Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  Camponet put the paper down on the table. ‘I remember that there was one famous tontine in the eighteenth century, organized by an Italian adventurer called Viglianesi. He somehow persuaded eight sober, God-fearing, intelligent, rich men of Ferrara each to invest the modern-day equivalent of twelve million pesetas in an all-or-nothing tontine in which he was given a ninth share. Six of the eight died before anyone became curious and then it was only by mistake, so that really no one should ever have been alerted. They put Viglianesi to the question and in the end he admitted he’d been feeding his victims various poisons, including arsenic. The interesting thing about this tontine was that Viglianesi was known by the eight to be an adventurer, always on the look-out for a fast peseta, and yet they allowed him to persuade them to invest in the tontine and, when they started to die off, didn’t report their suspicions. Why? Obviously because each was hoping to be the last survivor of the eight whereupon he could denounce Viglianesi and scoop the pool. It makes an interesting commentary on the ethics of the rich. I’ve often wondered which of the two finally survived to inherit - history doesn’t relate. No doubt, he burned a candle or two for Viglianesi’s soul.’

  ‘You are a cynic.’

  ‘What waiter isn’t? You can’t watch men, women, and especially children, shovelling food and drink down themselves for day after day and still believe good of your fellow humans . . . Has anything happened to anyone in this tontine?’

  ‘I think that two of the members are now dead.’

  ‘Leaving the third the happy and enriched survivor. You are surely talking about the two English who have recently died, from poisoning so rumour has it? History repeats itself. I trust you will put the survivor to the question.’

  ‘First catch your tiger,’ muttered Alvarez, remembering the recipe for tiger soup. How to identify the third person when so far it had proved impossible to discover the true identity of either Freeman or Mabel Cannon? Would the Banque de Foch now break its code of silence and so help the murder investigation? Was Anson number three? If he wasn’t, then surely he must be innocent? Even if he had cycled to Casa Elba just as it was getting dark on Thursday . . .?

  ‘Enrique, you look like a man with problems.’

  ‘God’s truth, I feel like a cement-mixer is churning round in my head.’

  ‘Then you need another coñac’

  ‘I’d better not drink any more.’

  ‘That’s an admission of defeat.’ Camponet called out to the barman for two more brandies.

  Tonight, Alvarez thought, he had to report to Superior Chief Salas. What did he report? That half an hour ago he had known everything, but that now he knew nothing?

  ‘Throw up your job which causes you such headaches and come and be a waiter at the hotel. I’ll give you the best tables close to the serving hatches and I’ll make certain all the good tippers sit with you. I’ll not even take my usual percentage from your tips. You’ll get rich and yet never have to think again.’

  ‘Very humorous,’ muttered Alvarez.

  ‘Come on, man, where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘I strangled it half an hour ago.’

  Dolores, who stood in the centre of the room, put her hands on her hips. She glared at Alvarez. ‘So! You tell me you just are not hungry.’

  ‘You’re blocking the television,’ complained Ramez.

  She ignored her husband. ‘Perhaps my food is no longer good enough for you, Enrique?’

  ‘It’s not that . . .’ began Alvarez, belatedly realizing that he had upset his cousin.

  She interrupted him loudly. ‘I spend the whole day slaving to prepare the dinner - when I could be sitting around like a grand lady, discussing the fashions in Madrid. Yet when I come to serve the meal, what happens? Tell me, what happens?’

  ‘He said he wasn’t very hungry, that’s all,’ pointed out Ramez.

  She ignored him a second time. ‘You do not want my food. Why not? Is it because I am only an ordinary cook who knows only ordinary Mallorquin food, good enough for your parents, but not for you since you have started mixing with foreigners?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. . .’

  ‘Fool that I was to waste so much of my time preparing a sopa Mallorquinas!’

  ‘Not one of your very special, so delicious soups?’ asked Alvarez, suddenly crafty.

  ‘All my soups are special and delicious,’ she retorted, with grand arrogance.

  ‘Dead true. There’s no one alive who can make a sopa Mallorquinas like you.’

  ‘And tell me why I spent so much time at the butcher’s choosing the pork chops when a piece of bad belly would have been sufficient?’

  ‘You haven’t prepared an ali-oli to go with the chops, have you?’

  ‘Since when have I served pork chops without ali-oli? And tumbet?’

  ‘Not tumbet as well?’

  ‘Do you think I was prepared to have you starve? And then for hours I worked to make pastry as light as a puff of wind so that I could fill it with angel’s hair jam because I was fool enough to want to give you a meal you would enjoy.’

  ‘Have you made two for me?’

  ‘Name the day when I have made only one!.. . But all is wasted. We will give the food to someone who is hungry.’ She ran the palm of her hand over her jet black hair in a gesture of offended pride and then stamped out of the sitting-room to go to the kitchen.

  Alvarez stood up and crossed to the low sideboard, where he poured out brandies for Ramez and himself.

  ‘She’s spitting tacks because the next-door neighbour’s just bought a flashy vacuum cleaner and I’ve refused to get her one. I tried to tell her they’re a waste of money and brush and dustpan’s good enough for anyone, but you know women!’ Ramez shrugged his shoulders. ‘I must say, though, you look worn out. Are things tough at work?’

  Alvarez returned to his chair. ‘If they get any tougher, they’ll be carrying me out feet first. I tell you, I even missed out on a siesta today.’

  Ramez stared at him in amazement.

  ‘It’s the English. They’re always the same. Foul up anything. If a Mallorquin gets killed, it’s straightforward; if an Englishman gets killed, he makes certain he goes out like a corkscrew.’

  ‘You sound really worried.’

  ‘Look, Jaime, I’d got the whole thing worked out and then the English señorita gets herself killed and I had to start all over again. So I beat my brains out and discover who killed her. And what happens next?’

  ‘Another corkscrew?’

  ‘Another bloody corkscrew. And now I’ve got to find someone whose name I don’t know, whose description I haven’t got, who may live anywhere this side of hell, and who killed the other two for well over twenty-five million pesetas.’

  Ramez whistled. ‘Twenty-five million! Who wouldn’t knock off a couple of people for that much?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing. If I had the chance I’d bump off all the English for nothing.’

  Dolores came into the sitting-room and stared at Alvarez. ‘You’ve room for litres of coñac, then, even if you’ve no room for my cooking?’

  He stood up, crossed the floor, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘When you started talking about the food you’ve been cooking, my appetite came back like a bomb. Right now, I’m starving.’

  As they stood on the harbour arm, the light breeze just ruffling their hair, Caroline looked at Anson. He had the face of a man who would always be over-ready to fight, she thought. He’d square up long before there was any need. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong, Teddy.’

  ‘Like hell I am.’ He studied the yacht moored opposite to them. She was a racing job, with tear-drop hull, tall mast, a cockpit filled with large dial instruments, and coffee-grinder winches. She’d beat up to wind, with the sea boiling over her lee, like a bird in flight. At sea life might be hard, but it was always straightforward.

  The sun was low and about to dip behind the mountains on the far side of the bay and in the slanted sunshine the set of his m
outh looked even more stubborn. Would he go so far as to fight with murder . . . She shivered, hating herself for ever having posed the question.

  ‘He all but accused me of murdering Mabel,’ said Anson.

  ‘I wonder if he really meant it as you’ve taken it? He’s seemed so nice when I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Sure. And a boa-constrictor looks all cuddly until it comes up and cuddles you a little too tightly.’

  ‘Teddy, why didn’t you tell him you’d been to see Mabel? Why did you want me to lie about it?’

  ‘If he knew for sure I’d been to her place on Thursday, I’d be for the high jump, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t, since you didn’t do anything.’ She managed, for once, to keep her doubts out of her voice. ‘And surely it’s worse now when he seems to be so suspicious for some reason?’

  ‘I don’t care how suspicious he gets so long as he can’t prove anything. Carrie, I’ve told you time after time, the world doesn’t always smell of violets. Most times, it smells like a midden. If you’d told him you’d been to see Mabel, he’d have thought nothing of it. But if I’d admitted I had been, he’d have slammed the handcuffs on.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s not like that. He’s the kind of man who would never do anything nasty unless he absolutely had to because he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘He was gunning for me in no small way. If I’d given him half a chance more, I’d have had my chips.’

  ‘Why should he be gunning for you?’

  ‘How in the hell should I know? I just know he is.’

  Alvarez turned over in bed and told himself to relax so that he could get to sleep. But the same old questions came flooding back into his mind. Who were Freeman and Mabel Cannon? Assuming they had been in the tontine, where had the money come from, who was the third member? Anson? But if he were, he’d either not need a partnership in the boatyard or else he’d buy it without any trouble. Would the Swiss bank identify whoever it was? If the third person weren’t identified very quickly, he was going to vanish along with a fortune . . . God damn the English, he thought, and finally fell asleep.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Anson was re-caulking the deck of a converted Grimsby trawler when he heard someone walk up the flimsy gangway which vibrated and set up a knocking noise. He looked round and saw Alvarez. His expression became bitter.

  Alvarez, who hated the sea and could almost feel seasick on a boat tied up, walked round the high, thin wheel-house. ‘Good morning, señor. I went to your house to see you, but the señora told me you were working, even though it is a Sunday.’

  Anson put down the caulking hammer. ‘If I don’t work when work’s going, I starve. What about you?’

  ‘I don’t exactly starve, but I do have to explain to my senior who is a man not very inclined to listen.’

  ‘And you’re working now?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  Anson heaped up the loose oakum and stuffed it into a sack. ‘Working at what? Putting the finger on me?’

  ‘I wish merely to ask a few questions, to look at your passport, and then to drive you to meet two persons.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You will learn that later on.’

  They got you by the short and curlies, thought Anson with bitter anger. In England, as often as not, you could tell them to take a running jump: in Spain, you did exactly as they said or you got the book thrown at you.

  ‘Is there a room on this boat where we can sit and talk?’

  ‘I suppose you mean a cabin?’ As he spoke, Anson knew he was being stupid to go out of his way to antagonize the detective.

  ‘I am afraid, señor, I often speak English badly.’

  One of the Parelona ferries moved out of her night berth to sail round to the far side of the western arm where she would take on passengers. The deck hand who was aft shouted a greeting at Anson and he waved a brief acknowledgement.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs?’ suggested Alvarez.

  ‘You mean below,’ corrected Anson, before it occurred to him that this time the mistake had been deliberate.

  A companionway led below to the saloon, which was large, with four ports on either side, bench seats, two moveable chairs which could be lashed down to the deck, a central table, and built-in cupboards.

  Alvarez sat down, brought out a pack of cigarettes, and offered it. Anson hesitated, then finally took one. ‘Sit down, señor.’ He struck a match for both of them. ‘Am I correct that you did not visit Señorita Cannon on Thursday?’

  ‘I didn’t go near her place,’ answered Anson harshly.

  ‘Do you know anything about her financial affairs?’

  ‘I know nothing at all about her.’

  ‘Would you think she was very rich?’

  ‘If she was, she didn’t spend it on herself. But she obviously wasn’t poor or she couldn’t have made that offer to me.’

  ‘Shall I surprise you if I say she was very rich, with a lot of money in the bank?’

  ‘You’ll surprise me.’

  ‘Do you know who is her heir?’

  ‘Probably some cats’ home in Brighton.’

  ‘Her will, written in Spanish, was in the desk in the sitting-room of her house. Did you not read it there?’

  ‘I’m no bloody snooper.’

  ‘Do you say you do not know who she has left her money to?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been saying for the past five minutes.’

  ‘Where is your passport and residencia?’

  ‘My passport’s at the house.’

  ‘And your residencia?’

  Anson hesitated, then muttered: ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘But I believe you have been in Spain since more than nine months?’

  ‘What if I have?’

  ‘Then you should have a residencia, señor. If you have no residencia, you can have no work permit. But to do work on this boat which is not yours, you need one.’

  ‘All right. But I’m not the only person round this Port who’s missed out on getting one.’

  ‘Perhaps that is true, but you are the only person who I know for sure is working without a permit.’ Alvarez was gratified to see the look of perplexed annoyance on Anson’s face. ‘When did you leave England?’

  ‘A few years ago: something like five.’

  ‘Where did you live and what name did you use when you were last in England?’

  ‘What are you getting at now?’

  ‘Just answer my questions.’

  ‘I lived in Rexton Cross and surprise, surprise, I called myself Edward Anson. But I suppose I’d better confess to a criminal record. When I was at school I scrumped apples and one day I broke three windows in the school with my catapult and, real sneaky, never owned up.’

  ‘Such a criminal record, señor, will be looked at kindly.’

  Anson stood up and crossed the saloon to the galley which lay immediately aft and from there he brought an old tin in which he stubbed out his cigarette. He supposed he was being mocked, yet the detective’s manner remained so solemn and correct that he couldn’t be certain.

  ‘If someone were to ask in the village of Rexton Cross about the young señor who stole apples and broke windows, what do you think he would be told?’

  ‘Probably that when I left after my mother died it was good riddance to bloody bad rubbish.’

  ‘But people would remember you?’

  ‘They’d likely do that all right.’

  Anson, thought Alvarez, sounded as if he were speaking the truth, which meant he had an identifiable past in England, unlike Freeman or Mable Cannon. ‘Señor, will you now please come with me in my car?’

  ‘Whereto?’

  ‘To meet Señor Hevia who works in the Llueso urbanizacion looking after the land which is not yet built on and the gardens which are for everyone.’

  ‘Where’s the point in me meeting him?’

  ‘He saw a man on a bicycle visit Señorita Cannon on Thurs
day and he will be able to identify him. When he meets you he will be able to say it was not you - since you tell me this - and so I do not have to worry again.’

  ‘It was too dark for him to see clearly.’

  ‘But surely you cannot know how dark or light it was since I have not told you the time?’

  Anson cursed himself for so rudimentary a mistake.

  ‘Shall we go, señor?’

  Anson bunched his fists and sat very upright. Then he relaxed, stood up, picked up the tin in which he’d stubbed out the cigarette, and said: ‘I’ll have to clear the deck before I leave.’

  Alvarez left the saloon first. He went ashore and along to his parked car and sat behind the wheel. Surely, Anson was a fighter, the kind of man who sought out trouble with his fists, not poison?

  They stopped outside Anson’s house and Anson went in to get his passport. Alvarez examined it. The number was not consecutive with those of Freeman and Mabel Cannon. He wrote this down, together with the details, then handed the passport back.

  They drove up the main road to the new football ground and there turned right to carry on to Ca’n Ritat. Alvarez parked level with the courtyard and as he climbed out of the car the dog came forward to the limit of its chain, barking and wagging its tail.

  ‘Why’ve we come to this place?’ asked Anson. ‘You said we were going to the urbanization.’

  ‘I wish to speak to the señora who used to cook for Señor Freeman.’

  ‘This is Freeman’s place?’

  ‘You did not know that?’

  ‘D’you think he invited the likes of me?’

  ‘You might have arrived uninvited.’ Alvarez climbed out of the car. He waited until Anson was out, then said: ‘Wait here, I will not be long.’ He crossed to the courtyard, patted the dog a couple of times on its head, then carried on to the kitchen. The door was opened by Matilde who was smiling and gay, the reason for her gaiety becoming obvious when she introduced him to her husband who had arrived in Palma that morning on the ferry from Barcelona.

  Blanco was not wearing black, nor was she, so Alvarez asked: ‘Your brother is better?’

  ‘Thanks to God and a miracle, señor, he is now out of danger. The doctor says he will get better and better and by the time of The Three Kings he will be quite fit once again.’