Message From Malaga Read Online Free PDF

murderer, an embezzler of union funds, a forger, a kidnapper and extortionist; full details of his crime—place, date, names of witnesses—to follow. And the details did follow, again within a few hours. “This man has to leave tonight?” Reid asked. “When did he arrive?”
    “This morning.”
    “The usual way?” Reid had worked out a simple—and so far dependable—method of bringing a refugee into El Fenicio. The first of them, six years ago, had been Tavita’s brother. El Fenicio had chosen itself, as it were, for the role of a safe house.
    “No. He did not come from the docks. He came from Algeciras.”
    “But how?”
    Magdalena shook her head. She knew nothing. Tavita had given her the message for Señor Reid and she had passed it on. “He is dangerous, this one” was all she said. Her worst misgivings about helping any refugee had been fulfilled. She always had complained about the risks for Tavita. Not for el norteamericano ; he could look after himself. So could Esteban. Even young Jaime. But Tavita? She could lose everything.
    “Do you know this man?” Reid was watching her face closely.
    She shook her head, pushed him out of her way as she reached over to switch on the iron. “Tavita knows of him,” she said. “He was a friend of her brother’s. That was many years ago. Here, in Málaga.”
    “What is his name?”
    Magdalena shrugged, tested the iron, began pressing a ruffle. She knew little, wanted to know even less. Whoever this man is, Reid thought, he really silences her. He reached out, gave her bent shoulders a reassuring pat, and then stepped into the corridor. Quickly, he walked its length, taking out his key to the sitting-room door. It was kept locked on the nights it held any special visitor. How many times had he come along here, just like this, in the last six years? No more than thirty. Some might think that a small achievement indeed, but it hadbeen successful. Thirty men who would never have been given permission to leave Cuba had found their way out. And after tonight? Possibly this could be the end of the whole operation: the man behind this door hadn’t come here through regular channels, hadn’t even been expected. Yet he must have known the right identifications, or else Esteban would have played stupid, turned him away when he had arrived this morning. I like this as little as Magdalena, Reid thought as he turned the key in the lock and then knocked three times before he opened the door.
    The room was in darkness except for a vertical strip of subdued light where the tall shutters had been left ajar. Down in the courtyard, Pablo’s heels were beating out a frenzied zapateado. The man who stood looking out at the balcony could not have heard Reid’s knocking against the collected noise, but he had sensed the door opening. He swung round on his heels, stepping aside from the band of light, and faced Reid.
    “Close the shutters. Draw the curtains,” Reid said in Spanish. What kind of a fool am I dealing with? Had he actually been out there, on that balcony? Possibly it was safe enough, provided you moved slowly and kept well back in the shadows: it was partly recessed, and the iron railings and side pillars were thickly covered with climbing vines. Even so, there was a risk, and it irritated Reid.
    “ You close them,” the man told him in English. He stepped farther away, merging completely with the darkness.
    Reid moved quickly, wasting no time on argument. He pushed the shutters gently together, fastened them securely; the strumming guitars, the stamping feet, the clapping hands, the cries of “ Olé! ” faded into the background. He caught the heavyfolds of the long curtains, drew them close until their edges overlapped; the last vestiges of greyed light were blacked out. Behind him, the small lamp on the central table was switched on. Reid turned toward it, but the man was no longer there. He was now standing some six feet away, his right arm held stiffly, his