Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

“He has flown,” he said sadly in very British English. “Now that was most stupid of you to let him escape.”

I waved at his gun, carefully not aiming mine at him. “Will you kindly remove that muzzle from my stomach?”

“What? Oh!” He smiled. The Webley slid into a side pocket of the belted raincoat and vanished. “You’re an American, aren’t you?” He seemed saddened by the idea.

“Yes. And there’s no sense blaming me for the escape. If you hadn’t come barging down that hallway like the Q E II I’d have had him dead to rights!”

He shrugged. “Oh well, that’s the way it sometimes goes, isn’t it?” He smiled broadly. “What do you think? Shall we go after him? Any chance?”

“He’s miles away by now,” I said. “I’m afraid we may as well forget him.”

He was studying me closely. “I don’t recognize you, old chap. CIA? Military Intelligence?”

I said calmly, “I’m an American tourist What are you talking about?”

He laughed. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as his head went back. He was a big, handsome man in a typically tweedy British way. “You don’t have the foggiest notion, do you?”

He sighed. “Damn it all. I’m Parson. Barry Parson. British subject. On holiday in Spain. And you?”

“George Peabody. Likewise, I am sure.”

He chuckled irritatingly. “Bullshit.”

“Indeed, yes,” I responded, also chuckling. “It’s dark in here. Do you want to stake him out?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stake him out. You know. Wait here for him.”

“Oh. Maintain surveillance? Affirmative. I agree with you completely, old chap.”

“Call me George.”

He snorted. “George, then.”

I shrugged. “We’ll wait.” I walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.

He strolled past me and sank onto the pillow, his back propped against the headboard. I could hear him fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pack of Spanish cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and lighted it quickly with a long wax match. “Oh. Sorry. Smoke?”

I shook my head. “Gave it up.”

“How did you ever get onto him?” He asked suddenly.

“Who?” I grimaced because I knew how foolish it all sounded. But there was always security.

“The Mosquito,” said Parson, as if I were totally incompetent.

“Oh. Well.” I was trying to see my way clear to the proper cover story. “There is this woman in Malaga,” I said. “She is properly married to a businessman of my acquaintance. However, when her husband began playing around in Switzerland with his mistress, the woman decided to have a fling with the man you call The Mosquito. Now he is blackmailing her, threatening to tell about their affair to the husband. I am acting on behalf of the Señora to force The Mosquito to cease and desist his blackmail scheme.”

Cigarette smoke rose into the air. It was dark, but I could see that Parson was grinning there, bemusedly. He chuckled again, very softly, very contemptuously.

“You have a knack for the cliché,” he said conversationally. “George? George, is it necessary?”

“You asked for the true story. That is the true story.” I turned to him. “And you?”

“Ah. Me.” He took a deep breath. “Well, The Mosquito is known to me in many capacities, but not as a great lover.”

“Well,” I began diffidently.

“Mainly he is known to me as a pistola prezzolata. That’s fractured Latin for ‛hit man.’ His real name is Alfreddo Moscato, hence The Mosquito. He has been sent in from Rome to do a job here in Spain, but I do not know what job. The Mosquito is of Neapolitan origin.”

“But why are you hunting for him?”

“It was primarily a nonmilitary matter at first, but it has become a paramilitary matter. The Mosquito ran across one of our people in Rome six months ago and killed him.”

“One of your people?”

“Military Intelligence,” said Parson stiffly. “We have been concerned over the drug traffic along the Mediterranean. The armed forces are full of it. We’re been trying to break it up since the end of the Second World War. And we were onto the real pipe line, when Justin was killed by Moscato.” Parson paused thoughtfully.

I nodded. “I see. Sorry.”

“I was in Spain last week when we had word that The Mosquito was here. I tried to search him out, but failed. Then, just this evening, I was running out a lead and found you talking with a prostitute I was supposed to interrogate. I simply questioned her after she returned to the discothèque and came here on the double.

“Military Intelligence?” I mused. “MI-6?”

“Five, actually.” He smiled. “That’s very perceptive of you to think MI-6. Six is espionage, of course. And five is counterespionage. Right? Now I won’t bother you about your particular identification tag, because I know you Yanks are terribly sensitive about security and all that. It shouldn’t make our relationship complicated, however. I propose we work in tandem and try to get our man Moscato.”

“What are your orders re Moscato?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon? Oh. Actually, The Mosquito is a most bothersome player. I have been told to total him.”

“Total him?”

“Yes. Eliminate him.”

“Who do you think is behind him?” I asked.

“The Mafiosi, undoubtedly. He has done jobs for the Fathers many times before.”

“I’m sorry about Justin.”

“Justin?” He presented a blank face to me.

“The man who was killed. Your—”

“Oh. Justin Delaney. Yes. Poor Justin.” Parson sighed. “Oh well, he knew what he was getting into when he joined up, didn’t he?”

I stared at him in the darkness. That was just like the British, I thought. Stiff upper lip and all that.

“What do you get from your patron?” he asked me sardonically.

“Patron?”

“The errant wife?” He paused. “Have you taken The Mosquito’s place in her, uh, affections?”

Oh. My cover story. “It is strictly a matter of chivalry,” I said with a smile.

“You Yanks do have an excessive streak of old-fashioned gallantry in you. Good chap!”

We lapsed into silence.

An hour later we decided Moscato would not return.

Two hours later we were having drinks in my hotel room. It was “Barry” and “George” then. I was still suspicious, but decided that he might lead to information.

Juana stood in the open doorway in her robe, hair hanging down around her shoulders, eyes full of sleep, and a frown on her lovely face.

“What vision of pulchritude is this?” Parson cried out, waving a glass of cognac about.

“It’s Juana,” I said. “Greetings, Juana.”

“Is this the Señora you mentioned to me?” Parson asked with elaborate gestures. He was almost as drunk as I was.

“No, indeed,” I said. “This is — is my wife!”

Parson turned to me to stare. Then he looked round to gape at Juana.

“I say, now! You have excellent taste, old man! Excellent taste!”

I stood up and bowed. “Thank you, Barry. Oh, Juana. Come in, please. I am sorry to be so late. I ran into an old buddy of mine.”

Parson leered. “Yes indeed, my dear. Barry Parson is the name.”

“This is Juana Peabody,” I said.

Juana was awake now. She came into the room glowering at me. “What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in later, wife,” I said, reminding her of her status in front of Parson. “Suffice to say, I ran into my old pal Barry Parson from Six.”

“Five,” said Parson.

“Five and one is six, like I said.” I smiled. “Join us, Juana?”

“It’s late, and I’m tired.”

“You don’t look tired,” Parson said, walking over to her and looking down at her closely. “You look very wide awake.” He reached down and tipped her chin up and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “You see?”