The White Schooner by Antony Trew Read Free Book Online Page A

divulge information concerning their agents’ identity or activities.’
    He paused and cleared his throat. ‘But I can say for your confidential information, señor, that the agent here has had much difficulty in penetrating the organisation, in becoming accepted. But progress is being made. It is for this reason we hope soon to have hard evidence.’
    The Comisario stared at the thin man as if he were trying to read his mind. Then he drew on his cigar. ‘Thank you. I hope you will not be disappointed.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? I have to report to the Jefe .’
    ‘Yes,’ said the thin man. ‘We are watching a woman, Manuela Valez, and a man, Charles Black. She is a Puerto Rican artist and has been much in Kyriakou’s company lately. The other is an Englishman. An art critic of sorts. His movements have … well, how shall I say … made us feel we should know more about him.’
    ‘Do these two know each other?’
    The thin man stroked his beard. ‘They have either just met—last night on the ferry steamer to be exact—or they are good actors. It is not yet possible to say.’
     
    It was a fine day, the air still cold, the sun shining from a clear sky. It is a pity, he thought, that the drains smell so foul. And it is probably unnecessary. Somewhere they are blocked andit should not be impossible to clear them. The Spaniards are a fine people, a proud, intensely human race, but why do they accept foul smelling drains and rancid butter and bacon with such unnecessary stoicism. He turned into Calle Abel Matutes and went into the Spar where he bought sardines, butter, eggs, cheese and spaghetti and put them in the basket which hung from his shoulder.
    The olives and tunny he would get at the market, the wine at Anselmo’s, the bread at the pasteleria, but first he would see Haupt. He joined the queue by the cashier. His turn came. She checked his purchases, tapping the amounts on to the cash register, gave him the slip and he paid. Outside he turned right and then left and went down the pavement past the travel agency where he turned into a narrow lane. Halfway along it he stopped before a door which had on it a board inscribed ‘Haupt & Diene, Architects.’ He went up the stairs to a small general office where he spoke in Spanish to a thin red-eyed girl who took his name and asked him to wait.
    A few minutes later she came back and beckoned him to follow. At the end of a short passage she knocked, opened a door and said, ‘Señor Charles Black,’ before ushering him in and closing the door behind him.
    A pallid man of middle age with tired friendly eyes left the drawing board where he’d been working, came across and held out his hand.
    ‘ Buenos dias, señor ,’ he said, and Black realised that the man’s Spanish was poor.
    ‘Mr. Haupt?’ he inquired in English.
    ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ Haupt spoke with a Dutch accent.
    ‘I hope so. It is a professional matter.’
    Haupt looked at him uncertainly, then smiled and pointed to the desk. ‘Please.’ He pulled out a chair. Black sat down and Haupt took the chair on the other side of the desk.
    ‘Are you a visitor, Mr. Black?’
    ‘I’ve been here nearly two months.’
    ‘On holiday?’
    ‘No. I write.’
    ‘Oh. Very interesting. There are many writers here.’
    ‘So I believe.’
    Haupt searched a drawer and found a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He held it out to Black. ‘Smoke?’
    ‘No, thanks. I don’t.’
    Haupt laughed. ‘Me, neither.’ He put the packet back into the drawer.
    ‘I’ve had a letter from an old friend—a close friend,’ Black corrected himself. ‘He is in England. Likes Ibiza. Wants to retire here. He has asked me to make inquiries about a house.’
    Haupt showed interest. ‘I see. What sort of house? I mean, big or small?’ With his hands he illustrated the alternatives of size.
    ‘Big. He’s a rich man.’
    ‘He wishes to build,’ Haupt suggested.
    ‘In a way.