Free Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes Page B

There’s something more to this than a fall and a broken leg, he thought. Reid was semiconscious. He had vomited, and he was shivering. Half-opened eyes looked up at Ferrier, then at the bottle of smelling salts. He nodded gratefully. Something more, Ferrier thought again.
    From the courtyard outside came the abrupt silence of a dance that had ended, then the shouts of applause.
    * * *
    Tavita had noticed Reid’s empty chair when she had risento dance, and then as the music caught hold of her she had forgotten about it. Now, standing at the centre of the stage with her arms held out for the applause that poured toward her, Miguel and Pablo spaced behind her, she saw that Ferrier had left, too: strangers sat at that table. Her glance swept on to the rest of the audience, a proud smile of delight on her lips, anger in her heart. I never danced so well, she thought, and they missed it, Jeff and his friend. She bowed her head, let her arms drop to her sides. Raised her head, bowed again. Now the anger was being replaced by worry. She remembered, just in time, to turn to Miguel and then to Pablo, drawing them into the ovation, before she walked back to her chair. She shook her head, as she heard the demands for an encore of the last part of the dance. “Later,” she called out, “later,” and fanned her face with her hand. She draped her shawl over her warm shoulders, tried to pin back her hair into a coil, wondered how long she would have to sit there. She pressed her fingers to her brow and cheeks, eased the neckline of her dress away from her skin, fingered her hair again, and prepared in general for an exit.
    “You look hot,” Constanza said, not without malice. You are getting old, the large dark eyes were saying.
    “I am hot,” she admitted. This dress is too heavy. I must change.” She smoothed her hair again, found it hopelessly disobedient, shook her head over her little defeat, and rose with unconcern. “A fandango ,” she told the guitarists as she left the stage. “Keep it going. Get them dancing in turn. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” That will hold them, she thought as she made her way, with smiles and bows for the various tables, toward the doorway. Behind her, she heard Constanza’s harsh clear voice calling “ Anda, anda! ” The little minx was takingcharge. Let her, Tavita thought. I have more to worry about tonight than discipline.
    As she stepped over the threshold, she looked back in Esteban’s direction. Yes, he had noticed her summons. He would follow her. She started upstairs, got no farther than the first step when she became aware of the visiting American, Jeff’s friend, standing in the shadows of the room. “You did not like my dancing?” she began, and then came over slowly, unbelievingly, to where he waited. She stared down at Jeff Reid. She kept staring. “Dead?” She burst into a stream of Spanish, her hands at her face.
    “He is alive. He fell from the staircase, and broke his leg. We are waiting for the ambulance. It should be here—”
    “Fell? Impossible!” She swirled round to speak to Esteban, who had just entered, and again there was a flow of Spanish. Esteban made to close the door.
    “No,” Ferrier said quietly, “he needs the fresh air. Just keep your voices low.” But who would hear anything outside? Flamenco blotted out all other sounds. I never heard the crash of Jeff’s fall. And was it a fall? He couldn’t understand all of Tavita’s denunciation, although he got the idea that she was blaming Tomás: Tomás did this, Tomás tried to kill him. She looked, at this moment, as if she could kill Tomás herself. And so did Esteban. I’m glad I’m not this Tomás, whoever he is, thought Ferrier and glanced at his watch. Every three minutes, Jeff had told him; smelling salts every three minutes. So he knelt beside him, and applied the bottle again. Jeff was looking slightly better, his colour was still strange, but the nausea had stopped, and the violent