“I see. It’s because they both look the same from behind,” said Madame Giroux.
“Yes, but Rosalind kept taking the wrong one and I got cross and—”
“Never mind,” said Madame Giroux. “But I think you owe dear Rosalind an apology. What do you say, Raymond?”
After Raymond, with a slight protruding underlip, said the obligatory “Sorry,” the two children ran off, as if nothing had happened. Carlo and I thanked Madame Giroux for her help in the arbitration between the two—we joked that she had resolved what could have turned into a nasty diplomatic incident—but she said it was nothing, adding that she would be delighted to continue watching over the two children. We thanked her again and accompanied her to the entrance of the hotel before we parted on the steps.
Just as we walked into the Taoro, Gustavo came over, and after some pleasantries, he handed me an envelope. It was a note from Inspector Núñez asking me to call at his suite at my earliest convenience. There was, he added, some matter that required my assistance. Perhaps he had unearthed some information relating to Grenville that he wanted to ask me about. Had Dr. Trenkel’s tests finally proved that Winniatt had been poisoned? The doctor may have told the inspector about my knowledge of certain toxic substances and their effects on the body. Perhaps Núñez had realized that my help could be invaluable in this case?
“The inspector wants to see me,” I said to Carlo as I turned to make sure that Rosalind was playing happily with Raymond. My head was full of memories of my dear daughter, the smooth feel of her cheek against mine, the chirrup of her laughter. I recalled the threats that Kurs had made, and how I had been prepared to do God knows what to protect her. But poor Violet had no mother to look after her. If she had, perhaps Grenville would never have been able to defile his daughter. I realized I had no choice. When I saw Núñez, I would tell him the awful truth of what I had seen. “So perhaps fate has taken the decision out of my hands.”
I left Carlo and walked up the stairs and along the corridors to Núñez’s suite. I knocked on the door, and a moment later, a tall man with a groomed mustache, one of Núñez’s assistants, ushered me in. The inspector sat at his desk, frowning. I was about to launch into my narrative of the unholy goings at Mal País when he looked up from his desk, darkness clouding his eyes.
“Sit down, please, Mrs. Christie,” he said.
“Thank you, I’m so grateful you called for me because I’ve got something important to tell you. A very serious matter indeed, which could change your view of the whole case. You see, last night—”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you, Mrs. Christie,” he said sternly, holding up his right hand. “There’s something I need to ask you before you say anything else. And please think very carefully before you answer.”
“What is it?”
Núñez paused for effect, stood up, and said, “Did you steal a set of pearls belonging to Mrs. Winniatt?”
30
“I won’t repeat myself,” Núñez said, looking at me with barely disguised contempt.
“No, of course I didn’t steal Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls,” I said dismissively. “Now, if you’d just listen to me. Last night I—”
“Mrs. Winniatt was preparing herself for the forthcoming funeral of her husband. She went to her jewelry box for the pearls, apparently highly valuable and passed down through her family. But she could not find them. She looked everywhere in her luggage; she searched her room, but to no avail. Obviously it’s a very distressing time for her. But what she discovered only compounded her distress—the only conclusion she could come to was that someone must have stolen into her room and taken them. What kind of coldhearted person could do such a thing? Now I will ask you a different question. Do you know anything about the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls?”
I could feel his eyes watching me. Should I tell him about what I had seen from the confines of that wardrobe? That it was Dr. Trenkel who had taken them.
“Well, I—” I said, before stopping myself. Something prevented me from saying anything more. I had a feeling that it would be wiser to keep this information back from the inspector.
“Yes? You were saying?”
“No, I don’t know anything, I’m afraid.”
Núñez’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “You know I don’t like to play games, Mrs. Christie,” he said, walking over to me. “I don’t like to be made a fool of. I know that in the world of crime fiction, it is highly fashionable to make fun of the police. We are all—what is it you English say?—blockheads. We have no brains. No aptitude for the job. Yes, the amateur detective is all the rage. Or men who have retired from the force. But let me tell you that in my world, the real world, an amateur would not stand a chance.” He stood so close now that I could feel his breath on my face. “You may have a talent for writing books about murder, but that doesn’t mean you can extend your abilities outside the cozy world of the written word.”
What exactly did he know about me? Had he heard something about my secret work with Davison? Why did I feel that I didn’t want to share what I had seen in Daisy Winniatt’s room?
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I shook my head.
“Then how do you explain the fact that we have someone who insists they saw you coming out of Mrs. Winniatt’s room at just after eleven o’clock on Saturday night?”
“I suppose they must be mistaken,” I said, trying to control my nerves and deciding to bluff my way out of the situation.
“Mistaken?”
“Yes, after all there must be many women of roughly my age and coloring who are staying at the Taoro.”
“Is that so?”
“I can think of no other explanation.”
“You can’t?”
“No, I’m sorry, Inspector Núñez, but whoever claims they saw me must have mixed me up with another woman.”
His eyes were steely now, cold and dismissive. “And you have nothing more to say on the matter?”
“No, but I do have something I want to tell you about what I witnessed last night. I went to stay with Gerard Grenville and—”
“And no more news on the mysterious Mr. Blake?” interrupted Núñez. “He seems to have disappeared. You wouldn’t have happened to have heard from him, would you?”
This time I could tell the truth. “No, nothing at all. But getting back to what I saw at Grenville’s house. I—”
Núñez turned his back to me, walked towards his desk, and called to his assistant with the manicured mustache, who was standing in the corner of the room. “Borges, could you show Mrs. Christie out, please?”
“But you don’t understand, I have a—”
“There’s nothing left to say. Good day, Mrs. Christie.”
I felt a light touch on my arm. Borges gestured towards the door. It seemed I had little choice but to leave.
“Could I make another appointment to come and see you?” I asked as I stood by the door.
Núñez did not bother to look up from his desk as he said, “Only if you are willing to tell me the truth about the pearls. I’m not interested in anything else you have to say.”
What a stupid, ignorant man, I said to myself as I stormed back down the corridor towards my room. No wonder the investigation into Winniatt’s death was going nowhere. He seemed to be willfully blind to what was staring him in the face.
“Is everything all right?” asked Carlo as I entered our suite of rooms. She was in the middle of pouring tea from a tray on the table. “How did he take the news?”
“I didn’t get the chance to tell him,” I said. “The buffoon didn’t want to hear it.” I couldn’t go into the details about what Núñez really wanted to know.
“Perhaps that’s for the best,” said Carlo. “Would you like a cup?”
“Yes, please,” I said distractedly. “But how can it be for the best when that poor girl is living with a father who does, well, who does those unspeakable things to her?”
“Yes, you’re right—as usual,” I said, taking the china cup that Carlo passed to me. “They do know how to make tea here. With water that is actually boiling and good quality tea leaves, not like some of the places on the continent.”
“A drink that bears little resemblance to what we would call tea,” said Carlo, sipping from her teacup. “By the way, I didn’t tell you the awful news about Mrs. Winniatt?”
I knew what she was about to say. “What news?”
“Apparently on Saturday, on the same day that she heard about her husband’s murder, someone stole into her room and took a string of extremely valuable pearls. Can you imagine!”
“Terrible. Such a heartless thing to do.”
“They think that the person took advantage of the fact that Mrs. Winniatt had been sedated. The rumor is that the inspector is looking for a pair of jewel thieves, a man and a woman who check into smart hotels and then proceed to rob their fellow guests. It caused such a stir among the ladies last night. Did the inspector not mention any of this to you?”
“No, he didn’t,” I lied.
“How curious,” said Carlo. “Anyway, you should have seen Mrs. Brendel. She was in her element.”
“I’m sure she was,” I said. “Carlo, may I ask you a question? Have you met anyone here, someone trustworthy, who can speak Spanish?”
“There’s Miss Hart—I believe she speaks Spanish.”
I thought of Helen with her bright blue, flashing eyes and rather cynical manner. “I don’t think she would be quite right. No, I’m thinking of someone who is outside our immediate social circle.”
She looked at me with suspicion. “What do you need a Spanish speaker for?”
“Just a little translation work. Of course I’d be very happy to pay for it.”
“What is it that you need to be translated? It’s nothing to do what’s been going on here, is it? Nothing to do with—?”
I had to think of something to throw Carlo off track. “Oh, no, nothing along those lines at all. I’m taking your advice and staying out of it. I was thinking about an idea for a short story.” It was an idea that had been fermenting at the back of my mind since I had arrived on the island. “Something about a man who drowned off Martiánez beach some years back and the effect his death has on those left behind. I wanted to ask some questions, but I realize that the locals who know the most about it probably can’t speak English.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. Indeed, it could well form the basis of an atmospheric short story. I saw it all in my mind: a woman dressed in widow’s weeds, living in that house up by La Paz; the rage of the sea below; a figure standing on the edge of the plateau thinking about throwing himself over the cliff and into the ocean.
“Well, I’ve heard Madame Giroux speak what sounds like very fluent Spanish.”
I thought of the woman who had been so kind to my daughter. “Wonderful,” I said, taking my friend’s hand in mine. “Carlo, what would I do without you?”
31
Carlo left me to go in search of Raymond’s governess. After a few minutes Madame Giroux approached me from the terrace. We took a seat in the gardens of the Taoro as a warm breeze danced through the leaves of the palm trees, serving as a whispered counterpoint to our conversation. We spoke in French of the children, the silly incident with the teddy bears, the hotel, the volcano, the climate, before I switched to English.
“This is a very delicate matter, Mme Giroux, but one I hope you may be able to help me with,” I said. “If you choose not to, I will understand of course, but please be assured that it is a matter of the utmost seriousness. It’s nothing that will put you in danger, of that I promise. But if you do help me, your involvement could save a life.”
I talked a little of the murder of Mr. Winniatt and about how I had come into a piece of information that pointed to one particular person: José, the son of Consuela, who had worked at Mal País. He was not a suspect in any crime, but he might be able to provide some background on his former employer, Gerard Grenville. There were, I told her, certain rumors circulating about Grenville’s behavior, particularly his obsession with the occult, and I needed to know whether these stories had any basis in fact.
“So you see, it is a very pressing matter indeed,” I said.
“If it is so serious, why is the inspector not dealing with this?” asked Madame Giroux.
“You’re quite right, madame. He should be. But Inspector Núñez seems blinkered, unable to see what is right in front of him.”
She bowed her head and then took off one black glove and then the other. She revealed hands that were nothing more than a mass of scars. Tears formed in her eyes as the fingers of her right hand caressed the battleground of skin of her ring finger.
“How did you know?”
“Dear Mme Giroux, I promise you, I know nothing about you. I simply asked Carlo if she knew anyone who spoke Spanish.”
“Well, then it’s meant to be,” she said softly. “You see, some years ago I was married. I knew Albert was too good for me, too good-looking for my plain appearance. But I fooled myself that I could make him happy, so we married.” I felt a pang of recognition deep within me. I too had married a man who I thought was too dazzlingly handsome. And look where that had ended. “I turned a blind eye to his drinking, the fits of temper, the violence. But then one night we had a terrible row. I don’t know what I said to him to inflame his temper, but he took a knife from the kitchen and did—did this.”
She opened her palms to reveal more scars, rivulets of red lines crisscrossing her skin. “Not only on my hands, but here,” she said, pointing to her stomach, “and here, too,” she added, her fingers moving up to her chest.
“Oh, Mme Giroux, I—”
“Albert left the apartment that night. We were living in Perpignan, and although the police tried to find him, he escaped. Perhaps to America, I don’t know. Once I had recovered from my surgery—oh, how painful were those operations, all those stitches, all those bandages—I pleaded with his mother and sister to tell me of his whereabouts. I am sure that they knew, but they didn’t want anything to do with me and they started to spread rumors in the town that I was a woman of ill repute. I had to leave Perpignan and make a way for myself in the world. Both my parents, my French father and my Spanish mother, had died, and so I traveled to Paris. Earlier this year, a kind American couple, the Murrays, took pity on me and offered me a job. Mrs. Murray needed someone to help with Raymond after the death of her other son, George.”
As she pushed her fingers back into her gloves, Madame Giroux’s mouth set itself in a fixed smile as though the action caused her some degree of pain. “When you asked if I could help, I was a little frightened, but now I understand,” she continued. “If I can assist in any way, of course I will. Men like Albert, men who escape justice, they need to be caught. Just tell me what you’d like me to do.”
I was impressed by Mme Giroux’s speech and her bravery. I outlined how first I needed to find José. The best way to do that was through his mother, Consuela, who worked as a cook at Grenville’s house. I told her that when she was making inquiries she could say that she was working on behalf of the English lady, a writer, who had been a guest at Mr. Grenville’s the previous night. But on no account was she to mention me to anybody at Mal País but Consuela herself. Obviously, I was persona non grata to Violet and her father now. She was to say that I had been so impressed by her cooking that I was keen to talk to her about the food of the Canary Islands for an article I would like to write for a British magazine. Although I promised to pay Mme Giroux handsomely for her work, she steadfastly refused the money. She told me that she would take a walk down to the town later that day when she knew that she had a few hours off from looking after Raymond. After I thanked her and we said our goodbyes, I returned to the hotel and up the staircase towards my room.
As
I made my way to the suite, I saw a woman dressed in black at the far end of the corridor. It was Daisy. She looked as small and fragile as a half-dead bird. When she saw me, she seemed to freeze, as if my very existence sucked what little life she had left out of her. I walked towards her, but as I did so, she turned her pale face away from mine.
“Daisy, I know that you’ve—”
“I thought you were my friend,” she hissed. As she said this, I caught a glimpse of the hatred in her eyes.
“I am. If you only knew what I’m trying to—”
“How could you do such a thing? My pearls, my beautiful pearls, given to me by my mother on my wedding day.” Tears spilled from her reddened eyes down her face.
“If you let me explain, I can tell you what—”
“What? How you waited until I was asleep before you stole into my room and took them? And then you had the cheek to come back the next day and try to console me?”
I was tempted to tell her the truth about Dr. Trenkel, but I still felt it unwise to do so. “Daisy, I know what it must look like to you, but—”
“It’s all in the hands of the inspector now. I’ve got nothing left to say to you.” With that she turned from me and started to walk down the corridor, then stopped. “And by the way, I’d rather you didn’t come to the funeral.” The words hurt me, hitting me like a bullet, forcing me against the wall. My eyes smarted with tears. But who were they for? Certainly not for Winniatt, whom I had never liked. Daisy? Perhaps a little, as I knew the kind of grief that she was suffering. Mme Giroux, whose horrific story I had just heard? Yes, of course. And Violet too, whose ordeal was just too awful to comprehend. But mostly I was crying for myself and for the way first Núñez and now Daisy looked at me with contempt in their eyes. I felt alone, frustrated, and angry, unable to tell the inspector my fears, mute against the accusations leveled at me by Daisy. If only Davison had been here, at least then I would be able to vent my feelings to him, safe in the knowledge that the information would be understood.
A Different Kind of Evil Page 19