Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  If Brent were the murderer, Anson was innocent. And yet he, Enrique Alvarez, had pursued Anson with a vindictiveness which at the time he had told himself was motivated by the desire to see justice done, but which now could be seen as motivated solely by jealousy. The pathetic jealousy of a middle-aged, soon-to-be-pot-bellied, peasant.

  One thing now had to be done (it could not salve his pride - nothing could - but it would bring an end to the sorry events). He must find Brent and unmask him as the murderer. If Brent had settled in Spain, it would be possible to track him down quickly by assuming that his entry date (given when he applied for a residencia) would have been roughly the same as that of Freeman and Mabel Gannon. The fingerprints of his two index fingers would be on record and these could be compared with the prints from England. If he had settled in some other part of Europe, it should still be possible though it might take longer. Only if he had settled outside Europe . . . But as Freeman and Mabel Cannon’s passports had had consecutive numbers, wasn’t it likely that Brent’s either followed or preceded theirs, since all three would have been procured at the same time?

  Tuesday was a miserable day. There was no rain, yet the clouds stretched from horizon to horizon and were a dirty, unwashed colour, becoming black over the mountains. The bay, so brilliantly blue in sunshine, was a tired green. The mountains which ringed the bay were dark, dismal grey.

  Alvarez stood on the curving western arm of the harbour and stared at the yachts and motor-boats. For him, they epitomized the luxury of life he would never experience - a cynic would have said that for this he should be thankful in view of his susceptibility to seasickness.

  ‘That one is for sale,’ said Mena, who unheard had walked up to where he stood. ‘She will cost you only twelve million pesetas if you bargain a little and in her you can sail from end to end of the Mediterranean. Or if you long to feel the blast of ocean winds, to cross the Atlantic and the Pacific’

  Alvarez turned and faced Mena, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable in a dark suite ‘If I had twelve million, I’d buy many cuarteradas of land and grow oranges, lemons, figs, almonds, algarrobas, ^xoil, barley, wheat, oats, beans, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, cauliflowers, peppers, aubergines . . .’ He became silent.

  ‘Dreams!’ said Mena. ‘They keep a man alive . . . Shall I tell you the one truth I have learned in sixty-one years?’

  ‘No. I’m feeling dismal already.’

  ‘If a man gains his dreams, his life becomes worthless.’

  ‘I’ll just go off and cut my throat.’

  ‘Wait a little . . . D’you know what the owner of that yacht does with his life?’

  ‘If he’s English, he chases either little boys or big girls.’

  ‘He is English and he drinks himself to death. So his beautiful yacht lies there, week after week, bare-poled, halyards fraying, riding nothing bigger than the harbour waves. I can feel her slowly dying from boredom because a man realized all his dreams and his life became worthless.’

  ‘You’ve been boozing.’

  ‘My niece gets married this afternoon and so she is weeping, my sister-in-law is weeping, and my wife is weeping. A man needs a sou’wester and oilskins to remain in the house. Come and have a drink with me now.’

  ‘You’d better not get any more plastered or Lucia will give you absolute hell.’

  ‘How true . . . I often give thanks to God that I did not marry my wife’s sister which I once considered . . . Though I’ve never mentioned that fact to Maria . . . Come on, Enrique, let’s drink to the poor man who is marrying into such a watery family.’

  They went through the main gateway and into Mena’s office. Mena brought out of a cupboard a bottle of Carlos I brandy. ‘You’re still doing yourself all right, then,’ said Alvarez.

  Mena filled two large tumblers. ‘If a man owns a beautiful yacht which never sails the seas, he should be made to pay for being such a fool.’

  Alvarez sipped the brandy and wished that he owned a boatyard which had stupid, rich foreigners as customers.

  ‘I have something important to tell you, Enrique.’ Mena leaned back in his chair. ‘Soon, I shall have a partner and we will expand and build yachts for people who are not stupid.’

  ‘Is the Englishman, Anson, definitely joining you, then?’

  ‘He came to me this morning and said that now everything was certain and he will be lent the million and a half. It will take a little time, but it will be.’ Mena suddenly looked sharply at Alvarez. ‘Do you think it is that sure?’

  ‘It’s no good asking me. I don’t know anything about anything these days.’

  ‘I hope it is so. With him, we will build the most beautiful yachts in the world.’

  ‘And sail away to the Atlantic and the Pacific?’

  ‘Not me. Maria does not like to sail and I have become too old to go on my own.’

  ‘You’ll be rich, so find a couple of young blondes for company.’

  ‘At our age, Enrique, a young blonde does one no good.’

  ‘Here, speak for yourself, old man.’

  ‘Now I know that it is not cabbages and cauliflowers that you truly dream about.’

  Alvarez emptied his glass and passed it over. ‘Give me another or I’ll start weeping even more than Maria and Lucia.’

  ‘I went and saw Ramon,’ said Anson.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Caroline excitedly.

  He stood up and began to pace the length of Bertha Jarmine’s sitting-room. ‘Being a Mallorquin, he tried to start talking about interest if the money wasn’t paid right away, but he’s a decent old stick at heart and he was in a sentimental mood because his niece is getting married so in the end he said OK.’

  ‘Then you’re a partner! Oh, Teddy, isn’t it wonderful! I told you from the beginning your name would be going up outside the yard, didn’t I?’

  He stopped and faced her. ‘I still hate the thought of taking the money from you.’

  ‘But we’ve been all over that. I’m not going to give it to you, it’ll be a loan, drawn up by a solicitor because that’s what you want. It’s a straight business deal.’

  Her enthusiasm and vulnerable beauty raised a lump in his throat. ‘When I’ve paid you back, Carrie, and we’re building yachts for oil sheiks . . .’ He stopped as Bertha came into the room and his expression was momentarily angry.

  ‘D’you want a drink, Teddy?’ Bertha asked. She was dressed in a see-through blouse and very tight pink trousers: only she could have worn such clothes without appearing completely vulgar.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to the Port.’

  ‘Are you starting as a partner right away?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘In name only.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Ramon made that absolutely clear. No share of profits until the last peseta is paid in - until then I work for as small a wage as he dares offer.’

  ‘I’ve already asked the solicitor to be as quick as possible.’

  ‘But it’s bound to take time.’

  ‘You can borrow . . .’

  ‘I’m not borrowing another peseta.’ He crossed the room to the door. ‘Be seeing you, Carrie. So long. Bertha.’ He left.

  Bertha walked over to the cocktail cabinet. ‘Your usual?’ Caroline nodded and she poured out a sweet vermouth and a gin and tonic. ‘Carrie, I’m going to say something because I’ve a big mouth and I’ve had four husbands, which makes me an authority on bastards. Teddy could be trouble.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why does everyone go on and on slandering him? Why don’t you like him?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never said I dislike him. He’s a great big hunk of he-man and I could get goose-pimply wondering just how much of a man he could be. But I’m old and seasoned and know how to look after myself. You don’t. And I’d hate like hell for you to get hurt.’ She envied Caroline because Caroline was young and still knew ideals, yet for once her envy raised only a desire to protect, not sharp jealousy.

  ‘What on earth d
’you think can happen to me?’

  ‘He can hit you very hard financially.’

  ‘No. I can trust him absolutely.’

  Bertha brought over the drinks. She handed one glass to Caroline, then went to a chair and sat down. ‘Money comes too hard to take any risks and it’s a girl’s lifeline, even if diamonds are her best friend. So if you do get anything much from Mabel’s will, for God’s sake hang on to every penny. After all, if the partnership in the boatyard were such a good proposition, wouldn’t the banks have lent him the money?’

  ‘He’s no security to offer.’

  ‘And they reckon he’s a bad risk without security?’

  ‘I don’t care what they reckon. I just know that he himself is security enough for ten times what I’m lending him.’

  Bertha signed. ‘All right, so you’ve made up your mind. But have you also thought how hard he can hurt you emotionally? Carrie, true knights in shining armour are becoming mighty thin on the ground: most of ‘em are false and their armour’s made of tin.’

  ‘They’re around if you’re prepared to see them.’

  ‘How much do you really like him?’

  ‘A lot,’ answered Caroline proudly.

  Bertha drank, knowing she was defeated.

  On Thursday morning, the corporal stepped inside the Club Llueso and checked the bar. When he saw Alvarez, he laughed loudly. ‘I offered two to one you’d be here.’

  ‘So you’ve made a fortune?’

  ‘Give over. D’you think anyone would bet against a cert? I think I’ll just have a coffee and a coñac.’

  He went over to the bar to order. He returned to the table after being handed the brandy and sat opposite Alvarez. ‘There’s a message for you come through from the Peninsula. It seems pretty urgent.’

  ‘Any idea what its gist is?’

  ‘You’ve asked for enquiries to be made about a bloke. They’ve turned him up under a different name.’

  ‘Where abouts is he?’

  ‘Cala San Pedro. No one I asked knew the place so I looked it up on the map. It’s roughly half-way along Rosas Bay and looks pretty small.’

  ‘Do they give any details about the bloke?’ ‘Nothing except to say that the dabs are his and that the name he’s using now is . . . Don’t remember exactly, but it’s something like Snow. I’ve put the full text on your desk.’

  The bartender brought over the corporal’s coffee. Alvarez poured the rest of his brandy into his coffee. If Brent didn’t panic and fly - and why should he? - all that remained to be done now was to question him and close the case. And once it was closed, there would be no further occasion for meeting Caroline Durrel. What had Mena said? If a man gained his dreams, his life became worthless. Only an old and rather drunken cynic would ever talk such rubbish . . .

  The corporal interrupted his thoughts. ‘You need a hearing aid. I’ve been speaking to you for the past few minutes and all you’ve done is stare into space. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m worrying about my soul.’ ‘For God’s sake, drink up and forget such trivia.’ Perhaps that was the only sensible advice he had heard in days.

  Alvarez, at the desk in his office, read the message. Fingerprints showed Charles Brent was now known as Peter Shore and he lived at No. 5, Calle Resons, Cala San Pedro.

  He telephoned Superior Chief Salas. ‘Señor, I have just received information that Charles Brent, now known as Peter Shore, is living in Cala San Pedro. That’s a small place . . .’

  ‘I know perfectly well where it is.’

  ‘Of course! Since he is the surviving member of the tontine, he needs to be closely questioned regarding his movements over the past few weeks. I would respectfully suggest that a request, which had better be in your name, be sent to the Guardia at Cala San Pedro . . .’

  ‘It will be much more satisfactory - I hope - if you fly over and interrogate him yourself.’

  ‘Me, Senor? But I . . .’

  ‘By the next plane.’ The line went dead.

  Alvarez slowly replaced the receiver. He hadn’t left the island in years. He had never flown in his life . . .

  ‘Santa Antonia,’ he murmured, ‘am I then so great a sinner?’

  Alvarez carefully watched the engine on the starboard wing, but after ten minutes it still had not burst into flames. He relaxed a little and might even have learned to suffer, if not enjoy, flying had he not in his newfound confidence asked the air stewardess for a brandy and been asked to pay fifty pesetas for a drink which hardly covered the bottom of the glass.

  They landed in driving rain. A bus took them to the terminal building and, since he had no luggage other than one overnight case, he did not have to wait for the baggage to come through. Outside the arrival area a Guardia was waiting for him.

  ‘Inspector Alvarez? What a day you’ve chosen! It’s been like this since dawn. I suppose Mallorca’s in sunshine?’

  It had been cloudy and threatening rain, but Alvarez answered loyally, ‘It was warm enough to have to carry my coat as well as my mackintosh.’

  ‘You blokes don’t know how lucky you are! . . . The commissaire said you’d want me to drive you to Cala San Pedro first of all?’

  ‘That’s right. I want to question the Englishman, Shore.’

  ‘He’s not the bloke in Calle Resons?’ ‘That’s right. You know him, then?’ ‘You’re a bit late. Inspector. He’s been dead over six months.’

  CHAPTER XIX

  Alvarez sat as close to the electric fire as he could get and gloomily listened to the commissaire.

  ‘If the original enquiry had been sent to us, Inspector – as one might have expected – we would have given you all the details. Instead, I gather it was put through the register of foreigners so inevitably their records were hopelessly out of date.’

  ‘They ought to have known, though. You say Brent – Shore – died back in March.’

  The commissaire looked at Alvarez with impatient condescension. These provincial islanders clearly had no idea how official government departments worked. ‘What did you want to question him about?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I thought he was responsible for a couple of murders - but as these happened during the past three weeks, I obviously couldn’t be more wrong.’ He held out his hands to the fire which seemed to be giving less and less heat. ‘How did he die, Senor?’

  The commissaire opened a folder with a quick flick of his fingers: he was a man of precise, flicking movements. ‘He owned a house in the urbanization to the east of the village. His maid went there in the morning as usual and found him crumpled up at the foot of the stairs, dead. There was an opened bottle of brandy in the sitting-room, together with a half-filled glass. The bathroom was upstairs so it was clear that he had been up to that and was returning downstairs when, because he had drunk so much, he tripped and fell, to land on his head.’

  ‘Was there a PM?’

  ‘Naturally. He died from severe head wounds. His blood alcohol level was point four so he was very close to passing out before he fell.’

  ‘That seems as if it was straightforward enough.’

  ‘It was straightforward,’ amended the commissaire.

  ‘What’s happened about his estate?’

  ‘He had made a Spanish will and in this he left everything he owned to a woman called . . .’ He looked down at the folder. ‘Hilda Guelden. Her address was given as the same as his, but at the time of his death no woman was living with him. Neighbours remember an attractive blonde whom they thought was Dutch, but no one had seen her for at least a month before his death and one of these witnesses mentioned a row between the woman and Shore. Enquiries are still going on trying to trace Hilda Guelden.’

  ‘Have you any idea how much the estate amounts to?’

  ‘There was roughly fifty thousand in his bank, the house, and a car.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘How did he get his income?’

  ‘He frequently paid into his
bank fairly large sums.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘We don’t know, nor have we regarded this point as being of any importance.’

  The commissaire was right, thought Alvarez, but not for the reason he believed. It was not a matter of importance because the source was known - the tontine. And when Charles Brent had died, his share of the tontine had been halved between Freeman and Mabel Cannon. And when Freeman had died everything had become hers.

  And when she had died . . .

  The commissaire flicked the folder shut. ‘Of course, if you’d bothered to contact us in the first place, your journey today wouldn’t have been necessary.’

  ‘Ah well, señor, it won’t be the last time I waste my time . . . Now the business is over and done with, how about finding a bar and having a drink or two to keep out the cold?’

  ‘I do not drink alcohol.’

  Was there a flight back to the island that night? wondered Alvarez.

  It was five past five on Friday afternoon and there was a long silence over the telephone before Superior Chief Salas said: ‘I confess that it had seemed to me as if there could be no further room for you to be wrong in what was, originally, a straightforward case. I should have remembered that in some respects you are a man of great ingenuity.’

  ‘Senor, I . . .’

  ‘However, even your ingenuity must finally be exhausted. So I would be exceedingly grateful if you’d now be kind enough to arrest the murderer of those two unfortunate persons,’ said Superior Chief Salas, with insulting politeness. He rang off.

  Alvarez slumped back in the chair. It was so very easy to be sarcastic and to point out that the identity of the murderer was obvious. Of course it was - now. If Charles Brent hadn’t murdered Freeman and Mabel Cannon, Anson had. Despite his appearance of being a man who was above all direct, clearly his mind was tortuously clever. He had learned about the tontine and the death of Brent and he had realized that only two deaths lay between Caroline and a fortune. So he had taken those two lives.