Hand In Glove Part 61

"But-"

"n.o.body!" He stepped back and was about to close the door when Frank reached out and held it open. At that the smile gave way to a scowl.

"If we can't see him, can we at least leave a message?"

"No messages!"

"He'll want to receive this one. He'll thank you for pa.s.sing it on.

He'll blame you if you don't."

The man relaxed fractionally. The pressure on the door faded.

"Well? Will you deliver our message?"

The answer was reluctant but emphatic, accompanied by a contemptuous curl of the lip. "S."

Derek wondered what Frank would say next, given that they had made no provisions for such a contingency. To his surprise, the old man pulled a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

H A N D I N G L O V E.

375.

"For Senor Delgado," he said, handing it over. "For him and n.o.body else. You will make sure he receives it?"

"S."

"Today?"

"S, senor. Today."

Frank nodded. "Gracias." This time, he did not intervene as the door closed, merely turned and walked away towards the Land Rover.

"What was in the envelope, Frank?" whispered Derek.

"A letter. Brief and to the point. I wrote it last night. It invites Delgado to contact the sender at the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos in order to discuss some papers he has, originally the property of Vicente Ortiz."

"You knew we wouldn't be admitted, didn't you? That we'd have to leave a message?"

"I thought it likely."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you'd have said it was too risky, too direct, too undiplomatic."

"So it is."

"Maybe. But we don't have time for your methods, whatever they are. So we'll have to try mine, won't we?"

"But what kind of response will there be?"

"I don't know."

They reached the Land Rover and climbed in alongside each other. The windows of the pazo stared down at them unblinkingly. If they were being watched, there was no twitch of curtain or glimpse of face to confirm it. And the absence of this-the disdainful lack of any response-somehow worried Derek more than the bolted gate or its sullen keeper. "Is there any chance," he asked, "that Delgado will recognize your name as an old comrade of Ortiz's?"

"None."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Easily. You see, I didn't sign the letter in my name. I signed it in yours."

CHAPTER.

SIXTEEN.

Sunday and Monday had fused into a test of Charlotte's endurance. Time was running out for Samantha, but all Charlotte could do was wait and hope and say nothing to anybody about what might be happening in Galicia. Her two telephone conversations with Derek had provided scant rea.s.surance. There had been a note of anxiety in his voice that she found it easy to believe might presage some form of panic. As for Frank, she was as uncertain about what he intended to do as Derek was. And, unlike Derek, she was in no position to restrain him.

As her mind filled with dread-laden speculation, so her fear of discovery mounted. She knew this to be groundless, since the precautions they had taken were more than adequate, but she could not help expecting Chief Inspector Golding to arrive at any moment demanding to know what she thought she was playing at. Perhaps the receptionist at Fithyan & Co. had recognized her voice. Perhaps one of Derek's neighbours had seen her coming and going at Farriers. Perhaps, worst of all, their attempt to negotiate with Delgado would prove to be a disastrous mistake.

Shortly before midday on Tuesday, there came a ring at the door which brought all these doubts crowding to the surface. By the time she answered it, she had almost convinced herself it would be Golding, grim-faced and accusing. But it was not. And the relief that it was not delayed by several seconds the onset of astonishment at her visitor's ident.i.ty.

"Mrs McKitrick!"

"Hi, Charlie. This is a surprise, right?" Holly McKitrick seemed altered by the switch in locale from expansive Ma.s.sachusetts to introspective Kent. She was wearing a sheepskin coat with the collar turned up and her smile was faint and cautious where before it had been broad and instinctive. For a moment, Charlotte could have believed she was not the same person. A sister, perhaps, or a total stranger bearing a capricious resemblance. Then she realized her own incredulity lay at the root of the sensation. What was this woman H A N D I N G L O V E.

377.

doing here? What could she possibly want? "Can I come in? I don't have long and . . . There's something I have to tell you."

"All right. Come in."

Charlotte led the way into the lounge, took her visitor's coat and offered her a chair. She was wearing a smart black suit and pink blouse, but for all the immaculacy of her appearance there were dark shadows beneath her eyes and a tremor to her hands and voice. An offer of coffee was declined. She sat forward in her chair, slightly hunched, revolving her wedding ring on its finger with the thumb and index finger of her other hand.

"What . . . er . . . is this about, Mrs McKitrick?" Charlotte asked after a momentary silence.

"Your niece."

"Sam?"

"Yuh. You said . . . her kidnappers had set a deadline."

"Yes. The eleventh."

"And today's the sixth." She stared at her feet for several seconds, then said: "Emerson doesn't know I'm here. I'm spending a week with my sister in Germany. Her husband's stationed with the Air Force there. I flew across this morning. In secret, I suppose you'd say."

"To see me?"

"Yuh. To see you."

"About Sam?"

"Listen to me." She looked up, her face suddenly hard and intent.

"I can't bear to think your niece may die because I haven't told you what I know. It may help. It may not. But in case it does . . ."

"I'm listening."

"OK." She stopped flexing at her ring and laid her hands flat in her lap. "Emerson lied when you came to see us in South Lincoln.

Leastways, I think he did. You asked him if he'd told anybody about Tristram Abberley's letters to his sister and he said only me. But I don't think that's true. He went to Spain, you see, between leaving England and returning to Boston over the summer."

"Spain?"

"Yes. He hasn't admitted it, but I can see something's eating at his conscience, something to do with your niece, I guess, and whatever he did in Spain."

"How do you know he was there?"

"His American Express card statement for August showed 378 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

payments to Iberia Airlines and to a hotel and a couple of restaurants in some place called Santiago de Compostela."

The connection was made, the pattern complete. McKitrick was Delgado's informant. It had to be so. Revenge for Maurice's deceit of him might have been the motive, but more likely it was simply money. Charlotte felt sorry for Holly, sorry and grateful for her attempt to retrieve what Emerson had done. "What was he doing in Santiago de Compostela, Holly?"

"I can't be sure. But when he was in Spain researching his book on Tristram Abberley-years ago, before I knew him-he met somebody who offered him a stack of money for any letters or papers Tristram might have left behind concerning his time in the International Brigade." She smiled bitterly. "He's probably forgotten telling me about it. He was smashed at the time. But I wasn't. And after your visit I remembered what he'd said. Besides, he's just ordered a new car. The latest Pontiac Firebird. And he's talking about a skiing vacation in Colorado this winter when he's ordinarily content with weekends in Vermont. I've asked where the money's to come from, but all I can get out of him is that royalty income's well up. But it isn't. I've checked. So, where is it coming from?"

"Somebody who paid him handsomely for identifying my brother as the holder of the letters?"

"That's how I see it." Holly bit her lip. "Emerson's selfish, I know.

G.o.d, do I know. But he isn't malicious. He couldn't have realized these people-whoever they are-would go to such lengths to get what they want."

Charlotte could not forget what Emerson had done to her, how he had played on her emotions to feed his academic reputation. Whether Holly would be as charitable if she knew everything her husband had done during his summer in England Charlotte doubted. But she would not be the one to inflict such knowledge upon her. "I suppose not," she conceded with a consoling smile.

"I only wish I could tell you who Emerson went to see in Spain, but he's never-"

"There's no need."

"You know?"

"Yes."

Holly stared at her in amazement. "So . . . you've found out who's holding your niece?"

H A N D I N G L O V E.

379.

Charlotte nodded. "I've suspected for some time. Now, thanks to you, I know for certain."

CHAPTER.

SEVENTEEN.

Still smarting from Frank's use of his name on the letter to Delgado, Derek lay on his bed at the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos, listening to the drip and splatter of the rain in the courtyard beyond his window. He could not help feeling annoyed that the ploy made so much sense. There was a slim chance Delgado might have heard of Frank, none at all that he might have heard of Derek. Besides, Derek had expounded the case for cool-headed negotiation and the letter had given him the chance to carry it out. What he really resented, of course, was the exposed position it placed him in. He was no longer anonymous, no longer able to claim neutrality whenever it suited him. And he suspected there was more to Frank's reasoning than he had admitted. Why did he suddenly want Derek to take the leading role? Why was he willing to step aside?

Whatever the answer, it was too late to do anything about it.

An hour ago the telephone had rung and Derek had found himself talking to a cultivated English-speaking Spaniard called Norberto Galazarga, none other, it transpired, than Delgado's private secretary.

"I am Senor Delgado's eyes and ears, Mr Fairfax. I act for him in all matters. I am entirely in his confidence."

"Good. Now, has he-"

"Senor Delgado has read your letter and has asked me to meet with you in order to discuss your proposal."

"I haven't made a proposal."

"But you will, will you not?"

"Perhaps. I-"

"Would eleven o'clock tomorrow morning be convenient?"

"Well, yes, I suppose-"

"I will call upon you at your hotel. I look forward to our discussion."

380.

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

"Er . . . Well, so do-"

"Buenos tardes, Mr Fairfax."

And so the die was cast. One intermediary would meet another under conditions of truce. Delicately and with infinite caution, they would edge towards an understanding. Or so Derek hoped. Though how he would phrase his "proposal" he did not know. To what kind of approach would Delgado-or his syrup-tongued secretary-be most receptive? To what form of logic would they yield?