A Dangerous Place

  Maisie was about to ask another question when a hammering sound came from the floor above.

  Miriam pushed back her chair. “Oh, look at the time. I must go to her, Miss Dobbs—Maisie. I must look after my sister, make sure of her. She may need to . . . you know . . . personal things.”

  “Would you like some help?” asked Maisie.

  The woman shook her head, then looked up at the ceiling as the thump-thump-thump continued, and several flakes of plaster fell on the table.

  “I’ll leave you to get on then, Miriam.” Maisie picked up her satchel and turned toward the door. Miriam drew back the bolts and the chain, opening the door just enough to allow Maisie to slip out onto the street.

  “May I come again, Miriam?”

  Miriam nodded. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Maisie lifted her hand to wave, but already the door was closed. She could hear the bolts being shot home, the chain drawn across, and the key turned in the lock.

  And as she walked back toward Main Street, Maisie thought about dear Carlos, an elderly fisherman who had lost his wife, who had not seen his sons for years, and who—she had no doubt—had come to consider his old friend’s son as his own. She had a strong feeling that Carlos might not have been felled by a bad heart, and that Sebastian Babayoff knew the why of it, even if he did not know exactly how the old man might have lost his life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shadows were beginning to lengthen across the rooftops as Maisie returned to the guesthouse, and the late sunlight shimmered rose-pink on the water. Fishing boats had returned to their moorings, and those seeking refuge who had not already found rest looked for shelter. She was weary, now—fatigue seemed to come more readily than it had before, and there was a dull ache across her abdomen. She’d been told that the scar would heal, that the place where her lifeless child had been taken from her body would cease to give her pain, yet some discomfort remained. She was reminded of her tenure as a nurse during the war, working close to the front, a terrible time when soldiers screamed with the pain of limbs no longer there. A man would clutch the stump of amputation as if to soothe the violence to his flesh and bone, and she wondered if that same ghost of what was and could never be again had been haunting her. It was as if every day her child cried to be held, and she thought she would die, wishing she could reach out and envelop the small body with her love.

  She sat in the armchair next to the open window, looking out toward a sliver of sea. If she were an artist, she might try to paint that fragment; the color and subject seemed so intense. In the frame a fishing boat crossed before her, and a naval vessel lay at anchor, as if watching. Of course there were people watching and waiting on that ship, guarding the sovereignty of Gibraltar’s waters.

  Maisie reached for a packet of cigarettes, turned it upside down, and shook one free. She looked at the slender roll of tobacco in its thin paper shell. How could she do this? She had always hated smoking. She would take Priscilla to task for the habit: You smell like a chimney, Pris—I’m sure it’s not good for you. And Priscilla would point out that advertisements extolled the virtue of the cigarette, that it was said to be excellent for the health. Maisie doubted that very much. Yet Maurice had smoked a pipe, and she had loved to walk into his home—now her home, though she was loath to return—and smell the fragrant rich tobacco he favored. Still, she’d never imagined she would take up smoking. Perhaps this cigarette would be her last.

  She inhaled and thought about the murder of Sebastian Babayoff. In truth, she felt ill equipped to investigate his death—ill equipped, yet compelled by the very fact that she had discovered his body. Had she bitten off more than she could chew by getting involved? After all, she could have walked away, could have just given a statement to the police. But she hadn’t. Her instinct had pressed her to keep the Leica and the film it held. Why had the larger camera been left behind? Unless she had disturbed the killer in the midst of attack—likely enough, after all. Or perhaps Babayoff’s murderer had no interest in a camera.

  Maisie felt at sea; she realized this sense of inadequacy was due to her lack of knowledge about Gibraltar, about the conflagration across the border, even about the Sephardic community. What did Maurice always say? That the commencement of an investigation was akin to entering a dark room, where there were no shadows, no familiar shapes to guide the person who wanted to cross from one wall to the next, or find the door. She closed her eyes and tried to summon the image of her mentor. He was not a tall man, and not one who carried weight, though there was a strength to him, a substance demonstrated when he walked—even in later years, when he depended upon a cane to provide balance. His suits were tailored to fit shoulders that were broad but not overly muscular, and without exception his trousers had turnups, fashion or no fashion. Always he had seemed old, even when he must have been a younger man. From their very first meeting she’d sensed a deep wisdom within him, as if he held at his fingertips all the knowledge a person might need to navigate the waters of life—yet he too was a student when he visited Khan, his own mentor, who had advised her on many an occasion. Was Khan still alive? At the thought, she felt herself sink farther into the chair.

  We must bring light to the darkened room, Maisie. Maurice’s voice echoed down the years, and it was as if he were with her. Knowledge is the light. Information is the light. Come out of the darkness one lamp at a time. Paint your picture of what came to pass question by question—and remember, some are never meant to be answered because the response closes the door to knowledge you most want and need.

  Pressing her hardly smoked cigarette into the ashtray, Maisie clutched the arms of the chair and drew herself to her feet. But as she moved toward a writing table at the corner of the room, the pain crossed her abdomen again, and she doubled over. It should have gone by now. She began to weep. She knew she should probably see a doctor, just to be on the safe side. But she was in the dark room in more ways than one. Yet there was a light—only a temporary light, but it gave her a means of escape more potent than the occasional cigarette. Refuge came in the form of a small pill. She had first been given the medicine by her doctor at the hospital in Toronto, then again in Boston. After she was rushed away from the airfield—after she’d run toward the fallen aeroplane, tripped on rough ground, and run again—she was taken to a local doctor before being transferred to the hospital in Toronto. She remembered holding on to her belly after she’d witnessed James’ aircraft plummeting to earth, as if to protect her child from the terror. The doctor had given her the drug via a syringe, and then at the hospital, it had been administered through a line into a vein in her arm. She’d tried to stop them, but the ether had done its job, and soon it seemed she was drifting above herself, looking down at the melee in the operating room, at her body and the other small body, and then that tiny perfect being rose up to be cradled in her arms before she heard her name and had to follow the sound, releasing her child—her dear sweet child—to the hereafter.

  Morphia. It had often brought terrible images into her mind’s eye, but it took away the pain, and she had some in a small bottle, right there in her leather case.

  Maisie woke the following morning still dressed, her clothing crumpled as she lay on top of the bedcovers. The curtains were still open from the day before, and already she could hear midmorning sounds on the street. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then dragged her legs to the side of the bed and pressed her knuckles down on the mattress as she rose to her feet. At first the room seemed to swim before her, so she steadied herself, reaching out to the bedside table. The carafe was still half full of water; she filled a glass and quenched her thirst. The physical pain had gone, for now. She picked up the bottle of pills and walked across the room toward her leather suitcase. She lifted the lid, placed the pills inside a small silk bag containing a few items of jewelry, which she secreted in a pocket inside the case. She closed the lid and secured the lock and then the straps. She was not trying to hide the bottle of morphia. She was making it hard
er for herself to take the drug at will.

  Maisie made her way to the window, her legs finding their strength and balance. Kenyon was across the road. Another person might not have seen him, leaning against a wall just inside a narrow alleyway commanding a good view of the front door of the guest house, but Maisie spotted him at once. She observed his stance. He was leaning, his right leg bent with the sole of his shoe against the wall. He smoked a cigarette and read a newspaper, though his eyes moved from the page to the door, from the page to the door. He was vigilant, of that she had no doubt. But as she watched, Maisie set her upper body in the same position, her shoulders hunched just so, mirroring the man who waited for her in the shadows. Then she knew that Arturo Kenyon held within him a feeling of inadequacy. She was sure this was his emotion, not her own sense of worth seeping into her observation. Maisie was willing to bet that he had no real interest in his remit, that no matter what he’d been told about her, it made him feel less than a man, having been tasked with following what appeared to be a very ordinary, if perhaps meddlesome woman, albeit a woman who was able to lose him with ease. Kenyon must feel he was capable of much more, and wish he were embroiled in an investigation of greater importance. But perhaps he had not been told everything. And perhaps today would be the best day to approach him, to let him know that she had his number. She would have to see.

  Maisie rubbed her forehead as the room began to move again. She knew she needed to eat, and it had to be something substantial. The dose of morphia would have left its imprint on her thinking—it had tempered the physical pain, but now she had to get it out of her system—and she could not let it prevent her from achieving something in the hours to come. If she had nothing to show for herself, then she might as well be with her husband and child. Dead.

  Having bathed and breakfasted at the guesthouse, Maisie made a mental list of two or three things she wanted to accomplish before her energy was spent. First of all, she would visit Mr. Salazar—he would know where she could buy a large sheet of paper. It was time to begin a case map; she needed to focus her mind on the murder, and she needed to see before her the threads linking everyone she met—if such connections existed. She needed colored pencils to mark her steps on the map, and to see where gaps were revealed in the story. And she wanted to find someone who would tell her more about the territory she’d chosen as a refuge. She added Mr. Solomon to her list, as well as Inspector Marsh. She still had the Leica with a roll of film inside, and had yet to discover what images it might hold. Who could she trust with developing the film? And what could she find out about Carlos, the fisherman? Already she could see that each item amounted to a fair amount of work for one day—she admitted to herself that she would not be moving at her accustomed speed—thus it might not be the best day to approach Kenyon. Perhaps, like certain important questions, he should be left alone for the time being, after all, he might have much to tell her by his very presence.

  Arturo Kenyon flicked down the half-smoked cigarette and folded the newspaper into the pocket of his linen jacket. He pushed his frame away from the wall with his foot and emerged from the alley as Maisie Dobbs left the guesthouse and began walking down the street. Today she was wearing a white blouse with the black skirt and the same black sandals. She’d clipped her hair back with a comb on one side of her head, and though she wore dark glasses, she did not wear a hat. She carried her leather satchel with a long strap over her shoulder. Kenyon sighed. Another day of tedium, following this woman who someone surely must have been been wrong about. Yes, she’d managed to lose him yesterday, but he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should. It was not as if she was doing anything worth remarking upon. He’d returned to the guesthouse, and watched as, at six o’clock in the evening, she entered again. Back in her room, she’d stood by the window, looking out—he imagined she was trying to view the sea through spaces between the buildings. She’d allowed the lace curtains to fall, but as it grew darker, the light inside never came on. Had she just sat in darkness, this Dobbs woman? Had she gone downstairs to her landlady to ask for supper, only returning after night fell, perhaps? And did it really matter what she’d done?

  Kenyon maintained a working distance behind the woman as she walked once again toward Salazar’s little restaurant. Perhaps he’d have to go in for a word with Salazar, see if there was anything on those old bones ready to be picked off.

  Ah, my good lady, Miss Dobbs—very kind of you to come again,” said Salazar, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore, day in, day out, though each day the apron was fresh and crisp with starch. “A cup of my best coffee? A little something to set you up for the day, perhaps?”

  Maisie smiled. There had been a lull in the stream of customers, and only two others were present, a man and a woman at adjacent tables, their heads bowed over a newspaper and a book, respectively.

  “Good . . . day, Mr. Salazar. Of course, I was going to wish you a good morning, but it’s getting a bit late for that, isn’t it?” Maisie looked up at Salazar. “I think I’ll have a cup of milky coffee, if you would be so kind. And a pastry—not too sweet. Could you pick something for me?”

  “A plain croissant, perhaps? I know they’re French, but our customers like them—though a Frenchman came in and said ours were not light enough.”

  “I’m sure they will go down well with butter and a little jam or marmalade, if you have some.”

  “I’ll be just a moment.”

  Salazar left, pushing his way through a door behind the serving bar. The door swung on its hinges a couple of times, and Maisie could hear him shouting to the kitchen staff, which amounted to a member of his family. It was not an aggressive order, but loud all the same, as if he had an army to command. Maisie liked Mr. Salazar; she liked his manner, the way he bustled, and his good heart. Sometimes she thought she could see that good heart beating, and realized that more often now she looked for goodness in a person, sought it out and found it comforting. She had been so practiced in looking for that which brought ill, yet Maurice had taught her to look for the duality in everyone. Her success had depended upon an ability to see the innocent within the guilty, the monster within the angel. More often she looked for the victim within the perpetrator of a crime. Perhaps that’s what she had to do with the death of Sebastian Babayoff—look for another victim. But of what? So far Babayoff was the only victim, though Carlos, the fatherly fisherman, might also have met an unnatural fate.

  Kenyon waited outside. How does he not know I am aware of him? thought Maisie. The doors swung open again; the voices in the kitchen became loud and then muffled as the doors thumped into each other and closed.

  “Lovely, miss, a good coffee and a heavy Gibraltarian French croissant. With English marmalade.”

  Maisie felt her stomach lurch, but smiled at Salazar. “Won’t you join me just for a moment, Mr. Salazar?”

  The man looked around, held up one finger, and moved across to the bar, where he poured a cup of coffee, bringing it back to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down, running his fingers across his almost bald head. “The best invitation I am likely to have all day, Miss Dobbs.” He lifted his cup and sipped, setting it down on the tablecloth—he had not brought a saucer. “Now, then. I think you might have something to ask me, no?”

  Maisie sipped her coffee, soothing, strong with warm milk. She grasped her cup as she spoke. “I’ve walked around Gibraltar for several weeks now—I’m just staying a while before I sail back to England, though I am not sure when I will be able to leave. It occurred to me that I know so little about Gibraltar. There are so many people here from across the border—and I am not even sure I understand what has happened there. How did it start? I find it so hard to believe that here we are, safe, to a point, and yet just a few miles away, people are killing each other.”

  Salazar nodded. “It is a—how would you say? A contradiction, no? That our town here was taken by the British as the spoils of a war centuries past, and yet we have refugees from war he
re. And not only that—we are many rolled into one, we Gibraltarians.” He seemed to sit up, clearly proud of his heritage. “My own people—my ancestors—come from Spain, Malta, the Azores, even Morocco. Yet we all lived here under a British flag. It is as if this rock were a great big pot on the stove, and each one of our ancestors an ingredient mixed in.” He paused. “By the way, Miss Dobbs, speaking of mixed ingredients, did you know that Arturo the carpenter has been following you like a puppy?”

  Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Arturo the carpenter?”

  Salazar pointed to the figure of Arturo Kenyon, reading a newspaper across the street.

  “Oh, is that his name, Arturo? I thought he might be someone up to no good.”

  Salazar shook his head. “No, just a local man with a trade, though I don’t know why he is not at his work.”

  Maisie sipped from her cup and set it down on the saucer, then took up the croissant and began to spread a thin film of marmalade on it as she spoke. “Tell me, Mr. Salazar, about the war in Spain.”

  Salazar shrugged, opening his palms as the line of his mouth curved down and his chin jutted out. “It is very bad. That brother fights brother, that innocents are killed. There are volunteers coming from your country, from America and across the world—to fight for the, how do you say it? The man in the street? Well, I do not know who he is anymore, just that many want to leave, but are caught in a funnel at the border. Those with relatives here in Gibraltar are trying to stay—and remember, many of our people here have had jobs across the border for years, but now those jobs are lost. We are safe, but so much goes on here.” He pointed to his eyes. “I keep my eyes open.”

  Maisie dipped the croissant into her coffee cup and took a bite. She looked at Salazar again. “And what do you see?”

  “I see many new people here, and that is of no surprise. We have always had visitors to Gibraltar. But I also see people who are watching, as Kenyon watches you.”