“Yes,” Tejada said seriously. “I . . . being a guardia has always been important to me, but . . . I was never able to put it quite so well before.”
“Well, that’s why I had to take Dolores’s message,” Elena said, suddenly feeling very tired. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Tejada touched her cheek, more grateful than he could say that she was not offering him logical reasons to leave the Guardia. “I love you, and I would be more protective of your peace if you would let me, but I understand.” He smiled mischievously. “You’re very persuasive. Do you think you could explain all those reasons to my mother the next time she starts harping on my career?”
Elena laughed. “I couldn’t explain a recipe for fish soup to your mother, and well you know it. She wouldn’t sit still long enough to listen to the dangerous Red slut who entrapped her baby.”
“I guess you couldn’t,” the lieutenant admitted. “But I’m sure she never actually said slut.”
“It was implied.”
Tejada laughed and watched Elena settle herself into her armchair with a feeling of infinite satisfaction. Suddenly relaxed, and very sure of the answer, he said, “Elena, who’s Herrera?”
“Herrera?” Elena was puzzled. “The only Herrera I knew was in Madrid.”
“Yes, that one,” Tejada said eagerly. “Was he—were you close to him?”
“I wouldn’t say close,” Elena said, wondering why on earth her husband was interested. “We worked together for five years.”
“He’s a teacher then?”
Elena stared. “Carlos, he was the director of my school. You met him, remember?”
A vivid memory of a fussy little man with square-rimmed glasses and a yellow complexion, terrified of the Guardia and quite willing to sacrifice any of his employees to them to ensure his own safety, came back to Tejada. He had asked to speak to Elena Fernández regarding a murder, and the director had practically begged him to arrest her and spare the rest of the school. Tejada laughed in sheer relief. “The sneaky little coward who fired you? That Herrera?”
Elena pursed her lips. “He wasn’t really a sneaky little coward. And I resigned.”
“Much good it did him.” Tejada wiped away tears of mirth. “That’s the Herrera Márquez was talking about!”
“Márquez?” Elena looked startled, and not at all pleased. “What does Márquez know about him?”
“Your file mentions what you did in Madrid,” Tejada explained rapidly. “Márquez said something about how it would be a problem if Devastated Regions ever transferred Herrera here, given your connection with him, and I thought . . .” he trailed off, embarrassed.
Elena ignored his embarrassment. “Señor Herrera is in prison then? Poor man. I can’t think why.”
“Neither can I,” Tejada said frankly. “He struck me as expert at wriggling out of tight spots.”
His wife’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “What did you think about him and me?” she demanded.
“I . . . ” Tejada flushed. “Márquez only said there was a connection, and I thought maybe . . . well, I knew that you’d lived alone in Madrid and, after all, you’re a beautiful woman and with so many soldiers . . . I didn’t really imagine—”
Elena shook her head, but she was smiling. “You are a jealous pig,” she said affectionately. “Thank God you don’t like Golden Age drama.”
“I didn’t really believe—” Tejada protested.
“Leave it alone,” Elena interrupted, laughing. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?” Tejada smiled, then spoiled his contrition by adding hopefully, “I could sock Márquez in the jaw if you like.”
“No, it’s bad enough for you to have a sergeant with a sprained wrist,” Elena said kindly. “Suppose you come up to Santo Toribio with me one afternoon this week? Father Bernardo invited both of us on a tour, and even if he can’t come, the walk is lovely, and the monastery is really beautiful.”
“I would love to,” Tejada said. “How about Saturday?”
“I’ll be at home,” Elena said with a twinkle. “And I’ll leave the butler orders to admit you.”
Chapter 14
Tejada had assumed that his prisoners would be taken to Santander for further questioning and then trial and sentencing within a day. But by Thursday afternoon, although Guardia Riera had been taken to the hospital at Unquera, where he was recovering, and the other guardias had returned to their posts, no transport and no word regarding the prisoners had arrived. Tejada finished typing his report on the raid on Marcial’s cabin, deposited one copy in the filing cabinet, put the other in the outgoing mail, and then called his commander. There was so much static on the line that he was barely able to make himself understood, and the secretary at the other end was disposed to be officious. Tejada argued politely, and doodled rude words on a piece of scrap paper while he waited to make his request to the commander.
“Sorry, Tejada, but we can’t pick them up this week,” Súarez said when Tejada finally managed to get through to him. “The road’s washed out just past Unquera, and with all this rain we’ve been having there’s no way it will be passable until Tuesday at the earliest. And God knows what it’s like in the gorge.”
“What rain?” the lieutenant asked, bewildered. “It’s been dry as a bone here.”
“Lucky you,” snapped the colonel. “Santander’s a sponge. Two bridges are out, and I just got a call from the commander in Torrelavega saying that the barracks basement there has three inches of water in it.”
“I’ll expect transport Tuesday or Wednesday then,” Tejada said, steering a diplomatic course between sympathy and insistence.
“Look, Tejada, I’ve got ten thousand homeless living in tents here in the rain.” Súarez was not noticeably pacified. “Devastated Regions is telling me that the blueprints for the new city won’t be ready for another six months, and the only thing standing between us and bread riots is a shipment of humanitarian aid from the Germans, which may or may not be repeated. I’ll send someone for the prisoners as soon as I can. In the meantime, you’re the one dealing with the bandits. You keep the prisoners and question them.”
“Yes, sir.” Tejada made a final attempt. “Could you give me a rough estimate of how long we’ll be out of touch, sir? One week? Two weeks?”
“It had better be less than two weeks.” Súarez sighed noisily into the phone. “Otherwise we’ll get into Holy Week, and I’ll lose half my force for Good Friday. Just what I don’t need.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel. But there was one other thing, speaking of personnel.”
“If it’s another request for reinforcements, Tejada, forget it.”
“No, sir,” Tejada said. “It’s about a prisoner in the Tabacalera, one José María Santiago Roldán. Native of Argüébanes.”
“If you want us to look at his mail, we don’t have the manpower,” Súarez refused automatically.
“No, sir. His brother’s information led to the operation in Argüébanes. The brother’s indicated willingness to continue as an informant, but he’s asked for word on Santiago Roldán.”
“I’ll tell someone to check what he’s in for when I get a chance,” the colonel said, slightly mollified. “If it’s another one of these war tribunal sentences for shying a rock at a stained-glass window, we can spring him. I’d rather have the mountains secure. And one less warm body to look after can only help.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tejada said, satisfied. “The only other thing was the consignment of new arms and ammunition that was on its way. I assume it’s been delayed?”
“Unavoidably. Sorry, Tejada. Stay in phone contact if you can, Lieutenant. Arriba España.”
“Arriba España.” Tejada hung up and sighed. The next thing that’s going to happen, he thought is that we’re going to be left like Severino and Campos, holed up with guns but no bullets. I wonder what the Policía Armada’s supplies are like. I should send word to them, too, if the road is w
ashed out. He wrote a quick memo to his counterpart at the Policía Armada, informing him of the possible delay in supplies. Then he sent for Guardia Torres, who had been alternating with Márquez on guard duty. “How are the prisoners?” he asked when the young man arrived in the office.
“Dolores seems to be doing well, sir,” the guardia reported. “She’s stopped crying all the time, anyway. Your wife visited her again today.”
“And the other?”
Torres shook his head. “Not so good. He tore some strips off his shirt to change the bandages on his leg, but I don’t know if that’s going to help him. He’s been running a fever, I think, saying he’s cold even though he’s wrapped up and sweating.”
“You think he’s malingering?” Tejada asked.
The guardia considered the question. “No, sir. He had diarrhea in the night, and that’s hard to fake.”
“Indeed.” Tejada made a face. “Well, it looks like he’s going to be staying with us for a little while. You might want to try to find out his full name, and a bit about him. Be friendly, for the moment. Get him cleaned up, offer him a drink, and see if he lets anything interesting slip.”
“Yes, sir.” Torres hesitated. Then he said, “I still have some aspirin. Maybe I could give him one?”
“Sure.” The lieutenant nodded approvingly. “Tell him you’ve been sick too so you have some fellow feeling for him. And say you wouldn’t turn over a sick dog to the lieutenant. You’re on his side for now, got it?”
“Yes, sir. Should I tell him you’re a tyrant and all of us are terrified of you?”
“Good idea. Or—no, better—” Tejada shuffled through the papers on his desk, searching for a duty roster; Guardia Carvallo was scheduled for guard duty that night, “tell him Carvallo’s a sadistic bastard. The type who saw a lot of action during the war, but wasn’t decorated because of a few things with a funny smell. And then find Carvallo and tell him to report to me before he goes on duty tonight.”
“Got it, Lieutenant.” Torres saluted and left, looking amused.
Tejada watched the guardia depart with contentment. Torres was young, but his instincts were good, and he could be trained. The lieutenant spoke to Battista about the possible delays in supplies due to flooding and had the satisfaction of having the corporal provide an instant and detailed inventory of the post’s current munitions. Battista was a solid officer, Tejada thought. Torres and Carvallo were still relatively inexperienced, but they were conscientious and teachable. And Ortíz, born and raised in the mountains, with fifteen years in the Guardia, was a valuable addition to the post. Sergeant Márquez was not easy to work with, but he was reasonably intelligent, and he had been less hostile since his injury. Remembering Colonel Súarez’s harassed tones and his former captain’s rank incompetence, Tejada congratulated himself on the men under his command.
He spent much of the following days on patrol with Battista, familiarizing himself further with the outlying villages. There were no serious incidents although the lieutenant quickly learned that the maquis were keeping a watchful eye on the Guardia’s activities. Tejada had been initially concerned by his men’s nonchalance about being fired at during routine patrols but he had come to be grateful for their good sense. The maquis aimed high or wide so consistently that he could not attribute it simply to poor marksmanship. They liked to announce their presence, and sometimes test a guardia’s horsemanship over a patch of rough terrain, but unless a man provoked them—by rudeness to local famers or by loudly singing the Fascist anthem, for example—they shot almost playfully. The guardias took cover, returned fire when they could, and continued on their way.
In spite of the lack of crises it had been a busy week, and by Saturday afternoon the entire post was ready for a brief break. Ortíz disappeared to visit his family, Torres went to lunch with a friend who shared his passion for checkers, and Márquez retired to his quarters to fiddle with the nearly new shortwave radio that was his pride and joy and that consumed most of his leisure hours. Tejada left a somewhat sulky Battista and Carvallo on duty, and kept his promise to Elena to escort her to Santo Toribio.
She had arranged to meet Father Bernardo at the parish house. He was leaving as they arrived. “I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized. “I left a note. I’ve been called to a deathbed. I’m afraid I can’t go with you today.”
“It happens when you’re always on call,” Tejada said, sympathetic. “We’d love your company some other time, Father.”
“Thank you. If you’re walking toward the Deva I can go with you. It’s on my way.”
Tejada agreed, and as they fell into step together the priest sighed. “I’m sorry. I was looking forward to showing you the monastery. And I did want to show you the path as well, although I’m sure there will be time soon. Speaking of which, I assume you’ll be taking the Virgin this year, or are you leaving that to your men?”
“I beg your pardon?” Tejada said.
“Our Santuca, the Virgin of the Light,” Father Bernardo explained. “She always visits all the major towns of the valley on her feast day, and then a pair of guardias from Potes escorts her to the monastery on the day of the festival. Lieutenant Calero usually formed part of her guard.”
“If you don’t feel having a stranger would be an imposition, I will gladly,” Tejada said. “When is the festival?”
“May second. We’re assured of good weather by then, even up at the monastery.”
“We seem to be having better weather than at the coast already,” Tejada commented, and mentioned his conversation with Colonel Súarez.
“Not surprising,” the priest said. “It always rains less in Liébana.”
The conversation explored the topic of the weather, and a few minutes later the priest turned off to make his visit. Tejada and Elena continued along the river alone. The silence between them was companionable until Tejada noticed that she was staring down into the white water of the river. “A penny for your thoughts?” he said, although he suspected he knew what she was ruminating about.
“We found Anselmo Montalbán down there.” Elena gestured.
The lieutenant put an arm around her shoulders. “It must have been a nasty shock.”
“It was. The thing is—” Elena stopped abruptly and looked pleadingly at him.
Neither of us wants easy peace of mind, Tejada thought, reading her desire to keep talking and her worry that he would be angry if she did. “The thing is?”
“He was lying facedown under the bushes, Carlos, as if he’d been hidden. Now even supposing he had a weapon and it was taken away when his companions fled, how could he have shot at Márquez and Carvallo from that position?”
“Maybe he didn’t have a weapon at all,” Tejada said, considering. “Maybe one of the others shot first, and Montalbán was just unlucky enough to get hit.”
“In the back?” Elena demanded. The large hole in his chest had been an exit wound.
There was a vicious cracking noise as Tejada absently snapped a dead branch off a pine tree as they passed. “What’s your point?”
“Did you ever check the files on Márquez and Carvallo?”
“No, the raid in Argüébanes came up and I forgot,” Tejada admitted. “Why? Do you think someone had a specific grudge against them? You sound as if you believe it’s the other way around!”
“I didn’t mean that,” Elena protested, a little absently. An idea had surfaced like the vague shape of a whale in the distant sea when her husband had said, “ Argüébanes,” and she was trying to pinpoint it.
“You practically just said you thought Márquez had deliberately shot an unarmed man in the back who was trying to hide from him!” Tejada said, annoyed because although Elena’s scenario made sense, he could see no logic to it, and no way to pursue it even if it was true. Everyone knew that a certain amount of latitude was allowed in reports detailing casualties in “self-defense,” and there was no way that Colonel Súarez would appreciate an investigation into Sergeant Márquez’s a
ctions, unless the motives for investigating were clear and compelling. “Even granted that that was the case, what am I supposed to do? Márquez had standing orders to find Montalbán for questioning; perhaps he shot when he saw him and aimed badly.”
“He had orders to ask him about the Valencians!” Elena interrupted suddenly. The idea had surfaced again, and this time its silhouette was clear. “Remember, I told you Montalbán had been missing since before we came to Potes. Since before the Valencians escaped. And you thought he might have something to do with Calero’s murder.”
“And you provided a motive for him,” Tejada pointed out.
“Yes, but remember, Luis Severino thought he was at home when we arrived in Potes. So he hadn’t made contact with the maquis.” Elena saw her husband’s frown and corrected herself. “With the bandits, I mean. And if he hadn’t met up with them, where would he get the weapon to kill Calero?”
“This is bear country,” Tejada pointed out. “Most people probably have hunting rifles.”
“No, but listen.” Elena frowned, concentrating on presenting her points logically. “Let’s say Anselmo killed Lieutenant Calero. That was when?”
“October eighth,” Tejada supplied promptly.
“So Anselmo was missing for nearly six months before he was shot,” Elena proceeded. “But we know that he didn’t make contact with the–the bandits right away, because we know they were looking for him. They were people whom he knew. And someone like Luis Severino would have been able to find them. So why did Anselmo wait to make contact with them?”
“You have a theory?” Tejada asked, intrigued.
Elena shook her head. “No. It just seems odd. As if Montalbán wanted to disappear completely, so that neither side knew where he was.”
“He must have changed his mind,” Tejada said out.
“And as soon as he did, he ended up dead,” Elena retorted.
The lieutenant sighed. “All right. Who do you think wanted him dead then? Us or them?”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 17