A Necessary Action

by Per Wahlöö

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you leave Spain?’

  ‘At the end of March or the beginning of April.’

  ‘And when did you return?’

  ‘At the end of May.’

  ‘Quite right. You left on the second of April and came back on the fifteenth of May. What did you do during that time?’

  ‘Worked on board a boat.’

  ‘What boat?’

  ‘A pleasure yacht.’

  ‘Who owned this boat?’

  ‘An Englishman.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Thorpe.’

  ‘Quite right. Colonel Thorpe. When did you meet this Colonel Thorpe for the first time?’

  ‘Just before.’

  ‘Just before what?’

  ‘Just before we sailed.’

  ‘Can you remember which day you met him?’

  ‘The twenty-ninth or thirtieth of March.’

  ‘Did he come to you or ask you to work for him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it was you who went to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To look for work on his yacht?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew he was sailing to Corsica?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not a seaman, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you try for this work?’

  Willi Mohr had anticipated this question and had an answer ready. After a short pause, he said:

  ‘I had already lived here for seven months. I wanted to leave the country.’

  ‘But you didn’t know where Colonel Thorpe was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In other words you were willing to go with him anywhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’d never met Colonel Thorpe before, how did you know he was looking for people?’

  ‘I happened to hear it.’

  ‘Where did you happen to hear it?’

  ‘In a bar.’

  ‘Someone told you, then?’

  ‘Yes, in a way.’

  ‘Who was this someone?’

  ‘Someone I didn’t know. I just happened to hear it.’

  ‘And then you went to Colonel Thorpe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he employ you just like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My papers weren’t in order.’

  ‘No, they weren’t in order. You had no exit-visa.’

  ‘No, but it was all right.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The Englishman arranged it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The next day.’

  ‘And the following day you sailed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any money with you when you left?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘Practically none.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About a hundred pesetas, perhaps.’

  ‘Were you the only crew aboard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there was one other person employed on the boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Ramon Alemany.’

  ‘Quite right. It was Ramon Alemany. Do you know where this Ramon Alemany is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he in Spain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he the one who asked you to go on the trip?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it was his brother, Santiago Alemany, who persuaded you to look for work with Colonel Thorpe?’

  Willi Mohr was very surprised by the question. Without thinking, he said: ‘Of course not.’

  Sergeant Tornilla sat in silence for a few minutes. His eyes had remained on the man opposite him since the series of questions had begun and his expression was serious.

  Willi Mohr looked down at the floor, trying to avoid those immobile eyes so that he could collect his thoughts. Under the desk he saw Sergeant Tornilla’s legs. There was not a speck of dust on his shiny black boots.

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity. I’d very much like to continue our conversation a little longer. Have you any objections?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity, a great pity,’ said Sergeant Tornilla. ‘Perhaps you’d like something to drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for it in a moment. Well, how far had we got?’

  ‘Then we sailed for Corsica,’ said Willi Mohr.

  Sergeant Tornilla put out his hand and took a file out of the filing-cabinet. He did it with a sleep-walker’s certainty, without turning his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘of course it wasn’t Santiago Alemany who gave you orders to go too.’

  Willi Mohr stared questioningly at him.

  ‘So it was Antonio Millan?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the name.’

  ‘You’re not telling the truth,’ said the man in the armchair sadly. ‘I myself have told you it.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘You’ve a good memory usually.’

  Sergeant Tornilla had opened the file and taken out a couple of pieces of paper clipped together. Without looking at them, he pushed them across the desk and said:

  ‘Read that. It’ll be a good exercise for you and the contents may also interest you.’

  The pages were typed and seemed to be part of a police-report. Willi Mohr picked them up and shook his head to clear it.

  ‘Read it aloud,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  Willi Mohr read:

  ‘Report on interrogation of Colonel Thorpe, held on his yacht Monsoon in Puerto de Soller, Majorca, in the province of Baleares, on 10th September. Colonel Thorpe himself gave the information that he was born in 1893 in England and had retired nine years ago. During the last four years he had stayed for longer and shorter periods in Spanish Mediterranean ports. He is in the process of writing his memoirs. When asked about his relations with the German citizen, Wilhem Mohr, he said as follows: On the evening of the same day I had been told that one of the hands I had employed could not be relied on, I was visited by a German (Mohr) who said he had been in the Navy during the war and was willing to sign on. He seemed very keen to come on the trip, in fact so keen that at first I was afraid that he was trying to get out of the country in a not very honest manner. However this proved to be wrong, for the following day he was given an exit-visa without any fuss from the authorities. I decided to employ him, although he had no references, as both my wife and I wanted to leave the place as soon as possible, especially while the weather was good, as due to certain circumstances we had already stayed there far longer than we had meant to. The man (Mohr) was in my service from the second of April until the twenty-ninth of the same month, when at his own request he signed off in Ajaccio. During that time he fulfilled his duties well and I think to the best of his abilities, but his experience of navigation and daily life on board appeared to be extremely limited, and he had obviously exaggerated his qualifications in his first conversation with me. He was a poor seaman and I shall not in future employ Germans on my boat. When my other man (a Spaniard by the name of Ramon Alemany) deserted in Ajaccio, the German asked to leave the boat. I saw no reason why I should refuse him, especially as I should anyhow have been forced to ask him to leave. On the other hand I was sorry to lose my other hand (Alemany) as he was a good and industrious seaman. On the question of his opinion of the relationship between the two men, Colonel Thorpe says that he is not in the habit of noticing the behaviour of his employees in their free time and that he had not talked to the man (Mohr) or even addressed him on any subject apart from his duties on board. However he considered that both men knew each other well when they first came on board. Of Mohr’s character, the Colonel says that he seemed to be typically German. The Colonel’s wife, Senora Clementine Thorpe, who was present during
the conversation, says: The two of them (Mohr and Alemany) were always together and on the occasions when they went ashore, once in port on the French mainland, where the boat was tied up for two days, and twice in Ajaccio, they went together. She adds that Mohr and Alemany kept the cabin they shared reasonably tidy and clean. Asked if he knew where Mohr was thinking of going when he asked to leave the boat, the Colonel says that as far as he remembers Mohr did not mention any place. On the question of wages received by Mohr for his work, Colonel Thorpe says he offered to work for his keep and the trip, and so did not receive any wages.’

  Willi fell silent. His throat was dry and his head felt empty.

  Sergeant Tornilla had sat quite still all the time and it was impossible to make out whether he had been listening or not. Now he smiled benevolently and said: ‘You really do read very well indeed. Admirable that you’ve been able to learn so much of the language in such a short time. But your J’s are not quite right yet. Much too hard. Say after me: Barrio Son Jofre, J-o-f-r-e … J-o … J-o … J-o-f-r-e …’

  ‘Jofre,’ said Willi Mohr.

  ‘See, that’s better.’

  He stretched out his hand and took the paper, placing it in the cardboard file. Then he pushed the file into its place in the filing-cabinet without even glancing in that direction.

  ‘How are you liking it in your house, by the way? I understand it’s not in a very good state of repair. That’s not so good at this time of year. The nights can be both damp and cold, and even at your age you can get rheumatism. My wife is often troubled with rheumatism. And yet our house isn’t bad.’

  He smiled and added thoughtfully: ‘On the contrary, it’s surprisingly good, when you think of the standard here. It’s on the Avenue, by the church. Only a block away from the place where you usually eat when you’ve got any money.’

  ‘May I have a little water?’

  ‘Soon. Apropos money, you didn’t have any with you when you left and you didn’t get any from Colonel Thorpe. Then you came back here and then you had enough to pay the rent for six months and live quite well for three months. You didn’t change any, so you must have had Spanish money.’

  Sergeant Tornilla’s stomach rumbled. The sound was very weak, but Willi Mohr heard it quite distinctly. It felt as if at last he had made some progress.

  ‘You see, it’s small things like that which puzzle a man when he’s sitting and thinking. But experience tells you that everything has a natural explanation. Where did you get the money from?’

  Willi Mohr said nothing. His face was sullen and closed and did not reflect his physical exhaustion.

  The man in the armchair picked up a piece of paper from the desk, glanced fleetingly at it and said, as if in passing: ‘On the twentieth of February this year, Colonel Thorpe appled for exit-visas for Ramon Alemany and Santiago Alemany. He said he was thinking of employing them on his yacht Monsoon. Fourteen days later a visa was issued for Ramon Alemany, but his brother’s was refused. Thorpe appealed against the decision, and on the thirty-first of March both he and Santiago Alemany were informed that the decision was upheld. That same evening you went on board the yacht and offered to do the work for nothing, although you were obviously not capable of doing it in any way satisfactorily. The following day you go together with Colonel Thorpe in a taxi to the provincial capital, where the Colonel manages to arrange an exit-visa for you. As you are a foreigner and Colonel Thorpe knows the Governor personally, there were no difficulties. In France, Ramon Alemany disappears from the boat and immediately afterwards you sign off. Four weeks later you come back here and then you have some money. Earlier you have been seen together with or in the proximity of Santiago Alemany practically every day, but now you don’t meet for three and half months. Then Santiago Alemany suddenly appears and gives you money. It is puzzling in some way. Don’t you agree?’

  The words bored into Willi Mohr’s mind and stopped him from falling asleep and off the chair. He blinked several times, but had difficulty in seeing clearly, and the face in front of him seemed strangely unreal in the unsteady light from the little ceiling light.

  ‘Give me some water, please,’ he said.

  ‘You’re tired and thirsty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not very. It can be much worse.’

  Sergeant Tornilla had had his hands clasped in front of him, and now he leant on his elbows and pressed his fingertips together.

  His smile died away and he said, swiftly and sharply: ‘Have you ever been to Santa Margarita?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A year ago, just before Christmas.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In October or November, I think. Anyhow, in the autumn.’

  ‘Try to remember the date.’

  ‘Of the first time or the second?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I don’t know, once just before Christmas and once earlier, during the autumn.’

  ‘Let’s try to reconstruct the events. Your Norwegian friends left the country at that time, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the 15th December.’

  ‘Did you visit Santa Margarita before that or after?’

  ‘The second time was after, just before Christmas, as I said.’

  He counted on his fingers.

  ‘It must have been the eighteenth of December.’

  ‘What did you do in Santa Margarita?’

  ‘Hired a truck.’

  ‘Right. You talked to a builder there about taking over an old truck your Norwegian friends had had before. But the first time? Was that in December too?’

  ‘Earlier, I think.’

  ‘Might it have been the first or the second of December perhaps?’

  ‘No, it must have been earlier. In November or perhaps October. It was raining.’

  ‘Did you go to Santa Margarita alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was with you?’

  ‘My … Norwegian friends.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  Willi Mohr did not reply.

  ‘They are called Pedersen, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me see, what are their first names? Yes, Daniel and Sig … something like that. You know their names, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to tell me them?’

  Sergeant Tornilla sat quietly, waiting for a reply. His attitude grew thoughtful, as if he had gone on to think about something else.

  ‘Do you know my name?’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My first name too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve told you it.’

  Willi thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘now I remember it.’

  ‘Would you please say it.’

  ‘José Tornilla.’

  ‘Exactly, José Tornilla. But your j’s are still too hard, J-o-s-é.

  ‘José.’

  ‘And what are your Norwegian friends called?’

  Silence.

  Willi Mohr looked at the man beneath the portrait, sullenly but not defiantly.

  ‘You think your Norwegian friends are dead, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Well, you went with them to Santa Margarita. Will you tell me what happened?’

  ‘We drove there and looked and then we drove back again.’

  ‘There’s a mine up there. Did you look at that too?’

  ‘We weren’t there, but I remember seeing it, in the distance.’

  ‘Was Santiago Alemany also with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t remember the date, but you think it was November and anyhow before the third of December?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We shall look at those days for a few minutes, the second and the third of December.
What did you do then?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’ll help you. On the second of December in the evening you were in the puerto. A police patrol saw you out by the pier at half-past one in the morning with your Norwegian friends and the Alemany brothers. What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What were you doing out by the pier?’

  ‘Bathing.’

  ‘At half-past one in the morning? And by the pier? Why not at one of the ordinary bathing-places near the village?’

  ‘We didn’t have our bathing-costumes.’

  ‘Not the woman either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not permitted to behave like that. There’s even a special law which forbids it. Do you know that?’

  ‘It’s a silly law.’

  ‘That’s possible. Did you have sexual relationships with the woman too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you practically lived with her for four months. She’s said to have been physically attractive and not especally … particular. She could hardly have failed to make an impression on you. Were you in love with her?’

  Willi Mohr did not answer. He felt less tired now, but very uneasy and he wanted at any price to get the other man away from this subject.

  ‘What do you really want to know?’ he said.

  ‘For instance, what happened on the following day, the third of December?’

  ‘I think we went to the puerto then too. Let me see, one moment, it was very hot then too. We didn’t bathe but went to a bar and stayed there until late into the night. It was a kind of party. We sang and drank quite a bit … and … well, there was nothing else.’

  ‘Were the Alemany brothers there too?’

  ‘Yes. Santiago Alemany was with us all the time. His brother came later, after being out in the fishing-boat. Yes, I remember now. We were down on the quay when the boat came in. The Alemany brothers’ father spoke sharply to Santiago because he had not been to town with the fish the day before. Then we all went back to the bar again.’

  ‘What did Santiago Alemany answer to that?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Not definitely. Yes, that the van was out of action, I think. Then we started drinking again and then we went home. I drove the camioneta, I remember.’

  ‘Did you drive although you were drunk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s not really allowed.’

  Sergeant Tornilla smiled. His expression was again friendly and good-humoured.