The Sands of Time

Alan Tucker arrived in avila the day after his conversation with Ellen Scott. It had been a long flight, and Tucker should have been exhausted, but instead he was exhilarated. Ellen Scott was not a woman given to whims. There's something strange going on behind all this, Alan Tucker thought, and if I play my cards right, I have a hunch it could be very profitable for me.



He checked into the Cuatro Postes hotel and said to the clerk behind the desk, "Is there a newspaper office around here?"



"Down the street, senor. To your left, two blocks. You can't miss it."



"Thank you."



"De nada."



Walking down the main street, watching the town come alive after its afternoon siesta, Tucker thought about the mysterious girl he had been sent to bring back. This had to be something important. But important why? He could hear Ellen Scott's voice.



If she's alive, bring her back to me. You are not to discuss this with anyone.



No, ma'am. What shall I tell her?



Simply tell her that a friend of her father's wishes to meet her. She'll come.



Tucker found the newspaper office. Inside, he approached one of the half dozen people working behind desks. "Perdone, I would like to see the managing editor."



The man pointed to an office. "In there, senor."



"Gracias."



Tucker walked over to the open door and looked inside. A man in his mid-thirties was seated behind a desk, busily editing copy.



"Excuse me," Tucker said. "Could I speak to you for a moment?"



The man looked up. "What can I do for you?"



"I'm looking for a senorita."



The editor smiled. "Aren't we all, senor?"



"She was left at a farmhouse around here when she was an infant."



The smile faded. "Oh. She was abandoned?"



"Yes."



"And you are trying to find her?"



"Yes."



"How many years ago would that be, senor?"



"Twenty-eight."



The young man shrugged. "It was before my time."



Perhaps it's not going to be so easy. "Could you suggest someone who might be able to help me?"



The editor leaned back in his chair, thinking. "As a matter of fact, I can. I would suggest you speak with Father Berrendo."



Father Berrendo sat in his study, a lap robe over his thin legs, listening to the stranger.



When Alan Tucker was finished explaining why he was there, Father Berrendo said, "Why do you wish to know about this matter, senor? It happened so long ago. What is your interest in it?"



Tucker hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I am not at liberty to say. I can only assure you that I mean the woman no harm. If you could just tell me where the farmhouse is where she was left - ?"



The farmhouse. Memories came flooding back of the day the Morases had come to him after they had taken the little girl to the hospital.



"I think she's dying, Father. What shall we do?"



Father Berrendo telephoned his friend Don Morago, the chief of police.



"I think the baby was abandoned by tourists visiting avila. Could you check the hotels and inns and see if anyone arrived with a baby and left without one?"



The police went through the registration cards that all hotels were required to fill out, but they were of no help.



"It is as if the baby just dropped out of the sky," Don Morago had said.



And he had had no idea of how close he had come to solving the mystery.



When Father Berrendo took the infant to the orphanage, Mercedes Angeles had asked, "Does the baby have a name?"



"I don't know."



"Wasn't there a blanket or something with the name on it?"



"No."



Mercedes Angeles looked at the infant in the priest's arms. "Well, we'll just have to give her a name, won't we?"



She had recently finished reading a romantic novel, and she liked the name of the heroine in it.



"Megan," she said. "We'll call her Megan."



And fourteen years later, Father Berrendo had taken Megan to the Cistercian convent.



So many years after that, this stranger was looking for her. Life always comes full circle, Father Berrendo thought. In some mysterious way, it has come full circle for Megan. No, not Megan. That was the name given her by the orphanage.



"Sit down, senor," Father Berrendo said. "There is much to tell you."



And he told him.



When the priest was finished, Alan Tucker sat there quietly, his mind racing. There had to be a very good reason for Ellen Scott's interest in a baby abandoned at a farmhouse in Spain twenty-eight years earlier. A woman now called Megan, according to the priest.



Tell her that a friend of her father's wishes to meet her.



If he remembered correctly, Byron Scott and his wife and daughter had died in an airplane crash many years ago somewhere in Spain. Could there be a connection? Alan Tucker felt a growing sense of excitement.



"Father - I'd like to get into the convent to see her. It's very important."



The priest shook his head. "I'm afraid you are too late. The convent was attacked two days ago by agents of the government."



Alan Tucker stared at him. "Attacked? What happened to the nuns?"



"They were arrested and taken to Madrid."



Alan Tucker got to his feet. "Thank you, Father." He would catch the first plane to Madrid.



Father Berrendo went on. "Four of the nuns escaped. Sister Megan was one of them."



Things were becoming complicated. "Where is she now?"



"No one knows. The police and the army are searching for her and the other sisters."



"I see." Under ordinary circumstances, Alan Tucker would have telephoned Ellen Scott and informed her that he had reached a dead end. But all his instincts as a detective told him there was something here that warranted further investigation.



He placed a call to Ellen Scott.



"There's a complication, Mrs. Scott." He repeated his conversation with the priest.



There was a long silence. "No one knows where she is?"



"She and the others are on the run, but they can't hide out much longer. The police and half the Spanish army are looking for them. When they surface, I'll be there."



Another silence. "This is very important to me, Tucker."



"Yes, Mrs. Scott."



Alan Tucker returned to the newspaper office. He was in luck. It was still open.



He said to the editor, "I would like to look through your files, if I may."



"Are you looking for something in particular?"



"Yes. There was an airplane crash here."



"How long ago, senor?"



"Twenty-eight years ago. Nineteen forty-eight."



It took Alan Tucker fifteen minutes to find the item he was looking for. The headline leaped out at him.



PLANE CRASH KILLS EXECUTIVE



FAMILY



October 1, 1948. Byron Scott, President of Scott Industries, his wife, Susan, and their one-year old daughter, Patricia, were burned to death in an airplane crash...



I've hit the jackpot! He could feel his pulse begin to race. If this is what I think it is, I'm going to be a rich man...a very rich man.