What was he going to do?
He felt the appraising glance of Don Jaime then. “Come, amigo," said the Spaniard quietly, regarding Shaw with kindly curiosity. “You are troubled. Confide in me. You have the assurance of my silence, as much as the confessional.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment, Don Jaime.” Shaw hesitated, then he made his decision. He said, “I want to find two people. One, a woman — Rosia del Cuatro Caminos, she calls herself. The other’s a man called Ackroyd, an Englishman.”
Very briefly he sketched in some details without giving away anything about the major defence secrets or the danger which was hanging over Gibraltar. Don Jaime listened in silence mostly, drawing slowly at his cigar, gaze fixed on the cream, felt-lined ceiling of the car as they swayed over the bumps and potholes; but, because he had a suspicion that the Englishman’s worried face was not due entirely to the difficulties of his job, he asked one or two probing though gentle questions, and discovered that Shaw was upset because a certain young lady had arrived in Gibraltar. Don Jaime had rather expected there was something about a woman. After that he merely nodded once or twice; and when Shaw had finished he sat on, still silent, non-com-mittal. He appeared to be thinking, and once or twice he grunted to himself and nodded his head again, wobbling his many dark-shadowed chins.
The Spaniard was silent again for most of the way after that, as they swept through Estepona, Marbella, Fuengirola. Some two hours after leaving La Linea the limousine turned in a cloud of dust for the big wrought-iron gateway into the villa’s drive. As it pulled up before the door Don Jaime’s butler came out to meet them. The chauffeur jumped down to open the car door. As Don Jaime got out behind Shaw he called to the butler:
“Frederico, luncheon for Señor Gomez in ten minutes. He will want to wash first.” He turned to Shaw. “You no doubt know that by your standards our Spanish meal times are always late. But you will excuse me if I do not join you, my friend. I have much to do.”
“Of course.”
Don Jaime clapped Shaw on the shoulder almost affectionately, taking it in a great bear-like hug for a moment.
Then, as Shaw followed the butler to Don Jaime’s private bathroom, the Spaniard walked into his study, got rid of the girl typist, poured himself an Amontillado, and took up the telephone.
He knew that his good friend Latymer didn’t send operatives out unless there was something for them to do, and he didn’t send senior ones out on minor jobs either. He knew that ‘Pedro Gomez’ was supposed to work in Gibraltar Dockyard, and the letter of invitation which he had been asked to write to Commander Shaw had started him worrying about Gibraltar in the first place; he felt sure, by now, that all was not well, that something was threatening the security of Gibraltar — and Don Jaime, like any other Spaniard, had a clear interest in Gibraltar; he was as good a patriot as anyone else, and as such he subscribed to his Government’s view that Gibraltar should belong to Spain (though he was well able to find this attitude quite consistent with the friendship which he felt for England — the two things were in separate compartments in his mind). And in addition he was very fond of his half-sister, the girl of half-Spanish blood who had been Dona Juana de Maria de Castro before Sir Francis — then Captain Hammersley and A.D.C. to the Governor of Gibraltar — had married her. The call which he made was, in fact, to his half-sister in the fortress.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The first thing Don Jaime did after Shaw had lunched that afternoon was to implement the invitation contained in the letter which Carberry had given Shaw. He asked him to consider himself his guest for the time being, until the march of events, as Don Jaime put it, took him away.
His bear-like paw came down on Shaw’s shoulder. “I want to help. And here in my home you will be in the centre of things; and you may as well be comfortable while you can, amigo."
Shaw agreed thankfully. The villa was an excellent base of operations, and he could not have wished for anything better; it was a communications centre from which he could cover a whole lot of territory, and for the short time he was likely to be there Shaw knew he would live, for one of the rare occasions in his life, in sheer luxury and off the fat of a land known for its gourmandizing and its service; a fact which he could have enjoyed had it not been for his anxieties.
He asked Don Jaime, “D’you happen to know a man in Malaga called Domingo Felipe?”
The Spaniard gave him a quick look. “Yes, amigo, I do. He is a useful man, as I would gather your department has told you. But he has not been seen for some days, and I believe he is in trouble with the Policia Secreta. Because of this, he has changed his address. More than that I cannot tell you.”
The Policia Secreta, Shaw knew, was one of the most important police formations in Spain and was controlled by the Direccion General de Seguridad in Madrid; its functions included C.I.D. work, extradition laws, Interpol, and subversive activities. And he didn’t like the sound of their interest in his contact. If Domingo Felipe was off the list of useful men, even if only for the time being, it would make his job the harder unless Don Jaime should get some information soon. Anyway, Shaw determined to carry on notwithstanding, and to try to make contact later that day with Felipe.
However, the first thing to do — and Shaw did it as soon as possible — was to put through a telephone call to Major Staunton. He had agreed a simple code with the Defence Security Officer to cover any calls such as this, and Staunton came through immediately when Shaw gave the name which they had arranged he should use, the cover being, if anyone should intercept the call, that he was an officer on local leave from the garrison.
Shaw asked how things were going.
Staunton’s reaction was casual, his yawn elaborate. But Shaw caught the tenseness behind his voice when he answered lightly, “Oh, much as usual. Things haven’t changed just because you’re away, you know, my lad!” Staunton laughed, and the laugh was just a little forced and nervy. That in itself told Shaw much of the story of strain and stress. “I don’t think the… weather’s going to hold for long, though. It’s getting awfully sticky.” He paused. “Having a good leave, old boy?”
Shaw said enthusiastically, “Fine, thanks. Taking it easy — plenty of good food.”
“And — the women? I have to ask that — knowing you.”
“No luck with them yet, I’m sorry to say. Seem to keep one jump ahead of me, though I nearly picked a winner — thought I had till she turned nasty. Can’t be helped. It’s not for lack of trying.”
“I’m sure of that.” Staunton told him that all was well with Debonnair and then for a minute or two they chatted easily about general matters of no importance; a little chaff and leg-pulling and some regimental chat which Shaw hoped wouldn’t sound too phoney. Then Staunton said, “There’s some mail for you, by the way. As it happens, there’s a diplomatic bag going up to Malaga tomorrow, and I can get the courier to drop it in if you like. No trouble at all, old boy,” he said, as Shaw protested formally. “It’ll be with you some time to-morrow. Bye-bye.”