Sleeping Tiger by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online Page A

travelling-coat, Selina went in search of them. As soon as she appeared, the drivers all blew their horns, waved, called “Señorita,” leapt from their cars and rushed for her custom, each trying to channel Selina towards his own vehicle.
    She said, loudly, “Can any of you speak English?”
    â€œSí. Sí. Sí.”
    â€œI want to go to Cala Fuerte.”
    â€œCala Fuerte, sí. ”
    â€œDo you know Cala Fuerte?”
    â€œSí. Sí,” they all said.
    â€œOh, can’t anybody speak English…?”
    â€œYes,” said a voice. “I can.”
    It was the driver of the fourth taxi. While his colleagues had tried to beguile Selina, he waited, placidly finishing his cigar. Now he dropped the odorous stub, stepped on it, and moved forward. His appearance was not reassuring. He was an enormous man, very tall and equally fat. He wore a blue shirt, open-necked and revealing a black, furry chest. His trousers were slung by an intricately worked leather belt, and on the back of his head was an incongruous straw hat, of the variety that tourists bring back from holiday. He wore, at this early, cloudy hour, sunglasses, and narrow black moustaches suggesting unknown Don Juan qualities. He looked so villainous that Selina reeled.
    â€œI speak English,” he said, with a strong American accent. “I work in Spain, on a U.S. Army air base. I speak English.”
    â€œOh. Well…” Surely any of the other three taxi-drivers was preferable to this ruffian, English or not!
    He ignored her hesitation. “Where d’you want to go?”
    â€œTo … Cala Fuerte. But I’m sure…”
    â€œI’ll take you. Six hundred pesetas.”
    â€œOh. Well…” She looked hopefully at the other taxi-drivers, but already they seemed discouraged. One had even returned to his car and was rubbing on the windscreen with an old rag.
    She turned back to the large man in the straw hat. He smiled, a broken-toothed leer. She swallowed, and said, “All right. Six hundred pesetas.”
    â€œWhere is your luggage?”
    â€œIt is lost. It was lost in Barcelona.”
    â€œThat’s bad.”
    â€œYes, it got put on the wrong plane. They’re going to find out, and I’ll get it tomorrow or the next day. I have to go to Cala Fuerte now, you see, and…”
    Something in the big man’s expression made her stop. He was gazing down at Selina’s handbag. Selina followed his gaze, and saw that, indeed, something strange had happened. Although the two sturdy straps were still over her arm, the bag hung open like a gaping mouth. The front straps had been neatly cut, as if with a razor blade. And her wallet was missing!
    The taxi-driver was called Toni. He introduced himself formally, and then he acted as her interpreter during the long and tedious interview with the Guardia Civil.
    Yes, the señorita had been robbed. In the crowd at the airport this morning, had been a thief with a razor blade. She had been robbed of everything. Everything she owned.
    Her passport?
    Not her passport. But her money, her pesetas, her British money, her traveller’s cheques, her return ticket to London.
    The Guardia Civil, with concentration, examined Selina’s bag.
    Had the Señorita felt nothing?
    But nothing. Pushing through the crowds, how could she feel anything?
    The bag looked as if it had been cut by a razor.
    That was it. A razor. A thief with a razor blade.
    What was the Señorita’s name?
    It was Miss Selina Bruce, of London, travelling on a British passport.
    And where was Miss Bruce’s place of residence, in San Antonio?
    It was … Selina hesitated here, but events had gone beyond hesitation. Casa Barco, Cala Fuerte.
    What colour was the wallet? How much money, exactly? Were the traveller’s cheques signed?
    Wearily she answered the questions. The clock crawled round to ten, to half past ten and beyond. The