“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence for a few more minutes. Then Vargas began to whistle under his breath. Tejada turned to inspect him. The maquis’ face, hard to read under any circumstances, was made completely incomprehensible by bruises. After a moment, Tejada recognized the “Toreador Song” from Carmen. Arrogant bastard! the lieutenant thought, remembering his last conversation with Vargas. “She’s recovering well,” he said, still looking at the maquis. “And she’s in no danger.”
Márquez snorted. Vargas said nothing, but he stopped whistling. They reached the coast without speaking further. Dolores broke the tense silence again as they approached San Vicente de la Barquera. “I expect Concha and the babies are here already,” she said wistfully.
The window to the driver’s cab was open, and Guardia Ortíz heard her. He spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “Yes, I overheard someone in Fermín’s yesterday saying they were fine.”
“How long do you think they’ll have to stay there?” Dolores asked.
“I think they can go home whenever they like, right, Lieutenant?”
Dolores flushed. “No. I meant how long do you think . . . I’ll be away for?”
Tejada shrugged. “You’ll be all right unless the tribunal finds you involved in anything besides that night in Argüébanes. You shouldn’t get more than a few months as long as Guardia Riera recovers all right.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Dolores asked, white-faced.
“Don’t worry. He should be fine. But even if the wound gets infected—” The lieutenant looked at Vargas. “Any act of banditry that results in someone’s death is automatically a capital offense. But I assume you’ll have a witness to testify that you weren’t using any weapons, Señorita Severino?”
The maquis nodded, and Dolores turned her head toward him with a little cry. “The lieutenant’s right,” Vargas said. “You shouldn’t worry. I’m sure Riera will be fine.”
The girl nodded and hunched her shoulders, withdrawing into some private nightmare. Vargas closed his eyes and either slept or pretended to sleep. No one said anything else until they rolled into Santander. Tejada deposited Vargas and Dolores at the Tabacalera, and left the pair of new guardias to deal with the formalities of registering them with the prison authorities. “I’ll make sure your sister knows where you are and what happens to you,” he said to Dolores as he climbed back into the truck. She thanked him, barely audibly.
Ortíz and Tejada drove with Sergeant Márquez to the provincial headquarters of the Guardia in Santander. The presence of a guardia in handcuffs created a mild sensation and they were shown into Colonel Súarez’s office rather quickly. The colonel greeted them looking unhappy. “You have formal charges?” he asked when Tejada had introduced Ortíz and explained their errand.
Tejada held out the folder with Battista’s statement and his own account of Márquez’s actions. Súarez opened it and scanned the first page quickly. Then he closed the folder, walked to the door, and opened it. “Guardia,” he said, beckoning to his secretary.
“Colonel?”
“See that this gentleman is escorted to a private cell,” Súarez said, indicating Márquez. “And then pull the file on”—he glanced down at the folder in his hand again—“Alfonso Márquez Delgado. Guardia Ortíz will help you.”
“Yes, Colonel.” The secretary saluted.
When the door had closed behind the prisoner and his guards, Colonel Súarez sat down behind his desk. “All right, Tejada,” he said quietly. “This is a nice report. You’ve got a witness, and even a good lawyer couldn’t poke a hole in it. Now tell me why it happened.”
“I have no proof about Sergeant Márquez’s motives, Colonel,” Tejada said.
“Speculate, Lieutenant. And make this good.”
Tejada hesitated. Súarez had not been overly friendly so far, and Tejada feared his suspicions about the sergeant were so farfetched that they would give credence to Márquez’s claim that he was deranged. “Sergeant Márquez is several years my senior, sir,” he said slowly, sticking to the facts and trying to decide how much he should tell the colonel. “And he was the interim commander. He’s . . . never been easy to work with. It’s occurred to me several times that he might resent the authority of someone younger.”
He was saved from continuing by a knock at the door. A moment later the colonel’s secretary entered, holding a folder. “This is the Márquez file, Colonel,” he said.
“Thank you.” Súarez took the file and opened it. When the door had closed, he said, “You were saying Márquez was resentful of the authority of a younger man?”
“Yes, sir.”
Súarez read silently for a moment. “That’s possible,” he said. “But Lieutenant Calero was the same age as Márquez. And it seems that he had difficulties with the good sergeant, too. Why do you think that might be?”
Tejada thought of his last conversation with his wife. Am I naive? he wondered. Oh, shit. “What sort of difficulties did Calero report?” he asked, tense.
“Doesn’t say. Just that the fifth of October Calero requested that Márquez be transferred due to incompatibility.”
Calero died October eighth, Tejada thought. Suppose Márquez had confronted him first. Threatened him? “You did nothing about this report?” Tejada asked.
The colonel raised his eyebrows at Tejada’s tone. “It was filed posthumously,” he pointed out. “And Márquez was the most senior officer at the post. What should we have done?”
Tejada took a deep breath. “I’d like to look at an inactive file, sir,” he said quietly. “For one Benigno Román Márquez. Teacher. Executed in ’38.”
“Román Márquez?” Suárez was surprised. “The sergeant was a relative?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Tejada admitted. “But I have a theory. If I could just check the files I could confirm it.”
The colonel frowned. Then he picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. “Check the archives for 1938 for any proceedings relating to Benigno Román Márquez. If you lay your hands on a file I want to see it. Right away.” He hung up the phone. “All right, Lieutenant. Even if they are related, so what? Probably half my force have family members who are Reds. That doesn’t make them all guilty of insubordination.”
“No, Colonel.” Tejada’s agreement was heartfelt. “But Román had a sister and there are rumors in the valley that Calero was,” he hesitated, “pestering her. If Márquez found out that Calero was responsible for the death of one of his cousins, for example, and was bothering another, he might have confronted Calero. And if the confrontation turned violent—”
“You think he killed Lieutenant Calero and then blamed bandits?” Suárez demanded.
“I don’t have any proof,” Tejada said honestly. “But if he did, it would explain a good deal about the thefts from Devastated Regions, and about his current insubordination.” Slowly, Tejada sketched his suspicions of how Anselmo had discovered Márquez’s involvement in Calero’s death, and had blackmailed him into helping the maquis steal materials from Devastated Regions to trade for arms. He explained how Anselmo Montalbán’s death had been convenient for the sergeant and why he thought Márquez had suggested holding Elena hostage. “That was why he was so desperate to have us do a house-to-house right away,” he finished. “He wanted the maquis to see that he’d done his best, but that the Guardia couldn’t be bargained with. He didn’t want them to get the arms. He’s not a traitor, sir.”
“According to you, he’s a murderer, a thief, and a kidnapper,” Súarez pointed out. “And also an idiot, for letting the maquis get a handle on him for blackmail.”
“Well, yes, Colonel. But not a Red.” Tejada was scrupulously fair.
There was a tap at the door. It opened in response to the colonel’s command and the secretary deposited two files on the desk. “Here they are, sir. There’s the regular file and one devoted to trial proceedings.”
“Thanks, dismissed.
” Suárez picked up one file as the door closed again and gestured to Tejada to look at the other.
The lieutenant opened it and found himself looking at the proceedings against Benigno Román Márquez, accused of subversion and treason. With a sinking heart, he saw that the primary witness against the teacher had been Lieutenant Juan Calero of the Guardia Civil.
“Oh, dear,” the colonel sighed. Tejada looked up and saw that Suárez had both the Márquez and Román folders open and was comparing them. “Looks like you were right, Lieutenant. Benigno Román was the only son of Desiderio Román and Graciela Márquez Delgado, both deceased. He was born in Teruel. And our Sergeant Márquez Delgado was born just south of Teruel, and his eldest sister is listed as Graciela.”
“Nephew and niece,” Tejada said quietly. “Do you suppose they knew him, growing up?”
The colonel shook his head. “No. Graciela was ten years older than her brother, and she moved to Zaragoza with her husband when Benigno was only four. Márquez joined the Guardia five years later, and he never served in the same area as the Románs until ’38, when he was transferred to Potes.”
“And he arrived to discover his nephew had been shot for treason,” Tejada said.
“It still doesn’t prove anything,” Suárez pointed out.
“Probably only Márquez himself could confirm everything,” Tejada argued.
The colonel nodded. “And possibly Laura Román. Do we know what’s happened to her, by the way?”
Tejada shook his head. “She’s not in the valley, and no one talks about her. Which may mean she’s with the maquis. Or dead. Or just that she entered a brothel after she left.”
“Hard to believe Sergeant Márquez would commit murder for her and her brother and then let her support herself like that,” the colonel commented.
“She might not have known he was involved. Or she might not have wanted to be indebted to him,” Tejada said thoughtfully. “She can’t have very kind feelings toward the Guardia.”
“I suppose not.” The colonel made an annoyed noise. “You do know how this is going to look if it goes to trial, Tejada? One officer who abused his position to get some girl into bed, and another who murdered his commander and then helped smuggle arms to the Reds.” He lowered his voice. “There’ve been rumors that the Generalissimo wants to disband the Guardia altogether and fold us into the Policía Armada. Have one national police force, under his own command. Do you have any idea what kind of ammunition a scandal like this could provide?”
“With all due respect, Colonel, I didn’t condone any of these activities,” Tejada reminded his commander.
Súarez considered. “Do you think anyone else at the post is involved with the maquis, besides Márquez?”
Tejada blinked, horrified by the idea that he might have overlooked another conspirator. “I don’t think so,” he said, after thinking for a moment. “Ortíz is local, of course, so he probably knows some of them from before the war. And Torres would play checkers with the Devil himself if the Devil entered a tournament. But I don’t think they’re either of them a security risk.”
“What about this Battista? Your report says that he disarmed you?”
Tejada shook his head. “I honestly think he was just caught off guard by Sergeant Márquez, and tried to use his best judgment to obey orders.”
Súarez steepled his fingers. “Well, that’s a relief to hear, Lieutenant, but it brings us to another interesting question: Would you have given the maquis the arms in exchange for your wife’s safety?”
Tejada stared straight ahead. “That would have been a gross violation of the Guardia’s guidelines for dealing with hostage situations, sir.”
“I’m glad you’re aware of that,” Súarez said dryly. He closed both folders. “If you can find any proof about the murder or about smuggling, pass it along, Tejada. But in the meantime, I think we’ll proceed with a very quiet court-martial for gross insubordination. Your testimony and Corporal Battista’s should be enough to insure a lengthy prison term.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Tejada said with relief.
“We’ll have to proceed against Battista, too, but we can make it a slap on the wrist, if you like.”
Tejada thought a moment. “Demotion?” he suggested. “Ortíz is well known in the mountains, and pretty well liked. I think he’d be a good interim corporal.”
Súarez nodded. “Demotion and transfer, I think. And that’s a good idea about Ortíz.” He sighed. “I don’t know what it is about the Potes station. First Calero, now you and Márquez. Everyone who gets sent up there somehow manages to get into trouble.”
“I think it’s who we’re working with, sir,” Tejada said.
“Maybe,” the colonel admitted. “If you’re right about the way the maquis are getting arms we can cross off the foreign angle, and I can get Madrid off my back.” He stood up. “Thanks for the report, Tejada. If it turns out you’re right about this it will look good in your file.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Súarez saluted. “Have a good trip back, Lieutenant. Arriba España.”
Tejada collected Ortíz, and the two guardias headed back to Potes. The sky was orange and pink by the time they reached the town. “Make a report to Battista,” Tejada ordered, as they climbed out of the truck. “I’m going to ride up to see how my wife’s doing.”
“Yes, sir.” Ortíz coughed. “It will be dark by the time you come back, sir.”
Tejada snorted. “I can ride in the dark, Guardia.”
“I know, sir. Only,” the guardia hesitated. “if you wait a bit I could go with you. I know it’s not a guarantee, the way the maquis have been behaving lately, but it’s something.”
“Thanks, Ortíz.” Tejada smiled, touched. “But the corporal should have that report as soon as possible, and I don’t want to wait. I’ll be careful, though.”
The guardia’s concern turned out to be unfounded. Tejada rode up to Antonio’s pasture without incident, and found his wife in the process of changing a dirty diaper. “Milagros showed me how,” she explained, in response to his question. “But they need to be washed, and we’re running awfully low. Do you think we could find someone who would do the washing for a few weeks?”
“I’ll talk to the women who do the Guardia’s laundry,” Tejada promised. He told her about his trip to Santander, and dutifully conveyed Dolores’s message. He considered telling her that Vargas had also expressed concern for her well-being, but decided against it. Then he told her about his meeting with the colonel, and about Márquez’s imprisonment. She was interested, and genuinely pleased on his behalf, but she did not grow really animated until she was able to explain how many times Toño had been up in the night, and how well he had eaten that morning, and about his brief fussiness later in the afternoon before he settled down to nap. After a few minutes holding his son, Tejada decided that her day really had been more interesting than his own.
Elena was impatient to be home, and Tejada was feeling increasingly guilty about imposing on Antonio, so they decided that the lieutenant would borrow a cart the following day and take it up to the hut to bring Elena and the baby back to the fonda. Tejada reluctantly said good-bye to his family and went back to Potes, happy in the knowledge that the following day he would not have to leave them halfway up Monte Viorna. He returned his horse to its stable at the post without meeting anyone, but when he reached the fonda Ortíz was waiting for him at the bar. “I’m glad you’re back, sir,” the guardia said in a low voice. “Go on up to Bárbara’s apartment. She wants to talk to you.”
Tejada raised his eyebrows, but he made no comment. He climbed the stairs at the back of the restaurant, and then paused on the landing, uncertain whether to knock or to wait for some signal from within. He was still hesitating when Ortíz joined him. “Bárbara.” The guardia knocked confidently. “It’s us. I’ve brought the lieutenant.”
The door opened, and Bárbara Nuñez de Montalbán gestured them silently into her living room. Tejad
a stood, waiting to be offered a seat. Ortíz settled himself comfortably on the couch. The widow returned to her rocking chair and did not speak. “You had something you wanted to tell us?” Ortíz prompted.
The woman looked up at Tejada. “I’ve heard Sergeant Márquez was arrested yesterday.”
Tejada nodded, neutral. “That’s correct.”
“They say he wasn’t following your orders.”
“Yes.”
“And that he was mixed up with kidnapping your lady?”
Ferreira must have talked, Tejada thought. Or else Antonio and Milagros spread the word. Damn. “We have several charges against Sergeant Márquez at the moment,” he said aloud.
Bárbara met his eyes with an expression of concentrated hatred. “Do you want to get him?”
Tejada was unsettled by the intensity of her gaze. He gambled on honesty. “Yes.”
Bárbara Nuñez laughed bitterly. “Well, I can tell you that Márquez was as crooked as a snake. He used to drop in for a drink quite a bit, and didn’t he always have news for Anselmo! My husband learned about every shipment that was coming to Devastated Regions through him. And every now and then Anselmo would slip the sergeant a little something, a gift on the house, he used to call it. Oh, yes, Márquez knew that materials were being stolen from Devastated Regions. He was running the whole show and he got a nice cut in return! And I’ll swear to that in court, if you need me to, Lieutenant.”
Tejada blinked. Such good luck it’s almost divine providence, he thought. And then, cynically, And what’s the catch this time? “Why?” he asked aloud.
Bárbara misunderstood the question. “Because he didn’t have any choice except to smile and shut up about it! Anselmo told me he had something on Márquez that was as much as Márquez’s life was worth.”
“Why are you suddenly willing to swear to this now?” Tejada amplified.
Bárbara’s smile was unsettling to see. “Because Anselmo knew when he took to the hills that Márquez was going to try to kill him. He said he couldn’t make contact with anyone because the sergeant might find out where he was. But it didn’t do any good. Márquez still killed him. And guardias don’t go to prison for murder. But you put them in prison for double-crossing their own, don’t you, Lieutenant? I’ll testify that Márquez was helping us steal from Devastated Regions if it will punish him for killing Anselmo.”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 28