by Per Wahlöö
At nine o’clock the next morning he called the police headquarters. The officer on duty informed him that Behounek had not yet arrived. Manuel Ortega asked: “What sort of night have you had?”
“Calm.”
“I heard a couple of explosions just before eleven last night.”
“Just a blasting detail, I would think.”
“What sort of detail?”
The duty officer did not reply to his question but said: “I’m sure Captain Behounek will be here by midday.”
Half an hour later he went out to see General Larrinaga’s daughter. Fernández drove and Gómez sat in the back. Fernández smelled of garlic, chewed his seeds, and was full of chatter. He also had difficulty in finding the way and drove badly.
Both at the exit from the center of the town and at the foot of the slope leading up to the villa area they were stopped at police barriers. Both times the engine stalled.
The road to the villa area led upward in long snaking bends, and as they had plenty of time, Manuel had the car stopped on a bend where there was a wide view out over the workers’ part of the town. The area sprawled out below him was triangular and enclosed by barbed-wire fences and tall, crooked walls. Now he could see that not all the buildings were tin shacks and wooden huts, but that there were also a great many squat yellowish-gray stone houses with flat roofs. Between these ran a network of narrow streets and in the center of the district was a square marketplace. There were quite a lot of people moving about, and here and there he could make out white police cars. At least two were parked in the marketplace. It was obviously a very old part of the town which had been built on to in the simplest way to hold about four times its original number of inhabitants. When he got back into the car he remembered that about half the apartments in the middle of the town were empty, and always had been, for people preferred to live within the artificially irrigated area.
The house which Orestes de Larrinaga had lived in was a very large one, almost a palace, and in front of it was a garden the upkeep of which must have required tremendous effort and enormous quantities of water.
A servant with a mourning veil tied in a rosette on his white jacket led them to a patio where there were stone seats, a spring, and beautiful flowers. The patio was covered with slate slabs, as was the bottom of the goldfish pond.
Manuel Ortega sat down on one of the stone seats and waited. Fernández cleared his throat and pondered at some length on where he should spit, and in the end decided on the goldfish pond. When one of the goldfish came up to the surface to look at the gobbet of spit, he laughed, quietly and heartily, for a long time.
Manuel decided quite definitely that this was the most objectionable member of his bodyguard, especially now that Frankenheimer had gone.
After a few minutes the servant came back with two glasses of chilled almond milk on a silver tray. Fernández sniffed at his suspiciously and put it to one side on the stone seat. Then he took out his revolver and twirled the magazine with his thumb as he slowly took out bullet after bullet and looked at them. Manuel thought that this was in no better taste than taking out one’s false teeth and adjusting them at the table, and he was driven to saying: “Remember that we’re in a house of mourning.”
Fernández glowered at him in an offended and uncomprehending way. Then he sighed and put away his revolver, very meticulously and ostentatiously adjusting his gun in its holster.
Manuel thought: I must get rid of this tribe of apes. And I’m sure they’re useless anyway. Behounek will have to arrange something from tomorrow on. Aloud, he said: “When the lady comes, move over to the other side, out of earshot.”
Five minutes later Francisca de Larrinaga came down the stairs from the floor above. Manuel Ortega rose and went to meet her. She was dressed in full mourning and was undoubtedly very beautiful, but in some way it was an impregnable beauty which did not excite him.
They sat down by the goldfish pond and the servant brought more almond milk. Manuel glanced at Fernández, who was looking at his two glasses with a confused and unhappy expression.
It took Manuel no more than two minutes to find out that he could come straight to the point. The woman listened politely to his conventional phrases. Then she said sharply and coldly: “What do you want?”
“During his tenure as Provincial Resident, the General must have undertaken certain measures …”
“My father never spoke of his work at home, neither when he was in the army nor during this last period.”
“Nonetheless, he seems to have been working during these last three weeks on a proclamation, a personal statement.”
“It is possible.”
“This proclamation was never completed but seems to have been almost ready.”
“And?”
“The text of it was not found after his departure.”
“Will you kindly explain what you mean?”
“Let me be quite honest. I have succeeded your father in this difficult post and want to carry on the work in the spirit in which your father would wish and with the same intentions with which he began. The enduring contribution your father wished to make was obviously bound up with this proclamation. I think it would therefore be very valuable to get some idea of its contents and the views it expressed. Best of all, of course, I would prefer to see it.”
After a short pause, he added: “In fact I believe the text was destroyed at the time of the General’s death by someone who didn’t want it to be known. Either by the murderer or by his employers.”
The conversation ceased. The only noise was Fernández chewing and scraping his feet on the other side of the fish pond.
Francisca de Larrinaga looked at her visitor. She was frowning slightly and her face was hard and serious beneath her mourning veil. Finally she said: “You are wrong. If the murderer or his employers had known the contents of the proclamation, my father would still be alive.”
Manuel said nothing. He thought feverishly but could think of nothing to say.
After a while she said: “You are surprised. Well, let me say this at once. There does exist a copy of the draft of my father’s statement. By sheer chance I found it after his death. In the pocket of his smoking jacket. He must have taken his papers home with him to study in the evenings. This was contrary to his usual habits and in itself shows how much importance he attached to this … proclamation. On the other hand, he never spoke of it. I had no idea at all of his work, just as little now as before, when he was on active service.”
“And you’ve read it?”
“Yes. I have read it and kept it. The views he expresses in it would surprise many people if they were published. I was astonished myself. My father was a man of strict principles, everyone knew that, but lately he seemed to have changed his opinions on quite a few points.”
“In what respects?”
She did not answer the question but said: “I was very close to my father. He found that with me he could relax and be himself more easily. I went in the car with him practically every morning. On one of these occasions he talked to me about his mission; not exactly to me but more to himself. He did that sometimes, in the company of someone he knew very well and could trust implicitly. I was one of these people, perhaps the only one. Anyway, I received the impression that the government had demanded that he call and lead a conference, some kind of peace negotiations between the so-called right-wing extremists and the Communists. He refused, partly because he—as he expressed it himself—was a soldier and not a shifty-eyed diplomat, and partly because he thought it degrading and preposterous that men like Count Ponti and Dalgren and General Gami should sit at the the same conference table with Indians and mountain bandits and partisan chiefs, El Campesino, and whatever they are called now.”
Again she paused. Then she said: “If I hand my father’s statement over to you, what will you do with it then?”
“Publish it, whatever it contains. In my capacity as his successor, I would consider it my duty.”
“And in my capacity as his daughter and closest friend, I regard it as my duty to consider very carefully what should be done with his effects.”
Where does she get it all from? thought Manuel Ortega, humbled. But he collected himself at once and resumed: “For various reasons I am interested in the circumstances of your father’s death. Does it pain you too much to talk about it?”
“I can talk about anything,” she said.
“As you were present at the time …”
He broke off.
“Yes?”
“I have been told that the murderer was carried away with his head covered.”
“That’s true. I was sitting in the car outside and heard the shots. When I went in, my father was already dead. He had been hit in the chest with about fifteen or twenty shots. The escort officer, a young lieutenant, had shot the murderer. The man was badly wounded in the pelvis and was lying on the floor behind the counter. He was shouting curses and abuse like a wild animal. A captain who came shortly afterward gave orders for him to be silenced, and some soldiers took a tablecloth and wound it around his head and tied it up with a belt.”
“Could you make out what he was saying?”
“I was, as you can understand, deeply upset. And the man was badly wounded too. In fact I think his wounds were fatal. In any case, he would have been a permanent invalid. He was probably in great pain, for his voice was blurred and it was hard to catch his words. As far as I could make out he was cursing the man who had shot him, the generals, the government, and the Citizens’ Guard.”
Manuel Ortega looked at the young woman. Her face was calm and her voice controlled. She was using the same tone of voice as that of the person who had threatened him two days earlier.
“Thank you for your kindness in giving me this information. Will you also allow me to see your father’s statement?”
She replied at once: “I cannot decide that now. But I shall give you my answer within four days.”
“Forgive me if I ask you one more question. Who other than yourself knows that this document exists?”
“You.”
“I think it would be wise if you refrained from letting anyone else know.”
“The moment,” said Francisca de Larrinaga, “when I shall be in need of your advice is, as far as I can judge, very far away. Should it arise, which I doubt, I would take up the matter on my own accord. To be more precise: I don’t know you, sir, and neither have I any opinions about you. The information I have given you, and might eventually give you, I am putting at your disposal because I think you have a right to it in your capacity as my father’s successor.”
They rose from their seats.
“Who is the man with the sunflower seeds?” she asked.
“My bodyguard.”
“Really? Good-by.”
“Good-by.”
In the car, Fernández said to López, who was slightly dazed with sleep: “What a bird! Jesus Christ, what a piece! You should’ve seen her. I could almost feel my cock rising on the spot. Quite a different kettle of fish from that bearded scarecrow up with us.”
He drummed his fingers on the wheel and said unhappily: “Sorry. My manners aren’t very classy, I know. I can’t help it.”
“Drive on,” said Manuel Ortega.
He felt physically and psychologically exhausted, as after a tennis match or an important business deal. Just before Fernández had begun to speak, he had thought that Francisca de Larrinaga was one of those women whom he could not imagine undressed.
Well, he said to himself, there are different views on most things.
Then he thought: Why have I begun to think about those things so much?
As they drove through the dismal screened-off workers’ sector, it struck him that anyone lying behind the wall with a rifle could easily fire and no one would be able to do a thing about it.
To his own mortification, he hunched up behind Gómez and tried to keep his head as low as possible.
At two in the afternoon he got in touch with Captain Behounek.
“How is the situation?”
“Calm.”
“And out in the country?”
“I’ve just come from there. Made a little personal inspection.”
“And?”
“Calm.”
“No attacks?”
“Hardly any. I think our patrols have pushed the partisans up into the mountains.”
“I’d like to go with you sometime on a trip out into the country.”
“There’ll be a very good opportunity tomorrow. A sanitary patrol is visiting one of the bigger Indian villages. It’ll have a safe escort.”
“Will you arrange the matter for me?”
“Certainly.”
“One question. What is meant by a blasting detail? One of your subordinates used the term as if it were quite an ordinary event.”
“Well, it’s quite an unpleasant story. Roughly speaking, it’s like this: the youngsters in the Citizens’ Guard have learned to use plastic bombs. It was a European idea to begin with, I gather. You get a tough mess of stuff which you stick onto something, and then you put in a fuse with a flint in it. Well, at night, small groups go into the native sector and stick plastic bombs here and there. During the worst disturbances we had a great deal of trouble with them. The streets there are badly lit—mostly not lit at all. It’s difficult to keep an eye on them at night.”
“Does this still go on?”
“To a limited extent.”
“Was there a raid of that kind last night?”
“Yes.”
“And the damage?”
“Trifling. These bombs have an open explosive effect and the damage is usually not very great. I shudder to think what would happen if they ever think of putting the stuff into iron pipes for instance.”
“Was anyone killed last night?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Think?”
“I mean that nothing has been reported. Some of the natives are pretty peculiar, you see. They won’t or daren’t report damage and casualties. But their faith in us is growing steadily.”
“Have you caught the raiders?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, let’s hope for the best.”
He put down the receiver, rang for Danica Rodríguez, and was surprised when he saw her. She was dressed as on the previous day, but her face was pale and resigned and her eyes very serious.
He could not help saying: “How are you feeling?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“You hadn’t come in when I left this morning.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well—do you know if the telephone lines are in order yet?”
“They’re still cut.”
“Have you asked whether there’s a reply to my cable?”
“It hasn’t come yet.”
“Send a reminder then. No, don’t—send a copy of the text and point out that there is some urgency.”
“Yes.”
When she reached the door, he said: “Come back for a moment, please.”
He tried to smile at her, but either it was an unsuccessful attempt or else there was no way of breaking her seriousness.
“I’ve got some information for you. About the assassination.”
He repeated all the details of the murder that he could remember from his conversation with Francisca de Larrinaga.
She listened with interest but made no comment. Then she said seriously: “Did you find that out for my sake?”
“Well—partly.”
“Thanks.”
When she walked away he stared at her thighs and hips. Earlier he had tried to decide whether she was wearing a bra but had been unable to come to any conclusion.
A moment later he turned to the fat man who was sitting against the wall, his hands on his knees.
“López, are you married?”
“Yes.”
The conversation w
as not prolonged. He had thought for a moment of asking a question such as “Have you any children?” or “What do you think about it then?” but he decided not to.
Manuel Ortega sat and felt the heat become thicker and thicker, filling the room more and more. Despite the fan he was soaked with sweat, but he did not bother to go and shower.
When he tried to analyze why he did not bother he discovered it was because of fear. He did not want to have to open the door to his room unnecessarily and go in while López was still sitting on the chair behind his back. But after a while he went in after all, to shower and change his clothes, trying an experiment by leaving the door ajar. When he opened the door to his living quarters there was some kind of draft, probably caused by the fan, and the door slammed shut.
He returned, as usual, with his hand on the butt of his revolver.
This thing with the door had become an idée fixe. Common sense told him that there were many situations in which he had equally good or better reasons for being afraid—but what use was common sense in a situation like this? He repeated the question to himself.
What use is common sense?
Then he sat down and thought over the situation. He was trapped by a string of foolish circumstances and abandoned to the arbitrary decisions of others.
As long as the Ministry did not answer his cable he had no idea how to go about his present job.
As long as General Gami and Colonel Orbal were pleased to stay away he could not carry out any discussions at the highest level.
As long as the girl in the big house on the hill had not decided what she was going to do with the famous papers he would know nothing about what General Larrinaga’s work had really involved.
All this tied him down and forced him into inactivity.
He also accused himself of being too official, too lacking in initiative, too bound to conventional points of view on how an assignment should be carried out. And worst of all, his single-mindedness was turning his assignment into a simple office job.
And also, he was afraid.
He thought he ought to make an extensive trip around the town, but could not make himself do so. The town frightened him and he did not want to become involved in its violence any more than he already was. Also he was certain that the picture that he had built up of the atmosphere in the community was correct. At least in its essentials.