Free A Dangerous Place by Jacqueline Winspear Page A

Mr.Huntley—who I know very well, I might add. I don’t want him—or anyone else in England, for that matter—meddling in my life.” She paused, gauging his response, alert to any movement. Then she smiled. She knew his next question, even before he opened his mouth.
    â€œAnd if I agree, what will you pay me, Miss Dobbs?”
    She waited a moment, sipping coffee, dipping bread, eating it and brushing her hands together to be rid of crumbs.
    â€œWhat do you think is fair? You tell me.”
    S alazar watched from the window as his much-respected customer and Arturo Kenyon stood up at the same time. She pulled a bank note from her wallet and left it on the table under the plate, then turned to Kenyon, and they shook hands. Kenyon glanced at his watch, and Miss Dobbs did the same. They both nodded, as if they were traders satisfied by a transaction. Kenyon stood back for her to pass him, and as they stepped out onto the street, they exchanged a few more words before she turned in one direction, and Kenyon went on his way toward Casemates Square. Salazar watched as Miss Dobbs lingered to look into a shop window, then another, before stepping out into the street. He thought she might be checking her clothing, then realized she was looking at her own face, smiling at her reflection as if she were contemplating at a photograph, trying to identify the subject. He wondered if he had seen her smile in such a way before. There was still that sadness about her, but it was as if something had changed, something he could not put his finger on. For the moment at least, she seemed lighter.

CHAPTER FIVE
    M aisie stood outside Mr. Solomon’s shop, studying the window display—tablecloths, small cocktail napkins, handkerchiefs, doilies, nightdress cases, cushion covers, all manner of embroidered and lace-edged goods, plus haberdashery supplies. There were some framed crewel-work pictures of the sea and the Rock, the natural edifice that defined the town, giving the impression of fortification even if there were none—but Maisie knew Gibraltar was arguably one of the most protected places in the Empire. She set her gaze on a set of fine white linen handkerchiefs, the lace so intricate, it might have been woven by a spider to drape across a rosebush on a spring morning. Brenda, her stepmother, would cherish these, would wrap lavender soap in each handkerchief and set them in the chest of drawers where she kept her “delicates.”
    Maisie opened the door. A bell rang above her head as she crossed the threshold.
    Jacob Solomon reminded her of a thinner version of Mr. Salazar.He was somewhat taller, and lacked the girth of the café owner, but each wore black trousers and a white shirt with sleeves held at bay by black garters above the elbow. Solomon was balding, and though he spent no time outside—unlike Salazar, who seemed to always be running back and forth, inside and out, the door constantly in motion as he served customers—he wore a shade to shield his eyes from the light, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose.
    â€œMay I be of service?” Solomon spoke in another dialect—a hint of North Africa, thought Maisie. He clasped his hands together, bowed his head, and came out from behind the glass-topped counter, which also displayed a number of pairs of women’s gloves.
    â€œI should like a set of lace handkerchiefs, like those in the window.”
    Solomon frowned, his deep-set dark eyes appearing to close a little. “Let us go outside—you show me,” he said.
    The man followed Maisie onto the street, where she pointed to the handkerchiefs. He nodded, and they stepped back inside the store. Solomon turned to a series of wooden drawers behind the glass-topped counter and pulled out a drawer at eye height, so he had to stand on tiptoe to reach in for the handkerchiefs, a set of three tied with a narrow white ribbon.
    â€œWill this be