Relatively Dangerous

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Were I his senior officer, I would point out that that is not a subject for an official message. Does the information assist you?’

  ‘To be frank, señor, I’m not quite certain. I’ll have to sit back and think about it.’

  ‘Then will you please do that. Have you received a report on the post mortem?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you to point out to the Institute that the matter is of very considerable urgency?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think that that had much effect.’

  ‘You do realize, do you, that it is essential before any real progress can be made in this case to know for certain whether or not we are dealing with a murder?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘Superior Chief Salas asked me this afternoon whether I thought you had yet grasped that fact. I had to reply that it was very difficult, if not impossible, to give a definite opinion.’

  ‘Señor, I have been doing my best.’

  ‘Possibly. Superior Chief Salas further remarked that most regretfully you always seem concerned more with irrelevancies than those matters which are pertinent.’

  ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t seem to understand that I like to get to know as much about the background of all the people in a case as possible.’

  ‘It is very seldom an advantage to undertake a disorganized approach. Concentrate, Inspector; concentrate on the points which matter and ignore those which do not.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  Borne said a distant good night, rang off. Alvarez sighed as he replaced the receiver. Life was so simple for superiors. They demanded information and issued orders and then did not have to concern themselves about the means . . .

  ‘Enrique, are you coming?’ Dolores called out. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  He drained the glass. He thought that he now understood why Reading-Smith had so readily admitted that he’d been conned into buying a second load of shares, when his character suggested his reaction would have been one of angry denial.

  Alvarez rang the Institute of Forensic Pathology at midday and spoke to Professor Fortunato’s secretary.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Inspector, I was just about to get in touch with you to tell you that the post mortem has been completed and it is established—not that, of course, there was ever any real doubt—that actual death was due to injuries received in the crash. There are no obvious signs of poisoning and further and more detailed tests are to be carried out.’

  Alvarez thanked the secretary, then rang the forensic laboratory.

  ‘In the sample listed “Corleon”, the content of all the capsules was correct; in the sample listed “deceased”, the content of two capsules was the poison colchicine.’

  ‘What exactly is that?’

  ‘It’s a vegetable poison which comes from the Meadow Saffron and is a cytotoxin, or cell poison. Each of the capsules contained approximately eight milligrammes of the poison, together with neutral binders, which is generally held to be a less than fatal dose for an adult in good health —not that one can ever be dogmatic on that score.’

  ‘Would it be easy to get hold of the stuff?’

  ‘Nothing easier, if you live somewhere where the plant grows wild. I was on holiday once and saw a field almost carpeted with them. I can remember looking at the colourful picture and wondering just how many people that one field could kill . . . Virtually every part of the plant contains colchicine, although the flowers, seeds, and corms contain the greatest concentration.’

  ‘How soon would it start to work after swallowing?’

  ‘Very difficult to say because that depends on so many variables—how long since the last meal, what did that consist of, how susceptible is the victim . . . But say between three and six hours after ingestion, remembering that any figure can be wrong.’

  ‘What are the symptoms?’

  ‘They’re very similar to those of arsenical poisoning, which is why it’s sometimes called vegetable arsenic. One’s throat and mouth begin to burn and there’s tremendous thirst, but when one goes to drink there’s considerable trouble in swallowing. Pretty soon, one’s suffering violent nausea and vomiting. These symptoms can last as long as twenty-four hours before the really serious ones start— agonizing colics, paralysis of the central nervous system, growing difficulty in breathing. It can take up to another twenty-four hours to die. So if you’ve someone you really dislike, feed him some!’

  ‘I just hope there’s no Meadow Saffron growing round our way.’

  The assistant laughed. I can name another dozen plants just as deadly, or even more so. And actually, it’s got its good side as well as its bad. For quite a time now, tests have been carried out using therapeutic doses in some cases of arthritis and I believe there have been some very encouraging results.’

  ‘I’ll stick to aspirins.’

  ‘Watch it. Take too many of them and you’re in trouble.’

  Alvarez rang off. At last they were certain. Someone had tried to murder Steven Taylor and although he had not died from the poison, his death was directly attributable to it.

  CHAPTER 20

  Alvarez left his car, walked up to the front door of Casa Resta, and knocked. Rosa opened the door. ‘You again!’

  ‘Is the señor in?’

  ‘He and his woman are out for the day on the boat; I had to prepare the picnic lunch for them.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘But you might just catch him if you hurry because they’re not long gone and they were buying some rolls on the way.’

  ‘What’s the name of his boat?’

  ‘It’s something like . . .’ She stopped and thought, frowning heavily. ‘I can’t remember, except it’s an English name. But you can’t mistake which one it is because it’s almost at the end of the breakwater and it’s the biggest there.’

  ‘Sail or motor?’

  ‘Motor, I suppose. I mean, it must be, seeing it’s not got a real mast.’

  He returned to his car and drove down to the village and the port. There was no bay to offer natural protection from heavy seas and winds and so two curving breakwaters had been built; these were wide and they provided moorings on their inboard sides. Rosa had not said whether the boat was tied up to the port or starboard arm, but cars could only drive along the starboard one and this was clearly where the larger boats berthed. Alvarez parked two-thirds of the way along, then walked past several yachts and motor-cruisers of increasing size, a surprising number of which flew the British flag, suggesting to him that despite all their hypocritical claims, the British were no less astute at avoiding their tax claims than the Continentals.

  He approached the largest boat present and the fact that this was Reading-Smith’s was confirmed when a bikini-clad figure came out of the accommodation and walked for’d. If that were really possible, Vera’s costume was even skimpier than the one she had been wearing when he had seen her up at the house.

  There was a small gangplank, rigged with a single set of ropes, and because the stern of the boat rode high it tilted upwards at a steep angle. He stepped on to it, gripped the top rope very tightly with his left hand, and tried not to think about the gap that was opening up either side of his feet. It was absolutely ridiculous, but even now his altophobia was flooding his mind with fear.

  He reached the head of the gangplank and thankfully stepped on to the deck to realize that Reading-Smith was now standing immediately outside the accommodation and had obviously been watching his ascent. Vera, by his side, was giggling.

  ‘I’ll give you a piece of free advice,’ Reading-Smith said boisterously. ‘Don’t think of serving before the mast.’

  He had never done so.

  ‘What’s it this time? And you’d better be bloody quick because we’re sailing in five minutes.’

  ‘I have some more questions.’

  ‘If you got paid by the dozen, you’d be rich. Questions about what?’

  ‘Señor Taylor’s death.’


  k I suppose you want a drink? After your dangerous climb, I’d say it was a bloody necessity!’ He turned and went into the accommodation, followed by Vera.

  The saloon was twenty feet long and almost the width of the boat. Aft, there were several easy chairs and two bulkhead settees, amidships a table and dining chairs, and for’d a small bar, complete with bar stools. Reading-Smith went behind the bar and opened a bottle of champagne; Vera settled on one of the aluminium-legged stools.

  ‘All right, what are the questions?’ Reading-Smith filled a tulip-shaped glass and handed it to Vera.

  ‘First of all, señor, I must tell you that now we know for certain that Señor Taylor was poisoned before the crash. The poison was administered by substituting it for the contents of at least three capsules he was in the habit of taking to counter a threatened migraine. The amount of poison he swallowed was not sufficient to make him so ill he could no longer drive and, despite being very sick, he would not let his companion take the wheel. As a result, and due to a fresh attack of nausea, he misjudged his driving and the car crashed and he was killed. Because the sequence of events stems directly from the giving of the poison, his death was murder.’

  As Reading-Smith passed Alvarez a glass, he said: ‘All very interesting, but what’s it to do with me?’

  ‘It’s now my duty to discover whether it was you who filled the capsules with poison.’

  ‘Why the hell should I have done that?’

  ‘You see yourself as a clever and sharp businessman, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘But Señor Taylor proved that you are neither.’

  ‘Any more compliments?’

  ‘Do be careful,’ murmured Vera.

  He swung round. ‘Why don’t you just shut up?’

  ‘But you can’t talk like that to a policeman . . .’

  ‘On my own boat, I’ll talk how I bloody well like.’

  ‘You must have wanted to murder Señor Taylor,’ said Alvarez, ‘when he made a fool of you for the third time?’

  ‘That’s a bloody lie.’

  ‘Do you remember telling me that you’d never buy shares from anyone other than your stockbroker? Yet you bought a large number of shares from him.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘That he had a golden tongue? Oh, yes, señor, I have understood that from the beginning. But you didn’t—and that surprises me. After all, I am a simple islander while you are a clever and successful businessman and, I’d have thought, far too clever to be caught.’ Alvarez’s tone changed as he set out to goad Reading-Smith. ‘But then I remind myself that the smarter a man believes himself, the easier it is to catch him. Which is why Señor Taylor was able to persuade you to sell him back the shares at a fiftieth of their true value. He could judge exactly how best to persuade you. You’d be so eager to cover up your own stupidity, especially from yourself, that you’d rush to have him buy them back because for you, to be clever is to make money and he was offering you the chance to make some; it would only be later that you’d stop to wonder why he was offering you such a chance. And when you worked out the answer, you must have been very, very angry.’

  Reading-Smith drained his glass, refilled it.

  ‘Bob . . .’ Vera began.

  ‘Clear out.’

  She was frightened by the expression on his face. She slid off the stool and hurried out of the saloon by way of the for’d starboard door.

  Alvarez said: ‘Perhaps the most incredible fact is that you let him make a fool of you a third time!’

  ‘Like bloody hell I did.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Despite everything, he was still able to persuade you to buy more shares from him.’

  ‘You think I bought ‘em because he was still taking me for a sucker?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘You’re so bloody wrong . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  He struggled to contain his anger.

  ‘Señor, were you going to say that you let him sell you more shares not because you were still a fool, but because then he was in your house long enough for you to substitute poison for the contents of some of the capsules in the medicine bottle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had the motive for his murder. Every time you thought about how he’d been laughing at you, you must have hated him a bit more. Someone of your character would have to get his own back.’

  ‘But not by murdering him,’ Reading-Smith shouted.

  ‘To a naturally violent person, that’s the obvious solution.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  He angrily shook his head.

  ‘What alerted you to the fact that he might have a criminal record? His professionalism? You were convinced that only a true professional could have swindled you so easily?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’

  ‘It should matter to you. That is, if you don’t wish to be arrested for murder.’

  ‘I didn’t poison him.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘How the hell can I prove a bloody negative?’

  ‘By telling me the truth.’

  Because the admission would portray himself in so nasty a light, Reading-Smith tried desperately to find a way out of making it, but even through his anger it became obvious that it was his only way of escaping arrest.

  He spoke quickly, his voice thick. Yes, he’d determined to get his own back on the smart bastard—but not by committing murder. He’d hired a private detective in England to find out about Steven Thompson, a professional swindler who’d worked a racket with shares. Eventually, the detective had discovered that Thompson’s real name was Taylor and that he’d had one conviction and was facing a second one when he’d conveniently ‘died’ in a car crash.

  This had given Reading-Smith the handle he’d been seeking. There was now an extradition agreement between Spain and Britain. Unfortunately, it was not retrospective because Spanish law did not permit this and so there could be no extradition for a crime committed before the passing of the act, but the Spaniards had a genius for attaining a desired result by devious means if the direct one proved impossible; they’d introduced a further law which gave the authorities the right to expel any foreigner whose habits were likely to bring the country into disrepute. Under this law, Taylor could be expelled; once expelled, he’d either have to return to the UK and face arrest or move to another country— where the extradition laws would probably catch him. So obviously what was necessary was to provoke Taylor into committing an act which would render him liable to arrest, and extradition (now the act was in force) or to expulsion. It had been quite a problem . . . Until, incredibly, blinded by his own pride, he’d turned up again, offering to sell more shares. The next move became obvious. Buy the shares, prove they were worthless and Taylor must have known they were, introduce the evidence which showed that Taylor was a professional swindler, and the authorities wouldn’t, at the very least, hesitate to expel him. Then warn the British police to keep their eyes open . . .

  ‘And you’d have had the satisfaction of knowing he was spending the next few years in jail,’ said Alvarez contemptuously.

  Alvarez entered the tall, ancient building that was the town hall in Mentaña and spoke to a clerk who referred him to a second man who referred him to a third. The last, having no one else to whom he could reasonably send Alvarez, reluctantly agreed to consult the property books.

  ‘Señor the Honourable Archibald Wheeldon . . .’ He stumbled over the pronunciations. ‘. . . lives in Calle General Castillo Martinez, fifteen.’

  ‘Is that here, in Mentaña?’

  He replied with indignation that everyone knew that Calle General Castillo Martinez was in Mentaña; had not the General been born only two streets away from where they now were? And hadn’t the Caudillo himself said that if only he’d had two more generals with the fire and dash of Castillo, he’d have won the Civil War within six months . . .

  Alvarez left.
The way was not steep, nevertheless by the time he reached the famous road he was breathing very heavily and sweating profusely. He remembered his recent, and second, promise to cut back on eating, drinking, and smoking, and assured himself that tomorrow he really would honour that promise.

  No. 15, one in a long line of terrace houses, of different roof levels, which directly fronted the narrow road, was in obvious need of decoration and at least some light repairs; the paint on the shutters was peeling off and patches of rendering had fallen. He knocked on the front door, since a foreigner lived there, and waited. After a time, the door was opened. ‘Good morning,’ said Wheeldon. Then he hastily corrected his Spanish to, ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon, señor,’ replied Alvarez in English. ‘May I have a word with you?’

  Wheeldon looked perplexed until he identified his caller and then his manner became nervous. ‘Aren’t you the detective chappie who was at Muriel’s . . . that is, at Señora Taylor’s?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ he said with patent insincerity.

  They went through one room, used as a hall, into a second one which was filled with large, heavy, and rather uncomfortable local furniture.

  ‘What can I get you? A cup of coffee? Or is it not too early for a drink?’

  ‘On this island, señor, we have a saying—it can never be too early for a drink, only too late.’

  ‘That’s rather good. I must try and remember it. So what would you like?’

  After he’d served the drinks, Wheeldon sat, then said: ‘Are you busy? I don’t suppose there’s much crime here, of course . . .’

  ‘These days there is, sadly, a growing amount.’

  ‘Bit difficult to understand that. I mean, everyone’s so sleepy . . . Oh! Please don’t misunderstand me. Much of the charm is . . .’ Again, he tailed off into silence, finally aware of the fact that it would be better if he did not try to explain.

  ‘I have received the results of the post mortem on Señor Taylor.’

  ‘Really? Nasty thought. I mean, knowing what they do to the body . . . I was sorry he died in that crash. Cheerful kind of a chap with a fund of amusing stories. Of course, he did have a bit of a history which makes him . . . Not that I knew all about that at the time.’