A Necessary Action

by Per Wahlöö

  ‘I thought he’d killed Dan Pedersen, the Norwegian I lived with when I came here, and raped his wife, Siglinde Pedersen. I couldn’t prove anything, but there were a number of small points which did not fit and which convinced me I was right. I wanted revenge, and I followed Ramon Alemany and his brother about for months. That was why I signed on with the Englishman. Then I just waited for the right opportunity. I never let him out of my sight. I lay in wait for him and gradually he realized it and grew more and more frightened. He was physically courageous but a moral coward.’

  There was another pause. Tornilla looked as if he were trying to think of some way of being helpful. Finally he said kindly: ‘And when did this happen?’

  ‘On the evening of the twenty-first of April, when the French police had taken us down to the quay. He had drunk a great deal because he was frightened. I knew that all the time. He was out of his mind with fear. When we had been down in the fo’c’sle for perhaps an hour, he sobered up a bit and that was also because he was afraid, I think. I accused him of what I thought he’d done. Then I deliberately turned my back on him. But I was on my guard all the time. I wanted him to begin it all, take the initiative for his own execution. I had seen that this was the only way I could kill him. As it turned out, I was right, but it was very difficult all the same. He drew a knife when I turned my back on him, but I disarmed him. Then he tried to kill me with his bare hands. He was crying with fear all the time. It was horrible. He was strong but I had the upper hand. Even physically I was in very good shape at the time. I knocked him down and he crept round the floor and whimpered and begged for his life and called on the saints and people and gods. He confessed and protested his innocence alternately. He tried to get away, but there was nowhere for him to hide. It lasted several minutes before I finally knocked him out. I banged his head on the floor several times, as hard as I could. Perhaps he didn’t die then. I don’t know. I collected up all his belongings and stuffed them down in his seaman’s bag and put several large stones in it as weights. That was when I found the money and stole some of it. Then I rowed out to a boat which had been abandoned farther away, and took the anchor chain. I carried the body down into the dinghy and wound the anchor chain round it over and over again. Then I rowed round the pier out into the approaches where I knew the water was deep, and tipped the body and the bag into the water. When I got back, I let the painter drop and the dinghy drift. Then I cleaned up everything and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep and I’ve not been able to forget any of it since. That’s what happened then, and if you want a statement before you lock me in down there, then I can sign it.’

  Tornilla made a movement, but Willi Mohr went on at once: ‘Wait a moment, if you can. There are one or two more things I want to say. I came back here, because I’d decided to kill Santiago Alemany too, before I was caught. I’ve always believed that I would do it, but it didn’t work, although I’ve had several opportunities. I’ve still got a pistol which I smuggled in when I came to Spain.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  ‘At home. In the house in Barrio Son Jofre. It’s near the top of my rucksack.’

  Someone knocked on the door and a civil guard he had never seen before came in with a telegram. Tornilla opened it and read it with a frown. Then he looked at Willi again and smiled.

  ‘Duty,’ he smiled, ‘Full of complications. And the telephones have broken down now. Go on.’

  ‘There’s one more thing I want to say. I know what you suspected me of. At that time, I was as good as completely innocent. I have not been involved in any political activities whatsoever, and I have not been smuggling arms. I know practically nothing about all that. The events in Santa Margarita which you told me about, I had never heard about before. I promise you that is true. I have never transported arms from one place to another and neither have I done anything else illegal.’

  Sergeant Tornilla grew very serious and made one of his old gestures. He pressed his fingertips together.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve nearly always told you the truth. But I’ve refrained from telling you two things. That I murdered Ramon Alemany and that I was thinking of killing his brother. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now. It’s not because they mistreated me here at the guard-post tonight. At least, I don’t think so.’

  It was silent again.

  Suddenly the telephone rang, shrilly and jarringly.

  ‘Look at that now,’ said Tornilla. ‘It’s been out of action almost continuously since yesterday evening. If you’ll excuse me …’

  He picked up the receiver and appeared to be listening to a message. He nodded several times, but said nothing more than a few words such as yes and no.

  And once only: ‘We’ll see in an hour or two.’

  He put the receiver down and made a few notes on a piece of paper. Then he said: ‘Excuse me. I had not reckoned on your visit and must do one or two things at the same time.’

  Willi Mohr sat in silence for a while. He was breathing unevenly and heavily, but that was because his nose was blocked.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ he said.

  After another few minute’s pause, he added: ‘I was really going to leave here today.’

  Tornilla showed signs of surprise, raising his eyebrows and inclining his head.

  ‘Oh yes? Were you thinking of leaving the country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you like it here?’

  ‘No. The more I see of it the less I like it. In as far as I’ve understood the situation, I think it’s untenable. And loathsome.’

  ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

  ‘To the provincial capital first. And then home.’

  ‘To West Germany?’

  ‘No, to the German Democratic Republic.’

  ‘What are you going to do there?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘And become a Communist?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You really have been led astray,’ said Tornilla sadly.

  Another silence, long and guarded, as if they were both waiting for something. The man in the armchair stared at his visitor, steadily and thoughtfully. Then he said at last: ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  Willi Mohr looked round in confusion.

  ‘Arrest me of course,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’ve murdered a man.’

  Sergeant Tornilla slowly took a cigarette out of the packet and lit it. He blew a couple of smoke-rings and followed them with his eyes until they dissolved beneath the green lampshade.

  ‘I can’t really lock you up for a crime committed in another country. There’s no body and no one has maintained that Ramon Alemany is dead. Except you. You’ve heard of corpus delecti, haven’t you? In addition, if your statement is true, the case would be considered as killing in self-defence. Even in court with you as a witness, you would probably be acquitted.’

  ‘But I did in fact kill him.’

  ‘Even I have managed to grasp that fact, at last,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  ‘I had to. I couldn’t go to the police. There wasn’t any proof and I couldn’t even speak the language.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. What can I do?’

  ‘So I can leave here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And leave the town today if I want to?’

  ‘I can’t stop you. As long as you don’t commit a crime before that, of course. Have you paid Amadeo Prunera, the man with the brushwood?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do that, then.’

  ‘I’ve still got the pistol.’

  Sergeant Tornilla smiled secretively. He pulled out a drawer and placed the Walther pistol on the desk. Willi Mohr recognized it by the spots of rust on the clip. Fastened to the butt was a stamped piece of cardboard.r />
  ‘For certain reasons, your house was searched early this morning. My men found this, in a rucksack, as you said. They found no reason to bring anything else.’

  He pointed at the pistol and said reproachfully: ‘You haven’t looked after it very well. Well, you can’t have it back. The loss of impounded goods will in this case be the punishment. On the other hand, you’ll be given a receipt. I’ll have it sent over today.’

  ‘So I can go?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I didn’t come to Spain to smuggle arms.

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can, perhaps today even.’

  Sergeant Tornilla rose.

  ‘Of course, I doubt the wisdom of your decision, but that’s nothing to do with me.’

  He took Willi Mohr lightly by the arm and led him towards the door, opened it and put out his hand.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Willi Mohr stopped in the doorway.

  ‘I really am leaving,’ he said. ‘And I’ve no intention of … well, of killing the other one any longer.

  Tornilla looked past him out into the hall, at a pair of civil guards who were loading ammunition belts on to a bicycle-cart. Then he said absently: ‘I believe you on that point too. Anyhow, you would be too late. Santiago Alemany was arrested in the puerto just before six o’clock this morning, suspected of several serious crimes. He resisted and was wounded before he could be overpowered. Quite badly, I believe. He has been taken to the military hospital some way away from here, and from what I heard, the doctor was not very hopeful about the case. That’s some hours ago now, so he’s probably already … well, I don’t know anything about all that …’

  The telephone rang. He smiled apologetically and closed the door behind Willi Mohr.

  7

  Slowly and stiffly, Willi Mohr walked along the straight road between the olive trees. He came to the narrow cobbled street where the civil guard with a grey moustache lived, crossed the square without even glancing at the Café Central, and continued along the Avenue with its grey façades and neat paving-stones. He was quite certain that he was walking this way for the last time.

  The whole way he repeated several simple statements to himself: I won’t bother with this any longer. It’s all over. They are all dead, and I don’t care. I want to live. Now I’ve got the chance.

  Although Tornilla had not said anything of the kind, he was sure that Santiago had been shot in the stomach and had not died until three or four hours later.

  He did not notice anyone or anything during his walk through the town. Not until he reached the alleyway which led up to Barrio Son Jofre did he stop and listen to something which he had not at once recognized. But a few seconds later he realized it was the sound of the streams from the mountain rushing and bubbling through their underground passages.

  The door to the house was shut but the key was outside in the door. He went in, looked round and everything was just as before, apart from a large number of muddy footmarks on the floor.

  Then he went back out on to the steps. The truck was still there and was standing where it had always stood. Seven months had gone by since someone had last driven it, but only a week since they had tried out the engine, so it ought to function still. And there was enough gas in the tank to get him to the provincial capital.

  A plane flew low over the town and with a narrow margin rose up over the mountain ridge. A slow grey military plane; he did not know what type, but he could see that it was anything but modern. As he had never before seen a plane over the town, he gazed after it and the episode had the effect of at once making him more aware of his immediate surroundings.

  He looked round and observed a number of things, the dog rolling about at his feet for instance, and a small, bare-legged boy standing in the shadow of the houses down in the alley, and the sun beginning to break up the clouds, first in the east, over the sea. What could he do with the dog? Take her with him? Let her loose? Try to find someone to look after her? In that case, who?

  It was a problem, and he brooded over it as he went into the room and aimlessly began picking over his scattered possessions.

  He was out in the kitchen when he saw a shadow fall over the patch of sun on the floor and someone knocked on the door, energetically and decisively.

  The little civil guard with a round face was standing on the steps.

  No, thought Willi Mohr, it’s not possible. It can’t be.

  The man thrust his hand inside his uniform jacket and took out a brown envelope with an official stamp on it.

  ‘From Sergeant Tornilla,’ he said, saluting.

  By the time Willi Mohr had opened the envelope and was standing with the receipt for the pistol in his hand, the civil guard had already gone.

  In the upper left hand corner of the receipt, Tornilla had clipped a small piece of torn-off paper and written on it in his neat backward-sloping handwriting:

  You won’t forget about Amadeo Prunera, will you?

  Willi Mohr felt the dressing pulling on his face. It must have been because he was smiling. He was smiling because he had been frightened for the first time for more than a year.

  He began to gather up the articles in the room again, a little more systematically, but still slowly and indolently. He thought about the dog and said half-aloud: ‘I’ll have to take her with me after all.’

  There was a rustle at the door and he turned round. The small ragged boy he had seen down in the alley was standing with one foot in the doorway, watchfully, as if prepared to run away immediately.

  ‘Are you the German gentleman?’

  Willi Mohr nodded.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  The boy took two steps forward, cautiously and suspiciously, like a cat in a strange house, then stretched out his clenched right fist and opened it. On the dirty palm lay a piece of paper, crumpled and folded firmly.

  Willi Mohr did not understand and several seconds passed before he came to sufficiently to take the piece of paper and unfold it. It was the back of an old envelope and the pencilled writing was unsteady and feeble, as if written in the dark.

  Fetch 600 yards from cross-roads side-road right

  left first fork second farm. Abandoned. In big

  house under stairs. Deliver to S. Margarita Fontane’s

  garage right of entrance brown Dodge with load of

  wood. Inside garage Definitely before three

  Under the last sentence the writer had drawn a wobbly line, and slightly lower down there were six more words, very carelessly written:

  Caught now am sending money gas.

  Willi Mohr read through the text twice. His brain was working slowly and sluggishly. Then he looked for a long time at the boy, before saying: ‘Who gave you this?’

  ‘Santiago, mister.’

  ‘Have you shown it to anyone?’

  ‘No, mister.’

  ‘Have you read it yourself?’

  ‘Can’t read, mister.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Ran, but didn’t dare come near at first.’

  ‘Where’s Santiago?’

  ‘Don’t know, mister. He ran into the fish-shed and there was a bang. There were civil guards there too.’

  The boy was perhaps eleven years old. He was ragged and dirty and it was clear that he had recently been sweating profusely, for there were long light streaks down his brown face. He dug into his thin shirt and took out a roll of filthy tatty notes.

  ‘That’s all of it, mister.’

  They were hundred-peseta notes. Willi Mohr thanked him, then gave him back two notes. The boy’s mouth fell open in dumb astonishment.

  ‘You can go,’ said Willi Mohr, ‘and you must promise not to tell anyone about this.’

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said the child, backing towards the door.

  ‘No, wait a minut
e.’

  Willi Mohr took out two more hundred-peseta notes, folded them into a piece of wrapping-paper and wrote on the outside with a red crayon that happened to be lying on the stairs: To Amadeo Prunera for the brushwood from the German.

  ‘Take this and go and sit somewhere where no one can see you. Wait until you’ve seen me drive away in the truck. Then wait for two more hours and then go and find someone called Amadeo Prunera and give him this.’

  ‘I haven’t got a watch, mister.’

  ‘Listen to the church clock. When it strikes three times you can go. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, mister.’

  The child walked backwards to the door and vanished.

  Willi Mohr sat down on the stairs and stared out through the open door. Clouds of flies were buzzing round in the sun that was just breaking through. He sat there for twenty minutes without moving.

  Then he looked at his watch. It was already a quarter-past one.

  He got up, fetched the piassava brush and went out to sweep out the truck. Then he began to carry his belongings out from the house. He did not possess much and in ten minutes everything was placed between or under the seats; clothes, painting gear and pictures. He had put only two things in his pockets, his pocket-book and his passport.

  Willi Mohr returned to his place on the stairs, unfolded Santiago’s note and read through it ten times. Then he went out to the kitchen, tore the paper up and put the pieces in the fireplace. He got out the notebook and systematically tore out page after page. When he had crumpled them up one at a time and placed them in a heap on the hearth, he struck a match and set light to them, watching until there was nothing left but a small pyramid of white ash on the blackened stones.

  Willi Mohr went out of the house in Barrio Son Jofre, locked the door and left the key in the lock. He picked the dog up by the scruff of her neck and lifted her into the truck. Then he stood in front of the radiator, bent down and turned the handle. He had to keep turning for a long time before the engine finally got going.

  He looked round once more and raised his hand to the cat which was just slipping round the corner of the house.

  ‘ ’Bye,’ said Willi Mohr.