Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes Page A

disturbance, no gossip. These people really knew the meaning of discretion.
    “Has he left?” Reid asked. And as Ferrier nodded, he said, “You must phone tonight. Business. Important.”
    “Take it easy, Jeff. Nothing’s so important as getting you—”
    “Tonight. Make the call tonight!”
    “All right, all right. Where?”
    “To Madrid.”
    “What’s the number?”
    “Better write it down. There must be no mistake. You won’t find it in the book.” Reid was speaking as if he had misgivings, as if he were persuading himself, finding good reasons.
    “Have you pencil and paper I can reach? My stuff is in my jacket.” And his jacket was now bundled under Reid’s head. “Oh, here’s a matchbook,” he said, fishing it out of his shirt pocket “Now all I need is a—”
    “Try my pocket. Right-hand pocket. Quick, quick!”
    Ferrier pulled back the blanket, searched, and found a pencil. It was an automatic one, small and slender, ornate to the touch, possibly made of silver, but it worked all right. “Ready and waiting.”
    Reid’s voice was low. Ferrier had to bend over closely tohear the number clearly. The light was so bad that he struck one of the matches to verify that he had jotted down the figures readably and accurately: 21-83-35. He repeated them aloud, but softly.
    Reid nodded. “Ask for Martin—don’t write it!”
    “I didn’t,” Ferrier said reassuringly. “I’ve just written the number. Not Madrid. Not Martin.”
    “Good. Tell him—tell him I can’t keep the Monday appointment. The Monday appointment.”
    “Sure. You can’t keep the Monday appointment.”
    “Tell him I’m laid up. For weeks. Hell, what a mess!”
    “Do I include that?” Ferrier asked with a grin.
    “Might do no harm.” There was a deep sigh. Reid’s eyes stared up at the heavy timbers in the ceiling as if he could find the answers to his problems up there among the decorated beams.
    “What if I can’t reach him?”
    “He will get the message.” There was a hesitation. “It’s important. We’ve a lot of competitors.”
    “I won’t forget.” Ferrier pocketed the matchbook. “Here’s your pencil back.” He made a move to replace it.
    “No, no! You’ll need it. Don’t lose it.”
    So Ferrier pocketed the pencil too. He was puzzled, but he kept silent.
    Reid said, “Another thing—you’ll find a lighter in my pocket. Take it. Keep it for me. Keep it safe. Safe.”
    Ferrier found the lighter. It was perfectly normal in shape and size, and smooth to hold except for one small bump in its centre—an embossed emblem, some kind of decoration. By this dim light, it was difficult to see what it was, but it could beone of the service Zippos that everyone used to carry around with them. “It’s safe,” he said, slipping it deep into his trouser pocket.
    “Don’t use it,” Reid was saying anxiously. “Just—”
    “Sure, sure. Stop worrying. Take it easy, will you?” Ferrier smoothed back the blanket.
    Reid was exhausted, but he was intent on speaking. The whispered phrases became spasmodic. “Martin will send—someone to take—charge—” There was a pause.
    “Of the office?”
    “Yes. Make sure he—he identifies himself. Get him to—write—”
    “Write what?”
    “Anything. It’s the—the pencil that matters. He uses one—similar to mine.” Reid didn’t elaborate. Either his mind was drifting or he had something more important to say. “If something—something goes wrong—with me—” Again a pause, as if he were still deciding.
    “There’s nothing wrong with you that a couple of good doctors can’t fix. So shut up, will you?”
    “If it does,” Reid persisted, “the lighter belongs to Martin. It was his. He will expect it.” There was an attempt at a smile. “Sentiment.”
    Sentiment? Ferrier was perplexed, troubled. There must be real meaning to all this: a man who had made such an effort to speak through his pain must be taken seriously. “Don’t worry,” he