Not With a Whimper Read online

  “Oh, what am I to do?”

  “Rafael?”

  “Gunter Katz.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I do not know. Rafael obeys him. Katz is el jefe.”

  Katz. Of course. Hoggart saying he hated cats. Teresa frightened of cats. Katz. Gunter Katz. G.K. “I know there is a Nazi plot. So Gunter Katz is the leader.”

  She nodded. Misery hung visibly from her.

  “What do they intend to do?”

  “They are going to attack the Americans.”

  “The base?”

  “That, is all I know. I swear, señor. I hear Rafael talk about Gunter Katz, the attack. It is this Saturday. Oh, señor, what will become of me?”

  “Who is Katz?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Truly.” She shook her head.

  “I have told you what will happen to you.”

  “You can stop them, warn the Americans.”

  “Who are involved? Rafael. Katz. Who else?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Don Carlos?”

  “Maybe. I think so.”

  “Van Oudtschoorn?”

  “No.”

  “O’Halloran?”

  “No.”

  “There must be more.”

  “I do not know them, señor.” The bell rang. “Believe me, señor, on my mother’s grave.” The bell rang again. She looked wildly at the door.

  “Answer it.”

  She stumbled to the door, clawed at the latch.

  “Ah, Teresa, you are at home.” He stressed the “are”.

  “Señor O’Halloran.”

  He looked past her at me. “Joseph said he would be here.”

  He had a cool civilised voice. The hair was parted just left of centre and just the right length, and with the right amount of grey to look distinguished. His face was thin with a longish sharp nose and a hard pointed chin. The lips were wide and would sneer easily under a still reddish moustache which was neatly trimmed to the end of his lips. The eyes were small, opaque blue, the eyebrows the same colour as the moustache which he stroked with an elegant finger.

  He looked the sort to wear a navy double-breasted blazer and a club tie, grey slacks and suede brogues. He was wearing all of that. Also a Paisley pattern display handkerchief in his breast pocket and a white one in his sleeve.

  Teresa choked on the introductions but finally managed to say I was Alan Christian and he was Graham O’Halloran.

  He marched into the room. I stood up. We shook hands.

  “I believe you are staying with Don Carlos,” I said.

  “He has a few friends staying with him this time of year. Do you like Rota?”

  “It’s not my favourite part of Spain.”

  “Oh?”

  “I used to live in Spain.”

  “Indeed. Where?”

  “Madrid, then Barcelona.”

  “Barcelona is ruined now.” He turned to Teresa. “You are expecting Joseph?”

  “Yes – I don’t know,” she said unhappily.

  “I shall wait.” He sat down neatly, leaving me standing. “You do not mind? He smiled easily at her.

  “Of course not.”

  I hadn’t much option and I wasn’t going to learn any more with O’Halloran there anyway. I left.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Número 48, Calle Santa Clara was deserted. I climbed the steps and knocked on Miguel’s door. A herring gull eyed me wickedly. An old car rattled past in the street. The smell of sewage and dead fish was strong enough to plaster a wall. No answer, so I knocked again. A small boy with bare legs and frayed sandals bounced a ball into the courtyard. Still no answer. I tried the handle. Unlocked. I went in.

  “Miguel?”

  No answer.

  The room was dark, the curtains drawn. I negotiated the table, drew back the curtains.

  He was lying peacefully on the bed, his back to me, covered with a grey blanket. Alright, a night at El Corillo’s followed by a visit to Señora Ana will tire a man out. He’s entitled to sleep in, maybe not hear the knock at the door. But the light should have made him move.

  Slowly, with a hand that seemed somehow detached from me I touched his shoulder, turning him onto his back. His eyes were open, staring wildly. Harsh lines scissored his face. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and his teeth gleamed. I pulled the blanket down.

  He was dressed as he had been yesterday. His life had leaked through a six-inch wound in the upper stomach. I wiped my palms together, stared down at him then drew the blanket up and over his face.

  They’d been smoking as they’d waited for him – cigarette butts littered the floor. A chair was overturned. I straightened it then smeared my prints.

  I forced myself to search the room but found nothing.

  I used my handkerchief on the handle going out and walked down the stairs and away, not seeing anything, not thinking anything.

  I put myself together with a couple of large brandies at a café in the main square.

  I got a fistful of change from the waiter. It was time I phoned McIntyre in London.

  I found a pair of booths on the sunny side of the Calle San Miguel, a narrow street closed to traffic near the police station. I balanced ten one hundred-peseta coins in the drip feed channel. I dialled. Thirteen digits but I got them right first time. There were clicks along the line and a voice said, “Good morning, Whitehall 5735.”

  The meter started pulsing and I snarled, “Extension 35. This is an overseas call.”

  I could hear her sniff clearly.

  The second coin dropped and McIntyre answered the phone himself. Even a thousand miles away his breathing sounded like footsteps in a swamp. I told him he ought to give up smoking and he yelled, “Have you rung up to tell me that?”

  That got the pleasantries out of the way. “No. I want a check on some characters. Ready?”

  I could hear him scratching around on his desk and then he said he was ready.

  “Gilbert Keble. English. In the sherry business. Graham O’Halloran, Irish. Has been in Rhodesia, now owns a hotel in Eire. Joseph van Oudtschoorn, South African, Under-Secretary for State Security, no less.”

  I mopped the back of my neck and spelled them out for him and he grunted and scribbled away, then, “Right, got that. When do you want it for?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Jesus, Alan.” The last coin dropped.

  “And anything you have on Gunter Katz.”

  “Who?”

  “Gunter –”

  “Not – Holy Mother of Jesus – it can’t be.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ll say we do. What’s going on there –”

  The line clicked and went dead.

  I stepped out. Cumulus was piling up now. A breeze funnelled its way down the street. Groups of men were looking at the sky and discussing it. Women walked quickly.

  I ducked into the first café I came to just as the rain started to fall. It was a good honest shower, bouncing off the road and pavement, so I had another coffee and brandy, swiftly followed by another brandy, and then a third while I thought about what to do next.

  Which was to go home and have something to eat.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I reached home with the thick taste of brandy in my mouth, a knot in my stomach and the beginnings of a headache. The youth cured that.

  He was sitting in the chair facing the door, one of those compact Spanish youths with a flat stomach and a tight shirt to show off the muscles. He held a 9mm Browning Hi-Power steadied across his left wrist. He had smooth sallow cheeks narrowing to a pointed jaw and thin lips, the lower pushed out to conceal the upper. That showed he was determined. He had narrowed his eyes to go with it.

  “We are going to see el jefe,” he said calmly.

  “So, Herr Katz.”

  He snapped his lips apart, held them open for an instant, showing a square of very white teeth, then closed
them and said in a feathery voice, “You will pack a small suitcase and write a note to your maid. You will say that you are going to stay with friends for some days.” His dark brown eyes were very steady.

  “Am I?” I rocked back and forward and thought about it while he serenely watched me. He was a very calm youth, confident, too young to have learned how difficult it was.

  He stood up smoothly, moving behind the chair so I wouldn’t go close to him as I passed. He made a smooth little movement with the gun towards the door and I nodded. The alcohol was dying on me and my lips were pasted to my gums with dryness as my system dehydrated. I had a raging thirst. I worked my tongue under my lips to lubricate them and he smiled and looked cocky then. He must have thought I was nervous.

  “I have writing paper in my briefcase,” I told him. “It’s in the next room.”

  He nodded. He was still smiling. I had seen that sort of smile before, but not for a long time, not since I had seen Ian Craig make Billy Marr crawl round the school playground. Ian Craig had been the school bully.

  He followed me into the dining room and stood in the doorway and watched. The briefcase was on a chair next to the table.

  Damn it, I was nervous. I licked my lips again and could feel the familiar empty feeling of nerves in my stomach. So he didn’t know how difficult it was? Maybe I didn’t know how easy it could be.

  I shuffled among the papers and tried to think of something to do. Finally, after one or two false starts, I got out a writing pad and a cheap biro. He hadn’t moved. I pulled out a chair, sat down at the table, chewed the end of the biro, looked at the ceiling. It all helped to take up time while he leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb and kept the Browning steady over his left wrist, looking bored and confident. Finally, I said out loud as I wrote: “‘Dear María, I have been invited to visit some friends for a few days. I have packed some clothes. If you will just come in and keep the house tidy I shall see you when I return, Señor Christian.’ Alright?”

  He pushed off the door frame. “Leave the note on the table. Now we shall go upstairs.”

  He followed me into the hall and up the stairs, keeping a distance between us. At the bend of the stairs my foot slipped off the tread and I jerked down on one knee.

  I hadn’t meant it but he wasn’t as calm as I thought. “Torpe.” Clumsy. His voice rattled with tension. Maybe Plan A would work after all, whatever Plan A was. I would have to think of one.

  “I shall need my shaving things,” I said at the top of the stairs. “The bathroom.”

  His nostrils were white edged and he now looked older than he had downstairs. There wasn’t much light on the stairs but his eyes burned back at me and the Browning moved, telling me to go on.

  He stood in the doorway and watched me, not leaning this time. I dropped my razor in the bowl. It clattered uncontrollably, sliding round the edges of the basin. I jumped deliberately and turned apologetically. His eyes were pale-rimmed. He held the Browning only in his right hand. His left was knotted, pressing into his side. The tension was getting to him.

  I didn’t hurry. I collected my razor, soap, brush, put them in my toilet bag, pulled the drawstring tight, started towards him, went back for my toothbrush and paste, thought about nailbrush and soap, decided to take them, put them in. I took a long time about it all. Then I ran the cold tap and he whispered something I ignored and had a glass of water. It did me good.

  We faced each other and I did my best to smile confidently. It was important to smile confidently.

  “The bedroom now.” I said that confidently. I was full of confidence. I oozed confidence. I dripped with it. That was the impression I was trying to create. I even considered whistling.

  He nodded and the Browning moved with the movement of his body. He was tensing up.

  I walked towards him and said as I walked, “So, you are Juan Gallegos.

  “How do you know?” His voice crackled and he backed away.

  “And you work for Gunter Katz. We know everything, Juan.” I filtered some more confidence into my voice and walked past him, almost brushing against him. I didn’t say any more. I didn’t want him to snap. Not yet. I went into the bedroom, not looking to see if he followed. “We know everything, Juan,” I repeated.

  “Shut up.”

  I pursed my lips and looked thoughtfully at him. “Perhaps you should have brought someone older with you.”

  He exploded again.

  “Where is Paco anyway? He really shouldn’t have let you come on your own.” I said kindly.

  “I told you.” His voice was grim.

  “How old are you, seventeen, eighteen?” I deliberately guessed on the young side.

  “Twenty-two. Old enough.” He was almost crying with fury. “So be careful, very careful.”

  “Oh, Juan, I am always careful, very careful.” I echoed his phrasing and took my holdall from the top of the wardrobe. I placed it open on the bed while he stood in his usual place in the doorway. I went to the chest and took out underclothes, a couple of shirts, some socks. I took my time folding them into the holdall and he told me to hurry up. I smiled patiently at him.

  “I shall need another jacket and a couple of ties.” I wanted to get to the wardrobe because behind the wardrobe door I would be out of sight.

  “Get them. Get them then hurry up.”

  I opened its door through ninety degrees exactly and he couldn’t see me. If he came into the middle of the room, he would still be out of reach. If he pulled the door back to see me, he would be close. I would have a chance.

  He snatched back the wardrobe door. The Browning was pointing somewhere into the middle of the room. I had a jacket in my hand and I turned, dropping it onto his gun arm. He jerked it up at me and it tangled in the jacket as I was swinging a right, not a good punch, too high, but solid enough to stagger him.

  He shook his right hand frantically to shake off the jacket. I went in close, right hand on his gun arm, forcing it down, left forearm across his throat, reaching for a grip on his shirt behind his neck. His skin was smooth and wet. His breath smelt sour and whistled between his teeth. I got a grip on his shirt. His knee came up into my groin and the pain was a sick empty tearing at my guts but I held on. I had to. I swung him round with my left hand, the fingers ripping the shirt, gouging his flesh, my right hand sliding down his arm, bursting the Browning wrapped in the jacket out of his hand. I pushed and he slammed against the wall, putting up his hands to take the impact.

  He stood, head bent, shoulders rising with each breath. The skin of his shoulder was pale through the rip in his shirt. He shook his head and turned round, shook his head again. His hair flopped and he put up a hand and brushed it from his forehead. My fingermarks stood out red. He looked at me. His face was empty of colour and his mouth split his face wide now above his thin chin. His eyes were blank holes.

  “I’ll kill you, big man,” he whispered. “I have been trained.” He held his hands shoulder high in front of him, stiff as slate. He came forward slowly, crossing them in front of him. He flashed a backhand blow at me and I took it on the forearm. It landed on the thick muscle below the elbow and it would have broken my arm if it had landed on bone.

  He stepped back with a light dancing step, the tension gone from his face. “Big man,” he said.

  I tried to move my arm. It was dead from the elbow down. I had to move it from the shoulder.

  Gallegos laughed. “Someone older, señor? I do not need anyone.” He kicked fast, his foot flicking at my knee. It was just out of range. I jumped back but my reaction was slow. Gallegos followed. I pushed out my left arm. Gallegos chopped again but without much power. He was too close and he wasn’t set for it. I wanted him to kick and he did so. I turned, leaning forward inside the movement, right shoulder coming up at him, left hand reaching for his face trying to unsight him, hoping he would go for the hand. He swayed back, balance lost. His right hand chopped at my neck, missed, landed on the hard bone of the shoulder and without power bec
ause the angle was wrong.

  My left hand curled across the front of his neck and my right up behind his back, the fingers searching for the forearm, finding it, locking on it. I dropped and heaved upwards with my full strength, taking his whole weight off the ground. There was a snap, the sickening hollow sound of bone creaking and Juan Gallegos’s body went limp. I dropped him and he lay there, neck twisted, mouth and eyes open. He didn’t move.

  Nausea drained the strength from me. My stomach was dropping out. Cold pain from my groin flooded upwards and I could feel the tears behind my eyes. I sat down on the bed, leaning forward, holding my stomach with my right hand. I rocked back and forward, trying to ease the pain. My body was soaked in sweat. Gradually the pain passed, it always does, and I felt my shoulder and moved it gently. Nothing broken.

  Only a kid. Karate trained. A bit more experience, he would have chewed me into little bits. Some kid.

  I lumbered into the bathroom and threw water all over me without taking off my clothes and went back into the bedroom without drying myself. The water felt too good to dry off. I looked down at him. His eyes were still open.

  I bent down and closed them, then dragged him parallel to the bed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I locked the door and dropped the key in my pocket. A uniformed American sailor walked past with a young girl. He had his arm round her, she had her head on his shoulder, he was whispering in her hair and she was laughing.

  I lit a cigar and waited. I had spent the last four hours asleep and I didn’t know what the hell to do with Gallegos. I had a thick head and a thick taste in my mouth but all I could think of was to wait until it was good and dark and then take him out somewhere into the country to dump him. It was dusk now. In the meantime, a drink might not be a bad idea. And a walk. Some fresh air might clear my head. Then I would think of something. Later. After that drink.

  I’d reached the bridge before knowing I was being followed. There wasn’t anything definite; the occasional roll of a stone, the slight slap of a heel slipping over the uneven road; someone making a not very good job of trying to be quiet.