I wondered what other orders he had had. To return to the place in the country, or to take off on his own? Maybe even to run a final check on José Bonifaz to see whether anyone had turned up. They weren’t going to risk that lead in to them not being covered. José had been given the promise of five thousand pesetas if the moment anyone turned up he got in touch with Mimo either at the Bar Tristan or the flat or . . . something cut into my thoughts sharply. I stared at the dead Mimo, frowning. What was it? Something was asking to be recognized. José had been told . . . José had to be able to get on to Mimo the moment anyone turned up, either at the Bar Tristan, or at the flat, or . . . what about if he were away on one of his supply visits? Freeman or Pelegrina at the flat would be no help. They probably hadn’t known about the beer-bottle messages. If Mimo were away a lot of valuable time could be lost. . . . Then it came. I saw José standing in front of me, restless dark eyes full of their peseta look . . . I stood up quickly. One should listen carefully to what people say. Certainly in my profession. A quick, impatient interruption could kill valuable information. I should have learned that lesson by now.
I went back and checked the bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom and then the big room. I didn’t find what I was looking for.
I went out, locked the flat door and ran down the stairs. It was quicker than the creaking old lift. With me I had Mimo’s bunch of keys. Only one van was standing outside now. It was a little grey Fiat, covered in dust. I slipped into the driving seat and tried Mimo’s keys. The car ignition key on the ring fitted. I glanced in the back. It was empty. There was nothing in the dash pockets either.
I started the motor, fiddled with the gear, stalled the engine first time, and then got away. I was full of impatience and went down a one-way street against the traffic to a chorus of horns and shouts. A few minutes later I pulled up outside the butcher’s shop in the Paseo Maritimo.
The old man was still sitting on the doorstep of No. 7, but he had slid two feet to the right to catch the moving shade. The little girl had gone from the top of the stairs. I hoped that José had not gone from his room. Chasing José around San Antonio at this moment would send up my blood pressure.
José was still there, knees up, reading on the bed. The can of peaches, now empty, lay on its side by the bed. As I shut the door, he sat up quickly and gave me a big, hungry smile.
‘You bring the other pesetas, sir?’
‘They’re coming,’ I said, ‘in a special gift wallet, red morocco leather with gold edges. Just repeat to me the instructions this man Mimo gave you.’
‘But I tell you, senhor, already.’
‘Tell me again. The moment anyone came here about the letters, what were you to do?’
‘I was to let this man know. Either to find him at midday in the Bar Tristan, or other time at his flat.’
‘But you said something about telephoning. I’m sure you did.’
‘Yes, sir. This he told me yesterday. If he’s not at flat I am to telephone.’
‘Since there’s no telephone in the flat, it must be somewhere else you had to telephone.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I not think about it much. Just he gives me the number.’
‘Fish it out.’
‘Please?’
‘Let’s have it, the number.’
He stood up and went to the book-crowded table by the window and came back with a piece of paper. On it was written San José 21.
‘Where’s San José?’
‘It’s a little town, village . . . about six miles from here, sir.’
‘José,’ I said, ‘you get dressed and come down to the Post Office with me. I want the address that belongs to that telephone number. It’ll be a farm or a villa of some kind. You get that, and then show me on the map where it is and we’ll make it five thousand five hundred pesetas.’
He was at the wardrobe for his clothes almost before I had finished speaking.
I waited impatiently. But at the same time I was dead against impatience. I had almost missed this vital piece of information in my earlier impatience to get to Mimo’s telephoneless flat.
*
I must say that, with the firm promise of pesetas behind him, José was a quick worker. I dropped him at the Post Office parked the car and went for a beer in a cafe a few doors down. Before I had finished it he was back. But before he was back I had done some hard worrying about Mimo and the telephone number. He hadn’t given it to José until yesterday. That could have meant that up till then it was a number which Duchêne would not have wanted José to have, but would want him to have to cover a minimum period of emergency. Once they knew the letters had gone off I was certain they would take no risks, certain that they would immediately set about changing their hiding place. It was my guess that now, with all arrangements poised for a move, with Mimo coming back this day to tidy up the Freeman-Pelegrina embarrassment, that the number had been given to José so that he could send a direct warning to them even
