A Necessary Action

by Per Wahlöö

  ‘If you try being awkward, it’ll be very unpleasant for you.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘How long have you been in Spain?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Where is Antonio Millan?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘We seriously advise you to stop prevaricating and answer our questions.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Were you trained in Moscow?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘When was the consignment sent to Santa Ponsa?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of the transport?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t you realize that we have the whole situation in hand and you’re simply worsening your own position by crossing us.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Both Antonio Millan and Baltazar Rodriguez have been arrested. The headquarters in Santa Margarita has been found and dispersed. The whole of your organization is shattered. Do you want to know any more?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Willi Mohr smiled faintly. He felt quite calm and although he could not see his tormentors, he had seen through them all. They knew nothing, least of all about him, and most of what they were saying was either bluff or half-truths.

  They went on showering him with questions and accusations, names he had never heard before, dates and figures which meant nothing whatsoever to him, and he varied his replies each time; no, oh yes, don’t know, of course.

  How long this had already gone on for he did not know and neither did he care.

  Gradually their statements and questions grew more and more far-fetched.

  ‘Do you know your mother’s been taken by the Russians and sent to Siberia?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t you realize that your martyrdom is pointless and we’ll continue until you confess.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We know you received a consignment of arms last night.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Where did you hide it?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘We also know that both you and your foreign friends, who’ve fled from the country, belong to the Communist party.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’ve lit a nice reading lamp for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think it’s fun standing like that in the light?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you getting thirsty?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘We won’t give you a drop of water and you may not move from the spot until you see reason.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘We’ll appeal to your instinct for self-preservation for a while and make you a generous offer.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘If you tell us everything you know, you won’t be punished in any other way except deportment. That’s a very generous offer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You can trust us. We’re not barbarians and the Lieutenant here will confirm that we keep our promises. Do you agree to that?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘If you haven’t confessed within ten minutes, I myself will personally ask some questions, which will be very unpleasant for you.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Where are the arms?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Your fellow-criminals in Villanueva have been arrested and have confessed.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You needn’t protect anyone, because no one’s protecting you. The smugglers put ashore the goods in Villanueva, we know that. So you can admit that.’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve eight minutes left. You remember what I said two minutes ago?’

  ‘No.’

  The lamp hanging from the ceiling exploded with a bang and the mantle hissed angrily as it was burnt by the oxygen streaming in with the air. Red-hot pieces of lamp-glass hit Willi Mohr in the face, but he scarcely noticed them.

  There was still too much pressure in the holder and the flames rushed out into the room with a roar that soon faded. The lamp had gone out and Willi Mohr looked at it with a smile.

  ‘Good stuff,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up,’ said the youth with the pomaded hair angrily.

  He had also taken off his jacket now and was sitting sideways on the edge of the table. The bald man had unbuttoned his collar and was leaning back in his chair, chewing a yellow pencil and staring at the lamp in astonishment.

  Lieutenant Pujol was sitting as before, his legs crossed and his jacket unbuttoned. The clerk in linen uniform was standing over by the wall, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a nonplussed expression on his face.

  Willi Mohr felt calm and clear and in astonishing good condition. Shining white points of light danced about in front of his eyes, but now he could distinguish the objects round him again, he felt sure of himself. They knew nothing and were simply barking up the wrong tree. Presumably they wouldn’t dare go on very much longer.

  It was Lieutenant Pujol who broke the silence.

  ‘I appeal to your common sense,’ he said, ‘and I’m talking as one man to another now. I’m an officer and chief-of-police in this district and I beg you to tell us what you know. I’m doing so not only as a representative of the law and the government, but also as a man of honour. Stop denigrating yourself by playing the fool. If you know anything, then tell us. I give you my word as a Spanish officer that you will be correctly and humanely treated. If these gentlemen say that your eventual punishment will be deportation, then you can rely on me as a witness and guarantee that their promise will be fulfilled.’

  The bald man belched. He seemed to have recovered from his surprise and had turned round to get a cigar out of his jacket.

  Willi Mohr looked calmly at Lieutenant Pujol and carefully thought out what he had to say.

  He found that his Spanish was inadequate and asked: ‘Do you speak German or English?’

  ‘Yes, English, passably anyhow.’

  ‘Good. I’ll tell you everything I know. Namely, nothing at all. All this is a mistake and I’m innocent of all that you suspect me of and are accusing me of. I assure you that I am not in any party, and I’ve never been a Communist, and no one sent me here. I came here as a tourist and I have not smuggled in arms or been involved in any kind of propaganda. That’s all I have to say on the matter. I shall not play the fool, as you put it, but neither will I answer any more questions until I am allowed to contact my Consul. Now I demand to be released.’

  Lieutenant Pujol turned to the others and translated, slowly and thoroughly. It did not seem to make any special impression.

  Willi Mohr felt cold rage bursting behind his forehead, making his mind clear and increasing his self-confidence. He said:

  ‘Before I am silent for good, I’d like to say one or two more things, and they are to you personally. You shouldn’t talk about your honour and your word as an officer, as long as you let yourself be treated in this way by these … cretins. Isn’t that what you say in Spanish? So far as I can see, you’re no more than an underling and a representative of a corrupt and miserable régime. You are a coward too. Now I refuse to say another word.’

  Lieutenant Pujol turned scarlet in the face and the skin stretched tightly over his cheek-bones. He found it difficult to keep his fingers still and he fingered his belt and shoulder-strap, biting his lower lip as he pulled the broad leather belt out of the slits for the holster. Then he folded it in three and rose.

  ‘I demand an immediate apology,’ he said.

  Willi Mohr said nothing.

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I demand an apology, here and now.’ Both the men from the security forces were watching him with interest. He took another step forward and stood in front of Willi Mohr, less than an arm’s length away from him.

  ‘I demand an apology,’ he repeated.

  Willi Mohr looked sullenly at him. You daren’
t, he thought coldly. The man was still red in the face, but his eyes had taken on an almost childish expression, uncertain and appealing.

  ‘Apologize,’ he said.

  It was not an order, but an appeal. Willi Mohr said nothing.

  Lieutenant Pujol raised his arm and hit him as hard as he could across his face with the folded belt.

  The leather belt hit him over the cheek-bone, just below his left eye, and the heavy brass buckle caught the bridge of his nose, stinging him below his eyes and making his head crackle all over as his nose broke. Willi Mohr took an involuntary step back. It had not hurt especially and he felt surprise more than anything else when the passage of air through his nostrils was suddenly blocked and blood began to pour down his mouth and chin. His head was whirling and everything blurred before his eyes, and yet he could see that the officer’s round-cheeked face expressed nothing more than astonishment and confusion. He also noted in passing that the bald man was snipping the end off his cigar.

  ‘You’re coming on, Lieutenant,’ said the young man with a side-parting in his hair. He jumped down to the floor and took a pair of gloves out of his jacket.

  ‘You should have done that three months ago,’ he said, as he walked round the table.

  He pulled on his gloves and straightened out the fingers as if to soften them up.

  ‘Well,’ he said, and struck.

  It was a good blow, hard and swift and precise, and it struck just below the ribs between the navel and the upper edge of the hip-bone. Willi Mohr did not fall, but sucked in his breath and groaned with his mouth wide open.

  ‘Well,’ said the man with the side-parting, and struck again, with astounding precision in exactly the same spot.

  Willi Mohr whimpered loudly and everything went grey before his eyes.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen seconds. Then I’ll do it again.’

  ‘You don’t know Vicente,’ said the bald man genially. ‘He can go on for ever.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ said Lieutenant Pujol.

  ‘Who began it?’ said Vicente. ‘This at least doesn’t mess up the floor.’

  He hit out again, for the third time on the same spot. Willi Mohr fell over. He lay on his side, curled up with both arms across his diaphragm.

  ‘Well,’ said Vicente, bending over him. ‘You’ve fifteen seconds this time too. But next time it’ll be worse.’

  He pulled off his gloves and walked round to the other side, gazed absently at his watch and then kicked the prostrate man from behind with the point of his shoe exactly between the legs.

  The pain was excruciating and exact and penetrating. Willi Mohr yelped, shrilly and abruptly and rolled over on the other side with his knees drawn up high. This protective measure was a reflex action, and a second later only, he turned over on his back and lay flopped on his back with his eyes half-closed and his legs stretched out, his arms falling down by his sides.

  ‘Hell,’ said Vicente, kicking him experimentally below his left knee.

  Willi Mohr did not react at all.

  And yet he was not unconscious. It had stopped hurting and in general he felt he had no organs left capable of causing him pain. But his hearing was still intact and he could hear the men in the room talking to each other.

  ‘It’s not worth going on,’ said Vicente.

  ‘Waste of time, all of it,’ said the bald man. ‘Where are the reports on this case?’

  And then later on.

  ‘What’s all this? Some sort of thesis or other? Where’s the person who put this together?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lieutenant Pujol.

  ‘Who is Santiago Alemany? This has been incredibly mishandled. Isn’t there any evidence against this cretin or have we been wasting our time on him quite unnecessarily?’

  ‘Sergeant Tornilla has been in charge of the case.’

  ‘We’ve gathered that. Best if he gets on with it himself too. Is the telegraph working?’

  ‘It’ll be open at seven o’clock.’

  ‘Oh yes, excellent. At this stage perhaps half the province is in a state of rebellion and we’re just sitting here. Nothing happens here. People who put up with your electricity works don’t smuggle arms. Naturally everything’s wrong.’

  And a while later:

  ‘It’s stopped raining.’

  ‘That’s the only positive thing we’ve heard since we came here. We’ll leave this to you and the Sergeant. That’s no doubt best all round.’

  ‘It’s beginning to get lighter.’

  ‘See to it that this wretch doesn’t die on your hands, won’t you? That might prove awkward. If I’m ordered here again I’ll hand in my resignation.’

  ‘My God, he’s not dead, is he?’

  Then there was silence.

  Willi Mohr was not dead. He was asleep.

  6

  He was fully conscious and the only person left in the room was the clerk in linen uniform.

  They talked to each other.

  ‘I’ve only washed you and put a dressing on your face. I’m to take you to a doctor.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘The Lieutenant said I was to. Orders.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Wait, I’ll help you. There we are now, you can stand on your own feet after all. And it’s stopped bleeding.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Just past eight. Shouldn’t I …?’

  ‘No, I said. There’s no need.’

  ‘I can ring him up. The lights aren’t on again yet, but the telephone’s working.’

  ‘Don’t bother about it. I’ll go there myself if it’s necessary.’

  ‘You’re finding it difficult to walk.’

  ‘It’ll be better soon. Where’s Sergeant Tornilla?’

  ‘Don’t know. Perhaps in his room. Otherwise he’ll be here soon.’

  Willi Mohr left the room. As he slowly moved down the corridor, the electric light went on.

  He came out into the entrance hall, about five yards farther in than usual.

  Tornilla’s door was locked and he got no reply to his knock. He crossed the hall and sat down on a narrow wooden bench opposite.

  Willi Mohr cautiously fingered the clumsy amateurish dressing on his face. It seemed to consist entirely of cotton wool and pieces of adhesive tape. His nose was quite blocked but that injury was not aching much, only throbbing slightly. On the other hand, his loins were burning like fire and the whole of the lower part of his body felt drained of strength. The pain in his midriff was more tolerable, although he noticed it each time he breathed.

  He shifted his bruised body to rights on the bench. He was not thinking about anything at all. He was waiting.

  Outside it had stopped raining, but the small wedge of sky he could see was grey and cloudy.

  He had been sitting there for perhaps a half-an-hour, when Lieutenant Pujol came into the hall.

  At first it looked as if he was going to walk past, pretending not to see the man on the bench, but then he hesitated and turned round.

  ‘Have you been to the doctor?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you sitting here?’

  ‘Waiting for Sergeant Tornilla.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to speak to him.’

  ‘I don’t know when he’s coming. You can talk to me instead.’

  ‘I’d rather wait.’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  He was about to go, but stopped again and said vaguely: ‘Do I need to point out … well, that I’m sorry about what happened tonight … it was largely your own fault, however, but …’

  He stopped and Willi Mohr said nothing. Lieutenant Pujol coughed with embarrassment and went away.

  An hour later, Sergeant Tornilla got off his bicycle outside the porchway. He pushed it into a bicycle-stand at the end of the hall, took out a bunch of keys in a leather case and unlocked the door into his room.

  ‘Good-day,’ he said in a
friendly way to the man on the bench. ‘I must say you don’t look too well. Most distressing.’

  Before stepping over the threshold, he unhooked a brush from the inside of the doorpost and carefully eliminated a couple of small spots of mud from the leg of his boot. Otherwise he was just as usual, fresh, dapper and newly-shaven.

  ‘Have you been waiting for me?’ he said. ‘Not for too long, I hope.’

  ‘I want to speak to you.’

  ‘Of course. Do please come in.’

  He held the door open and Willi Mohr limped past him into the room.

  ‘Just look, our mechanics have once again achieved a miracle,’ said Tornilla, as he switched on the light.

  Willi Mohr sat down unasked on the bench and the other man walked round the desk, straightened out the goatskin in the armchair and sat down. He looked behind the telephone and shook his head. Then he opened one of the drawers in the desk and brightened up a little. He took out an unopened packet of Bisontes, opened it with a paper knife, struck it against the edge of the desk and held them out.

  Willi Mohr shook his head.

  ‘I want to speak to you,’ he said again.

  ‘Of course. I have an unusual amount of work to do, but I can always find time for you. I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting, but I have in fact had a very troublesome and busy night.’

  He looked at Willi Mohr anxiously and hurriedly added:

  ‘Well, naturally nothing in comparison with you. You really do seem to have been in trouble. As I said, I hope that you’ve not been waiting too long. I was here for a while at about seven, but I didn’t see you then.’

  He fell silent.

  Willi Mohr shook his head slightly and coughed to clear his throat. Tornilla raised his forefinger and interrupted him before he had had time to say anything.

  ‘Take your time, by all means. There’s no need to hurry just for my sake.’

  He settled down, as if preparing to listen.

  ‘You said that I was hiding something from you,’ said Willi Mohr. ‘You were right. Ramon Alemany did not run away from the boat in Ajaccio. I killed him. It was not an accident, but murder, carefully planned and thought out. Afterwards I discovered the money and stole it, almost thirty thousand pesetas.’

  It grew quiet in the room. A minute or so later, Sergeant Tornilla said: ‘Does it help if I say anything? I could, for instance, ask: Why did you do it?’