Gibraltar Road by Philip McCutchan

Author:Philip McCutchan
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

That afternoon Shaw slipped into Malaga, sent his coded telegram to London, then strolled casually round the dock area, not taking too obvious an interest in the Ostrowiec. The ship was unloading a cargo and nothing out of the ordinary appeared to be taking place. Afterwards Shaw made some discreet inquiries in a couple of bars near the docks, but could pick up no hint of any likely sailing date for the ship, and after a while he went back to Torremolinos; and that night, after changing into his hombre rig, he made again for that scruffy little bar in the village. He was determined to find some lead to Domingo Felipe that night; and he was convinced that the bartender knew where the contact could be found. After the episode of last night, he could, he knew well, be heading into danger, but it was a risk he was forced to take.

He had a nasty feeling that conversation was stopping as he entered the bar.

As he asked for a glass of vino he saw a look pass from the bartender to some one at a table behind him. He didn’t see then who had met that look, for he didn’t consider it wise to display too much interest. But there was a decidedly naked feeling in his spine when he went over to sit at a table on the opposite side of the room from where the barman had glanced so meaningly. And after a time a man sitting across the gangway finished up his drink and got to his feet. He was a tall man, with a deep scar running the length of his right cheek, so deep that Shaw could almost see the bone at the bottom of the chasm of cleft flesh. As he lurched past Shaw’s table, this man dropped a coin through a hole in his trouser-pocket, gave it a little flick with his foot so that it rolled under Shaw’s table. The man swore fluently, bent to retrieve it; politely Shaw drew back his chair and joined in the search, and as the two heads came together he felt the man’s fingers squeeze his hand very gently. In a whisper so low that Shaw could only just make out the words, he said:

“Number Thirty-seven, Calle Santa Marta, Malaga.”

Cursing still, he found his coin, brought himself upright, and without another glance at Shaw he walked out of the bar.

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