Remember

‘Oh, so you didn’t actually speak to Yoyo yourself?’

  ‘No, he called the office from Hong Kong, and said he’d be in touch the moment he arrived in Paris.’

  ‘Clee, it’s just wonderful. Perhaps we’ll be able to have a reunion on Monday.’

  ‘Maybe. And, yes, it’s the best news we could have. What time will you be arriving in Paris, Nick?’

  ‘Late afternoon, I think.’

  ‘Then it’s dinner that night. Just the three of us. You, me and Yoyo. Providing that Yoyo has arrived, of course, and is feeling up to it.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see him,’ Nicky said.

  ‘And I can’t wait to see you, darling.’

  Nicky laughed. ‘It goes without saying that that’s mutual.’

  They talked for a few more minutes and then they said goodbye and hung up. Nicky stood with her hand resting on the receiver for a moment. Clee had been so excited about Yoyo, he had not asked her why she had moved on to Madrid. He had simply assumed she was there on business, much to her profound relief. She had not had to lie to him again, thank goodness.

  ***

  Later that evening, when she was putting finishing touches to her makeup, the phone began to shrill. Going into the bedroom, she picked it up, and said, ‘Hello?’

  No one answered.

  For a second time, Nicky said, ‘Hello?’ and did so somewhat sharply. There was a click and the phone went dead. Immediately, she dialled the operator. ‘This is Nicky Wells in suite 705. My phone just rang. I answered, but no one spoke. Did you have a call for me?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Wells. I put it through myself,’ the operator answered.

  ‘Who was calling? Do you know?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t. But it was a man who asked for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nicky put the receiver down and returned to the bathroom to do her hair. Quite suddenly she stopped brushing it, and stood for a moment staring into the mirror, but without seeing herself. Her mind was elsewhere. She could not help wondering if someone was checking on her movements again. And then she remembered something Arch had said to her in Rome. He had pointed out that a man who does a disappearing act does not want to be found. Not ever. He had also said she could be putting herself in danger. Was she?

  Her fertile brain focused on Charles Devereaux. Arch had remarked that Charles was tough, hard, and ruthless. All of these things were true. She had spotted those characteristics in him herself.

  A look of comprehension flashed in her bright blue eyes. Yes, she could be in danger.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The news about Yoyo had lifted Nicky’s spirits; it had completely overshadowed the Devereaux problem and her search for Charles.

  Last night she had felt a great sense of buoyancy and lightness when she had gone out to dinner with Peter and Amy Collis, and their friends. Even the troublesome thought that Arch might be correct, that she could be in danger, had been considerably diminished. Now, on this lovely, warm Saturday morning, all of the bogeymen had fled. They had been chased away by her happy mood, and by the bright sunlight, the incredible turquoise sky and the thin, dry Castilian air which gave that sky its extraordinary clarity. Not only that, the briskness and bustle of this elegant and imposing hotel was reassuring, as was the atmosphere of normality which pervaded it.

  Ever since the phone call from Clee, Nicky had been caught up with thoughts of Yoyo. The fact that he had escaped from China to Hong Kong, and was safe in the British Crown Colony, did much to ease the anxiety she had lived with lately; she felt as though her burdens had been lifted. Well, one of them, anyway. She could not wait to see Yoyo, to find out what had happened to him since they had last seen each other three months ago.

  Just as importantly, she wanted and needed to see Clee, to be with him. They had not been together for several weeks, and this separation had only made her appreciate him that much more. She longed for his warmth and intelligence, his love and affection and understanding.

  Nicky picked up her cup and finished her coffee. Then she sat back in the chair and glanced around, absorbing her surroundings. She was having a late breakfast in the restaurant set in the midst of the trees in the hotel gardens; in some ways, it was these gardens which helped to make the Ritz so special. The hotel was situated in the very heart of Madrid, and they surrounded it with tranquillity and loveliness, were like an oasis of calm in this busy, noisy and hectic metropolis.

  Lifting her head, she looked up at the sky. It really was a phenomenal colour, like none she had ever seen anywhere, and it was cloudless. The sun was high, and by noon it would be unbearably hot, as torrid as it had been yesterday. But it was shady here under the trees, and pleasant; nonetheless, she was glad she was wearing a loose cotton trapeze-shaped dress and flat sandals. Keeping cool was a major consideration in this city.

  ‘Señorita Wells.’

  Nicky looked around and found herself staring into the scrubbed young face of a bellboy. ‘Yes?’

  ‘For you.’ He was holding a small silver tray on which lay an envelope, and he thrust this at her, smiling.

  Nicky pulled some pesetas out of her handbag, dropped them on the tray and picked up the white envelope. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  The bellboy eyed the money, smiled at her and pocketed it. ‘Gracias, señorita.’

  Nicky examined the letter with curiosity, wondering who it was from. Peter? The madrileños she had met last night? They were a lovely young couple who had wanted to take her out over the weekend. Her name was neatly printed across the front, along with the hotel’s name and address, but the sender’s name was missing.

  Tearing it open, she took out the note, and the moment she saw the handwriting she froze in the chair. That beautiful script was unmistakable… the note was from Charles Devereaux.

  He had written: Dear Nicky: Since you are looking so hard for me I believe it has now become imperative that we meet. The man who delivers this note will wait in the lobby for you. I have sent him to fetch you to me. C.

  Nicky stared out at the gardens, a remote expression settling on her face. She clutched the note in her hand, and swallowed several times. Her throat had gone very dry. Then she looked down at the note and re-read it again. There was no question in her mind that it was from Charles. Quite aside from the recognizable handwriting, only Charles would use the word fetch. He had done so frequently in the past, and it was very English.

  So, I was right all along, she thought, sitting up straighter in the chair. I just knew I was. From the very moment I saw Tony’s newscast from Rome. And yet she realized she derived no satisfaction from this knowledge, only a sense of immense dismay and a terrible feeling of sadness. But the sadness was more for Anne Devereaux than herself.

  As she sat holding the note, her mind focusing on the man waiting to take her to Charles, a thought struck her. Last night, remembering Arch’s words, she had wondered if she was in danger. If she truly believed she was, how could she possibly go off with Charles’s messenger? For most of her working life as a war correspondent she had been in harm’s way, and she had never flinched. And long ago she had accepted the fact that she was fearless by nature. On the other hand, she was not going to let her overriding curiosity and her quest for the truth be her undoing now. Certainly she was not going to do something foolhardy and put herself at risk.

  But I won’t be at risk. Whatever Charles Devereaux is, he is not a killer. Deep down in her heart she knew that Charles would never hurt her. Not one hair of her head, she was absolutely convinced of that. Still, it would be prudent to be a bit cautious.

  She wished Peter Collis were available to accompany her. They could have taken his car, and he could have waited outside for her while she had her meeting with Charles. Unfortunately, Peter and Amy were away for the day, visiting friends who lived outside Madrid.

  She was on her own. So be it.

  ***

  Nicky walked across the lobby to speak to Enrique, the head concierge.

  ‘Go
od morning, Señorita Wells. Can I be of some help?’ he asked with his usual geniality.

  She nodded. ‘I need a car and a driver. Immediately. And I’d like a driver who speaks English, please.’

  ‘No problem, señorita, I’ll arrange it right away. How long will you need the car?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Several hours, at least, maybe the whole day. How soon can it be here?’

  ‘It is already here, Señorita Wells. We have cars and drivers standing outside, in readiness for the hotel guests.’

  ‘How convenient. A short while ago someone delivered a letter to me. I believe he’s waiting.’

  ‘Yes, he’s over there,’ Enrique told her.

  Nicky followed his gaze. She saw a youngish man, well-dressed, hovering at the other end of the lobby. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured to the head concierge, and hurried away from the desk.

  Coming to a stop next to the young man, she said, ‘I’m Nicky Wells. Do you speak English?’

  The young man nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  There was a slight hesitation, and then he said, ‘Javier.’

  ‘All right, Javier.’ She showed him the envelope. ‘You brought this letter to me. Correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re supposed to take me to the man who sent it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. He waits for you.’

  ‘Very well, I’m coming with you now. But I’m using my own car and driver.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I have car. I take you, Señorita Wells.’

  Nicky shook her head. ‘No, absolutely not! I prefer to come with my own car, or I don’t come at all,’ she said firmly, and her expression was suddenly tough, determined.

  Javier could not fail to notice her attitude, but again he hesitated, looking uncertain and at a loss. Then he said, ‘Okay. Wait please. I make phone call.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait,’ Nicky answered coolly, understanding that he was now going to put through a call to Charles. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the lobby in search of a telephone.

  Within minutes he returned. ‘Okay. We go now. Your car follow mine.’

  ***

  Her driver’s name was José, and once she was settled comfortably in the car he went to speak to Javier.

  Nicky sat watching them through the car window. It was open and she could hear their voices. However, since she spoke no Spanish she did not understand a word they were saying.

  A second or two later, José got into the driver’s seat, released the brake and turned on the ignition.

  As they slid smoothly away from the hotel and into the street, Nicky said, ‘Did Javier explain where we are going?’

  ‘Yes, señorita. We are going out to the area near the ring.’

  ‘The ring?’

  ‘Si, si. The bullring of Madrid, the famous Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas. It is not too far, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, depending on the traffic.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Do you know the ring, señorita? Have you been to a corrida?’

  ‘Yes, I have, some years ago,’ she said, remembering the time she had met Charles in Madrid, just a few weeks before they had become engaged. Don Pedro had taken them to a bullfight on the Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ José asked, half glancing over his shoulder, smiling at her.

  ‘Yes, I did, thank you.’

  Leaning back against the car seat, Nicky cast her mind back to that long weekend. She and Charles had stayed in Madrid for four days, and now she recalled how taken with it Charles had seemed to be. Well, it was affluent, fashionable and vibrant. Life was lived to the hilt here, and he had appeared to enjoy that—and the night life—as well as everything else. She wondered if he lived here permanently. Perhaps he did, maybe he had only been visiting Rome. Drugs, she thought, seizing on the South American connection, the common bond of language and heritage. And for all its glossy facade, she knew that Madrid had its problems like anywhere else. Recently she had read that heroin was responsible for a death every two days in Madrid.

  Was Charles somehow involved in drug smuggling? Was that what it was all about? Was that the reason he had faked his death and fled abroad to start a new life? Soon she would know the answers to everything, she presumed.

  Half an hour later, José was pulling up behind Javier on a side street, and parking in front of a brownish-coloured brick apartment building. He helped her to alight, and she said, ‘Please wait for me here, José, however long I am.’

  ‘Si, si, yes, I understand. I will not go away. I will stay here all day if necessary.’

  Nicky nodded. ‘But I probably won’t be much longer than a couple of hours,’ she added, and walked over to join Javier, who was already standing near the front door.

  ‘This is the place, is it?’ she asked, staring into his face.

  ‘He waits here,’ Javier said, pushed open the door and stood back to let her enter the building first.

  As she strode across the small foyer, following Javier to the lift, Nicky steeled herself. She had no idea what to expect, and her mouth had gone dry again.

  THIRTY

  Javier opened the door of the apartment with his own key, and ushered her inside.

  Nicky found herself standing in a small, dark foyer that was rather nondescript. It had an Oriental rug on the floor, a console table holding a vase of bedraggled artificial flowers, and framed posters of bullfighters on the walls. She glanced from side to side, riddled with curiosity, and saw several closed doors, as well as a long corridor leading off the foyer. The sitting room was straight ahead, through an arched entranceway.

  Everything was quiet. There was no sign of life, and Nicky could not help wondering where Charles was. She glanced about again, straining to catch the slightest noise.

  ‘Please, go in there,’ Javier said, indicating the living room, and as she walked forward he hurried down the corridor.

  Her eyes swiftly scanned the room she had just entered. It was as ordinary and unprepossessing as the foyer, with more Oriental rugs on the wood floor, another, larger collection of bullfight posters on the white walls, and several dark wood pieces. A sofa and two chairs were covered in drab olive velvet, and arranged around a cheap metal coffee table with a top made of decorative tiles.

  Half expecting to find Charles waiting for her, Nicky was disappointed when she realized the room was empty. Stepping over to the window and looking out, she saw that the bullring, the famous Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas, was only a stone’s throw away. Whoever it was that lived here, and she knew it was not Charles, was undoubtedly an aficionado. Charles must have borrowed this apartment for our meeting, she thought, he wouldn’t live in a place like this. It would offend not only his sensibilities but his sense of taste.

  ‘Hello, Nicky.’

  She almost jumped out of her skin on hearing his voice, and swung around, stared at Charles, who had entered the room through another door at the far end. And it really was Charles Devereaux she was regarding, although he looked very different. His hair and the moustache he had grown had been dyed black, and his deep tan only served to underscore an unexpected look of swarthiness about him, one which was quite alien to her. He was naturally fair, like his mother, and had always been extremely Anglo-Saxon in appearance. He was wearing a pair of navy blue cotton pants and white shirt, open at the neck; she had never seen him dressed quite as casually as this.

  Nicky discovered she could not speak. She had not anticipated the shock of coming face to face with him, and the impact was enormous. It packed the most tremendous wallop, and she felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Actually seeing him alive and well and obviously in good health, after believing him to be dead until very recently, was overwhelming. She was shaking inside, and her heart was beating at an uncommonly rapid rate.

  ‘You look very well, Nicky,’ Charles said at last, breaking the silence between them, walking towards her. ‘And tha
nk you for coming.’ He stopped about a foot away from her, and offered her a faint smile.

  She did not return it, merely stared at him. Her face was cold, her eyes blue ice. Finally, she said in a voice that was positively glacial, ‘Let’s cut the small talk shall we? That’s not why I came here.’

  ‘I was merely attempting to put you at ease, my dear,’ he answered, and once more the faint smile flickered.

  On hearing these words, and observing that superior little smile again, something in Nicky snapped. Grief, anguish and pain had long ago coalesced and become a simmering anger. And now that anger spiralled into unmitigated rage.

  The dam burst and she exploded. ‘You rotten son-of-a-bitch! Why did you do it? Why did you do such a terrible thing? To me, to Anne. How could you hurt your mother, and me, be so horribly cruel? You caused us both so much heartache and suffering. We grieved for you, you callous bastard! I’ll never understand how I could have ever loved you! I hate you for what you did!’

  Charles visibly flinched at this torrent of angry words, her venomous tone, and a small muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. But he said nothing to defend himself, merely stood watching her, his eyes unblinking, his gaze perfectly steady.

  Tears of outrage spurted in Nicky’s eyes and ran down her face, and unexpectedly she leaped forward, her anger propelling her towards him. She began to pummel his chest and face fiercely with her clenched hands, showing unusual and surprising strength as she beat him.

  Charles was taken by surprise at her sudden and violent behaviour, and he staggered under her incessant blows, but swiftly regained his balance. He began to struggle with her. At last he managed to catch her hands in his, and held them tightly at the wrist.

  ‘Stop it, Nicky! Do you hear me, stop this at once!’ he exclaimed vehemently, although with immense control. ‘This ridiculous display will not get us anywhere. I had you fetched here to tell you something, to explain—’

  ‘You had me followed!’ she shouted.

  ‘I certainly did not!’ he shot back.