something important was going on that he didn’t know anything about.
He checked through the mail again, hoping to find an explanatory letter. Nothing. He caught Sandy’s attention and asked if there had been a telephone call for him recently.
“My dear,” Sandy said, “you know I would have told you. But let me ask the barman.” He turned. “Phillip, has there been a telephone call for Hob recently?”
“Nothing,” Phillip said. “I would have said.”
“Could I use the phone?” Hob asked. “It’s sorta important.”
Sandy had one of the few phones in Santa Eulalia at that time, and he didn’t like to tie it up with customers. But Hob was a special case, and brought a certain panache to the island with his detective agency. “Of course. Just try not to tie it up too long. And be sure to get time and charges from the operator if you’re calling off the island.”
Hob went upstairs to the small tiled room where Sandy slept on nights when he kept the bar opened late and didn’t want to drive all the way to his finca in Siesta. He got the Ibiza operator and put in a call to Nigel’s present digs in Edna Schumacher’s apartment. No answer. He tried to reach him at his small, entailed house in Kew Gardens, London, without success. Then he put in a call to the Kit Kat Bar in Paris where Jean-Claude was currently getting his phone calls. The proprieter said that Jean-Claude was out of town, he didn’t know where, and could he take a message? Hob said who he was and stressed the importance of his reaching Jean-Claude immediately; couldn’t the proprieter even make a guess as to his whereabouts? The proprieter said, “You may well be his employer, m’sieu, but for me you are only a voice on the telephone. But perhaps you know Jean-Claude. If so, you know he would kill me if I told you where he was. And anyhow, I swear to you, I do not know.”
Hob remembered to get his time and charges for the call. When he came down, he asked Sandy to add them to his tab. Then, seeing Harry Hamm had just come in, he showed him Jean-Claude’s note.
“You’ve always told me Nigel is absentminded,” Harry said. “This is proof of it. Do you think Annabelle might know something?”
“She might,” Hob said. “She’s the only person I know who knows both Nigel and Señor Arranque. I’ll take a run in and see.”
“Want me to come?” Harry said. “I got nothing better to do.”
They went to Ibiza in Harry’s car, went around the city to Figueretas, and so to Annabelle’s building, The Beehive, arriving at about ten in the evening. Annabelle’s apartment was dark, and she didn’t respond to repeated knocking. But her next-door neighbor, Dolores, came out in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head.
“Are you Hob Draconian?” she asked.
When Hob said that he was, she said, “Annabelle thought you might come by. She left a note for you.” She went in and got it and handed it to Hob.
The note read, “Hob, dear, something very important has come up, and I’ve left for London. With a little luck I’ll be able to find out what you want to know. In case you decide to come, which might be a good idea, I’ll be staying at Arlene’s.” There followed a South Kensington telephone number.
Back at the car, Hob sat for a moment, thinking. Harry waited, then finally asked, “So where to now?”
“Airport,” Hob said.
“You haven’t packed anything.”
“I’ve got my passport, money, and address book. I’ll pick up a razor and an extra pair of jeans in London.”
THREE
London
1
The plane left on time, and the flight was uneventful. The weather was overcast, but the Iberia plane got below the ceiling when it came in over Land’s End. Soon the green and pleasant country of England was spread out below. They arrived at Heathrow just past noon.
After passing through customs and immigration, Hob took the airport bus to Victoria Station. He found a telephone
He checked through the mail again, hoping to find an explanatory letter. Nothing. He caught Sandy’s attention and asked if there had been a telephone call for him recently.
“My dear,” Sandy said, “you know I would have told you. But let me ask the barman.” He turned. “Phillip, has there been a telephone call for Hob recently?”
“Nothing,” Phillip said. “I would have said.”
“Could I use the phone?” Hob asked. “It’s sorta important.”
Sandy had one of the few phones in Santa Eulalia at that time, and he didn’t like to tie it up with customers. But Hob was a special case, and brought a certain panache to the island with his detective agency. “Of course. Just try not to tie it up too long. And be sure to get time and charges from the operator if you’re calling off the island.”
Hob went upstairs to the small tiled room where Sandy slept on nights when he kept the bar opened late and didn’t want to drive all the way to his finca in Siesta. He got the Ibiza operator and put in a call to Nigel’s present digs in Edna Schumacher’s apartment. No answer. He tried to reach him at his small, entailed house in Kew Gardens, London, without success. Then he put in a call to the Kit Kat Bar in Paris where Jean-Claude was currently getting his phone calls. The proprieter said that Jean-Claude was out of town, he didn’t know where, and could he take a message? Hob said who he was and stressed the importance of his reaching Jean-Claude immediately; couldn’t the proprieter even make a guess as to his whereabouts? The proprieter said, “You may well be his employer, m’sieu, but for me you are only a voice on the telephone. But perhaps you know Jean-Claude. If so, you know he would kill me if I told you where he was. And anyhow, I swear to you, I do not know.”
Hob remembered to get his time and charges for the call. When he came down, he asked Sandy to add them to his tab. Then, seeing Harry Hamm had just come in, he showed him Jean-Claude’s note.
“You’ve always told me Nigel is absentminded,” Harry said. “This is proof of it. Do you think Annabelle might know something?”
“She might,” Hob said. “She’s the only person I know who knows both Nigel and Señor Arranque. I’ll take a run in and see.”
“Want me to come?” Harry said. “I got nothing better to do.”
They went to Ibiza in Harry’s car, went around the city to Figueretas, and so to Annabelle’s building, The Beehive, arriving at about ten in the evening. Annabelle’s apartment was dark, and she didn’t respond to repeated knocking. But her next-door neighbor, Dolores, came out in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head.
“Are you Hob Draconian?” she asked.
When Hob said that he was, she said, “Annabelle thought you might come by. She left a note for you.” She went in and got it and handed it to Hob.
The note read, “Hob, dear, something very important has come up, and I’ve left for London. With a little luck I’ll be able to find out what you want to know. In case you decide to come, which might be a good idea, I’ll be staying at Arlene’s.” There followed a South Kensington telephone number.
Back at the car, Hob sat for a moment, thinking. Harry waited, then finally asked, “So where to now?”
“Airport,” Hob said.
“You haven’t packed anything.”
“I’ve got my passport, money, and address book. I’ll pick up a razor and an extra pair of jeans in London.”
THREE
London
1
The plane left on time, and the flight was uneventful. The weather was overcast, but the Iberia plane got below the ceiling when it came in over Land’s End. Soon the green and pleasant country of England was spread out below. They arrived at Heathrow just past noon.
After passing through customs and immigration, Hob took the airport bus to Victoria Station. He found a telephone
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