Saturn Over the Water

by J. B. Priestley

  I nursed mine but risked buying him another. It may have loosened his tongue a bit more, but soon he took to muttering in a jerky fashion, with intervals of silence when he’d either glare round the room or close his eyes as if he was about to fall asleep. ‘Me and Farne chewed it over together . . . had the same ideas more or less. If you ask me he used that mike I sold him – and then he knew too much. . . . Can’t prove it of course, can’t prove nothing . . . Bet a hundred quid, though, if I had a hundred quid, Farne found out what I’d already told him.’

  ‘What was that, Freece? Come on, don’t fall asleep yet,’ I said sharply. ‘I want to know. It’s important.’

  He opened his eyes. ‘You bet your bloody life it’s important, chum.’ He crooked and wiggled his forefinger to beckon me nearer, then leant forward himself. ‘Nazis,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody great organisation. World-bloody-wide. . . . Worked out during the war in case they lost. . . . Centre of network to be South America. . . . Told Farne but at first he wouldn’t buy it – ’

  ‘I don’t buy it, Freece. It’s an idea, and I’ve thought about it myself. Certainly there’s something going on, some sort of organisation – ’

  ‘Nazis, I say. Every time. . . . Some of ’em are there at the Institute, like that sod Soultz. . . . The big pots come and go, pretending to be this and that, but all in the Nazi ring. . . . Ever notice that big mast top of the cliff? . . You ought to see the transmitting set they bought themselves at the Institute. . . . God Almighty I ought to know – had to do some work on that set when it broke down. . . . No sending and receiving though by Percy Freece, no bloody fear. . . . Have a German and an Argentino doing sending and receiving. . . . Try asking them any questions and see what you get, chum – ’

  He broke off because some kind of policeman was standing over us. We’d never noticed his approach. But everybody else had; no cards were being played, no drinks served, everything was frozen; and the only sound I could hear was one of those tom-cat serenades still yowling on the radio. I couldn’t understand what the policeman and Freece shouted at each other, though I seemed to catch pasaporte and permiso. But the policeman got very angry, stepped back and bellowed at Freece, and put a hand on the revolver he was carrying. Freece nodded, got up and turned to me, and said: ‘Bastards have done this before – never at this time of night though, chum – you tell anybody you were coming here to meet me?’

  Before I could reply, the policeman started shouting again, and Freece had to go. The fat woman, who could speak a little English, explained that he was not being arrested for any crime but only because there was some trouble about the permit he needed as a foreigner. Having had more than enough pisco, I asked her to bring me a beer; and then I lit a pipe and tried to think. (With a pipe at least I look like a man thinking.) I added up what I’d learnt from this useless character, poor Percy Freece, and decided that he’d been more use to my investigation than anybody else so far. I still dismissed his Nazi theory, which was too easy and didn’t seem to me to fit in with the little I did know. But what he’d said did help my idea, which had begun to worry me even in London, that behind all these odd doings was some large-scale and very elaborate organisation. But where he’d been most useful of course was in helping me to decide about what had happened to Joe Farne. Now, thanks chiefly to Freece, it was beginning to seem fairly clear. Farne had been suspicious, and what he’d heard through the mike he’d bought from Freece had made him more suspicious. (This explained some of the queer things he’d scribbled down afterwards, at the end of his letter to Isabel from Chile. He’d remembered them – or at least some of them, because he might have overheard other things in Chile – from what he’d picked up here on that mike.) Now Joe Farne was no cunning intriguer; he’d probably gone and blurted out that he’d found out something he didn’t like; and this put the Institute types or their bosses elsewhere on a nasty spot. If Farne was simply told to clear out, he’d continue talking and asking awkward questions. If they killed him there and then, even supposing they were ready to be as ruthless as that, there might be an official investigation into his disappearance. But if he left apparently of his own will, and yet it was somehow worked that he wouldn’t be able to ask any dangerous questions, then everything would be fine. That probably meant that he was doped or given some sort of treatment, so that he left here looking a sick man and not really knowing what was happening to him. Then instead of being merely let loose in Chile he was definitely taken somewhere. And of course I saw that unless I could find out where that somewhere was – and inquiries through official channels in Chile would obviously be a waste of time – then I might as well pack up and go home. Moreover, I felt pretty certain that if anything more could be learnt from Freece, I’d never learn it, because he’d not be having any more piscos here until I’d gone. As soon as I’d left the house, I believed now, Arnaldos or Rosalia or Mrs Candamo or somebody had made a phone call to some very obliging police official.

  By the time I walked back to the house, the drink I’d had was already going sour on me. I knew it was a wonderful night of stars, but I didn’t care. There were not many lights to be seen in the long white house; the entrance had a light on and the main door was open; but the hall was very dim, as if everybody of any importance had stopped using it for that day. I stood in the hall hesitating for a moment or two, for no particular reason, and I felt that somebody I couldn’t see was watching me. But nothing happened. Still wondering how the hell I could find out where Joe Farne had been taken to, I went slowly and heavily along and up to my room. On my bedside table was a typed message, a cable to me that had gone to the Embassy in Lima. It was from Sturge in Cambridge, telling me that Isabel was dead. So now I couldn’t pack up and go home, at least not if I still wanted to like living with myself. I had to make somebody here tell me where they’d taken Joe Farne.

  7

  Next morning, as soon as I’d had breakfast, I took my gear along a dirt road, beyond the village, and went where it led me, over a ridge of rock. On the other side I nearly lost my breath. A narrow isthmus, edged with black sand, ran across to a tremendous confusion of shelving desert and outcrops of dark rock, and peaks that began with rose madder and amethyst and ended far away in a pale periwinkle blue. The sea on one side of the isthmus, to my right, was a sullen heaving mass of prussian blue and indigo. On the other side it was bottle green and viridian, foaming and sparkling under a stiff breeze. Not a building of any sort, not a single person, to be seen in the whole panorama; even though there were cart tracks on what remained of the dirt road. I did one sketch, keeping the tone keyed up high this time. Then I went down to get nearer the black sand and the faster and lighter water on my left. Somebody had taken a sports car down to a part of the beach that had been hidden from me before. This part was almost like a cove and it had light yellow sand in place of the black stuff farther along. And nearer, now coming into view, were two massive clumps of rock of a curious hot burnt-umber shade. Somebody had had a rough ride in that sports car – and somehow I felt sure it was a woman’s – but no doubt a bathe down there, with the world to yourself, was worth it. I settled down to work on a ledge of rock not far above the car. Conditions were better than they’d been on the two afternoons before, for this was morning, and anyhow the weather seemed cooler and fresher. I worked well, and thought about nothing. I’d almost forgotten the car was there when I suddenly found myself looking at Rosalia. She was wearing a pale green shirt and white slacks, and looked as if she hadn’t been long out of the water. She also looked a good deal more appetising than she’d done the morning before, when she’d come tearing into her studio.

  ‘Hi – Tim!’ she said as she reached my ledge. ‘Can I beg a cigarette? I forgot I’d run out.’

  I found one and lit it for her, and then began clearing up as I’d done all I proposed to do. She looked at my sketch but said nothing. I smoked a pipe while I cleaned my brushes. She sprawled on the warm rock a few feet away. We had the morning and the wide world to
ourselves, and might have been Adam and Eve just out of Eden except that there was nothing good between us.

  Finally she said: ‘I wanted to talk to you last night, so I waited, the last half-hour in the dark, but then you looked to be in such a mean mood as you came into the hall, I thought Oh no!’

  ‘You were quite right,’ I told her.

  ‘You had a cable about somebody dying, Mrs Candamo said.’

  I hadn’t time to decide what was the best policy. I took the big wild chance. ‘It was my cousin Isabel. I knew she was dying. I promised to find her husband – to tell him she loved him and hadn’t been able to come out here and find him because she was too ill. His name’s Farne – Joe Farne. He worked at the Institute here, and then disappeared. By the way, which of you rang up the police last night, asking them to pull in Freece?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. I wouldn’t know how to start. Who’s Freece – the man you went to see?’

  I grunted and finished drying my brushes and then began packing them into the cylindrical tin holder. If I’d aroused this spoilt girl’s curiosity or sympathy, then she’d say something. If I hadn’t, then I needn’t waste my breath.

  ‘That’s terrible about your cousin. I’m sorry. Were you in love with her, Tim?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ I said irritably. ‘Everybody hasn’t to be in love with everybody. I was sorry for her – and so I was talked into coming out here to look for Joe. I’m not in love with him either. But I’m pretty certain now he left here not knowing what was happening to him and was taken to some place in Chile. I’ll admit I haven’t a clue where, but I’m damned well going to find out.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ We were looking at each other now.

  ‘Because I talk too much. I’m no good at this job. I’m a painter not a private detective. If I’d any sense I’d pack it up, but I made a promise.’

  ‘Yes, Tim, I understand,’ she said. She thought a moment before speaking again. ‘Grandfather won’t tell you where he went. And Mrs Candamo won’t, even though she does like you. And they might not even know for certain. They didn’t do it.’

  ‘I never said they did. And I can’t afford to waste much more time here. Perhaps I’d better try slugging it out of Soultz.’ I got up and hoisted the knapsack on to my shoulder.

  ‘I’ll run you back,’ she said, also getting up. ‘I meant to stay out here all day – I often do – but now I won’t. Come on.’

  As we swayed and bounced over the steep rough track – and I had to admit she managed it very cleverly – I sat by her side probably looking as heavy and gloomy as I felt. I’d told her too much, and had got nothing in return. I’d behaved like a half-wit.

  But when the rough going was all behind us and we were moving fairly smoothly along the dirt road, she stopped the car and turned to look me in the eye. ‘Tim, would you trust me?’

  ‘Not very far, ducky.’

  ‘Oh – well – that’s that!’ She made a great bad-tempered clatter out of re-starting the car. I stopped her.

  ‘Now, Rosalia, let’s suppose I was just kidding and that I would trust you. Then what?’

  ‘If you did something for me, I’d do something for you. Solemn promise.’ Then those extraordinary dark blue eyes weren’t seeing me: she was planning. ‘I’d have to ring the Garlettas before I could be absolutely certain. Did you meet them when you were in Lima?’

  ‘Not unless they’re barmen, car importers, or on the staff of the British Council – ’

  ‘Pat and Tina Garletta are friends of mine. I knew them in Paris. They have a large apartment in Lima and a darling house outside, about forty minutes’ drive away.’

  ‘Where do they come into this deal of yours?’

  ‘If you’ll come with me to the Garlettas’ house – and after all, it’s Saturday, isn’t it? – then I’ll tell you what I know. And though I don’t know much, I know enough to give you what you want, I think. And don’t imagine you’ll get anything here any other way, because you won’t. Is it a deal?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘You ring up your friends, Rosalia,’ I said. ‘And after you’ve settled that end of it, I’ll have had time to think. I must think, because this will have to be an all-or-nothing move. I can’t clear out for the week-end and then come back.’

  ‘Okay, Tim.’ She sounded quite gay. ‘I talk to Tina Garletta. You talk to yourself. Let’s go. I’ll have lots to do. And you can start packing.’

  We ran into Mrs Candamo as soon as we entered the house. Rosalia said something rapid in Spanish to her, and then hurried off somewhere. As we turned into the corridor, Mrs Candamo said she had something to tell me. I suggested she should come up to my room, and then I could show her my morning’s work. By the time she arrived, about five minutes later, I had the two sketches on display for her and had made sure my painting gear was ready for packing. She gave herself with deep seriousness to the sketches, just as she’d done before, and then said the sort of things a painter likes to hear.

  ‘You have been with Rosalia in her special place this morning, I see,’ she said, in what was almost a fond maternal manner.

  ‘No, I didn’t even know she was there until I’d finished. Then we talked a bit and she ran me back. She has some idea of taking me to some friends of hers called Garletta.’

  ‘They are pleasant young people. Perhaps rather too frivolous for you, Mr Bedford.’

  ‘It wouldn’t kill me to frivol tonight away,’ I said. ‘I need some light relief.’

  ‘There was the sad message last night of course. And maybe – other things. If you go to the Garlettas’, you will not be returning here, I think, Mr Bedford? No? I think that is wise. Mr Arnaldos likes you and your work – the present of the painting pleased him very much – and of course he is always very hospitable – but – ’ It was very heavy and dubious, that but.

  ‘All right, Mrs Candamo. We’re friends – so say it. You think I’d be wise to go – um?’

  Obviously embarrassed, Mrs Candamo murmured something about Mr Arnaldos being so old and tired and having so many interests and so many people to see. I looked at her for a moment without saying anything, then found a sketching pad. Without letting her see what I was doing, I drew a wavy line and a figure eight above it, exactly as Mitchell had done in my studio. I couldn’t have explained in a week what made me do this, but there it was.

  ‘All right, Mrs Candamo. So long as there’s any reasonable transport to Lima, I’ll go today, even if Rosalia finds she can’t take me to her friends. But there’s one thing you can tell me, and I promise to keep your answer to myself. Have you ever seen this before?’ And I turned the pad round and pushed it towards her.

  People in stories are always suddenly turning white, though I can’t say I’ve noticed it in real life except when they’re about to throw up. And Mrs Candamo was certainly too dark-skinned to bring it off. Yet I felt she turned white. And there was a sick frightened look in her eyes. I couldn’t have got a bigger reaction if I’d slapped her as hard as I could with that pad.

  ‘Yes, I have seen it before,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Then what does it mean, Mrs Candamo?’

  She looked at me reproachfully, then shook her head. ‘Even if I could give you a proper answer to your question – and I can’t – you know my sense of duty – my honour – would not allow me to do so.’ She had gone almost into slow motion so that what came next surprised me. She snatched the pad and tore off the page I’d shown her and crumpled it tightly in her hand. ‘Mr Bedford, please!’ she began quickly. ‘If you feel you must find somebody – then find him, if you can. But then go back to your painting. And pray to God – every morning, every night – pray to God!’ She might have been a heavy woman but she was out of the room, one fist still clenched tight round that bit of paper, before I could think of anything to say. I never saw her again, never had a chance to say good-bye later because I couldn’t find her, although, as we shall see, I did talk to her just once more. An
d though she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – tell me what I wanted to know, I still include her among my favourite women. Inez Candamo, of Arequipa and then Uramba, widow and secretary – saludo!

  After I’d washed and brushed up, put on a better shirt, a tie and a coat, I went along in search of Rosalia but couldn’t find her. It was about lunch time and I thought I’d earned one quick short drink. A man, wearing a suit that was too thick and too dark, was in the usual bottle corner, helping himself. When I went across and he turned round, I felt he knew he’d seen me before but probably couldn’t remember where. I recognised him at once. It was the chunky Russian who had come into the library at Merlan-Smith’s.

  This time he gave me his name, but it was hardly necessary. I think I’d have offered two to one that his was the second name on Joe’s list – V. Melnikov. As soon as I mentioned Merlan-Smith, he remembered where we’d met before. He seemed less suspicious and cagey here than he’d been there, and soon wore his wide smile. It was wider, a few minutes afterwards, when Rosalia joined us. To give the girl her due, for once she really pleased the eye. She was neat, rosy and smiling, in a kind of bronze suit that probably weighed about as much as a packet of cigarettes. She was very gay, talked to Melnikov in rapid French, and was clearly in favour of all three of us arriving at the lunch table half-stewed. Her grandfather wasn’t joining us, she announced. ‘And Tim,’ she said, ‘as I am taking you with me to the Garlettas this afternoon, my grandfather asks if you will go to his room, as soon as we have had lunch, to say good-bye. Then he wishes to see you, Mr Melnikov.’