The General's Dog

by James Garcia Woods

  ‘She has not been hurt, and she will not be hurt. Once you’ve uncovered the murderer of the general’s dog, you will both be released.’

  ‘I want a cigarette,’ Paco said.

  ‘Of course,’ the major agreed, first holding out his packet and then striking a match.

  Paco inhaled the smoke and let it snake its way around his lungs. ‘You do realize it’s going to be almost impossible to find out who killed the dog, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t see why. For the policeman who managed to solve the Atocha decapitation case, it should not prove to be too difficult a task.’

  Paco sighed. ‘How many men would you estimate were in the village the night the dog was killed?’

  The major shrugged. ‘There are some soldiers who go back to their camp instead of blowing their pay on drink, but they are in a small minority. So if I had to make a guess, I would say that there were roughly three thousand soldiers in the village that night.’

  ‘And any of them could have been the killer.’

  ‘No,’ Gómez corrected him. ‘Only one man was the killer – and you will find out who that one man is.’

  Paco took another drag of his cigarette. ‘Before I even start my investigation, I shall need to speak to the general,’ he said.

  Gómez shook his head. ‘That is neither necessary nor possible.’

  Paco sighed again. ‘You want me on this case because I am an experienced investigator,’ he said. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Yet at the same time, you’re refusing to let me use the methods of investigation which have worked for me in the past? Do you really think I’d have been able to solve the Atocha case if I’d been denied access to any of the people I needed to talk to?’

  Gómez was silent for several seconds, as if he were weighing up his options in his mind. ‘I will talk to the general myself, and see if I can persuade him to agree to see you,’ he said finally.

  Chapter Six

  Paco had once read in a magazine that aristocrats in other countries lived in splendid isolation, well away from the noise and bustle, and especially away from the hoi polloi. But in this, as in so many other things, Spain was different. When the Marquis of This or Count of That was deciding where to build his palacio, it would never occur to him to site it out in the wilds. Perhaps it would be built to overlook the Plaza Mayor. Perhaps it would be down one of the broader streets, towering over the humble dwellings on either side of it. But whatever the exact location, it would be in the village – where it belonged.

  The palace in the village of San Fernando de la Sierra was no exception to the rule. It stood on the Calle Mayor, half way between the main square and the church. It was a storey higher than the buildings which surrounded it, and at least three times as long. There were crenellations running along the edge of the roof. Its windows were much larger than those of the other houses. And in case anyone should doubt that this was the home of a member of the nobility, a stone coat of arms had been carved above main double doors.

  The two soldiers on guard outside the doors saluted Major Gómez, but glared at Paco’s blue boiler-suit.

  ‘We have an appointment to see the general,’ Gómez said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ one of the sentries said, leaving his post and pushing the heavy oak door open.

  Paco and the major stepped into an internal courtyard, which was so full of heavy expensive chairs, tables, cabinets and bric-a-brac that it resembled an auction room.

  ‘We requisitioned this place from one of the local aristos,’ Major Gómez said dryly. ‘The general finds the palacio itself perfectly acceptable, but he didn’t like the Count’s taste in furniture, so he’s had his own shipped down from Burgos.’

  Paco examined the cabinet closest to him. It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl. ‘The general must be a very rich man,’ he said.

  ‘He is,’ Major Gómez agreed, with just a touch of envy and bitterness in his voice.

  A door to their left opened, and a man stepped into the courtyard. He was tall and well built, with slicked-down black hair, quick brown eyes, a smart military moustache and a wide, sensuous mouth. He was around thirty-five years old, and instantly reminded Paco of all those strong, silent men – those matinée idols – who performed heroic deeds on the cinema screen.

  ‘This is the prisoner Ruiz, my Colonel,’ Gómez said.

  The colonel shot Paco a look of deep loathing. ‘Is it really necessary for us to waste the general’s time with this guttersnipe, Gómez?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the major replied. ‘If we want the criminal brought to justice, then I believe it is.’

  The colonel snorted. ‘Very well,’ he said. He turned on his heel. ‘Follow me, the pair of you.’

  The room into which the colonel led them was dominated by a large oak table covered with maps. Sitting behind the table was a short bald man with a round head. He had to be General Castro, Paco thought. He’d been expecting someone more prepossessing than this almost comical figure. The man who had helped General Franco to put down the Asturian miners’ revolt in such a bloody manner – and had been, if the stories were to be believed, even more ruthless than Franco himself – should have had much more of an air of menace about him.

  There was one other occupant of the room. Lying contentedly on a rug in front of the stone fireplace was a large German shepherd dog.

  ‘Is this dog the . . .’ Paco began.

  ‘Silence!’ the colonel bellowed. ‘You will speak when you are given permission, and at no other time!’

  ‘What were you going to say, Ruiz?’ Major Gómez asked.

  ‘I was wondering if this was the sister of the dog which was killed.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ the general said in a squeaky voice. ‘And you miss your brother, don’t you, my poor little Reina?’

  At the mention of her name, the dog turned her head. Rays of sunshine were streaming in through the window, and Paco noted how they played on the jewels which were encrusted in her collar.

  ‘Was the dog that was killed wearing a collar like this one?’ he asked the general.

  ‘Stand to the left side of the table, one metre from the edge, and when you speak to the general, call him “sir”, you Bolshevik son of a bitch!’ the colonel shouted.

  Paco shrugged, but did as he’d been ordered. ‘Was the dead dog wearing a collar like the one Reina’s wearing, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost identical,’ the general told him.

  ‘Wasn’t it rather unwise to let the dogs loose wearing such valuable trinkets . . . sir?’

  ‘My men have too much respect – and fear – to ever attempt to steal from me,’ the general said.

  ‘Then where’s the collar?’ Paco asked.

  The general rubbed his bald head with his right hand. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘Somewhere in this village there is one foolish man who thinks he can defy me. I want that man found and made an example of. Do you think that you can find him?’

  ‘It’s possible, sir,’ Paco said cautiously. ‘But first I will need to know much more about the circumstances surrounding the killing. Are your dogs normally free to run wherever they choose?’

  ‘Of course not! They are expensive animals. Do you think I want them mixing with mangy strays and picking up all kinds of filthy diseases?’

  ‘So they don’t usually leave the house?’

  ‘When they require exercise, as they do two or three times a day, one of my men takes them out for a walk on the lead.’

  ‘Then how did Principe come to be on the street alone?’

  ‘He escaped. A servant was foolish enough to leave the door open for a few seconds, and Principe made a dash for it. The man in question has already been disciplined.’

  There was a distant rumble, which quickly grew into a louder roar. The window frame rattled as an army truck passed by, soon followed by another, and another.

  ‘It seems that the convoy from Burgos has finally a
rrived,’ the colonel said, unnecessarily.

  Paco watched the seemingly endless stream of lorries, all carrying military equipment, and thought of his comrades with their old rifles and their packed lunches. What an unequal fight this war looked like being.

  ‘Do you have any more questions, Ruiz?’ the general asked, squeaking loudly, to avoid his voice being drowned out by the noise outside.

  ‘Was the dog in the habit of escaping whenever he had the opportunity?’ Paco said.

  ‘Sir!’ the colonel bawled.

  ‘Sir,’ Paco echoed.

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ the general said. ‘He was not used to running wild at all. In fact, he liked being in the house, and was often reluctant to go out on one of his walks.’

  ‘Then what do you think could have made him run away on this occasion, sir?’

  ‘Probably a bitch on heat,’ the general said, with some emotion. ‘If I could find her, I’d have her shot, too.’

  There was a knock on the door, and a sergeant entered the room. He was carrying a newspaper in his hand, but instead of advancing towards the table with it, he stopped on the threshold, rolled it up – and whistled.

  Reina sprang to her feet and, tail held high and ears pointed, padded across the room and sat down at the sergeant’s feet. The soldier held out the newspaper. The dog took it her mouth, walked around the table, and deposited it on her master’s lap. The general himself was beaming with pleasure.

  Castro flattened out the paper and spread it on the desk. ‘She hardly got it wet at all,’ he said with obvious pride.

  ‘You are as skilful in handling dogs as you are in handling men,’ the colonel said ingratiatingly.

  The general slowly read the front-page of the newspaper, his lips moving in time with his eyes. Everyone else in the room waited in an awkward silence for him to finish. At last Castro looked up. ‘It is just as I predicted to you, Valera,’ he said. ‘The Communists and Anarchists are no fighters, and we are rapidly gaining ground everywhere.’

  ‘With wise leadership from our generals and God on our side, we cannot fail,’ Colonel Valera replied, and Paco could almost see him saying the same line in one of those flickery historical dramas, which he sometimes used to watch to kill a wet winter afternoon.

  Paco coughed discreetly. ‘You have still more questions?’ the general snapped.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then ask them.’

  ‘Who found the dead dog?’

  Castro turned to Valera. ‘Colonel?’

  ‘The first people to reach the spot were a group of six private soldiers, who were drinking at the bar nearest to the corner of the Calle Belén when they heard the shots,’ Valera said, speaking directly to his commanding officer in preference to addressing the guttersnipe from Madrid in the blue boiler-suit. ‘Principe was still twitching when they found him. He couldn’t have been dead for more than a few seconds.’

  ‘And was the dog’s collar already missing when they got there, sir?’ Paco asked.

  ‘It was certainly missing by the time the first officer – which happened – to be me, arrived on the scene,’ Valera told Castro.

  ‘That’s not the same thing,’ Paco pointed out.

  ‘Whoever shot my poor little Principe must also have stolen the collar,’ the general said. ‘There can be no other motive for the murder.’

  That wasn’t necessarily true, Paco thought. In fact, after what he’d just seen, he’d have been willing to bet his life on the fact that the two incidents – the shooting and the robbery – had absolutely nothing to do with each other. ‘Did you institute a search for the missing collar, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘As you know, General, the whole village was gone over with a fine-toothed comb,’ Valera said, ‘as was the military camp. All the men’s equipment was checked, every nook and cranny was looked into.’

  ‘And how long after the dog’s death did this extensive search begin?’ Paco asked.

  The general nodded at Major Gómez. ‘About half an hour,’ the head of security supplied.

  ‘Yes, you were very slow to get organized there, Major Gómez,’ Valera said, with an edge of dislike, bordering on hatred, in his voice. ‘By the time you finally started your search, the thief had been given ample opportunity to take the collar well away from the village.’

  So he had, Paco thought. But unless the man was a complete fool, he was very unlikely to have done so.

  The office door banged loudly open, and a woman swept dramatically into the room. And what a woman! She was tall – perhaps twenty-five centimetres taller than the general. She had long black hair which shone as if she oiled it every single day, a wide mouth, haughty cheekbones and flashing green eyes. She was wearing a dress of purest silk which not only matched her eyes, but also revealed much of her firm bosom. She was about twenty-five, Paco decided – and she was an absolute stunner.

  The dog rushed towards her, but a dismissive gesture of her hand soon made it retreat again. The general and the colonel had risen to their feet.

  ‘What are you doing here, my dear?’ the general asked, slightly shakily. ‘I thought that you had decided to remain in Burgos until Madrid fell to our forces.’

  ‘And have you lose another one of my poor pets through your wanton neglect?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘You’ve heard,’ the general said miserably.

  ‘Would I have endured the uncomfortable journey with the convoy if I hadn’t heard?’ the woman asked. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Federico? Was it too much effort to make a simple phone call? How could you even dream of keeping me in the dark for so long?’

  The general shrugged his shoulders. ‘I . . . I know how attached you were to Principe,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be better to tell you of his tragic death face to face.’

  The woman threw back her head scornfully, ‘Better!’ she repeated. ‘Was that what was really in your mind? I don’t believe you for a minute, Federico. I think it’s much more likely you were afraid to admit to me that you’d failed to protect my little puppy dog.’

  ‘Please, my dear . . .’ the general said, indicating the presence in the room of the man in the boiler-suit.

  The woman seemed to notice Paco for the first time. ‘And who is this?’ she demanded, her voice becoming almost a screech.

  ‘His name is Francisco Ruiz, and he’s a . . .’

  ‘He’s what they’re calling “a militiaman” on the other side of the line, which is another way of saying that he’s a godless Communist who burns down our churches and rapes our nuns. Why are you wasting your time talking to a piece of scum like him when you should be finding out who is responsible for murdering my poor little Principe?’

  ‘But that’s precisely why he’s here,’ the general protested. ‘He’s a famous police detective from Madrid. He’s solved a score of important cases in his time. You remember the headless corpse in the Atocha station, my dear? Well, it was Inspector Ruiz who . . .’

  ‘You call this traitor “inspector”?’ the woman demanded angrily. ‘Even dressed as he is, you grant him the courtesy of using the title – no doubt unfairly obtained – which he once had?’

  ‘Perhaps all you say is true – I mean, I’m sure it is,’ the general replied weakly. ‘Nevertheless, Ruiz is an expert and . . .’

  ‘I don’t want him investigating the case,’ his wife said emphatically. ‘I would rather have your valet or my maid investigate it than put my trust in this spawn of Satan.’

  The general looked down at his hands, as if unsure what to do or say next. ‘Have the prisoner taken back to his cell, Major Gómez,’ he mumbled finally. ‘I will decide what to do with him later.’

  ‘Decide later?’ the woman repeated, incredulously. ‘But there is nothing to decide. He should be shot as soon as possible.’

  ‘It will probably come to that in the end,’ the general half-promised.

  ‘You are no sort of man,’ his wife told him. ‘A man – a real man – would already have i
ssued the order.’

  Gómez tapped Paco on the shoulder, and pointed towards the door. As the two men left the room, Colonel Valera moved from behind the table and rapidly followed them out into the courtyard. Once he had closed the office door behind him, Valera said, ‘I’d like a word with the prisoner.’

  ‘With my prisoner, you mean?’ Gómez asked. ‘Certainly, Colonel. Be my guest.’

  Valera shot him a hostile glare. ‘As far as I am aware, he’s no more your prisoner than anyone else’s,’ he said. ‘You didn’t capture him personally, did you, Major?’

  ‘No,’ Gómez admitted. ‘But if it hadn’t been for me he’d have been dead now. Still, as I said a moment ago, if you want to talk to him, be my guest.’

  The hostility in the, Colonel’s eyes intensified ‘I would like to speak to Ruiz alone!’ he said.

  For a second, it seemed as if Gómez would say something else, then he shrugged his shoulders and negotiated his way through the stacks of furniture to the front door. Valera waited until he was out of earshot, then said, ‘You probably consider yourself under Major Gómez’s protection, and maybe you are – though you’d be a fool to believe any promise he makes to you. But whether you are or not isn’t really important, because I am the one who matters in this village – I am the one whom you should be careful not to cross.’

  ‘Are you just trying to scare me, or is there some point to all this?’ Paco asked.

  ‘What you have just witnessed in the office was rather unfortunate,’ the colonel said through clenched teeth. ‘And not at all typical. No doubt you thought the general’s lady was a little offhand with her husband, but that was only because she is upset over the death of her beloved dog. Under normal circumstances, she treats the general with the greatest of respect.’

  I’ll bet she does, Paco thought. A beautiful young woman like her, married to a tubby middle-aged man like him? She must be able to wrap him around her little finger any time she feels like it.