‘You should have presented this fact without puerile comment at the beginning.’
‘I would have done so sooner had you not assumed that because Señora Metcalfe visited Vista Bonita, she must have accommodated Picare during such visits.’
‘You chose to be diverted.’
‘But …’
‘You have questioned the cook to confirm Señora Metcalfe’s evidence?’
‘No, señor, because—’
‘The need to do so has not occurred to you?’
‘If Señor Metcalfe was physically incapable of dragging Picare under the water sufficiently quickly and forcefully—’
‘Was he?’
‘Obviously.’
‘You readily and without question accept the obvious? You will get into a swimming pool and, with help, determine whether with only one arm, a man can be dragged under water with force and speed. Was Señor Metcalfe naturally right-handed? One more fact which needs to be determined.’
‘Were that so, his left arm would, by now, have strengthened very considerably through constant use.’
‘A supposition which must be tested. You and a second man will carry out that test in a swimming pool.’
‘I’m a very poor swimmer …’
‘Your ability does not matter since you will be the victim.’
‘But to do as you suggest could be fatal.’
‘You will be in a pool. The women who were deliberately drowned were in a tin bath smaller than they and their heads were pushed under the water at the same time as their legs were drawn up.’
‘I hope that’s a sufficient difference.’
‘You will order a policia to help you.’
‘He’s not going to be happy if he knows he could kill me.’
‘You will not mention the improbability for fear he fails to use sufficient strength.’
‘If he doesn’t understand what could happen, he’s likely to become too enthusiastic.’
‘You will not be finding out something we already know, that in certain circumstances and conditions, a sudden rush of water up the nose and mouth can prove fatal. You are merely going to find out whether a one-armed man can pull you under the water with sufficient force.’
Another difference Alvarez found difficult to accept.
Alvarez stood alongside Virgilio Veno at the edge of the council swimming pool, built five years before in an unusual decision to repay, in another form, some of the money taken in rates which would have otherwise unaccountably disappeared.
‘Take it very easy,’ Veno said for the fifth time to Alvarez. He had been given the role of victim despite Salas’ directions.
‘I’m only going to use one arm. You can’t be in any danger,’ Alvarez assured him.
‘Ever done anything like this before?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t say what could happen any more than I can. Take things really quietly or I’ll make it clear what I think.’
‘If something goes wrong, you won’t have that chance.’
‘How d’you comfort a dying man? Tell him heaven has closed its doors?’
Veno jumped into the pool, his multi-coloured trunks noticeable in the sunlight which came through the transparent roof. He was a notably good swimmer and two young women, in fairly minimal costumes by the diving boards, watched him with interest. Peacocks were useless, but they attracted attention.
Veno completed his fourth length, stood up in the shallow end. ‘I’m ready, but not willing.’
Alvarez was not an enthusiastic swimmer, being well aware of the dangers water offered. He looked to check a lifeguard was on duty, found none was present.
‘Come on or we’ll be here until the place closes.’
He went down the steps and forward until the water was at shoulder level.
‘Know what I’m going to do if you try to be too enthusiastic?’ Veno asked. ‘Twist off your goulies.’
Alvarez took a deep breath, lowered himself under the water, opened his eyes. Veno’s legs appeared to be more solid than he had judged them when on land. He gripped the left leg above the ankle with one hand, pulled sideways to bring the other tumbling into the water. Veno remained upright.
‘Were you tickling me?’ he asked as Alvarez surfaced. ‘You’d better try again and put more beef into it.’
Using as much force as he could muster in the deadening effect of the water, Alvarez pulled. Veno began to lose balance and immediately kicked out with his leg to free himself.
‘If you want to know if it can be made to work,’ he said, when Alvarez surfaced, ‘you stand and I’ll pull.’
Veno had the build of a man who regularly lifted weights, ran on a moving track, used a dry-land rowing machine. ‘No need to bother.’
‘You’ve learned all you need to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how about a couple of lengths for ten euros, you with a half-length start?’
‘It’s against my pocket to bet.’ Alvarez climbed out of the pool and enjoyed the warm relief which came from safely completing a dangerous task.
‘Señor,’ he said over the phone, ‘I can state that a one-armed man cannot pull another under the surface, let alone with sufficient force to drive water fiercely up the nose.’
‘The basis for your statement?’
‘The result of the tests you asked me to carry out.’
‘Your assistant could not drag you under?’
‘No, señor.’
‘Very well.’
‘So it’s become a case of two down, three to go.’
‘What is that supposed to signify?’
‘I think it isn’t credible to suppose Jacques Poperen would have returned from Antibes by the time of Señor Picare’s death and done so unobserved.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was enjoying life with his mistress.’
‘“Enjoy” is a word few would use, the circumstances being what they are. Have the French police reported whether or not the woman has another illicit partner who suffered what some would mistakenly term “jealousy” and came to the island?’
‘I am still waiting to hear from them; I will phone them again … Señor, having risked my life in the swimming pool to be certain Señor Metcalfe could not have dragged Picare under the water, three suspects remain to be questioned.’
‘Three?’
‘Señoras Crane and Dunkling. There is also Lynette whose surname I have not yet been able to determine.’
‘You choose to forget Señor Russell?’
‘The legacy was to be spent on a party of remembrance. The sum was not inconsiderable, but unlikely to provide the motive for murder unless Russell was destitute. Although staying in a third-rate hotel, this was not the case. For once, it seems money is not the root of evil—’
‘The love of money is the root.’
‘Russell had met Lynette through Picare and decided to have a stab at her.’
‘He had reason to injure her?’
‘It is a Mallorquin expression and not to be taken literally.’
‘Restrict yourself, if you cannot deny yourself, to local expressions which are not meaningless or misleading.’
‘She rejected his advances since he could not offer her the kind of life Picare did. If money was the motive, could Russell for some reason have believed Picare had named Lynette in his will for a considerable sum which provided him with a second reason to murder Picare? A short-lived possibility as Marta’s evidence made clear.’
‘In what way?’
‘Señor, I understand you will not wish me to repeat what I have said previously, but your question makes this inevitable. Marta heard Russell say goodbye to the señor and then the car drive away.’
‘You therefore dismiss him from suspicion? Yet have you not told me that she is so naive she will believe most anything, so emotionally upset her testimony is of doubtful value? Have you questioned him as a suspect, not merely a name?’
‘It
seemed most unlikely he could be a suspect in view of the facts.’
‘You do not understand that, as I have just pointed out, there are reasons to accept they might not be facts. Have you tried to question Debra Crane, Giselle Dunkling or Lynette … What is her surname?’
‘Russell did not give it.’
‘Because he thought that if he did, you might – how do you misphrase it – take a stab at her?’
‘I would not engage in such a relationship in the normal course of events, but as she may possibly be of assistance to us in the case, I would never begin even to consider that.’
‘To deny too forcefully is to confirm.’
Alvarez arrived early, or not as late as usual, at the post. The duty cabo made a point of looking at his watch and expressing surprise.
Alvarez sat behind his desk, used a handkerchief to remove the perspiration from forehead cheeks and neck. The continuing high heat was enervating humans, harming plants and trees, threatening water supplies. A good downpour was much needed.
He stared at the sheet of paper on the desk. In his handwriting were the names of those he had to question. Only two had been crossed off and now one of them, Russell, had to be rewritten. It was the last sack which broke the camel’s back.
Debra Crane lived on the outskirts of Mestara, an ancient town on the flat plain, noted for its weekly market and skill in growing strawberries. The inhabitants’ hostility to those from Llueso, for a reason that had disappeared into the past, was maintained. A Mallorquin welcomed someone or something to dislike since who or which could be blamed for any present annoyance.
The stone-built, adjoined house was in appearance similar to all others in the road with the exception of the shutters which had been painted, not oiled. Alvarez rang the bell. The door was opened by a sixtyish man whose shirt was white, light-brown shorts held a crease, and sandals were newly polished. Such elegance reminded Alvarez he should have changed his shirt that morning. ‘Señor Crane?’ He introduced himself.
‘Deuced glad you speak English or we’d have to resort to hand signals. The only Spanish I know is vino tinto, rosado, and blanco. Don’t need any more to live well.’ He laughed.
The braying of a donkey was Alvarez’s judgment. An Englishman who viewed the islanders with condescension since they did so many things in a different way which marked their inferiority.
‘Come on in, inspector. Rather primitive, I’m afraid, but it’s rented and only a pied-a-terre, if you know what that means.’
‘There’s no ground floor?’
‘But you’re standing …? Having a bit of a laugh? You’ve obviously a sense of humour. Must have some English blood in you, what? But you mustn’t just stand there to say whatever it is you want to say, enter our humble abode.’
They went into a small sitting room, once the entrada. A middle-aged woman on the settee was knitting. She placed needles, wool, and several inches of knitting into a canvas bag.
‘A visiting detective,’ Señor Crane announced, ‘here to find out if we robbed the local Sa Nostra bank.’
She was not the vivacious woman Alvarez had expected – before meeting her husband, that was. ‘I apologise for this interruption, señora, but as I have explained to your husband, I am asking people who knew Señor Picare if they can help me.’
‘He was one snooty sod!’ Crane remarked. ‘Didn’t want to know anyone who never had a five-hundred-euro note in his pocket. They say he may have committed suicide or something. Did us all a good deed, I say.’
‘Please don’t talk like that, Ivor,’ she said sharply.
‘Because he’ll think I didn’t like the man and will go to hell for saying such a thing?’
‘Please sit, inspector,’ she said. ‘And can we offer you a drink?’
‘That would be kind of you.’ She understood what constituted good manners.
‘What would you like?’
‘Coñac with just ice, please.’
‘Ivor, would you like to pour the inspector a brandy, with ice, and me a sherry.’
‘At once, my love.’ He stood. ‘One brandy, one sherry, and for me? A glass of Krug, a measure of Hine’s V.S.O.P.? That’s very special old pale, inspector.’
‘It is kind of you to translate.’
‘One can never know enough. A thirst for knowledge is the elixir of wisdom. The man who said that obviously wasn’t from this island.’
‘Would you get the drinks, Ivor,’ she said.
‘On my skates.’ He left the room.
‘I hope …’
He said nothing.
‘You musn’t think …’
Unwilling from a sense of loyalty to apologise for her husband’s manner? He spoke quickly, hoping to disperse any embarrassment she might suffer. ‘You haven’t lived on the island for very long, señora?’
‘Is that so very obvious?’
‘Only because I understood from your husband that you would remain in this house until you found somewhere you like. Where would you hope that to be?’
‘Anywhere but in a town. There’s … there’s so much noise. Late at night, people in the road shout at each other; mobylettes with the exhausts removed make a hideous racket. I’ve never been a sound sleeper and now I spend much of the night awake despite the earplugs I always wear at night. A friend suggested air-conditioning in order to be able to keep the windows shut but—’
Her husband interrupted her as he hurried into the room. ‘You never got the brandy this morning.’
‘It wasn’t on the shopping list.’
‘Yes it was. I wrote it down.’
Alvarez said, ‘Señor, I should be very happy with a San Miguel.’
‘Couldn’t think of offering that, old man, much too plebian. There’s a place just around the corner, so you won’t be kept from sustenance for long, provided the place isn’t filled with jabbering women careless of anyone else.’ He left.
‘Señora,’ Alvarez said, as the front door was shut, ‘I have to ask you a few questions and the absence of your husband makes that easier, but he may not be away for long which makes it necessary for me to speak more bluntly than I would wish. There is the possibility Señor Picare’s death was not an accident. I need to understand, as far as that is possible, what kind of a man he was, so I am asking those who knew him what they can tell me.’
It was some time before she said, ‘A friend rang up to tell us the rumour that was going around. She said it was probably suicide.’
‘It was not.’
‘If it wasn’t an accident … You’re saying he may have been deliberately killed?’
‘That is what we must determine and why I am talking to señoras who visited his home.’
‘I went there from time to time so you think I may know what really happened?’
‘No, señora. But you may know something which will enable me to discover that. Did you go there on several occasions?’
‘Roughly, once a month.’
‘You were friendly with him?’
She spoke forcefully. ‘If you want the truth, I thought him contemptible. That surprises you?’
‘I must admit to some extent, señora.’
‘Who told you I visited him? One of the staff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who thought, as you seem to, that that means I joined his harem? Let me get one thing straight. When I married, it was for ever, despite all difficulties, however antique that seems today. You think he would have bothered me, a forty-two-year-old with nothing to single me out from other women unless my morals were on a par with his? I went there to try to make him honour his promise to pay a reasonable sum each month towards the upkeep of the small, local sanctuary which cares for injured and stray dogs and cats about which no one else bothers.’
‘The sanctuary is where?’
‘Almost on the Llueso boundary in the direction of Inca. When I first came here, one so frequently saw cats and dogs by the side of the road, injured, dying. The sight so distressed
me, I started the sanctuary and found local people willing to give time to help or money to pay the costs. Neil, when asked, immediately said he’d pay a generous monthly contribution.
‘I hope I’m not being too catty to describe his act as the great man showing the public how generous he was. That didn’t matter, his money was good, until the financial hurricane swept over the country. He stopped paying; I suspect not because he had to, as did so many others. The sanctuary’s finances became critical, so I swallowed my pride, told him we would like to rename it the Picare Refuge and suggested the local English weekly paper would praise his generosity. It took several visits and much verbal boot-licking before he finally agreed to renew payments and for a larger amount. The sanctuary was saved.’
‘Señora, will you accept my admiration?’
She smiled, providing her face with a measure of charm. ‘I’d prefer a contribution.’
‘You will have one. Sadly, I have to ask more questions.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Does your husband object to all the work you do for the refuge?’
‘To some extent. It uses up so much of my time.’
‘There is no other reason?’
‘Are you still wondering, as I’m sure you were, whether the attraction was him, not what he could do for the sanctuary? I can best answer you by saying that had the cost of maintaining the refuge been my sleeping with him, I could not have brought myself to pay it.’
‘Then your husband had no reason to hate Señor Picare.’
‘Had he had, he would never have considered taking a single step to express his hatred. His character …’ She hesitated, then spoke in a rush of words. ‘It’s so weak. It’s not his fault. His mother never wanted children and blamed him for all the changes in her life. His father seldom spoke to him. When I met him, he was so shy and self-conscious that …’
Alvarez waited, then said, ‘You knew you could provide him with a strong refuge from the world.’
‘I suppose you could put it like that. But … but I loved him and still do.’
In Search of Murder--An Inspector Alvarez Mallorcan Mystery Page 9