Message From Malaga by Helen MacInnes Page A

young men pass him. They were deep in an argument about football.
    He might have strolled on, down to the end of the Calle San Julian, except that he had been right about mosquitoes. They were beginning to come out in full force. By dawn, they would be invading all those open windows in the houses around him clustering, on the netting over the beds like a swarm of sailors on a ship’s rigging. He paused just long enough under the nearest street lamp to look at the bunch of keys that Reid had sent him and select the most probable one for the front door. He made his choice from size: apart from two obvious car keys, there were three miniature Yale types, which possibly opened drawers or cabinets, and a larger one of old-fashioned designfit for a main entrance. He opened the gate to Number Nine and started up the driveway. It edged one side of the garden, following the straight line of one of the boundary walls that separated Reid’s house from its neighbours. The darkness emphasised the feeling of enclosure. Some people might call it privacy, others would term it suffocation. It was certainly peaceful. If people lived next door, you would never know it. This villa in its small garden was a world of its own.
    Ahead of him, the driveway broadened into a small parking space at the side of the house where the entrance to the kitchen quarters lay. All that wing seemed pretty much asleep now, although it had been filled with voices and laughter and scoldings and general give-and-take when he had left his car there after dinner. Reid had explained. “Concepción’s family. Part of it, at least. I lose tracks of their comings and goings, but why worry as long as she housekeeps and cooks and is completely dependable?” But it developed, a little to Ferrier’s disappointment, that Concepción belied her name; the family consisted of her nieces and her cousins and her aunts, not to mention nephews and uncles or whoever decided to pay her a visit. She was a childless widow, but she was rarely lonely. It all evened out, Reid had said philosophically. Food bills might run high, but the house was well scrubbed and polished: Concepción made them work for their supper. A brood of relatives was something accepted without protest or revolt in this part of the world.
    Ferrier could see the outline of his car now, standing at one side of the little yard. But just beyond it, almost opposite the kitchen entrance, there was a second car. It was Reid’s. He recovered from his astonishment and walked on, branchingoff the driveway toward the front of the house. Someone had brought it back from El Fenicio and saved him a journey down there tomorrow. That was how he looked at it. He concentrated on unlocking the front door, wondering now why all the outside lights had been turned off. Perhaps Concepción was extra conscientious about electric bills to make up for her relatives’ appetites. After some fumbling, he got the key into the lock. It worked. He batted off the mosquitoes from his shoulders and neck, stepped into the small entry hall. Here at least was some light, subdued but sufficient to let him take a few steps into the main room.
    It looked ghostly with its white walls looming vaguely out of the shadows. Arched openings led to pits of darkness: on his left, the dining-room; on his right, the study. Facing him, the wall had a long diagonal of steps, edged with twists and curls of black iron railing, mounting to the bedrooms above. Near the foot of this staircase was another arch, leading to a corridor that must reach into the back of the house. The geography was fairly simple, and if only he knew where the light switches were, then all his problems would be solved. What he wanted to do now was to get to the study, find some paper, and jot down Reid’s requests while the details were clear in his mind. Razor, dictaphone, engagement pad, books. Oh, yes—a radio, too, just to keep Reid worrying about the state of this mixed-up