Remember (31 page)

Flopping into a chair, she closed her eyes, endeavoring to concentrate on the problems at hand. Was it just a coincidence that the man with the black cigarillo had been underfoot several times today? Or was he actually following her? If he was, then it certainly proved one thing, CharlesDevereaux wasalive. There was no question in her mind that her rooms had been searched and her carryall tampered with, the evidence was there. Obviously this also reinforced her theory that her former fiance was flourishing here on the Continent.

Suddenly Nicky snapped her eyes open and sat up jerkily. If Charles was having her followed in order to know what she was doing, who she was seeing, and if he had had her room searched, then he must be aware that she was in Madrid. But how did he know that? Did he have a contact here in the Ritz? Or one in the Grande Bretagne hotel in Athens, perhaps? More important, why was he doing it?

There was only one answer to that, he wanted to know what she was up to, and very badly.

It struck her then that he might possibly think she was doing an investigation on him for a story. After all, he knew full well that she had been an investigative journalist before she became a war correspondent, and was still one, in fact. But if he believed this, then he must be involved in something that merited an investigation.

Something illicit. Something immense, maybe. What was illicit and immense and made big money? Arms smuggling. Drug trafficking. But why would Charles want to make more big bucks?

He was already a rich man. Still, she kept coming back to the idea that whatever he was doing involved money.

Unless it was something else, something quite bizarre, as she had suggested to Arch in Rome. But what could that be? …

The telephone rang and interrupted her thoughts, she went to the desk to answer it. “Hello?”

“Nicky, Peter here. I called before and left a message. Did you get it?”

“Oh, Peter, I’m sorry, I just came in and I haven’t opened any of my messages yet.”

“No problem. Amy and I want you to have dinner with us tonight.

Are you free?”

“Yes, and I’d love to meet your wife. But look, Peter, you don’t have to feel obligated to look after me, really—”

“We want you to join us,” he interrupted. “We’ve invited a few friends. We’re going to the Jockey Club, it’s quite famous.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I’ll pick you up around eight-thirty, and take you home for drinks.

Dinner won’t be until ten, even ten-thirty, I’m afraid.

When in Madrid do as the madrilos. See you later, Nicky.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Peter. Bye for now.”

Immediately after she had hung up the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Hi, Nick, it’s me,” Clee said. “JeanClaude told me you called.”

“Clee! Oh darling, hello. And yes, I did, just to touch base. How are you? Where are you calling from?”

“I’m terrific, and I’m in Berlin—at the Intercontinental. Didn’t you get my message?”

“Yes, but I only just got back. I haven’t really had a chance to look at it.”

“Nicky, I’ve got great news! The greatest!” he exclaimed.

She could almost feel his excitement flowing down the wire. “What is it? Tell me!”

“Yoyo! I’ve had a message from Yoyo, Nick.”

“Oh, Clee, thank God. He is all right, isn’t he? And where is he?

Is he in Paris?”

Clee laughed. “Whoa, I can only answer one question at a time.

He’s fine, he’s in Hong Kong, but he’ll be in Paris soon.

Hopefully in a few days, another week at the most.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, and unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears of relief and gratitude that the boy was alive and well. She was unable to speak for a couple of seconds.

Clee said, “Are you there?”

Swallowing hard, Nicky replied, “Yes—I felt very emotional for a moment or two, that’s all.”

“I know what you mean. I had the same reaction when I heard the news from JeanClaude.”

“Oh, so you didn’t actually speak to Yoyo yourself?”

“No, he called the office from Hong Kong, and said he’d be in touch the moment he arrived in Paris.”

“Clee, it’s just wonderful. Perhaps we’ll be able to have a reunion on Monday.”

“Maybe. And, yes, it’s the best news we could have. What time will you be arriving in Paris, Nick?”

“Late afternoon, I think.”

“Then it’s dinner that night. Just you and me. Or Yoyo, too, if you like, and providing Yoyo has arrived, and is feeling up to it.”

“I can’t wait to see him,” Nicky said. “Or you.”

“And I can’t wait to see you, darling.”

They talked for a few more minutes and then they said good-bye and hung up. Nicky stood with her hand resting on the receiver for a moment.

Clee had been so excited about Yoyo, he had not asked her why she had moved on to Madrid. He had simply assumed she was there on business, much to her profound relief.

Later that evening, when she was putting the finishing touches to her makeup, the phone began to shrill. Going into the bedroom, she picked it up and said, “Hello?”

No one answered.

For a second time Nicky said, “Hello?” and did so somewhat sharply.

There was a click and the phone went dead. Immediately, she dialed the operator. “This is Nicky Wells in suite 705. My phone just rang. I answered, but no one spoke. Did you have a call for me?”

“Yes, Miss Wells. I put it through myself,” the operator answered.

“Who was calling? Do you know?”

“I’m sorry, no, I don’t. But it was a man who asked for you.”

“Thank you.” Nicky put the receiver down and returned to the bathroom to do her hair. Suddenly she stopped brushing it and for a moment stood staring into the mirror but without seeing herself. Her mind was elsewhere. She could not help wondering if someone was checking on her movements again. And then she remembered something Arch had said to her in Rome. He had pointed out that a man who disappears does not want to be found. Not ever. He had also said she could be putting herself in danger.

Was she?

Her brain focused on Charles Devereaux. Arch had remarked that Charles was tough, ruthless. And all of these things were true.

She had spotted those characteristics in him herself.

A look of comprehension flashed in her eyes. Yes, she could be in danger.

The news about Yoyo had lifted Nicky’s spirits, and it had completely overshadowed the Devereaux problem and her search for Charles.

Last night she had felt a great sense of buoyancy and lightness when she had gone out to dinner with Peter and Amy Collis and their friends.

Even the troublesome thought that Arch might be correct, that she could be in danger, had been diminished considerably. Now, on this lovely, warm Saturday morning, all of the demons had fled, chased away by her happy mood and the bright sunlight, the incredible turquoise sky and the thin, dry Castilian air that gave that sky its extraordinary clarity. Not only that, the brisk bustle of this elegant and imposing hotel was reassuring, as was the atmosphere of normality that pervaded it.

Ever since the phone call from Clee, Yoyo had been on Nicky’s

mind.

The fact that he had escaped from China to Hong Kong, and was safe in the British Crown Colony, did much to ease the anxiety she had lived with lately, she felt as though one of her burdens had been lifted.

She could not wait to see Yoyo, to find out what had happened to him since they had last seen each other three months ago.

Just as important, she wanted and needed to see Clee, to be with him.

They had not been together for several weeks, and this separation had only made her appreciate him that much more. She longed for his warmth and intelligence, his love and affection and understanding.

Nicky picked up her cup and finished her coffee. Then she sat back in the chair and glanced around, absorbing her surroundings.

She was having a late breakfast in the restaurant set in the midst of the trees in the hotel gardens. In some ways it was these gardens that helped make the Ritz so special. The hotel was situated in the very heart of Madrid, and the gardens surrounded it with tranquillity and loveliness—they were an oasis of calm in this busy, noisy and hectic metropolis.

She looked up at the sky, which was a phenomenal blue, like none she had ever seen anywhere, and it was cloudless. The sun was high, and by noon it would be unbearably hot, as torrid as it had been yesterday.

But it was shady here under the trees and pleasant, nonetheless, she was glad she was wearing a loose cotton dress and flat sandals.

Keeping cool was a major consideration in this city.

“Senorita Wells.”

Nicky looked around and found herself staring into the scrubbed young face of a bellboy. “Yes?”

“For you.” He was holding a small silver tray on which lay an envelope, and he thrust this at her, smiling.

Nicky took some pesetas out of her handbag, dropped them on the tray and picked up the white envelope. “Thank you,” she said.

The bellboy eyed the money, smiled at her and pocketed it.

“Gracias, senrnta.”

Nicky examined the letter with curiosity, wondering whom it was from.

Peter? The madrilenos she had met last night? They were a lovely young couple who had wanted to take her out over the weekend. Her name was neatly printed across the front, along with the hotel’s name and address, but the sender’s name was missing.

Tearing it open, she took out the note, and the moment she saw the handwriting she froze in the chair. That beautiful script was unmistakable—the note was from Charles Devereaux.

DearNicky. she read. Sinceyou are looking so hardfor me, I believe it has now become imperative that we meet. The man who delivers this note will wait in the lobby foryou. I have sent him to fetch you to me.

C.

Nicky stared out at the gardens, a stony expression settling on her face. She clutched the note in her hand, and swallowed several times.

Her throat had gone very dry. Then she looked down at the note and read it again. There was no question in her mind that it was from Charles. Quite aside from the recognizable handwriting, only Charles would use the word fetch. He had done so frequently in the past, and it was very English.

So, I was right all along, she thought, sitting up straighter in the chair. I Just knew I was. And from the very moment I saw Tony’s newscast from Rome. And yet she realized she derived no satisfaction from this knowledge, only a sense of immense dismay and a terrible feeling of sadness. But the sadness was more for Anne Devereaux than herself.

As she sat holding the note, her mind focusing on the man waiting to take her to Charles, a thought struck her. Last night, remembering Arch’s words, she had wondered if she was in danger. If she truly believed she was, how could she possibly go off with Charles’s messenger? For most of her working life as a war correspondent, she had been in harm’s way and she had never flinched. And long ago she had accepted the fact that she was fearless by nature. On the other hand, she was not going to let her overriding curiosity and her quest for the truth be her undoing now. Certainly she was not going to do something foolhardy and put herself at risk.

But I won’t be at risk. Whatever Charles Devereaux is, he is not a killer. Deep down in her heart she knew that Charles would never hurt her, not one hair of her head—she was absolutely convinced of that.

Still, it would be prudent to be a bit cautious.

She wished Peter Collis were available to accompany her. They could have taken his car, and he could have waited outside for her while she had her meeting with Charles. Unfortunately, Peter and Amy were away visiting friends who lived outside Madrid.

She was on her own. So be it.

Nicky walked across the lobby to speak to Enrique, the head concierge.

“Good morning, Senorita Wells. Can I be of some help?” he asked with his usual geniality.

She nodded. “I need a car and a driver. Immediately. And I’d like a driver who speaks English, please.”

“No problem, senorita, I’ll arrange it right away. How long will you need the car?”

“I’m not sure. Several hours, at least, maybe the whole day. How soon can it be here?”

“It is already here, Senorita Wells. We have cars and drivers standing outside, in readiness for the hotel guests.”

“How convenient. A short while ago someone delivered a letter to me.

I believe he’s waiting.”

“Yes, he’s over there,” Enrique told her.

Nicky followed his gaze. She saw a youngish man, well dressed, at the other end of the lobby. “Thank you,” she murmured to the head concierge, and hurried away from the desk.

Coming up to the young man, she said, “I’m Nicky Wells. Do you speak English?”

The young man nodded. “Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

There was a slight hesitation, and then he said, “Javier.”

“All right, Javier.” She showed him the envelope. “You brought this letter to me. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re supposed to take me to the man who sent it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. He waits for you.”

“Very well, I’m coming with you now. But I’m using my own car and driver.”

“I don’t understand. I have car. I take you, Senorita Wells.”

Nicky shook her head. “No, absolutely not, I prefer to come with my own car, or I don’t come at all,” she said firmly, and her expression was suddenly tough, determined.

Javier could not fail to notice her attitude, but again he hesitated, looking uncertain and at a loss. Then he said, “Okay.

Wait, please. I make phone call.”

“Oh, I’ll wait,” Nicky answered coolly, understanding that he was now going to put through a call to Charles. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the lobby in search of a telephone.

Within minutes he returned. “Okay. We go now. Your car follow mine.”

I Her driver’s name was Jose, and once she was settled comfortably in the car he went to speak to Javier.

Nicky sat watching them through the car window. It was open and she could hear their voices. However, since she spoke no Spanish, she did not understand a word they were saying.