Free Olura by Geoffrey Household

a black gentleman and a plain-clothes cop, to the Hostal de las Olas? I was about to romanticise
my coloured friend when he interrupted me to ask if it was not Mr Mgwana. He not only knew from the local grape-vine that Mgwana was staying at the Hostal, but quite a lot about his career. Like so
many Basques, he was surprisingly well informed through the small, sound provincial papers.
    I had not time to fit Mgwana into the story. If I had foreseen Echeverría’s knowledge. I could have told him something closer to the truth. But it didn’t matter. When I went
on to ask him to park in the lane and break down there, he was eager to help.
    The excuse had to be better than a puncture, for the two men were likely to start pushing him out of the lane the moment he looked like settling down there. Wheel? Clutch? No, he shouted
jovially, no, he could do better than that. It was the lousy garage, run by an incompetent bunch of coons from Barcelona. He told me at length what he thought of them; they had wrecked his
hand-brake. He had given up taking it to them. He had discovered that a hearty sideways kick at the base of the lever invariably released it when jammed. It would, he thought, do excellently for
our purpose. The more excited helpers tried to pull the lever out of the floor boards, the worse it would stick.
    All this took a long time. I had to control my impatience and keep on assuring myself that Lieutenant Gonzalez, with all the police of Amorebieta at his disposal, could deal with any unexpected
emergency. When at last I returned to the café, Olura was picking at the first course and looking a little set and pale. I could see no reason for it. Her car was in full view, and none of
the crowd of customers in the café was paying any attention to us. There was an obvious foreigner leaning on the bar who had not been there when I left—a powerful chap with a large,
round face wrinkled and tanned by sun, and a colourless mop of hair on top of it. He was very noticeable, for that type of parched complexion usually goes with thin features.
    After we had chatted a while in English and cautiously indicated to Mgwana that I might leave at any moment, Olura and I switched to French, which she spoke very fluently, in order to bring
Gonzalez into the conversation. I told him that the Minister and Mlle Manoli were feeling tired and would return to the hotel after dinner; they would take a taxi as they had promised to lend me
the car. This weak story was made even weaker by Olura instantly denying that she was tired and announcing that she would go with me. There was nothing that I could do about it.
    Echeverría passed the window and reversed into the lane. I saw the man of the open spaces quickly pay for his drink and go out. He had at once spotted the possible traffic problem, though
I doubt if he realised that it was deliberately planned.
    There was no time to bother about what an experienced policeman would make of our erratic movements. I got up, leaving Mgwana to pay for the meal, patted Gonzalez cheerfully on the shoulder and
bolted. A glance down the lane showed me that Echeverría was playing the obstinate and angry taxi-driver to perfection. I recognised Vigny by his uninhibited gestures. Echeverría was
on the pavement, solidly detaching himself from his hand-brake. He was probably telling the two that they could try to take it off if they liked, but that he would hold them legally responsible for
any damage. He had little facility for expressing himself with his hands and an almost English contempt for so volatile a practice.
    Olura was already in the driving seat. I told her to make for Bilbao. It was the road which our followers would probably choose as soon as they forced a way past the taxi, but on so good a
surface we could reach the western suburbs and be lost beyond finding before they had a chance of overtaking us.
    ‘Why did you take so long?’ she asked.
    ‘There was a lot to