Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes

No—no trouble; it’s on my way, and my car’s outside.”
    “Tomorrow at six,” Ferrier told the sister. “And my thanks, too.”
    She murmured something in Latin and turned away.
    “Now we’ve been sanctified,” Medina said as they went into the street. “Feel better?” His stiffness had banished along with his slightly pompous bedside manner. He was easy and relaxed. “That place always makes me a little nervous,” he confided. “But don’t worry, your friend is in good hands. I prefer the other hospital, of course. That’s the big Civil Hospital, west of the city. We have more laboratories and fewer crucifixes on the walls. Didn’t you notice them back there?”
    “Yes.” Ferrier made no other comment.
    “What are you?” Medina asked amiably. “Catholic or diplomat?”
    “A heretic. You might call me an independent Protestant.”
    “Church once a year?”
    “Not even that.”
    Medina laughed, but he was friendly. “You accept religion?”
    “If it does good.”
    “Spoken like an old-line liberal.” Medina opened the door of his small white bug-like car. “What about coming home with me for some supper and a bit of an argument?”
    “Another time,” Ferrier said firmly. There was a scattering of people on the street, but for him this night was over. “Haven’t got accustomed to Spanish hours,” he admitted. He looked back at the hospital, with its high-walled garden at one side. There was a small chapel in there, with an old tower and the rest of it new. In the moonlight, the rest of the buildings looked new, too, even if the style of architecture was in an older tradition. “Rebuilt?” he asked.
    Medina was busy manoeuvring the car into the road. “There was a fire some years ago,” he said vaguely. “Are you going to the bullfight on Sunday? It’s a big day here. Twelve thousand people crowding to see it. That hospital won’t be such a quiet little place then. Have you ever seen a bullfight?”
    “Yes.”
    “You don’t like them?”
    “Not particularly. I’m on the side of the horses.”
    Medina was amused. “Typical American. A man of lost causes.”
    And just what cause is yours? Ferrier wondered. He spent the next ten minutes answering questions about his journey to Málaga, his impressions of El Fenicio and flamenco. They were just reaching the topic of Ferrier’s job as they came to the long line of plane trees that lined the Calle San Julian. “Hey, stop! My street,” Ferrier said. They had overrun it. “Don’t bother to back and turn. I can walk the rest. Jeff’s place is only a few houses away. I won’t get lost.” He shook hands, added his thanks.
    “At least you won’t get mugged,” Medina told him pointedly.
    Sharp to the last little dig, thought Ferrier. “That’s right,” he said. “All I have to do is fight off mosquitoes. Thanks again.”
    “Don’t worry about Señor Reid,” Medina called after him.“He’s as strong as an ox. And sometimes as stupid. But we’ll get him well, in spite of himself.” He waved as he drove off.
    A cantankerous cuss, thought Ferrier, and on the young side for the role of curmudgeon. Medina was possibly in his middle thirties. In the hospital he had acted as if he were fifty, rigidly correct in dress and manner. Outside, the pressure-cooker lid had come off and he was tossing out remarks as if he were a precocious kid without much thought behind him. But which was the real Medina? Come to think of it, which was the real Ian Ferrier?
    And that was quite a question, he decided as he approached Reid’s house. The short walk had done him good. The air was warm, perfumed from the gardens; the street was quiet, with only a few men strolling along as he was. Medina’s remark about muggers had annoyed him, but it was true enough. It was a pleasant thing to be able to walk along a city street at half past three in the morning and not wonder what footsteps following too closely might mean. He drew aside to let three