Shaw gazed in horrible fascination, and the man gave a bitter grin. There were no teeth; the gums were white and bloodless like the lips. As Shaw flushed a little, conscious now of his rude stare, Felipe said in a half-whisper, “Do not be alarmed. Appearances — bah! I care nothing for them — what do they matter, my friend, my friend Gomez? It is information you want — is that not so?”
“That’s quite right, señor. I am sorry.”
Felipe waved apology aside. A welcome draught came from the doorway then; blew fresh air into Shaw’s nostrils momentarily; caught the candle, making it gutter until it nearly went out. Shaw had a horrible and painful moment of claustrophobia, worse than he had experienced in Ackroyd’s tunnel-workshop; he felt dread at the idea of being in that room again in the dark. The man, sensing this, laughed; then he grew serious.
“Sit,” he ordered suddenly.
Shaw moved over and sat on the edge of a filthy chair from which sawdust stuffing flew in all directions as the weight of his body came on to it.
“Coñac,” said Felipe. He poured out two glasses of Fundador and pushed one over to Shaw. The glass — and the man’s fingers — were as filthy as everything else, but Shaw felt in need of brandy, and he drank thankfully and felt a little better. He asked, “Why did we not meet as arranged, in the bar in Torremolinos?”
Felipe’s bright eyes looked into Shaw’s all the time now. He shrugged, his shoulders coming nearly all the way up his long neck, and his mouth turned down at the corners. Suddenly the gesture made him appear sad, almost pathetic. He said, ’’because I dare not go out any longer, that is why, señor. I am watched.”
Shaw thought, So Don Jaime was right. He asked, “And yet — you sent for me to come here? Will I not be watched now too?”
Felipe smiled. “You? No, no, señor, you will not be watched! This is not my house, and the policia do not know where I am. It is they — the Policia Secreta — who watch for me, not the people whom you seek. I have other interests, you understand, which make the policia watch me.” The eyes seemed to grin at Shaw from the death’s-head. “Even if the policia knew where I am living, not one of them would dare to enter the Calle Santa Marta. They would be murdered so easily — they are not liked, and I have friends, many friends. Nevertheless, it is not wise for me to be on the streets at present, and the information which I have for you, my friend, it cannot wait.”
Shaw nodded. “I see.” Then he added, “But there is one thing I had better tell you. I was followed and attacked last night.” He explained what had happened, but Felipe shrugged it off, though he said that it might well mean that Shaw’s whereabouts were known to the people whom he sought.
Shaw agreed; then he said, “Now, señor — the information, if you please.”
“First, the money.”
Shaw drew a pile of notes from his pocket. “This is the amount authorized by London.”
Felipe nodded, carefully counted the money, stowed it away in a recess of his trousers. Then, lowering his voice still more, he said, “It has come to my ears, señor, that a car left the road — the road from La Linea to Ronda — below the small town of Vercín. In that car were three men. Two died, a third lives. The one who lives has been taken up to Vercín, and that is where he is now.”
“Who is this man?”
Felipe shrugged. “That I do not know for certain, you understand. No one knows his name, nor where he comes from, nor what he does. He will not open his mouth to speak in the ordinary way, and yet when he speaks in his delirium he speaks in the English tongue.” Felipe looked sharply at Shaw, the bright eyes searching. “He appears, by all accounts, to be mad—”
“What!” Shaw jerked upright. “How d’you mean, mad, for Heaven’s sake! If it’s just delirium—”
“It is not just delirium.” Felipe spoke with certainty. “I am told that beyond doubt his brain is crazed, that he behaves oddly and looks strange. And — he hums some peculiar noise continually, a tune of sorts. But I believe he is the man you seek.”
Shaw’s mind raced in circles. If Ackroyd’s mind had really gone it looked like being all up with Gibraltar. But maybe there was some exaggeration around — he could only hope so. He asked, “Why do you think he’s the one — apart from his speaking English now and then?”
Felipe lifted his shoulders. “Because the car appeared to be coming up from the direction of La Linea, and because his description fits that which was passed to me from certain of your Intelligence services through friends of mine. And because the woman whom you seek, señor, Señorita Rosia del Cuatro Caminos, she is in Ronda. She followed the man, the man in the crashed car who was also being taken to Ronda, but she went by a different route — the San Pedro road. I am told that when she heard to-day that there had been a car crash and made inquiries, she became interested — and less distraite than she had been since her arrival in Ronda.”
“Has she left Ronda yet for Vercín?”
“I have not heard so.” Felipe chuckled and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “There was some difficulty about the car which she was using. I have remarked that I have many friends, and for the money which I am paid I like to give satisfaction. The señorita’s car came into quite violent contact with a lorry driven by a very good friend of mine. The damage may be repaired by now, but we have done our best.”
Shaw smiled at him gratefully. “Yes, it sounds as though you have indeed. Anything else?”
Felipe shook his head slowly, “No more, señor.”
“Nothing about a ship called the Ostrowiec?”
“Nothing. Except that she is here in the port of Malaga, and that her sailing date is uncertain.”
“D’you think she might be used to get this man out of the country?”
Felipe shrugged. “It is perfectly possible, señor. But if I hear anything I will find a way of letting you know.”
Shaw said, “You can contact me through Don Jaime de Castro at Torremolinos, but for now you can take it that I’m heading for Vercín as soon as possible.” He got to his feet, held out his hand. “I’d better be going. Thank you for what you’ve done, and good luck with the police, señor Felipe!”
He met the man’s eye, and smiled. Felipe spat noisily, messily, on the floor. “The dogs! But, you see, there are my friends. The policia will have a long wait. A few pesetas dropped into the right pockets — they still speak many words in Spain. And long may the Virgin keep it so.”
When Shaw left that house, with the news of Ackroyd’s mental state to nag at him now, he didn’t linger. He went as fast as was consistent with not appearing to be on the run, and he didn’t breathe freely until he was out of the Calle Santa Marta and its filth. At the end he found two policia sauntering. They moved in to take a closer look at him, but they let him pass. He fought down the impulse to go back and warn Domingo Felipe. He had no right to take a risk like that, and the policia didn’t seem to be anxious to venture along the alleyway anyhow.
Shaw roused Don Jaime himself and gave him a brief recap of what had happened. “Can you let me have transport?” he asked urgently.
“Of course.” Don Jaime, yawning hugely, reached for a house telephone. “I will give orders at once. A fast car will be at your disposal in five minutes. Will you drive yourself — or do you wish a chauffeur?”
“I’ll drive, thanks. We don’t want anyone else in on this, but thanks for the offer, Don Jaime. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to do one more thing for me?”
“But of course!” The brown eyes gazed up at Shaw’s taut face. “What is it, my friend?”