The Angst-Ridden Executive

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘I don’t know whether it would help if I said that he and I are complete opposites. I could play the flute and write poetry, even though I don’t in fact do either. But him—never!’

  ‘So here we have a level-headed man who suddenly sees the ghost of a dead woman, right at a time when Francoism is being dismantled. A conspiracy. There’s something very appealing about it, I must say. But there’s no way I can take it on at the moment. Maybe I could once I get my present commitments out of the way—if I live to tell the tale. Biscuter, make a note of how we can get in touch with these good people.’

  Biscuter went to take down the man’s address and phone number. Carvalho turned to the girl:

  ‘Do you have a phone number?’

  ‘She’s nothing to do with all this. She just happens to have come along with me. Anyway, you can find us just about any night in El Sot.’

  ‘I see—you are part of Nuñez’s entourage.’

  ‘He was the one who suggested getting in touch with you.’

  So, Carvalho thought to himself, Nuñez must have staged this little joke. I bet he’s laughing like a drain at this very moment.

  ‘I don’t come cheap, you know.’

  ‘I’m prepared for that.’

  ‘Are you paying?’

  ‘My father’s paying.’

  ‘What does your father do for a living?’

  ‘He’s a building contractor. Don’t worry—he’s got money.’

  ‘And would he agree to my taking on the case?’

  ‘I’ll bring him here in person, and you can ask him for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  A portable woman. As she disappeared in the wake of the man, Carvalho imagined her on top of him, with her sex locked onto his, her hands resting on his chest, her head up, her eyes closed, her tongue just showing as she begins breathing heavily, and her hair-do going up and down as if it was being pumped from somewhere inside her delicately-featured head.

  ‘What do you make of all that, boss?’

  ‘Nothing. . . Nothing at all.’

  ‘Is it possible, though?’

  ‘It’s a story for winter, not for spring. Like stories about bears and drowned people living at the bottom of seas and lakes and garden ponds. . .’

  ‘It makes my flesh creep just to think about it.’

  ‘If you ask me, it’s a plot. The bishops have teamed up with Christians for Socialism, to make sure the Church keeps a bit of the action. Forget it, Biscuter—I want to eat.’

  ‘Shall I heat up last night’s supper? Kidneys in sherry and rice pilaf, remember?’

  ‘What are you cooking now?’

  ‘Chicken with artichokes.’

  ‘It’ll be fine heated up tomorrow. Give me the rice and kidneys. But if the rice has gone lumpy, throw it away and make some more.’

  Rhomberg’s sister wouldn’t come to the phone. Instead he got her husband. Sure enough, Peter Herzen was Dieter Rhomberg. The photo had been identified by the Avis employee who had rented him the car.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we’re terribly upset. We just don’t know how to tell the boy that his father’s dead.’

  ‘He might have decided to disappear as a safety measure.’

  ‘Safety? Why safety?’

  ‘What are the German police saying?’

  ‘Nothing. They’ve taken a note of your information, and I imagine that Interpol will be in touch with the Spanish police so that you can tell them what you know.’

  ‘I would be grateful if you could keep in touch. . .’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ring off now. I hope you understand. . . We’re shattered.’

  The aftertaste of the kidneys was suddenly sour in his mouth, and his stomach sent up a warning signal in the form of a sherry-flavoured burp. He had an uneasy feeling that he was out of his depth—on a voyage of no return that promised to be full of unpleasant surprises. Carvalho had to take several deep breaths in order to restore his disintegrating peace of mind. There was no match between the major crime he had got involved in and his recent past as a small-time private eye—a very different person from the ruthless cynic who had once been in the CIA, and who wouldn’t have thought twice about terminating heads of state. Dieter had been driving the car when they arrived in Los Angeles that night to look for a hotel in Beverly Hills. They had come very close to crashing into a Buick that had skidded across the road, and they had driven into town slowly, with their nerves on edge. Fear had abandoned the city to the night, and the restaurants, cinemas, shops and stores were all asleep. All of a sudden they saw a man in a tracksuit top and running shorts coming up the pavement towards them, pacing himself with the regularity of a long distance runner. He had a crew-cut and was breathing rhythmically.

  ‘Looks like a zombie on a keep-fit kick,’ Jauma said, and the three of them relaxed. Dieter pulled up, to see which way the night-runner was intending to go. A police car was following a few yards behind.

  ‘He’s got an escort.’

  ‘Keeping an eye on him, more likely.’

  The runner drew level with Dieter’s car, but he didn’t deign to register their presence. The driver of the police car raised one finger to his forehead to indicate ‘this guy’s nuts’. Then, as if determined to exercise their authority in the presence of these unaccustomed witnesses, the police drove past the runner and suddenly braked in front of him. They got out of the car and rounded on him aggressively.

  ‘Stop right there, buddy!’

  The athlete halted in his tracks, but continued running on the spot.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Running.’

  ‘I can see that. But why? This is no time of night to be out running.’

  ‘I work during the day, so I run at night.’

  ‘Are you in an athletics club?’

  ‘I don’t run with other people. I run on my own. Is there some law that says I can’t run on the sidewalk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re going to get yourself shot at this rate. People don’t like other people running round the place at two in the morning.’

  ‘Do you have proof of that?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That people don’t like other people running at two in the morning.’

  ‘It stands to reason.’

  The man continued running on the spot, and the cops glared at him for a moment or two. Then they glanced over to Dieter’s car, and signaled to the runner that he could go. Seeing that he was already running on the spot, he took off like a rocket, accelerated as if he was using starting blocks, and used this burst of speed to regain his breathing rhythm and get back into his stride. The cops came over to the parked car and asked to see their papers. While one of them checked them, the other kept one hand on his gun and a frown in his eyes as he followed the runner disappearing into the distance.

  ‘You planning to sleep in the car?’

  ‘No. We’re on our way to the Golden Hotel.’

  ‘Down this street, and then take a left. Don’t hang about, though. This is no time to be taking the air.’

  ‘Do you get runners like that every night?’ Jauma asked, pointing after the athlete, who was just about to be swallowed up by a dip in the road.

  ‘Never seen one in this part of town. He must be crazy. He’ll end up getting shot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People don’t like unusual things round here. Unusual things scare them, and when they’re scared the first thing they do is get their guns out.’

  Jauma went up the hotel stairs as if he was jogging, and entered the reception area breathing like a seasoned athlete. The receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid. He helped them load their luggage into the lift, and came with them to unlock their rooms. The only thing
missing in each of them was a Gloria Swanson or a Mae West in lace lingerie. Carved wooden bedheads painted cream and picked out in silver. Spiral bedposts supported a canopy that was gathered over the headboard in such a way as to reveal a large plaster rosette in the shape of a crown. An ostentatious sky-blue carpet; pink, silver-flecked furniture; a bathroom with an Empire-style bath tub; marble and chrome fittings in the shape of various exotic plants and animals; and a colour TV the size of a traveling trunk.

  ‘Is the bar open?’

  ‘If I decide so, yes,’ replied the receptionist-liftman-telephonist-nightshift-bartender.

  ‘I hope you’ll be up at once, then. I want chilled French champagne and a hot chick.’

  ‘I can bring the champagne at once, but you’ll have a two hour wait for the girl.’

  ‘In that case I’ll settle for the champagne, for now.’

  Long voyages tend to aggravate the sexual member. Each man’s favourite son was stirring in his trousers. While the others stayed awake and prepared for a two-hour wait, Dieter fell fast asleep—a solid sleep as befitted his solid stature. Jauma had donned a loose-fitting pair of silk pyjamas and was absorbed in examining the geometric variations on the test cards of the various TV channels.

  ‘Come in, Carvalho. I’m trying to find one of them that is sufficiently hypnotic to send me to sleep. The buzzing tone helps. I’m a bit on edge.’

  He told him what the bartender had said about the girls and the champagne.

  ‘Two hours? That’s a pretty lousy service. They must live on the other side of Los Angeles.’

  The receptionist arrived in person, bringing champagne and a glass. He wasn’t amused when they asked for a second glass, but his irritation seemed to pass when Jauma handed him a five-dollar tip.

  ‘And what about my girl? Why so long?’

  ‘At this time of night you’ll only get a black girl or a chicano, and most of them live forty miles away, down by Watts, on the other side of town.’

  Jauma looked at his crutch and commented:

  ‘A lot of things can pass through a man’s soul in the course of two hours.’

  The police were hot on his heels. Gausachs wanted to see him. Fontanillas had rung: ‘Must speak to you, urgently.’ And Concha Hijar too: ‘If necessary I can call at your office.’ Gausachs received him in his office, seated in an executive chair made of high-quality tooled leather, and flanked by three men who were obviously foreigners and who observed Carvalho as they tried to figure out what made him tick.

  ‘You’ve stirred up a fine mess, here.’

  Despite the raised voice and the tone of reproach, Carvalho noted that the more or less polite approach made a pleasant change.

  ‘If you hadn’t started poking your nose in where it didn’t belong, Dieter Rhomberg would still be alive today.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who tipped his car into the river and “disappeared” him.’

  ‘Nobody tipped that car into the river. It must have crashed, and the body’s bound to turn up one day. Anyway, the only reason why Dieter was on the move was because you were stirring everything up with this ridiculous investigation.’

  Gausachs turned to the three men and said, in English:

  ‘Do any of you want to say anything?’

  The one with the commanding features who looked like he might have turned down the post as vicar of Wakefield turned to Carvalho and said, in an impeccable, slightly lilting English:

  ‘I know that you understand English. My company is very concerned about this business, and wants it cleared up as soon as possible. You know how these things are if there’s a scandal in the milkman’s house, sooner or later the whole street knows, and then the whole neighbourhood, and the milkman loses his customers. If there’s a scandal in a company like Petnay, the whole world knows about it. At this point nobody wants to continue with this ludicrous investigation, particularly not now that it’s indirectly claimed another innocent life. We realize that you have economic and professional interests at stake here, and we are prepared to compensate you for the loss of the case. How would two thousand pounds sterling sound—what’s that in pesetas?’

  Gausachs calculated the rate of exchange, and then said in a generous tone:

  ‘Upwards of three hundred thousand pesetas. A very fair offer, señor Carvalho.’

  ‘Supposing I asked for ten thousand pounds? What would you say?’

  ‘Probably nothing, but we would think the worst,’ the ‘vicar’ replied, sarcastically.

  ‘Would you pay, though?’

  ‘It would be dishonest on your part to ask.’

  ‘Petnay has nothing to say on the subject of honesty.’

  The vicar blinked and looked to see what his colleagues were thinking. The two Englishmen shrugged their shoulders. Gausachs asked them:

  ‘Leave me alone with señor Carvalho.’

  Three pairs of shiny shoes disappeared. Gausachs offered Carvalho a malt whiskey.

  ‘You could probably get more money than they offered, but not as much as you seem to think. Do I make myself clear? Given that we want to get the business settled, and given that you need to make as much as you can out of it, we could settle on four thousand pounds—sorry, I mean six hundred thousand pesetas. But don’t push your luck, Carvalho. Petnay is an understanding firm, but it is also powerful. What’s more, at this moment the Spanish police are very angry with you.’

  ‘How come Dieter Rhomberg disappeared so abruptly from Petnay’s payroll? Why did he sound like he was on the run? Why was he traveling under an assumed name, and not in his own car but in a hired car? Why did that car show up in a river that had almost no water in it? Why did he take that weird detour off the motorway? How come, if he was “drowned”, no body has been discovered? Why are you all so keen to let everyone think it was an accident? Why are you prepared to give me six hundred thousand pesetas to get off the case? I think that just about sums things up.’

  ‘In a few hours from now this will be the official version and therefore the correct one. Rhomberg was going through an acute personal and professional crisis. In fact he had still not recovered from the death of his wife. Not only did he leave Petnay, but he underwent a personality change and decided to set off on a voyage of self-discovery. You turned up on the scene, mixing Rhomberg up with the Jauma case, without any proof that the two were connected. Rhomberg decided to come to Barcelona to settle the business for once and all, so as to do what he considered his duty by his good friend Antonio Jauma. As he’s driving down, for reasons that we don’t yet know, his car crashes into the river and he disappears. Maybe he’ll turn up again in a few months’ time, or even years, alive and well, having used this fake death as his way of getting away from everything as only a presumed corpse can. I think this also just about sums up the situation, and I think this explanation is far more likely to be accepted than yours. At the level of public opinion, it’s more than adequate, particularly if people aren’t inclined to see ghosts where there are none.’

  ‘And what about Jauma’s widow? And Rhomberg’s family?’

  ‘They accept Petnay’s version, which is the only possible version. Tomorrow morning I shall be waiting for you, here, at ten. I want a signed statement from you, recognizing that the Jauma case and the Rhomberg case are both now closed, and accepting the official version. I shall hand over, with this very hand, over this very table, a cheque for six hundred thousand pesetas.’

  ‘Did you know that Jauma had discovered an “oversight” of two hundred million pesetas in last year’s accounts?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! Where did you get that from—from one of Jauma’s do-it-yourself accountants?’

  ‘Petnay was informed about this missing money, so how come you weren’t told? Why don’t you ask the vicar of Wakefield?’

  ‘What vicar are you referring to?’

  ‘The slimy
one out there who was trying to bribe me. Ask him, and tomorrow morning, here, at ten, have the reply ready for me. “In that very hand.’”

  Gausachs was plainly put out. Carvalho turned on his heel, walked off, and left Gausachs, muttering as he went:

  ‘Petnay version, indeed!’

  And he burst out laughing. The laughter came back to him several times as he proceeded on foot to the office of the lawyer Fontanillas. ‘Damn you—you’re getting me mixed up in a hell of a mess.’

  ‘Don’t get all worked up, señor notary.’

  ‘What do you mean—I’m not a notary.’

  ‘You look like a very notorious notary to me, and it doesn’t suit you when you get angry. Calm down, friend. Take it easy!’

  He sat down, without first asking if he could, and placed his hands on his knees. Fontanillas had pressed the button on his intercom, as if to send a message, and took a moment or two recovering from his surprise at Carvalho’s abrasive manner.

  ‘Go ahead—say it. I’ve done nothing but stir up trouble. But everything’s sorted out now, and my services are no longer required.’

  ‘We’ll pay what we owe you.’

  ‘And more besides. . .’

  ‘If that’s the problem, and more besides.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because people need to be left to live their lives in peace, and ever since you started rooting around in the Jauma case, there’s been no peace for anyone. Poor Concha, for a start. Then there’s the wretched business about Rhomberg, which was indirectly caused by you, with these investigations of yours.’

  ‘And what about you? Do you want a quiet life again, too? Were you the one—the prestigious lawyer and future leader of the Centre Right, from what I read in the papers—who put pressure on the Civil Governor to find Jauma’s killer come what may?’

  ‘I have friends among the powers-that-be, and I did what I could to move things along. I saw it as doing a favour to Concha, so as to put her mind at rest. I know her, and I know that she won’t rest until everything makes sense. Anyway, Carvalho, everything now fits. The police now have a statement that says that, unfortunately for Concha, Antonio died without his Y-fronts on. And Rhomberg has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with it.’