Murder Begets Murder

by Roderic Jeffries

  He unlocked the front door and stepped into the hall.

  Mother of God, what a stink! Was this how the English left a beautiful house which they’d rented? It would take days to get rid of the smell and this was when the high season was almost on them and a Frenchman or a German might be persuaded to pay as much as eighty thousand a month.

  He went into the sitting-room. The dining-table, down by the window, still had on it the remains of a meal. Couldn’t even be bothered to clear up! Still, he’d demanded a deposit of five thousand pesetas against breakages and one could put up with a lot of stink and disorder for five thousand.

  He pushed open the swing door of the kitchen and almost recoiled, because here the smell was nearly overpowering. When he looked to his left, past the antique dresser, he saw what was causing the smell.

  CHAPTER VI

  Alvarez, sitting behind his desk, stared at the shaft of sunshine coming through the window in which was a multitude of dancing flecks of dust. It was tiring to watch such ceaseless activity.

  The internal phone buzzed. He ignored it and continued to stare at the dancing dust. Eventually, each single speck would end up on the floor, lifeless. Most of what a man did during his lifetime ended up forgotten. So relax . . . Eyelids closed and his mind slipped into a delightful peace The internal phone buzzed again, jerking him wide awake. Resentfully, he lifted the receiver.

  ‘It’s taken you long enough to answer.’

  The captain of the post had never learned to relax, undoubtedly because he came from Madrid. ‘I was tied up with some work, señor.’

  ‘There’s a report in of an Englishwoman who’s been found dead in a finca. The address is Ca’n Ibore. That’s in La Huerta. Get out there and find out if it’s a matter for investigation.’

  He replaced the receiver, then slowly stood up, yawned, and looked down at his stomach which was straining his trousers. He kept telling Dolores he shouldn’t eat so much, but like all good cooks she became annoyed if he seemed not to appreciate her food. Also, when a man grew older there were few pleasures left to him and so these became doubly precious.

  He left the room and went downstairs. His car was two roads from the post and by the time he reached it he was sweating and a bit short of breath. Perhaps he should take up some form of exercise? Tomorrow, he assured himself.

  He loved Ca’n Ibore from the moment he turned the corner by the pigsty and saw it above the orange trees. It was the kind of house he would buy if ever fate made a mistake and showered him with favours. Built with rocks gleaned from the fields, it was as much a part of the land as the trees which grew around it.

  He parked by the side of the lean-to garage and as he climbed out of the car Sanchez came hurrying up the stone steps which led down to the terrace below the patio.

  His face was strained and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. ‘She’s in the kitchen. She . . .She . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘God Almighty, am I sure! I’ve never seen anything so terrible.’

  ‘Have you called for a doctor?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything but tell the Guardia. Why’s it happened to me? Why did she—’

  ‘How long d’you reckon she’s been dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I know?’

  ‘You must have some idea,’ said Alvarez, trying to make Sanchez calm down.

  Sanchez looked resentfully at him, but when he next spoke he was more coherent. ‘The señor rented the house for six months. Then he died and the señorita said she wasn’t going to stay, but she wouldn’t give me the keys, she gave them to the solicitor and said I wasn’t to have ‘em until the six months were up and the lease was over.

  He gave them to me today. When I went inside, I found her.’

  ‘How long ago did the señorita hand over the keys to the solicitor?’

  ‘Roughly a month.’

  Alvarez fingered his thick, square chin for a moment, then said: ‘If she gave the keys to the solicitor, how come she was inside with the door locked?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I ? Why keep asking me?’

  ‘Was there a spare front door key?’

  ‘I didn’t give ‘em one.’

  ”hat about the back door?’

  ‘Locked and shuttered. And all the windows are shuttered.’

  ‘You’ve checked on ‘em all, then?’

  ‘It’s my house. It was empty. Why shouldn’t I check?’

  ‘All right, I’m only asking. Let’s go on inside.’

  ‘Not me. As God is my witness, I can’t go back in there . . . She’s in the kitchen, beyond the sitting-room. She’s on the floor and . . .’ He gulped.

  Alvarez looked at him, shrugged his broad shoulders, then opened the door. The smell was quite appalling.

  Once inside he turned and looked at the door and he saw what Sanchez had missed — a key with a length of string threaded through the small hole in its end, carefully hung where no one could smash one of the panes of glass and reach it. That explained the door, then: they’d wisely had a spare key made and it had been kept there.

  At the far side of the hall were stairs, which turned a half circle, and under them an archway into the sitting-room. He went through. To his left now was a swinging door and he pushed this open to enter the kitchen. She lay on the floor between a table and the antique dresser, arms outstretched, right leg curled up under her.

  When he returned to the patio he stood in the sun and drew great draughts of sweet, fresh air down into his lungs.

  Sanchez came up to where he stood. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘You are going into the village to the Guardia post and you’ll ask someone to telephone Palma and call the police doctor to come out here as quickly as he can make it.’

  Sanchez turned and hurried across the patio to his car.

  Alvarez lit a cigarette. He looked up at the grape vine which covered most of the patio, then out at the orange grove, the almond trees beyond, at Puig Antonia on the top of which, as near to Heaven as the builders could get, was the hermitage, at the mountains which ringed Llueso, and at the bay, part of which was just visible as a thin streak of blue seen through a gap in the trees. So much beauty, but behind him so much ugly corruption. Always there seemed to be two faces to life.

  Ever since he had arrived the name of the house had been worrying him because it had seemed as if he should recognize it. Now, as he turned away from the beauty of the view, he remembered why Ca’n Ibore was familiar. Francisca had been talking about it at the wedding of Damian and Teresa. Then it was the señorita who had loved a man even while the señor who loved her was dying in his bed upstairs who now lay dead in the kitchen.

  Back in the house, he examined the two bedrooms and bathroom to the right of the hall. None of the beds was made up. In the bathroom there was soap by the bath and handbasin, a single towel on the rack by the basin, and a face flannel on the rack between bidet and bath. In the bathroom cupboard three of the four shelves were empty, on the fourth were a tin of powder, a bottle of aspirins, a deodorant applicator, an electric toothbrush, and toothpaste.

  He climbed the semi-circular staircase which brought him to a large solar, empty except for two wooden chests, both badly worm-eaten. One chest was filled with bed linen, all carefully folded, the other was empty. Beyond were two bedrooms, separated by an impractically small bathroom. The back bedroom had an unmade-up double bed and a small built-in cupboard which was empty. The front bedroom had a single bed, made up, under the pillow of which was a flowery nightdress, a bedside table on which was an alarm clock, a paperback, and an adjustable light. There were only a few clothes in the cupboard, but on the floor was a packed suitcase and another half-packed.

  He returned downstairs to the sitting-room. Beyond the main part of this was a well, used as the dining area. The table had been set for one person and on it now was a plate filled with empty mussel shells and a quarter of lemon, another large pl
ate with dried-up remains on it, a side plate, a loaf which was rock hard, a plastic container which had once contained butter, a slab of cheese which had grown mould and then dried right out, an earthen­ ware bowl in which was a slime which had been lettuce leaves in oil and vinegar dressing, and a half-full bottle of wine with a thick crust. He opened the window, then the shutters, and sharp sunshine streamed through.

  He went into the kitchen and hurriedly opened the window and the shutters. In the door of the main body of the refrigerator was only one bottle of milk, half-full; the door of the frozen compartment was blocked by ice. He looked in the larder. Everything was stacked up, ready to be left. He checked the drawers on each side of the sink and these were either empty or they contained cutlery or drying-up cloths. In the right-hand side of the double sink was a saucepan in which the mussels had been cooked. He pulled open the two doors beneath the sink. Inside the space were bottles of washing-up liquid, bleach, and Ajax, and two buckets, one of which contained a small amount of wastepaper and the other a number of empty mussel shells and a quarter of lemon.

  He returned to the patio, sat down on one of the metal chairs, smoked, and luxuriated in the fresh air and the sunshine, dappled by the vine leaves. There was the distant, muted sound, almost a whisper, of the hour being struck by one of the three church clocks, then seconds after the last stroke he heard the crackling, crushing noise of a car approaching along the dirt track. A red Renault 4 turned the corner by the building which was part pig-pen.

  Sanchez parked and came over to where Alvarez sat and it was immediately obvious that, with the help of a few brandies, he had regained some of his normal cockiness.

  ‘I’ve done that for you, then. What I want to know now is what happens next?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘I can’t afford to wait for long and that’s a fact. I need the house clear. This is prime letting time, you know, but it won’t be any use me showing anyone over the house until the body’s away and the stink’s gone.’

  Alvarez looked at him with scorn, but Sanchez was quite unconcerned: there might have been a sad and tragic death, but one could not afford to be sentimental where money was concerned.

  CHAPTER VII

  Francisca Gonzalez lived on the west side of Llueso, in a small house on what had been the main Palma road before the new by-pass had been built. Alvarez stepped into the first room, which was the formal sitting-room as well as, from necessity, the hall, and he called her name. She came hurrying into the room, her lined face creased with a welcoming smile.

  ‘Enrique! What brings you here at this time of day? Are you thirsty?’

  ‘I’ll not say no to a coñac, the bigger the better.’

  She looked curiously at him, realizing with some disappointment that this was not just a casual social visit.

  ‘Come on through and pour out however much you want.’

  The second room, the same size as the first, was used as a dining-room and the family sitting-room. She pointed to an elaborately panelled sideboard. ‘The bottles are in the left-hand side and the glasses are in the right.’

  As she sat, he poured himself out a very generous brandy.

  ‘D’you remember Teresa’s wedding?’ he asked. He drank eagerly: when a man felt the warmth spread through his stomach he knew for certain that he was still alive.

  ‘Of course I remember it. Matter of fact, I saw her and Damian only yesterday and they asked me up to their flat.

  It’s wonderful to see how happy marriage makes people.’ He crossed to a chair and sat. He was not unaware of the fact that both she and Dolores thought that a marriage between himself and her would be a very sensible arrangement. But as much as he liked and respected her, he liked his freedom more: when a man had had his freedom for a long time, it was difficult to think of giving it up in any but exceptional circumstances. ‘During the meal you told us about Señor Heron, who was very ill, and Señorita Stevenage who lived with him.’

  ‘The poor señor,’ she said. ‘He’d suffered so much before he died.’

  ‘Matter of fact, I’m just back from Ca’n Ibore. The lease was up today and so the landlord, Jose Sanchez, was able to go inside. He found that something very awful had happened. The señorita had died in the kitchen.’

  ‘Mother of God!’ she exclaimed with horror. Then she looked disbelievingly at him. ‘How could she be dead when she was so alive the last time I saw her? How can she have died and no one know about it?’

  ‘I’m here to try and find out. Can you spare the next half-hour?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Enrique. I haven’t been able to find work in the mornings since I left Ca’n Ibore: the foreigners say they haven’t the money they used to and when I ask for another ten pesetas an hour they tell me they can’t afford that much. But all the time the prices go up and up.’ She spoke with fatalistic acceptance.

  ‘Tell me now, then, how you first went there and what happened.’

  Carmen had come to her in December and said that there were some foreigners in Ca’n Ibore who wanted a maid in the mornings. So she had bicycled up to the finca to see them. The poor señor was ill, but no one could mistake him for anything but a gentleman, so kind and pleasant, so distinguished in his smart clothes, well-trimmed beard, and greying hair even if he wasn’t very old. And to think she hardly ever saw him again except in his bed of pain! But the señorita . . . How did an unmarried woman so degrade herself as to live with a man? Not so long ago she would have been called a whore . . .

  ‘You told us you thought she was having some sort of an affair with another man, didn’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I did! The poor señor, dying upstairs, and her downstairs telling another man how much she loved him! I have to say it after all, Enrique: she was a wicked, wicked woman. Look at the way she always tried to make out she cared so much for the señor. I’d offer to take him something to eat, she’d insist on carrying it up because he wanted to see her and he needed her. But there were no tears in her eyes when she spoke about him: her soul was not being squeezed. Yet when her little dog died — then there were tears! She cried as if her heart were broken. So I tell you, she loved her dog more than the señor. Imagine!’

  ‘The English are funny over their animals.’

  ‘The señor loved her. But she . . . she was glad when he died.’

  ‘After a long illness it can be a release for anyone.’

  ‘Maybe. But why didn’t she really do something for him? Make him see a specialist in Palma, make him enter a clinic, where they could perhaps have helped him? If it had been my man I’d have done everything possible for him.’

  ‘The doctor surely tried to get him to see a specialist or enter a clinic?’

  ‘Doctor Roldán? He worries about nothing except that his enormous bills are paid so that he can buy that French wife of his another frock.’

  ‘Tell me again what happened that evening you collected the pills from the chemist and decided to take them to the house right away instead of waiting until the morning.’

  ‘She said not to bother until the morning. How could anyone not bother when the señor was so very ill? You’ll understand, Enrique, that when I left the dirt track and was on the concrete I made no sound. So they could not have heard me, but when I drew level with the window I could hear her all right.’

  ‘Can you remember exactly what was said?’

  ‘Not every single word, but some of them I shan’t forget in a hurry. She wasn’t shouting, but her voice was very strong when she said: “I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.” Then she told him she wasn’t going to sit back and let him mess around with other women. He said something which I couldn’t understand because he was speak­ing in such a low voice, then she told him that she knew he was trying to mess around with other women and if he didn’t stop it, she’d make trouble for him.’

  ‘Did you get any idea of who the man was?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘He was speaking so quietly. It cou
ld have been any foreigner.’

  ‘So what happened when you let them know you were around?’

  ‘When she came out of the bedroom she began to shout, wanting to know what I was doing spying round the house at that time of the evening . . . I said, very quietly, “Señorita, I have brought the señor’s pills because he may need them during the night.” She just grabbed them from me. “Señorita, there were sixty-seven pesetas more to pay than you gave me.” “You’ll get the money tomorrow — now clear off.” ’

  ‘Charming! What was she like the next day?’

  ‘There was quite a change, I can tell you. “Thank you so much for bringing up those pills. I was ever so grateful. I’m sorry I made such a fuss, but I was so worried.” Then she looked at me out of the corners of her cat’s eyes and said: “A friend of mine came up last night and gave me some rather bad news. That’s why I was so very upset.” A friend! As if I didn’t know what kind of a friend she was talking about. And another thing, I reckon she was trying to find out, without actually asking, how much I’d heard. I wouldn’t let on. of course.’

  ‘What happened after the señor died?’

  ‘She said she wasn’t staying in a country where everyone swindled her — how many times have I done things for her, yet never charged? — and that as soon as possible she was leaving. Just before she left . . .’ Francisca stared worriedly at Alvarez. ‘I mean, just before she was supposed to leave, she paid me an extra week’s money and that was the last I saw of her.’