The leisurely breakfast, served until eleven at the Hotel Sombrero, satisfied Laura that she could manage to exist until lunch-time. She dawdled over her last cup of coffee, and then went on to the terrace. She had not been there long before Luisa Ruiz came out. Pretending to rearrange the cushions on the empty chair next to Laura’s, she said in a low tone:
‘My brother is here.’
‘Your brother? From Spain?’
‘From Spanish America.’
‘That’s nice for you. How long will he stay?’
‘Until his business is done, I think.’
‘Oh, I see. Shipping cargo, or something, I take it. Must be a jolly country, South America. I’ve never been further than the West Indies.’
‘That is the best thing. Nobody was clever enough, intelligent enough, good enough, to leave it at that. Always they wish to go west, further west, and more west still. What is this madness, Señora, that makes for the west, for the sunset, for disillusion – for death?’
She flicked a speck off the last cushion, gave Laura a slight smile, and disappeared inside the doorway. Laura decided to keep an eye open for the South American brother. She had heard of him from Dame Beatrice, but there had been no reason to think that he would be home so soon. She wondered whether it was his usual time of year for a visit, but decided that this could not be so. If it were, surely some hint of it would have been dropped to Dame Beatrice, if not by Luisa herself or by Señor Ruiz, then certainly by the garrulous and artless (although possibly prevaricating) Pilar, the beloved of Pepe.
However, Laura was greatly intrigued, when she went down to the beach to sun-bathe, to see Mrs Angel with a swarthy, broad-shouldered young man whom she took to be the son of the house of Ruiz. All the ugly gossip about Mrs Angel’s profession came crowding into Laura’s ever-open mind. It looked like the gathering of the vultures, she decided. She wished she could get near enough to overhear their conversation, and was trying to work out some way by which she could carry out this wish, without appearing to eavesdrop, when the young man, who had been facing her, got up, bowed, and Mrs Angel, turning, beckoned Laura to join them.
‘Our dear Señor Ruiz’s son, Don Ricardo, Mrs Gavin. Quite a famous man,’ she said, effecting the introductions. ‘Ricky dear, this is Mrs Gavin, from England.’
‘Not famous. Or, if so, only because of my cherished Mrs Angel, an angel, no?’ said Don Ricardo, speaking in English. ‘Please to join us, Mrs Gavin. I am about to order a bottle of wine. It is never too hot to drink wine.’
Laura joined them, but the conversation sustained itself on a general note and her curiosity remained unsatisfied. Unless there was something to be made of the fact that Don Ricardo and Mrs Angel had a good deal to say to one another and appeared to be on very good terms, the answer (said Laura to the baby a little later) was a lemon. She kept her eyes open during the next few days, however, and it was most noticeable that Don Ricardo spent a great deal of his time in Mrs Angel’s company. For a young man who thought enough of his home and family to pay them an expensive visit every year without fail, this was a curious circumstance, Laura thought, and one well worth reporting to Dame Beatrice.
Her next encounter was with Peterhouse – her next significant encounter, that is. He joined her on the following morning when she was in the garden.
‘You are particularly interested in flowers?’ he asked, in a strangely gentle tone.
‘Indeed I am; and, on the present occasion, they delightfully occupy my thoughts,’ said Laura, in unconscious imitation of Dame Beatrice’s mode of speech. She waved a hand to indicate the glowing, sub-tropical garden.
‘You are a connaisseuse?’
‘Not of flowers – unless, perhaps, orchids.’ She introduced the gambit unblushingly.
‘Ah, yes. Most interesting. But there are no orchids worth talking about on Hombres Muertos, Mrs Gavin. Personally, I much prefer to experiment in growing Alpine plants.’
‘Not orchids? I thought one of the other guests told me …’
‘Oh, no. There are no orchids which would justify the attention I lavish upon Helliborus niger, for instance. You know the plant, of course?’
‘Sorry to say I’ve never heard of it. At least, not under that name.’
‘I apologize. I refer to the Christmas Rose, known in Switzerland as Schneerose. I may tell you that I have reproduced it here in a very different type of soil from the humus chalk and dolomite soils which are its natural habitat. Moreover, I have caused it to flower (I have sent specimens to Kew to prove this) in what appears to be its close season, August. Not only have I succeeded with that. I think of Pulsatilla montana, the mountain anemone. It is really a southern Alpine valley plant, although it can be found up to an altitude of seven thousand feet. However, I can grow it at twelve thousand feet here, and not in a chalky soil. Then take Pulsatilla vernalis, the spring anemone! A lovely plant, and one that requires the sunlight. I am not altogether surprised that I get it to flower in October, considering the difference in climate, but still I account it one of my successes. So I do Pulsatilla baldensis, a typical Tyrolean mountain plant. Well, if not altogether typical, it certainly belongs to the Dolomites.’
‘The Dolomites! Ah, yes!’ said Laura, attempting to stem the flow. It was impossible.
‘Then take Tiroler Windröschen, and what do you say to Pulsatilla alpina sulphurea?’ asked the merciless botanist.
‘The yellow anemone?’ said Laura, guessing boldly. ‘Well, it is a more important-looking plant than either Vernalis or Baldensis, in my opinion, but that is purely a matter of choice.’
‘Knowledgeable, knowledgeable,’ said Peterhouse, collaring the batting once more. ‘I like the way Sulphurea has that delicate suggestion of blue on the underside of the petals. The very sturdy bracts, too, and the tinge of red where these meet the main-stem of the plant are most attractive. In any case, I’m very fond of yellow.’
‘There is plenty of sulphur, in every sense of the word, on Hombres Muertos, I suppose,’ said Laura, faint but pursuing. Peterhouse shook her off again.
‘I must show you specimens of Rhododendron terrugineum, the rusty-leaved Alpine rose, a tremendous plant,’ he said. ‘It grows to a height of more than three feet in the Swiss Alps, but here I have obtained a height of between five and six feet, and my flowers are larger than anything you’ll ever see in Europe. Then take Rhododendron hirsutum?’
‘The hairy rose. And that reminds me,’ said Laura, desperately casting about for means of escape, ‘I must go and see after my infant.’
‘Mind you,’ said Peterhouse, taking no notice of this plea, ‘I am interested only in poisonous plants.’
‘That sounds rather sinister. Do you mean that everything you’ve mentioned is poisonous?’
‘Indeed it is. I might attempt to grow the Alpine campions, the soldenella, the lilies; the Alpine crowsfoot, the lady’s-slipper orchis – a beauty, that! – the gentian; I could experiment with the erica, which – I don’t know whether you’ve seen it? – is not unlike the heather; with the Noble Liverwort, that strange flower of three different colours. The cyclamen might attract me; the charming yellow violet, the graceful columbine, the saxifrage, (most famous of Alpine plants, and greatly loved), the auricula, the aromatic wormwood. …’
‘But none of these is poisonous?’
‘Exactly, madam. None is poisonous.’
‘You have interested me very much,’ said Laura, truthfully; for here, she felt, was a mind not altogether sane. ‘Thank you. And now I must fly.’
She acted upon the word and literally fled.
‘Atalanta! Atalanta!’ called Peterhouse after her. She took no notice, but continued with loping strides towards the veranda. She leapt up the steps and bounded into the nearest public room, where she sank into a chair and metaphorically mopped her brow.
‘That man Peterhouse’, said Mrs Angel, materializing in uncanny fashion at her elbow, ‘is a menace and a pest. In my opinion, he is quite insane.
’
‘He certainly does pin one down,’ said Laura. ‘He’s been talking to me about Alpine plants.’
‘Alpine plants? That’s a change, then. I was told that he specialized in orchids.’
‘So was …’ Laura was about to add Dame Beatrice’s name, but recollected herself in time. ‘So was I. At least, he didn’t tell me, but I know I got it from somewhere.’
‘He is a rogue, a charlatan, and a blackmailer. He blackmails poor old Ruiz, you know. That’s why he’s able to live here free of charge.’
‘Good heavens! Is he really living free of charge?’
‘Of course.’
‘But what hold has he got over Ruiz?’
Mrs Angel wagged her head.
‘Ask young Ruiz,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Laura, determined to take this particular bull by the horns, ‘why does young Ruiz come home so often? It must be awfully expensive to make that long voyage every year.’
‘You’ve been listening to Pilar’s tales. You really shouldn’t take any notice of her. She is utterly lazy and utterly unreliable. I heard she even puts it about that I have the most undesirable commercial interests in South America.’
‘You soon put that right, I suppose?’ Laura was anxious to hear all about the undesirable element in Mrs Angel’s commercial interests. Mrs Angel looked past her and fidgeted with the fringed edge of the arm of her chair.
‘To speak sooth, no, I did not. It is better, I find, to take no notice of calumny. Evil rumours die all the quicker for not being contested.’ She seemed about to say more, but changed her mind. ‘I always thought that another guest along your corridor used to talk far too much to Pilar. Did you ever meet Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley? She is, I believe, quite famous in her own line.’
‘She’s a psychiatrist, a doctor of medicine, and is connected in some way with the Home Office,’ said Laura, watching to see what effect the last bit of information would have. She was disappointed. Mrs Angel’s face betrayed nothing except polite interest.
‘Of course, living in England, you would be more in touch with such things than I am, making my life here as I do,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you ever going back to England?’
‘No, no. There is nothing for me to do in England. All my interests are here and in South America. Occasionally I go over there; not often; I cannot afford it. Young Ruiz has offered to pay my fare if I would like to go more often, but I do not care about life in a big city and my interests can be looked after just as well here.’
‘And, of course, cattle and guano are more to do with men than with women, I suppose,’ said Laura, probing wildly. Mrs Angel smiled.
‘I am not primarily concerned with cattle or with guano,’ she said. ‘I do wish you would let me see your baby asleep. I always think a sleeping child is one of the most beautiful and satisfying sights on earth.’
‘Of course you can see him asleep. He’s probably asleep now, if you’d care to come up.’ She had seen, through the open doorway, the stealthy approach of Mr Peterhouse, and she dreaded, above all things at that moment, a continuation of her conversation with him, or rather, a resumption of his botanical monologue. She got up and stretched her vital, magnificent body. ‘Come on, Mrs Angel. Let’s go.’
Even Mrs Angel’s ecstatic and sincere admiration of the baby did not recommend her any more kindly to Laura. Her mysterious references to her South American concerns, however, and the suggestion that Peterhouse was blackmailing old Ruiz and that young Ruiz was willing to pay Mrs Angel’s fare to the South American continent if and when she desired to visit it, had aroused detection fever in Laura. She must unburden herself to Dame Beatrice at once, she decided, and ask her to reinforce the garrison in person.
She got rid of Mrs Angel, fed the baby, went to the post office in the Plaza, and sent off a cable. She was both laconic and cautious, but she tried to indicate that she had found out some things which called for investigation. Whether the discoveries would prove to be mares’ nests was anybody’s guess, but this she did not indicate in the cable.
CHAPTER 11
Down to Earth
DAME BEATRICE’S YOUNG relative did not take long to produce the information she wanted. She had been in London less than a week when documentary evidence arrived in the shape of a great bundle of typescript.
Dame Beatrice ordered a pot of coffee and set to work. Young Lestrange had done a successful bit of research, and she was able to follow the complete and enthralling stories of the death of Ian Lockerby and the trial of Clun. One thing was immediately clear. There was a connexion between the two men. Lockerby had been an acquaintance of Clun and had given evidence at his trial.
She studied the reports about Clun. The evidence was clear. He had been accused of the manslaughter of a man named Empson after both had been drinking. Clun’s own story to Dame Beatrice, that he had hit too hard, was borne out by facts. Unfortunately for him, it seemed clear that he had instigated the quarrel. He had not been able to plead self-defence, and, to do him justice, had not, in the end, attempted to do so.
The other story, that of the death of Ian Lockerby, was more involved and far more interesting. Dame Beatrice made a summary of the evidence and added her own footnotes. Ian Lockerby, it appeared, had been a man of thirty two and was known to have had a violent temper and a nasty tongue. He was said to have had a liking for practical jokes of a cruel nature and to have taken pleasure in humiliating people, even when they were supposed to be his friends. He seemed a man born to be murdered.
The story of his fight with a gang of street louts had been told in court by Telham. The two men had been on a pub-crawl and Lockerby, at the time when the fight began, was considerably the worse for drink. According to Telham’s evidence, one of the louts had been pushed by another, deliberately, so that he fell against Lockerby.
‘It was enough to start Ian off,’ the report ran. ‘He began to set about the gang. I did my best to help, but it was two against eight or nine of them, so I shouted to Lockerby to scram, and began to run. I’d been knocked nearly silly by that time, and I’d seen the glint of a knife.’
Later, he had felt ashamed and had gone back. The gang had disappeared and Lockerby was dead. Telham had rung the police and had remained beside the body until they arrived.
It was the story that Dame Beatrice already had heard from Caroline. It certainly shed no light on the death of Emden. She made a note of the name and address of the public house beside which Lockerby had been killed, and then returned to the typescript and re-read the medical evidence.
A knife in the back … signs that the body had been severely kicked after death had occurred. … It was a nasty enough little business. It had happened before, and in the jungle of gangstership it was likely to happen again. People were more and more inclined to avoid going to the rescue of the victim in such circumstances. That Telham had been the only witness willing to come forward was understandable, too, although his descriptions of the young thugs were so vague as to be of little use to the police. Dame Beatrice shook a determined head and gathered the typescript together. She put it into a drawer and went off to look at the public house outside which the fight was said to have taken place.
It was a dingy little house in a side-street, and was unimpressive both within and without. In the saloon bar a rheumy-eyed man in his shirt-sleeves and a red knitted waistcoat was gloomily polishing glasses.
‘Sherry?’ he said, when she had given her order. He appeared to ruminate. ‘Dark or light?’
‘An unusual question,’ said the elderly lady. The man looked surprised.
‘I don’t get much call for sherry,’ he explained. ‘More beer and stout, if you get me. Shorts – whisky and gin. Sherry – no. Port, now, port’s a different matter.’
‘What did the murdered man drink?’
‘Ah, if I could get a few more of his sort, trade would look up, trade would. Ah, look up it would, good and proper. Once the murder got put in th
e papers I made six months’ turnover in a matter of weeks. Not as he drunk anything here. Past closing time, I reckon. No, he never come in.’
‘But, I gather, once the murder was out, others did come in. People have morbid fancies, have they not? I confess to a similar taste for the macabre.’
‘Sherry, you said?’
‘Dry, if you please.’
‘Don’t please me. Don’t not please me. It’s your gullet it’s going down. Haifa dollar. Ta, ma. Ah, morbid. That’s the word. Mind you, there was a lot about that business as was very, very peculiar. One thing as puzzled me was how they never got a single one of the gang as did it. The police, they come here time and again to know what I could tell ’em, but, in the finish, I couldn’t tell ’em nothing. “No sound of it come in here,” I says. “Never knew as there was anything going on. Singing and ’ollering? Not on your life! Not in my ’ouse,” I says. “Always quiet and friendly in ’ere. Should ’ave heard something of a dirty scrap like that,” I says, “but, oath or not on oath, I never.” But I don’t understand why I didn’t, if you take me. Not as I said that to them?’
‘I should think the explanation is that he was set upon and killed elsewhere,’ said Dame Beatrice, starting, she hoped, a hare. She was disappointed.
‘If so?’ said the barman, ‘what about the evidence given in court by his pal?’
‘Indeed, yes. What about it? Were you present at the inquest?’
‘What about my opening times? You can’t run a job in a pub and gallivant about amusing of yourself. I see his picture in the local paper, though, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have done the job hisself. One pair of boots is as ’andy as another when it comes to kicking a feller’s teeth in, that’s as clear as the daylight, that is.’
There seemed nothing more to be gained. Dame Beatrice drank a second dry sherry for the good of the house and went home. After lunch she re-read the typescripts. She was not particularly impressed by the fact that, if there had been a fight outside the public house, the barman had heard nothing of it. There was no window giving on to the street, and the doors, like those of most public houses, were sturdy and fitted well. In any case, as the man had said, it had happened, most probably after closing time.
The Twenty-Third Man Page 13