade of a knife flashed in a shaft of light and he saw two faces close to his own, swollen and distorted by the shadows like pumpkin masks at Hallowe’en. And then a drift of cigar-smoke caught in his nostrils. Galazarga was standing a few feet in front of him, an overcoat slung like a cape around his shoulders.

“We will resume our conversation, Mr Fairfax,” he said in a tone of studied normality. “Without the need to guard our tongues so closely.”

“What . . . What do you want?”

“The map—along with the other papers.”

“I told you: it doesn’t exist.”

“We have searched your room. It is not there. I conclude you value it too highly to part with it. So, please be so good as to hand it over.”

“I haven’t got it.”

“¡Cachealos!”

Derek was pulled forward. One of the men twisted his left arm behind his back while the other began searching his pockets, handing the contents to Galazarga as he went. There was not much: wallet, passport, diary, pen, comb, keys, a half-finished packet of pepper-mints and a few crumpled tissues. Yolanda switched on a torch and trained the beam on the bundle of items while Galazarga sifted through them.

“It does not appear to be here, Mr Fairfax.”

“Of course it isn’t. It’s—”

“You called at the pazo in the company of an elderly man. Does he have it?”

“No. Neither of us does.”

“What is his name, Mr Fairfax? Where is he to be found?”

“I’m not answering any more questions.”

“I rather think you are. Unless you want to end your days as

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Maurice Abberley did. The same knife that was held at his throat is now at yours.”

Glancing down, Derek saw the glistening blade, clasped in a large hand that rested heavily on his chest.
Don’t try their patience a moment longer
, his racing thoughts bellowed inside his head.
Tell them
Frank has the map. Tell them where he is. Tell them whatever you have
to
. “Listen, I—”

“That’s enough!” It was Frank’s voice, stern and unwavering. He was standing at the mouth of the alley, pointing a double-barrelled shotgun straight at Galazarga. “Release him now or I’ll fire.” For a second, nobody moved. Then Frank said: “I mean what I say, señor.

I’ve killed men before, most of them Spaniards. The thought of it doesn’t worry me. In fact, the thought of killing you is quite attractive. Any more delay and I may be unable to resist temptation.”

How Frank came to be where he was—how for that matter he had come by the shotgun—Derek was too amazed to consider. He was only glad—more glad than he could ever have imagined being—to see the old man’s implacable stare. If anybody could win this war of nerves, it was Frank. He was outnumbered and could clearly be over-powered. But not before he had fired the gun. Galazarga had to believe he would do so. If he did not believe it, he might judge the risk worth taking. But Frank’s expression was unflinching, his grip on the gun unfaltering. And Galazarga was only a few feet from him. If he did fire, he could not miss.

For another second, Galazarga’s reaction remained in doubt.

Then he parted his hands in a placatory gesture and said: “You have the advantage, señor.” He turned to his men.
“¡Dejálos-ir!”
They let go of Derek and stepped clear of him. The knife vanished.

“Give him back his belongings,” said Frank.

With a little shrug of assumed humility, Galazarga stepped towards Derek and dropped the items into his outstretched hands.

“Now, all four of you, move past me into the street. Very slowly.”

Frank edged back to make way for them: the two leather-jacketed thugs, scowling ominously; the girl, head bowed; and Galazarga, pouting with irritation. “Walk away.” He signalled the direction they should take with a nod. It was a continuation of the route Derek and the girl had been following before they turned into the alley. “Don’t run. Don’t stop. Don’t look round.”

Galazarga muttered something to his men which was evidently sufficient to secure their compliance. As they set off and the girl 390

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followed, he glanced back at Derek and inclined his head, as if in formal leave-taking.
“Hasta luego, señores,”
he said, with the faintest of smiles. Then he fell in behind the others.

The sweat was cooling rapidly on Derek’s brow. He became aware of it for the first time, aware also of how badly his hands were shaking as he crammed his belongings back into his pockets. He stumbled forward to where Frank was standing. Galazarga and his companions were twenty yards away already, walking hard, obedient to their instructions.

“Thank God you found me,” Derek murmured.

“Thank my opinion of you. I reckoned it was odds on you’d do something stupid. So, when I heard you leave your room, I thought I’d better keep an eye on you. And it’s just as well I did. As soon as I saw you leave the bar with the girl, I knew it would end badly.”

Derek was too drained by fear to bridle at his words. Besides, they were all too accurate. “She claimed to be Delgado’s granddaughter.

She claimed to want to help.”

“She was a liar and an impostor. As you should have realized.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We haven’t time for regrets.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“I’ve had it ever since we left Hendre Gorfelen.”

“So that’s why we couldn’t fly—because you were smuggling a gun into the country.”

Frank looked round at him. “I thought we might need one. And it seems I was right, doesn’t it?”

At any other time, Derek would have been enraged. But not now.

Now, Frank’s methods were the only ones that seemed to make sense.

“I never thought . . . I never expected . . .”

“But I did. This was always likely to be their answer.”

“They think we have the map.”

“They can’t bear to think we don’t have it.”

“How do we convince them?”

“We don’t try.” He pointed down the street. “They’re almost out of sight. We ought to be on our way. Before they have a chance to double-back.” He bent to retrieve something from the pavement. It was a threadbare old coat, which he draped over the shotgun before clasping it to his side, stock uppermost.

“Aren’t you going to unload the thing?”

“Not until we’re out of danger. Come on.” Frank set off back the