By the time he found the Calle Tres Peces, he was in no mood to search for nonexistent numbers. He selected a building at random, marched up to it, and pounded on the first available door. There was a long pause, and then a voice said hesitantly, “Who’s there?”
“Guardia civil. Open up.” Tejada considered adding a further threat, and then decided that he probably would not be able to make it good alone.
The door swung open and a woman with a shawl over her head faced him. “We’ve done nothing wrong.” Her voice trembled, and Tejada wondered for a moment what she had on her conscience.
He dismissed her probable sins as irrelevant. “Can you tell me where number 25 is?”
She stared at him, open-mouthed for a moment, and then slumped against the doorjamb in relief. “Yes, Señor Guardia. Yes, of course. It’s across the street and three doors down.”
“Thank you.” Tejada turned on his heel and marched away. Behind him he heard the door slam shut.
When he reached the building indicated, he realized that he did not have an apartment number. Clearly numbered buildings, he thought, expanding his urban planning instincts. With a reliable concierge who has an up-to-date list of who is in which apartment. He stifled a sigh and pounded on the door of the first floor. “Guardia civil! Open up!” Whoever lived in the first-floor apartment was either not at home or trusted that he would not break down the door.
Tejada considered for a moment. It was possible that this was the apartment he was interested in. If it was, then several other possibilities presented themselves. If the miliciana who had killed Paco was Carmen Llorente, Maria Alejandra’s mother, then the apartment might well be locked and deserted. On the other hand, even if the miliciana who had killed Paco had no connection to Alejandra aside from a carelessly dropped notebook, the Palomino family might have its own reasons for avoiding the guardia civil. Or whoever lived in the apartment might simply be away. Or it might be the wrong apartment entirely. The simplest way to find out was to talk to someone. He moved on to the apartment in the rear of the building, and knocked again. “Guardia Civil! Open up!”
This time the door opened after only a few moments of hammering on it. “Yes?” Again, it was a woman who answered. Tejada wondered briefly if there were no men left in Madrid. If there were, they seemed to hide behind their women. Typical of the Reds.
“Do you know a little girl named Maria Alejandra Palomino?” Tejada asked. “About seven years old. She lives in this building, I believe.”
The woman gaped at him. “Alejandra? Why yes. But why . . .?” She shut her mouth abruptly, suddenly realizing that questioning a guardia civil was the worse part of valor.
“She lives with her mother?” Tejada asked.
“Yes. Her mother and—” The woman stopped.
“And?” Tejada raised his eyebrows, remembering that Ale-jandra’s mother was supposed to be a widow.
“And . . . and she lived with her . . . aunt.” The woman gulped slightly. “But her aunt . . . passed away a few days ago.”
If she was not lying, Tejada thought, then obviously she was trying to conceal something. But she was frightened and a poor liar. It might be worth questioning her further, instead of merely asking for the correct apartment number. At that point, however, he was distracted by the sound of footsteps behind him and the rhythmic thump of someone trudging up the stairs. The woman glanced past him and gasped with relief. “There she is,” she babbled. “You can talk to her yourself. Car-men! Carmen, this officer’s been asking for you.”
Tejada turned and looked upward. A woman with a shawl tied over her hair and a dark coat wrapped tightly around her was standing on the staircase, as if frozen. As he came nearer, he saw that she was squarely built, with broad shoulders that formed a strange contrast to her extreme thinness. “Señora Llorente?” he asked.
He saw her lips move and guessed from her faint nod that she had spoken. But her whisper was inaudible.
“I’m glad I caught you.” It did not occur to Tejada that this was not the happiest of phrases. “I have a few questions.”
She bowed her head. “What do you want to know?”
“There’s no need to stand in the hallway,” Tejada said easily, rounding the banister and beginning to climb toward her.“We can go upstairs and talk in private.” He had not pitched his voice particularly loudly, but it carried clearly in the silent hall, and Carmen’s neighbor rapidly shut her door.
Tejada had continued advancing on Carmen and she had no choice but to turn and begin climbing the stairs again. “What do you want to know?” she repeated, a little breathlessly.
“I’m actually looking for one of your relatives,” Tejada said. “Careful,” he added, as she tripped on one of the steps and plunged forward. “Your daughter, I believe. Alejandra.”
“Alejandra?” The blood pounding in Carmen’s ears subsided somewhat. She hoped that the guardia could not tell that her voice was unusually high and quavering. “Why?”
“She may have some information of interest to the Guardia Civil,” Tejada replied as they reached the landing.
Carmen hurried ahead of him and unlocked the door. “I don’t understand, Señor Guardia.” She raised her voice as much as she dared. “Why should the Guardia Civil be interested in Aleja? She’s only a little girl.”
The door swung open. Carmen did her best to take off her coat slowly and noisily, praying that the guardia would not push past her. He stood quietly, apparently unaware of her delaying tactics. “She may have witnessed a murder,” he said. “Speaking of which, your neighbor tells me that you are recently bereaved. My condolences.”
“What?” Carmen stared, bewildered. In her experience, the Guardia Civil did not offer condolences.
“Your sister,” Tejada said. “I understand she lived with you. Or would this be your sister-in-law?”
“My sister,” Carmen said quickly, internally damning her downstairs neighbor for being a bitch and a gossip. Perhaps the guardia did not know of Gonzalo’s existence. “She was my sister.” Judging that it was impossible to delay any longer, Car-men led her unwelcome guest into the living room. To her profound relief, it was empty. She wondered whether it would be wise to say that she and Viviana had lived alone. But if someone in the building had told him about Gonzalo . . . “I’m afraid Aleja’s at school,” she said hastily. “But if there’s anything I can tell you?”
Tejada had been inspecting the living room. It displayed no signs of wealth. It was barely furnished. And Carmen Llorente’s hunger-pinched features did not suggest that she had access to the black market. He was inclined to think that if Alejandra had been a witness, she had been an accidental one. Alejandra’s mother radiated fear, but so had everyone else he had spoken to in the neighborhood. “When will she be home?” he asked.
Carmen realized with horror that the guardia must intend to wait for her daughter. If Gonzalo was already in hiding, that was fine. But if he came back unexpectedly . . . “I don’t know,” she said automatically, then thought it best to explain. “I mean, Aleja’s school is some distance from here. I gave her permission to go home with a friend who lives closer to the school today and she may stay the night there.”
“Where is that, Señora?” Tejada wondered if it was worth a trek north to try to find Alejandra.
Carmen was prepared for the question. “Along San Mateo,” she lied glibly, carefully not specifying whether she meant the Calle San Mateo or the Travesía San Mateo.
Tejada did not notice the omission but the idea of searching through another set of winding and unmarked streets was not appealing. Lieutenant Ramos expected his report, and delaying further would be irresponsible. Tejada decided to share his suspicions with the lieutenant and wait for further orders. He stifled a sigh. “Very well, Señora. I will try to come back tomorrow. You understand that your daughter’s information may be of vital importance to the Guardia Civil. I will expect to find her at home tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Carmen
’s mouth was dry.
Tejada had the feeling that he was overlooking something important. But he was tired, and he wanted a chance to file the information he had gathered. He left the white-faced Señora Llorente, wondering how much of what she had told him was the truth. Alejandra was proving surprisingly elusive. If her mother knows she saw something, she might be trying to keep her out of the way, he thought. There’s no reason they would stop at killing a child. Easier really than to kill Paco unless they only knew that there was a witness and didn’t know who the witness was. He realized, with a not entirely pleasant sensation, that he was now carrying with him the notebook his friend had been killed for. No one knows that except Jiménez though, he reassured himself. All the same, he was glad when he reached the end of the winding alleys and gained a broader and better patrolled thoroughfare.
By the time Tejada had finished making his report to the lieutenant, it was well after five. A lingering worry over the information contained in Alejandra’s notebook made him look for Jiménez. To his disgust, Guardia Jiménez had gone on a twenty-four-hour leave three hours previously. Resigned to the inevitable, Tejada headed for the tiny room that served as both his bedroom and office. He sat down and stared at his notes. They swam in front of his eyes. It isn’t fair he thought, leaning forward slightly and propping his elbows on the table. We’ve won, and we work twice as hard now that we’re at peace. Paco had time to get involved with that Isabel during the war, but now he wouldn’t have a moment. Or did he meet her before the war? I wonder how, if she was in Cantabria. . . . I’ve heard Cantabria’s beautiful. Next to the Basque country. . . . Filled with rain. . . . But Paco hated rain. . . .
A thunderclap interrupted his thoughts. He started, and realized that the thunder was in fact the stamp of Guardia Vásquez’s booted foot. Vásquez was standing at attention, looking embarrassed. “Sergeant Tejada, sir!” he said, staring forward and doing a poor job of not noticing that Tejada’s head had been resting on the desk.
Tejada silently cursed himself for wasting time and then added a brief imprecation in the direction of Lieutenant Ramos for waking him at an ungodly hour. “Yes, Guardia, what is it?” he asked, trying not to sound irritated.
Vásquez’s posture remained rigid. “A lady to see you, sir!”
Tejada winced. Female hysteria ranked high on his list of work-related annoyances, and he felt he had dealt with enough white-faced and terrified women for one day. “What time is it?” he snapped.
Vásquez checked his watch. “Twenty hours, thirty-two minutes, sir,” he said, doing his best to make the military phrasing disguise his opinion that the sergeant could perfectly well have looked at his own watch.
“Then she’s here to see Sergeant González,” said Tejada grimly. “I went off a twelve-hour shift two minutes ago.”
“Err . . . she asked to speak to you specifically, sir. By name.” The guardia had lost much of his rigidity and almost all of his assurance.
“What?” Random guesses whirled through Tejada’s brain like the paper on Lieutenant Ramos’s desk during a crisis. With a sudden sinking feeling he remembered his final words to Doña Clara: “I am always at home to you.” It was inconceivable that Clara Pérez should make a social call at a post but . . . “A dignified older lady, gray hair, wearing a black dress?” he hazarded, desperately shuffling through his thoughts.
“No, sir.” Vásquez’s embarrassment increased. “A younger lady, with a blue skirt and dark braids.”
The guardia’s words snagged a piece of useless knowledge from Tejada’s hasty and ill-assorted pile of civilian memories. “Ce doit être Micaëla,” he said automatically.
Vásquez blinked. “I’m sorry, sir?”
“Never mind.” Tejada remembered enough French to understand the gist of the quote, but he had no idea where he had pulled it from. “Is Lieutenant Ramos still in his office?”
“No, sir. He went off duty half an hour ago.”
“Then bring her to the lieutenant’s office,” Tejada said. “I’ll meet you there.”
He headed for the office, still trying to figure out who the lady asking for him might be. He could think of no friends of the family who still lived in Madrid. And no one in their right mind would travel to the capital now. Perhaps a friend of a friend? But what young lady would call at a guardia civil post to see someone she did not know? He reached the office and automatically began to tidy the papers on the desk, scanning them to make sure that no sensitive material had been left out for prying eyes. Who in Madrid—outside of fellow officers— even knew his name? “Micaëla,” obviously, he thought with disgust. Whoever that is. He tapped a stack of papers on the table to align their edges, and then turned them face downward, idly pursuing the smaller enigma: Where had the quote come from? Something about a blue skirt and dark braids, with an inane little tune attached, probably for mnemonic purposes. He hummed, trying to remember. The door swung open, and he heard Vásquez’s voice saying, “This way, Señora.”
“Thank you.” A woman in a light blue skirt, with dark, unfashionably long hair wound in a crown around her head stepped into the room. “Good evening, Sergeant Tejada,” she said in a clear voice, and he recognized Alejandra’s teacher.
Chapter 11
Vásquez withdrew, tactfully closing the door behind him. Tejada did his best to stand up straight, woefully aware that he had sleep in his eyes, stubble on his chin, and cobwebs in his brain. “Good evening, Señorita—” He reached for her name for a moment. “Fernández,” he finished, after a barely perceptible pause. Some remnant of inculcated manners made him add, “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“You are very kind.” She formed the words carefully, enunciating each syllable with such clarity that Tejada was surprised to realize that she had spoken very softly. She stood motionless, her coat folded over her crossed arms. She looked perfectly composed but apparently had nothing more to say.
“Won’t you sit down?” Tejada asked before the silence became too awkward. “And please, tell me why you’re here.”
She sat down slowly on the edge of the chair he had indicated, and set her feet parallel on the floor with the same precise economy of movement that marked her speech. Her back was very straight, and that, combined with the masses of hair pinned to her head, reminded Tejada obscurely of a ballerina. He took the chair behind the desk, wondering irrelevantly if her hair was really black or if it only seemed so in the artificial light, its darkness accentuated by her pale face. “I hope”—she hesitated for a moment—“that I was not wrong to ask to speak to you personally, Sergeant. But I thought. . . .”
“Yes?” Tejada said, as encouragingly as he could.
“You asked me a number of questions about Aleja Palomino’s notebook.” The teacher seemed to reach a decision. “May I ask if your interest in it stems from the death of one of your colleagues last Friday?”
Tejada had been unsuccessfully trying to guess why Señorita Fernández had sought him out. She might, of course, have come on behalf of a prisoner but he did not think that she was one of those who would stoop to attempting to use personal influence, and he disliked the idea that she might be associated with any of the prisoners. It had seemed impossible that she would have any further information to give him. Now she seemed uncommonly well informed. He leaned forward. “May I ask what suggested that idea, Señorita?”
“Alejandra was back in school today,” she said. “She was very upset about the loss of her notebook, and she confided in me.”She hesitated. “I am, perhaps, breaking her confidence by coming here.”
Tejada took a deep breath and made sure that his voice would be calm before he spoke. “I appreciate your coming,” he said truthfully. “And I assure you that I have no interest in harming Alejandra. In fact, she may be safer if I know all that she has to tell.”
“That did occur to me.” A smile flickered across the woman’s face. “But I appreciate your reassurance. Aleja explained to me that she lost her notebook last week, on h
er way home from school. She says that a guardia civil passed her, and that a little while later she heard gunshots. She was frightened and hid. She says she saw a guardia civil come past her hiding place right after that. At first she thought it was the same one but when she went on, she found the body of the man who had passed her in the street. She realized that the other guardia must have killed him, and she fled. I know that you probably don’t want to look for one of your own, Sergeant. But Aleja’s a truthful child.”
Tejada frowned, skeptical. “And the notebook?”
“She dropped it when she saw the dead man and ran for home. She was frightened, Sergeant.”
Tejada’s first impulse was to believe that this was a story concocted to mislead him. Elena Fernández knew of his interest in the notebook, and therefore was the perfect person to come forward with the information. But if the notebook was linked to the black market, it was an incredible coincidence for her to be part of the same ring of smugglers. Or was it? Under what circumstances had Alejandra seen . . . whatever she had seen? He felt a certain disappointment. He had admired the teacher for her composure. He did not really want to believe that she was a criminal. And yet . . . “Alejandra’s notebook was not found by Corporal López’s body,” he said, narrowly observing her.
She looked grieved, but not guilty. “Oh, dear. Had Tía Viviana already found it, then?”
The sergeant stifled a gasp. Nerve was one thing. This casual naming of a murderous criminal was another. He considered the possibility that Señorita Fernández was telling the truth. “Tía Viviana?” he asked.
She smiled, but her voice was sad as she replied. “That is what Aleja calls her. I never knew her full name, or even if she was a blood relation or simply an aunt by marriage, or something like that. That’s really why Aleja was so upset about losing her notebook, of course. Viviana promised she would get it back for her.”
“What?” Tejada said, feeling slightly dizzy.
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