It was early evening by the time Maisie approached the café. It would not be long now before Mr. Salazar began to bring in chairs and tables from outside, then sweep the flagstones and close up for another night. A few soldiers were sitting at the bar, talking in low voices. A couple sat by the window, sipping coffee. As Maisie closed the door behind her, she saw the man pull a handkerchief from his pocket, lean across, and dab the side of his wife’s mouth. Was it his wife? His fiancée? Or perhaps they were lovers seeking privacy in the shadows.
“Miss Dobbs!” Salazar emerged from the kitchen, approaching Maisie with both hands held out to grasp hers. He bowed and then extended one hand toward her usual seat underneath the mural. “There, I’ve saved it for you.”
Maisie wagged a finger at him. “Oh, you are flattering me again, Mr. Salazar—it’s almost closing, and most of your customers have gone on their way.”
“For once. At least I don’t have to throw anyone out onto the street and point them in the direction of their hotel or the port.” He had pulled out the table so that she could take her place, and shifted it back again. “A coffee with lots of milk? Cocoa? Or something stronger?”
“I’d like some milky coffee—quite hot, please.”
“As good as done.”
She leaned back on the padded banquette and closed her eyes.
“It seems you are one of Salazar’s favorites.”
The voice was unfamiliar. Maisie started, and looked to her right. A man was smiling at her and raising his glass—whisky or brandy, something smooth and golden, reflecting dregs of light in the shadowed café.
“I’m sorry—I did not mean to startle you.” The man reached across to offer his hand. “Antonio Vallejo. I am a regular here at Mr. Salazar’s café when I am in Gibraltar.”
“Maisie Dobbs,” she introduced herself. “And I don’t think I’m a favorite—Mr. Salazar knows how to woo his customers so that they come back again.”
Vallejo laughed, then seemed more serious. “And you are out alone at this hour?”
Maisie was about to respond that it was still barely twilight when she saw Salazar approaching. He set the coffee in front of her, and a plate with what looked like a sugar-covered doughnut placed on a doily.
“A little something extra for you, Miss Dobbs—it would not last until tomorrow.” Salazar waved his hand. “On the house. It’s japonesa—we fry sweet dough and then fill it with our own special-recipe custard.”
“It will be lovely with this cup of your wonderful coffee—thank you!” Maisie wasn’t sure she really wanted anything sweet, but she didn’t want to disappoint Salazar.
“And you have met our professor? Miss Dobbs—the Professor.” Salazar bowed toward Vallejo.
Maisie looked at the man who had just introduced himself to her. “Professor?”
“He knows everything,” said Salazar. “Together we rearrange the world to our liking here in my café, in the evening, when other customers have gone. But this evening, well, you have the lady to talk to, Professor.” He bowed again and left the table.
Maisie lifted the coffee to her lips, blew across the foam, and took a sip.
“You really should have some of the japonesa—it is delicious, and a local delicacy,” said Vallejo.
She took the knife set alongside the japonesa and cut off a small wedge, lifting it to her lips. Its sweetness caused her tongue to tingle, the sugar crunching along her teeth as she chewed the dough. She took another sip of the coffee.
“You need some of the custard with it—it smooths out the sugar,” offered Vallejo.
Maisie nodded and took a handkerchief from her bag to wipe her lips. She turned to Vallejo. “You are a professor. I wasn’t aware of a university here.”
Vallejo shook his head, setting down his drink on the table, though his right hand still held the glass. “Across the border. I work in Madrid, but my family came from Gibraltar, so I return when I can.”
“For a short visit? Isn’t it difficult to cross the border at the moment?” Maisie asked the question while cutting another piece of japonesa. The smooth yellow custard oozed out, and she used the knife to sweep it back across the slice. She lifted it to her mouth, leaning forward in case the custard slipped. She took up her cup once more and looked at Vallejo.
“Sometimes a short visit, and sometimes not—and it is not difficult for me to cross the border. I am not required at my post for a little while, so I decided to come for a few days.” He stared at the liquid in his glass, and sipped again. “If I had my choice, I would stay here until Spain becomes, well, quieter, if you will.”
“I have been struggling to understand the war. I have asked different people, but I still can’t grasp who is on the side of good. It seems to be confusing.”
“There are many oppressed people across the border, people who are dirt poor and have little chance in life. Then there are those who don’t want them anywhere near the table, let alone sitting at the feast. In 1931 the people of Spain voted in their first free election in sixty years. Until that point the country had been controlled by the rich—the landed aristocracy, the church, and the industrialists. But the new Republic had its problems, though the poor saw more in the way of education and public money. So if you are looking for the roots of the war, they lie in discontent—and discontent always rises up like froth on beer. Look at Russia. The revolution is a fine example of what might happen in such a society.”
“And what about the Communists?”
“Communism is the anger of the people—but if not tempered, it is an anger that turns on itself. It must be managed with care, or it can result in an oppression that could be as bad as the all-powerful rich pushing those who have nothing into the ground.” He set down an empty glass. Maisie watched as Salazar approached with the bottle, but Vallejo held up his hand: No more.
Maisie leaned forward as if to ask another question, but Vallejo began to speak again.
“And Britain is complicit in the bloodshed. Your country walks a narrow path. The British government is happy to have Communists banished from their doorstep, and they are not sorry to see the poor kept in their place—your British and their classes; the last thing they want is a powerful peasantry too close to Gibraltar. They’ll appease Germany, and Italy too. They’re turning a blind eye to Germany’s collusion with the Nationalists—yet Germany would love to get her hands on Gibraltar. What a coup that would be! The gateway to the Mediterranean, an impermeable rock to protect interests in Europe and Africa, and then on to the rest of the world.”
“Please, Professor Vallejo, I’m afraid I don’t quite see how Britain is turning a blind eye to Germany and Italy—are they involved? Please forgive me, I have been here in the town only a matter of weeks, and—”
“And you haven’t seen the German or Italian aircraft given the freedom of the skies overhead? And you don’t know that there are rumors they have refueled here? That they are supplying arms to Franco’s Nationalist armies? Your politicians are tap-dancing on the fence while trying to protect their own interests.”
Maisie held her cup in both hands for the heat it offered. She seemed to be seeking comfort everywhere she went, yearning to be tightly held by warmth. A heavy fatigue enveloped her, and she felt the urge to leave. She was about to speak again, to offer her apologies and then depart from the café, when Vallejo leaned forward.
“May I ask, Miss Dobbs—have you recently suffered a loss? You use the title of an unmarried woman, yet you have the bearing of a widow.”
Maisie flinched.
“I apologize,” continued Vallejo. “But I could not help but feel that you wear the cloak of the bereaved.” He paused. “And you wear a wedding ring on a chain around your neck.”
Maisie felt for the ring. When she dressed each morning, she took pains to ensure it was close to her heart, but never visible above her clothing. She lifted the chain and dropped it under the collar of her blouse, feeling it brush against her skin once more.
“I am sorry for your loss—you are young to be a widow, and you must surely miss Mr. Dobbs very much.” Vallejo looked away, then back at Maisie.
“Dobbs is my maiden name, Professor Vallejo. Mr. Dobbs is my father. My married name is Compton. My husband’s name was James. James Compton.”
She wondered how callous she might seem, abandoning her husband’s name, though the choice was in part to protect herself.
“It must be balm for the wound across your heart,” said Vallejo. “Using your father’s name.”
Maisie nodded, but moved to change the subject. “Do you know a man named Sebastian Babayoff?” It was a question without preamble.
Vallejo shook his head. “No, the name is not familiar to me. Why do you ask?”
“He was a local man, a photographer—a yeoman, if you like, taking work where he could; weddings, tourists, portraiture, some for the press. And he was murdered several weeks ago. There is a suspicion that he was a Communist.”
Vallejo inhaled audibly, the sound underlining his opinion. “If this man were a Communist, then he would be in a difficult position here in Gibraltar. Why are you interested in him?”
“He was murdered recently. I discovered his body—in fact, I probably disturbed the killer, though there was no chance of saving Mr. Babayoff.”
Vallejo gave a slow nod. “What do the police say?”
“That his life was taken by some ne’er-do-well, a poor refugee in difficult circumstances. Apparently, even though many had returned to Spain, there was another influx after the fall of Malaga—more people who were left with nothing.”
The man’s expression changed, his bottom lip jutting out as he shrugged, demonstrating his doubt. “It could have been so. But had the man, this Babayoff, been putting his hand among the vipers?”
“The vipers?”
Vallejo sighed. “This is what troubles me, Miss Dobbs. I wonder how any man professing to be a Communist could ignore what is happening in Spain. I wonder if Babayoff might not have become involved in something too big for him to manage.”
“What do you mean? How could he have been involved?”
He shrugged again. “To wage a war, both sides need money, arms, sustenance, medical supplies, a place of refuge. Sympathizers must be courted. People who can supply these necessities of battle, even a guerilla battle, must be brought into the fold. Many could be termed tea boys, runners—the little men and women who contribute here and there, perhaps sending food, perhaps offering a place to sleep, or blankets. There are men and women coming from your country, from America, Italy, and France, Russia too, and from other places, to fight with the International Brigades. More help, more support for Republicans who fight Franco—and a good number of those men and women were recruited by Communists overseas to help those of us who fight for the Republic.”
Maisie felt herself shiver, and rubbed her arms.
“Does what I say scare you, Miss Dobbs?”
“War always scares me,” said Maisie. “People swarming together to kill each other scares me, even when they are fighting for their freedom.”
“Freedom always has a high price. Look at your war of 1914. I wonder how people who have borne such loss can ever be free.”
“The cloak of bereavement always around them?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Vallejo.
Maisie raised her hand to catch the eye of Mr. Salazar, who stepped from behind the bar to approach the table. She reached for her bag.
“Please, Miss Dobbs—allow me.” Vallejo pulled a handful of coins from his pocket.
Maisie hesitated and then said, “Thank you—that is most kind of you, Professor Vallejo.” She moved to stand as Vallejo waved Salazar to his table, then added, “Tell me, Professor Vallejo, what subjects do you teach, at the university?”
“Politics and philosophy—subjects that many students are drawn to, until it comes to the actual work.”
Maisie smiled. “I taught in a college once. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am sure you were a very good teacher,” said Vallejo, waving away Salazar’s offer of change.
“I hope so—I did my best. In any case, Professor Vallejo, I must leave now.” She held out her hand.
“Until we meet again, Miss Dobbs.”
“Indeed. Until then.”
Maisie smiled at Salazar, who held open the door and bowed as she stepped out onto the street. As she walked away, she looked back and saw the lights go dim and hear Salazar push home the bolts at the top and bottom of the door. She and Vallejo had been the last customers, and Vallejo had not left with her.
It was not far to Mrs. Bishop’s guest house, and Maisie’s step was light across the flagstones as she made her way to the front door, slipped in the key, and closed it behind her. She was sure there was no one in the shadows waiting for her, though when she arrived at her room, she stepped across to the window without first turning on the light, just in case. She gave a sigh of relief, closed the curtains, and lay down on the bed. It was too late now to ask for soup, but as she switched on the light, she noticed a sandwich on the side table, and a small carafe of wine, together with a note from Mrs. Bishop to the effect that she was sure Miss Dobbs would like a “little something” when she returned.
Maisie did not reach for the plate, not at first. She closed her eyes to marshal her reflections upon the day. Instead of feeling closer to finding Sebastian Babayoff’s killer, she felt as if the landscape from which she could pry her evidence was becoming broader and deeper. And now there was one more thing, something she had not alighted upon with a comment during her conversation, but let pass like a cloud in the sky. It was the look on Vallejo’s face when he said, “and many of those men and women recruited by Communists overseas to help those of us who fight for the Republic.”
Us. Many of us. If Vallejo considered himself a fighter, then what was he doing in Gibraltar? And did he remain in the café to talk long into the night because Mr. Salazar was an old friend, or was there something else for them to discuss? And really, could he have known Babayoff? There was no surprise in his voice when she mentioned that she had discovered the man’s body, a shock that needed no stretch of the imagination. It was as if he knew.
Of course, it could have been nothing more than the chance meeting it seemed at face value. But what if it were more?
Maisie sighed. Was her intuition off? Had the months of retirement diminished her ability to think strategically? Had settling into the comfortable life of an expectant mother allowed her senses as a psychologist and investigator to lie so fallow that she could no longer separate the wheat from the chaff? She pressed her hands to her eyes. It was so long ago. So long ago that she was Maurice’s student, then his assistant. She remembered how, in the early days, he would only allow her to toil over the case map after she had meditated, had spent time alone in silence. He had advised her that later, when she was ready to work independently, her need for that time would lessen, though he would expect meditation in the morning and evening.
Maisie sat up, threw her pillows on the floor, and sat upon them with legs crossed. She clasped her hands together, her thumbs just a rice grain width apart. It had been a long time since she’d had the courage to return to her practice—how would she ever tame her mind? How would she control the images she knew would assault her senses? As if he were there with her, she heard Maurice’s voice. Watch the image, and let it go. Take note of it, know that it is there, and allow it to move away, across the landscape of your mind’s eye. Allow yourself to see connections, Maisie. Then go to the case map, and plan your next move.
She closed her eyes. It was time to go back to her training, to become a student again. The student and the graduate, at the same time. She would immerse herself in the sacred silence of the next two days. There was little she could do; Shabbat had already begun, and for the town’s Catholic and Protestant congregations, Sunday, with its tolling bells and church services, was sacrosanct.
Maisie woke early on Monday, April 26th. There was no heaviness in her limbs, no weight of nightmares to leaden the morning. She swung her feet onto the floor, pulled down the pillows, and slipped into meditation again. Still the mind, if only for five minutes. Then open your eyes—and your heart—and consider what needs to be done. Maurice’s voice was louder now, and she had followed his instructions to the letter. She washed, dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse, her black sandals, and a straw hat. She unbuckled her leather satchel, took Sebastian Babayoff’s Leica from its hiding place at the back of the wardrobe, and placed it in the satchel, along with a notebook and pencil she slipped into the front pocket. She folded a cardigan on top of the camera, then looked around the room for anything she might have missed. Picking up a fresh handkerchief, her wallet, and her sunglasses, she added them to the satchel. She would ask Mrs. Bishop for a small flask of water to take with her, and perhaps a few biscuits. She left the room and found Mrs. Bishop once again pegging out laundry in the courtyard.
“I’ll get you a bottle of ginger beer, much better than plain old water on a hot day—though, as you’ve heard me say, a cup of tea is best. Fight heat with heat.”
“That’s what people told me in India—until it came to the afternoon gin and tonic!”
Mrs. Bishop laughed and set off into her inner sanctum, returning a few minutes later with a corked bottle of ginger beer and a small paper-wrapped snack. “There, I’ve half-pulled the cork for you, so all you have to do is give it a little tug and it’ll come out. And I don’t know if you like this sort of thing, but I made some Eccles cakes yesterday—I used to make them for my husband, and just fancied setting up a batch.”
Maisie’s eyes widened. “Oh my, what a coincidence! Eccles cakes are my favorite!”
Mrs. Bishop nodded toward Maisie’s satchel. “There you go, then—put them both in your bag to keep you going today. Make sure that bottle is upright—it shouldn’t leak, but you never know.”
Maisie thanked her landlady and went on her way, heaving open the thick oak door and stepping out into the alley. She wondered where Arturo Kenyon was today, and if she would hear from him later. Thoughts of MacFarlane skimmed over the surface of her mind. Today she would take the camera to Miriam Babayoff, and afterward she would make her way to the fisherman’s beach for another visit. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, Carlos Grillo’s niece.
The sun was shining, and a soft yet determined breeze was blowing; there was a dampness to the air. A large cloud seemed to linger overhead, casting shadows across the Rock, and Maisie wondered if this was the Levanter, a weather phenomenon she had heard about but not as yet experienced—it was more likely in May, but it was almost the end of April, so there was always the possibility. If it was the Levanter cloud, there might be showers. Perhaps she should have brought an umbrella. In any case, she might be grateful for her cardigan before nighttime claimed the day.
She continued on her way towards the Babayoff house, and was only a little surprised to see Jacob Solomon leaving as she approached. Maisie suspected that Miriam had already locked the door following his departure; upon seeing her walking up the cobblestone alley, he banged on the door again, and though his voice was low, Maisie heard him say, “Miriam. Miriam, you have another visitor.” By the time she came alongside the house, the door was open, and Solomon was making a small bow in greeting. He did not raise his black hat, though he bowed again to Miriam, who, Maisie thought, seemed more than a little flustered. Perhaps having two visitors in succession was more than she was used to. Without doubt, though, Solomon trusted Maisie—why else would he have heralded her approach?—the woman was on tenterhooks as she closed the door and went through the ritual of pushing home bolts and locking the door.
“I hope I have not come at an awkward time, Miss Babayoff,” said Maisie.
“No, though I have laundry to do, and mending that must be returned to my customer this evening.”
Maisie unbuckled the flap on her leather satchel and took out the Leica. She held it out toward Miriam, who did not move for a few seconds. Tears welled in her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron, her fingers shaking as she reached for the camera. She looked at Maisie as she held it to her heart.
“He loved his Leica, you know.” Miriam turned the camera in her hands, then squinted at the top. “It looks like he’d used the entire reel. I’ll begin immediately.”
“Don’t you have work to do, Miriam?”
“I can do it all. When can you come back?”
Maisie looked at her wristwatch. “Let’s say this afternoon—how about three o’clock? Would that be time enough for you to provide something for me to look at?”
Miriam nodded. “Yes—I can do this.”
Maisie stood up and walked to the door, followed by Miriam, who was still holding the camera to her chest.
“One thing, Miriam.” Maisie paused and regarded the woman directly. “Please remember that every single image on that roll could help me. Know that even if there is something there that you do not care for—I don’t know what it might be, but let’s say it was something that did not throw a good light on your brother—it could hold a key to the identity of his killer, or the person who wanted him dead.”
Miriam nodded.
“Are you sure you understand?” asked Maisie.
The woman nodded again. “Yes, Miss Dobbs. And I even understand that his murderer might not be the person who ordered him killed.”
Maisie smiled. “Good.”
Yet again she heard the bolts slam home as she left the house, a sound that seemed angry and final, yet signaled fear. Miriam had grasped that the man—or woman—who wields the weapon is often not the person who wants a life ended. It was almost as if she expected such an outcome.
The fisherman’s beach at Catalan Bay was busy when Maisie arrived, keeping her distance to observe the scene before her. For the most part it seemed the morning’s catch had been unloaded and was already on its way to market, but a couple of the boats were pushing back out to sea again. It was apparent that, for the fisher folk, there was always something to do—nets rinsed and checked, then brought to the women to mend, though some fishermen repaired their own nets. And there were decks to be sluiced and rigging to be inspected. As before, the women sat farther back along the beach. Maisie took out her binoculars to scan the scene. Rosanna Grillo was not there among the women, but as she watched, she saw one of the older matrons turn around, call out, and beckon. The gesture seemed to express annoyance.
Moving the binoculars in the direction of the woman’s wave, Maisie saw Rosanna walking toward the net-mending circle. She thought the girl held anger within her as she stepped across the beach, revealed by a tightness across her shoulders, and in the way her arms were crossed. Maisie lowered the binoculars, then lifted them again. Rosanna was being followed by a man—a man she turned to face and then moved her hand as if to direct him away. She was asking him to leave. Maisie adjusted the binoculars, pursing her lips. She could not get a better view of the man, though she suspected she knew who it was.
Rosanna approached the women and sat down among them. It seemed they had not seen the girl with the man, and went about their business, passing her a section of the fishing net to work on. Maisie directed the binoculars toward the man, watching as he turned and walked away. He did not look around, did not check to see whether he had been observed, though she suspected he might be aware of her presence. His walk suggested a man carrying a burden; his shoulders were hunched. He stopped once and looked back at the gathering of women, then went on, cupping his hands to light a cigarette as he went. When he was out of view, Maisie returned the binoculars to her bag and sat down on a rock. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, but at the same time, she wanted to think. At first glance the drama played out before her might have been one of a lover spurned. Or was the man pressuring the young woman for another reason? But she was settled upon one thing—that Carlos Grillo’s niece knew Arturo Kenyon very well indeed.