Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘That’s wonderful news! Tell me, how was Barcelona?’

  ‘How is any city? Too many people, too much traffic, too little air to breathe.’

  ‘You old stick-in-the-mud,’ Matilde said, making the word ‘old’ one of endearment. ‘Didn’t you enjoy all the shops and the cinemas?’

  He dismissed them with a quick shrug of his shoulders. He looked at Alvarez with a sudden uneasiness, drew in a deep breath, and said: ‘Matilde tells me the señor died from eating a llargsomi?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You must understand, señor, it was not among the esclatasangs. Lopez could not pick a llargsomi and Matilde could not cook one if he did. No one born on this island could ever pick or cook a llargsomi instead of an esclatasang if he thinks what he is doing.’

  They stared at him, Blanco with timid challenge, Matilde worrying that he would take umbrage at her husband’s attitude. After a short while he said: ‘The llargsomi had to come from somewhere. So perhaps someone entered the kitchen during the evening - when the dog was barking so - and put the llargsomi among the esclatasangs when your wife was out.’

  ‘Why should someone wish to kill the señor?’

  ‘For his money, perhaps.’

  ‘He was certainly a rich man.’

  ‘Look, will you both do something for me that’ll help? Go over and look through that window at the bloke who’s by my car. Tell me if you’ve ever seen him around here before,’

  Matilde looked at her husband as she instinctively waited for him to take the lead. After a moment he walked over to the window and she joined him there and together they stared out at Anson.

  Alvarez waited, not surprised when they took a long time to decide. ‘No,’ said Blanco finally. ‘We’ve not clapped eyes on him here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she confirmed. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  Alvarez sighed. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s not only the good Lord who works in riddles . . . Is Orozco here today as it’s a Sunday?’

  ‘No, señor. He never comes on a Sunday.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he lives, then, so I can go and have a word with him?’

  ‘In Calle Binissalem, but I don’t know what number,’ replied Blanco.

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll soon find out. Thanks a lot for all your help.’

  ‘Señor,’ said Blanco, his voice urgent, ‘there can’t have been a llargsomi among the esclatasangs when Matilde took them from Lopez. You have to understand there just can’t have been.’

  Alvarez nodded. ‘I understand that. But I also understand that there was one among them when Señor Freeman cooked his supper.’

  She reached out and gripped her husband’s hand. ‘But . . . but who would do such a thing? It is such a terrible way to die.’

  They stared at him, bewildered and afraid.

  When he returned to the car, Anson said: ‘I was beginning to think you were stopping here for lunch.’

  ‘Unfortunately, señor, it often takes time to check up on things.’ Alvarez climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove off as soon as Anson had secured the seat-belt around himself. It would have been so much simpler, Alvarez thought regretfully, if either Blanco or his wife had said yes, they’d seen the Englishman at the house and there’d been a devil of a row between him and the señor.

  Calle Binissalem was a short, rising street which joined two of the main east to west roads which ran into Llueso from the east. The houses were small and pressed tightly together, yet all the doors, windows, and shutters, were either newly painted or oiled and although it was clearly a street where the poorer people lived, there was no hint of poverty along its length.

  Two boys who were playing football in the road told Alvarez where Orozco lived and he parked just beyond the front door. He told Anson to wait, promising that this time it would be only for a moment, and left the car. He stepped into the entrance hall, which was also the living-room, and called out.

  Orozco came out of the back room. He was wearing a tattered pair of trousers and a torn shirt which was unbuttoned to show a thick vest underneath. He had not shaved and his stubble was dark. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded surlily.

  ‘A bit of help.’

  He stared at Alvarez. ‘Who told you where I live?’

  ‘Luis Blanco.’

  ‘Then he’s back?’

  ‘He came over on the night ferry. He says his brother is on the mend and should be fit by The Three Kings.’

  Orozco walked over to the table on which stood an aspidistra in a brass pot and he picked up a pack of cigarettes which he offered. ‘You smoke?’ When Alvarez had taken a cigarette, he said: ‘D’you want a coñac?’

  ‘I’d not say no.’

  ‘You’ve the look of a man who wouldn’t know how.’ He returned to the far room and when he reappeared he had two large glasses, three parts filled with brandy.

  Alvarez drank. ‘There’s nothing like a coñac to put fresh life into a bloke.’

  ‘You reckon you need some fresh life?’

  ‘I need something and that’s fact.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘I mustn’t be long. I’ve an Englishman in the car and he’ll be getting impatient if I don’t go out soon.’

  ‘They’re born impatient.’

  ‘Was that how Señor Freeman was?’

  ‘Him? Plant a seed today and he’d want to harvest it tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe he was used to English seeds.’

  Orozco suddenly grinned.

  Alvarez drained his glass. ‘Come outside and have a look at the bloke in my car and tell me if you’ve ever seen him hanging around Ca’n Ritat.’

  They went out. The two boys who were playing football shouted that the enemy was in sight and they must scatter. Orozco waved his arms at them and one of them grabbed the ball and ran back a few yards, followed by the other, both laughing. ‘Are you always the enemy?’ asked Alvarez curiously.

  ‘I fought for the other side, didn’t I? Their parents have taught ‘em to shoot me at sight.’

  He spoke as if it were a matter of no consequence, yet Alvarez wondered if at heart he mustn’t be saddened by the fact that not even forty years had been long enough to wash away the odium of having fought for the losing side.

  Orozco stood in the road - there was no pavement - and stared at Anson in the car. Anson stared back at him through the windscreen.

  ‘Never clapped eyes on him before,’ said Orozco.

  ‘OK. Thanks for the drink and smoke.’

  Orozco stared once more at Anson, then turned and went back into the house. The two boys cheered. Alvarez climbed into the car.

  ‘So who in the hell was that?’ demanded Anson.

  ‘The gardener at Ca’n Ritat. I wondered if he’d ever seen you around. He hadn’t.’

  ‘So now you’re satisfied?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Alvarez turned left at the bottom of the street into the one-way road which led out to the bridge over the torrente and the Puerto road. They reached the urbanizacion and drove along the slip road to Casa Elba, outside where Hevia was waiting for them.

  As they stopped, Alvarez said: ‘Get out and stand in front of the car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Señor Hevia saw the person on a bicycle who came to visit the señorita on Thursday. When he tells me that that person could not possibly have been you, then finally I can be certain you did not come here on Thursday.’

  Anson tried to appear to be as carelessly confident as before, but he could not hide all the signs of sudden tension. He opened the passenger door and climbed out on to the drive and stared challengingly at Hevia, but jammed his hands into his pockets to keep them out of sight in case they began to shake.

  Alvarez walked over to Hevia. ‘You saw a man coming to this place on Thursday on a bicycle. Was this the bloke?’

  Hevia stepped forward to study Anson at no more than a couple of metres distance. After a while, he said: �
�That’s him.’

  ‘Before, you couldn’t describe him clearly, yet now you’re quite certain?’

  ‘I ain’t good at describing, but I’m good at recognizing.’

  ‘If it is dark. . .’ began Anson in Spanish, muddling up the tense.

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Alvarez.

  ‘There ain’t no doubt,’ said Hevia. ‘D’you reckon he’s the bloke what . . .’

  ‘Thanks for your help. You can get off home now,’

  Annoyed by this curt dismissal, since he was a man who prided himself on knowing about everything that went on in the urbanizacion, Hevia walked over to his Mobylette. He sat on it, pedalled to start the engine, then pushed it off the stand and drove away.

  ‘We will go into the house,’ said Alvarez. He led the way along to the front door, unlocked this, and went inside. He opened the shutters and left the windows open since the day was warm and the house needed airing.

  Anson, who stood in front of the fireplace, said loudly: ‘He was wrong. I don’t give a damn what he says, I never came near the place on Thursday . . .’

  ‘Señor, one moment before you complicate everything still more.’ Alvarez sat down in one of the battered armchairs. He rested his elbows on the arms and his chin on his clasped hands. ‘Until now, I could not be certain. Perhaps it was you who was on the bicycle, perhaps it was not. But now I know it was you.’

  ‘Because that old fool says it was? When it was almost dark. You yourself told him just now that he couldn’t describe me. So just how good is this sudden memory? No bloody good at all. But you’re gunning for me and you’re jumping to take anybody’s word if it puts me in the dirt.’

  ‘Señor, all I am concerned with is the truth,’ said Alvarez, with a shade too much emphasis. ‘Señor Hevia is certain it was you on the bicycle once he sees you again. I became even more certain when I remember Señorita Durrel has said you did not see Señorita Cannon again after Wednesday.’

  ‘In the name of hell, if she says I didn’t see her again, how can that begin to make you so sure?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the señorita is not good at lying because she is too honest. So when she lies it is obvious and she was lying when she told me that. I now know for certain that you saw Señorita Cannon here on Thursday.’

  Anson, his square chin thrust forward, opened his mouth to argue further, then accepted the futility of this and closed it. He stamped over to the french windows, turned his back on the room, and stared out. The minutes passed and finally he said, so loudly he was almost shouting: ‘All right, it was me on that bike.’

  ‘Then why have you denied this until now?’

  ‘Isn’t that too bloody obvious for words? I’m hard pressed to find two pesetas to rub together, I haven’t got a residencia or a work permit, and most of the English out here reckon I’m the kind of bloke who lost ‘em their empire. I’m a sitting patsy for trouble.’

  ‘But you are in very great trouble when you are discovered to be lying.’

  ‘I took a gamble.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I wasn’t born lucky, so I lost.’ He swung round. ‘Get this straight, though. I didn’t poison the old girl and you’re not hanging her death on me even if you’d like fine to do so.’

  Alvarez spoke with immense dignity. ‘I am a policeman and with no wish other than to discover the truth.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. What’s the matter? I’m poor, I don’t wear decent clothes, my uncle wasn’t a duke, and I didn’t go to some pansy school, so I’m a slummy who ought to be slung off the island!’

  ‘Señor, in Spain such things are of no account. It is only the person and how he behaves which is important and it is insulting to suggest otherwise.’

  The threat was unspoken, yet clear. Anson mumbled an apology and then went over to the second armchair and slumped down in it. Now his anger was shot, he cursed himself for a fool for being so ill-advised as to antagonize the detective after having to admit he had lied.

  ‘What happened when you came to this house?’

  ‘I told Mabel I must have a word with her.’ Anson was silent for a while as his memory took him back. His expression became bitter. ‘As soon as I was inside I realized I’d made the mistake of the year in not taking Carrie’s advice and staying away. Mabel was twice as bitchy as usual. Went for me all ends up before I’d hardly said a word. Told me I’d pulled the wool over Carrie’s eyes, but hadn’t pulled it over hers. D’you know something?’ His voice expressed his own incredulity. ‘Instead of telling her to drop dead, I tried to explain everything, to tell her the strength of my ambition, to promise that if I could have the chance to realize that ambition I’d work myself into the ground.’

  ‘She couldn’t understand a vision?’ said Alvarez.

  ‘Didn’t want to.’

  ‘And then?’

  Anson fiddled with one of his sideburns. ‘She really took off. Shouted she wouldn’t lend a single peseta to a boat-bum who was only any good at living off other people.’

  ‘How did you react to that?’

  ‘I was never good at turning the other cheek. Trouble is, I haven’t any party manners because I crawled out from under the bottom drawer . . . I told her a few home truths.’

  ‘And she did what?’

  ‘Slung a paperweight at me.’

  Surprised, Alvarez suddenly remembered how she had thrown a table at him. ‘Did she hit you?’

  ‘Missed by feet, thank God, or she’d have brained me.’

  ‘Where did this paperweight hit?’

  ‘The wall over there. Like as not you can still see the mark.’

  Alvarez stood up and crossed to the wall to examine it.

  ‘More to the right.’

  He found the point of impact, marked by an indentation in the plaster from which radiated a number of small cracks. ‘It must have hit very hard. As you said, it was a good job that she missed you. After she had thrown this paperweight, did you leave?’

  ‘What the hell do you think? It might have been something bigger the next time.’

  ‘And, of course, you no longer had the chance of borrowing the money you so needed?’

  ‘My middle name has always been tactless.’

  ‘You seem to speak as if all this did not matter. But afterwards you must have been very sad it happened?’

  ‘Being sad didn’t alter anything, did it?’

  ‘No, señor. But perhaps you were sad enough to think very hard and you decided that there was one thing which could still help you?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Señorita Cannon’s death.’

  ‘How could her death alter the fact that I wasn’t going to get a single peseta out of her?’

  ‘Not out of her, no, but perhaps out of Señorita Durrel since she was named heir in the will which was in that desk over there and which you read.’

  ‘I’m no snooper. And d’you bloody think I’d drag Carrie into it. . .’ Anson came to his feet, fists clenched.

  Alvarez spoke calmly. ‘Señor, remember that in this country it is a serious crime to hit a policeman.’

  Anson slowly lowered his hands. ‘Don’t worry,’ he sneered, ‘I never hit old men.’

  Alvarez very nearly stood up and hit him.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Telex message from England was received at eleven forty-seven on Monday morning.

  Reference Freeman and Cannon. Latest enquiries suggest Freeman was born Geoffrey Castle and Cannon, Mabel Striggs. Castle and Striggs worked H. G. Hoffman & Sons, Castle as firm’s accountant and Striggs in computer division. Misinformation fed into computer four years nine months ago resulted in bogus payments made of total £232,762. Striggs under suspicion when she, Castle, and Brent vanished. Castle deserted wife and two children. Enquiries failed to trace them, though believed on Continent. Charles Brent: aged 23, height 1 metre 75, dark brown hair worn long and curled, full beard and moustache, face oval, eyes light blue and regular, eyebrows arched and prominent, nose tr
iangular, mouth small, lips full, dentures, chin weak with cleft, ears slightly bat-wing and pointed with long lobes, body thin, shoulders rounded, fingers long and thin, prints and photograph available. Please send photographs and prints Freeman and Cannon. Advise if any information Brent.

  Alvarez phoned the local branch of the Caja de Ahorros y Monte de Piedad de Las Baleares and asked them to tell him the exchange rate between the pound and the Swiss franc four years nine months previously. There was a short wait before he was given the answer. He multiplied 232,000 by 6.5 and the answer was just over a million and a half. The pound had depreciated, Freeman and Mabel Cannon had bought houses . . . Their passports, both forged, bore consecutive numbers, they had arrived together, nothing was known about their past and no friends from England were known to have visited them . . . Fingerprints would confirm, but at this stage Alvarez had no doubt that their true identities were now known. He visualized the awkward, foolish Mabel Striggs, infatuated with Castle, gradually being seduced into the crime. And the younger Brent, probably cocksure, seduced not by love but by fortune . . .

  Anson did not fit the description of Brent. Either Brent had murdered Freeman and Mabel Cannon (it was easier to think of them by the names they had had locally) to gain the tontine or Anson had murdered Mabel Cannon because she had left all her money to Caroline . . . How could Brent have visited Ca’n Ritat, as surely he must have done, and discovered not only the routine of the house but also that Freeman liked esclatasangs, without the Blancos learning about the visit? If Anson had murdered Mabel Cannon it must be presumed he had read the will naming Caroline sole heir once Freeman was dead, but wouldn’t he also have read, with the aid of a dictionary if necessary, the document setting out the tontine, and wouldn’t he then have realized that when Mabel was dead she was no longer rich because the third man took all . . .?

  Mother of God, he thought, the ordinary brain was not made for such complications. He poured himself out a brandy.

  Obviously, the most likely course of events was that Brent had murdered both victims in pursuit of the tontine. So, somehow he had been clever enough to avoid being seen by either the Blancos or Orozco. Difficult, yet certainly not impossible.