‘Where’s the flat? Here, in San Antonio?’
‘Yes. I shall show you, no?’
‘No—just give me the address and tell me how to get there.’
He did, explaining that it was only a few minutes walk away. I didn’t think that Duchêne would risk holding Dawson and Wilkins in a town flat. They were probably out in the country somewhere. Mimo would be the anchor man at the town end. I couldn’t wait to have a chat with Mimo and I was glad that I had the 9 mm Browning in my pocket.
José said, ‘What about the pesetas, senhor?’
‘You’ll get them—just so long as you keep your mouth shut. You haven’t seen me. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. But you come back with the pesetas. This other man I don’t like. His promises I don’t trust. For that I tell you all this gladly.’
If it were just a question of money sense, the boy would go far. ‘Somebody will be back,’ I said.
I turned and went and he was counting the wad of notes before I reached the door.
The small girl was still crooning over her doll on the stairs. I gave her a friendly pat on the head, happy at the thought of seeing Mimo, hoping that this was the break I wanted to lead me to Dawson and Wilkins. The old man was still sitting on the doorstep, but he didn’t get a pat. After the gloom of the house the sunlight hit me like a photo-flash and I damned nearly tripped over him.
I went up the street, blinking like an owl. Flat six, Casa Alcina, Mimo. For a while I wondered if I ought to go and get Olaf to help me. Then I decided against it. They might be pulling out fast, at this moment even. They must have had a bad moment when they found out about the letters. Suddenly, the cold thought hit me that they might have done something about Wilkins there and then. I pushed it from my mind.
Casa Alcina was in a small square on the hill at the north end of the town. The square was like so many squares in booming Mediterranean towns, new apartment blocks were going up and old houses were coming down and the air was gritty with cement and plaster dust. Casa Alcina was an old block, probably due to come down soon. There were a couple of small vans parked outside. The hallway was bare of any furnishing, and there was an ancient self-service lift that creaked upwards, protesting. I got out on a small stone landing which had two doors. One was half open to show a collection of buckets and brooms. The other door was shut. The number ‘6’ was painted on it in white. I took out the Browning and listened against the door. There was no sound from inside. It was getting on for three o’clock. Mimo would not be in the Bar Tristan. He might be having a quiet siesta; though I didn’t see Mimo as the siesta type. I put my fingers on the door handle and tried it gently. The door was unlocked.
I went in quietly, slipping round the door, gun and shoulder first.
It was a big room, with wide windows on the far side that opened to a narrow, railed balcony. There was a big settee against one wall, a couple of armchairs, and a low table against another wall with glasses and bottles on it. An open door to the side of the table showed a small corridor with two doors opening off it, probably bedrooms. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and there was another smell, too, familiar to me, mixed up with it. And the reason for the other smell was clear before my eyes.
I just stood inside the door and stared. It wasn’t the kind of scene you want to walk into more than once in your life. Pelegrina was lying on the settee in his shirt and trousers and his big head was lolling awkwardly towards me. There was a bullet wound just above his right temple. Never again in his life would he try and touch his daughter for money. On the floor, a little way from the settee, was Mimo. He was lying flat on his face and I couldn’t see any mark on him. But blood had seeped on to the polished boards near his right shoulder and from the way he lay I knew that he would never whistle ‘Winchester Cathedral’ happily to himself again.
Sitting in an armchair by the low table was Freeman. He was wearing a grey linen suit. He had his legs crossed and was resting his arms on them and supporting his head in the pose of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’. He was thinking too. So absorbed was he that he took no notice of me. A cigarette burned in the corner of his mouth and there was an ashtray full of stubs on the arm of the chair. On the floor at his feet lay an automatic pistol fitted with a silencer.
Keeping him covered I pushed the door shut behind me. The noise made him look round. He stared at me blankly. Then he frowned, ran his hand through his brown hair and shook his head. All the colour had gone from his tanned face and he looked about ten years older.
I said, ‘Just sit where you are.’
I crossed the room and picked up the automatic pistol from the floor. It was a .22 Star, made in Spain. Freeman made no move to stir from his chair. But his head followed me round, the brown eyes dull under their shaggy brows. I felt sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for poor old Pelegrina. From the thin black cord round his neck I saw his monocle dangling over the side of the settee. I found a bottle of gin, poured a fat slug into a glass, and took it to
