Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  ‘This professor,’ Pel said. ‘What was he like?’

  The professor, it seemed, was thin and dark-haired and wore horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Sounds like Professor Martin, patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘It looks very much as though the place he disappeared to is also in Mexico.’

  ‘And that there is something here that was of interest to Navarro,’ Pel growled. ‘And now, doubtless, to Donck and the woman.

  Barribal was taking the initiative again now. ‘We go to the Hotel Tepentitla,’ he announced. ‘We will talk to this professor. And –’ he added ominously ‘–he had better have something to tell us.’

  Eight

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t.

  Because he wasn’t there and hadn’t been there for some time. There seemed little doubt that the man who had taken a room at the Tepentitla was Professor Henri Martin, the French historian – his name was in the register – but the hotel hadn’t seen him for several weeks and didn’t know where he was. At first, they had assumed he had been doing his research – they knew this was why he was in Mexico, because he had told them so – but they had no idea where. They hadn’t worried for a day or two but then, after a week without any sign of him, they had removed his luggage to the basement and let the room.

  ‘You still have the luggage?’ De Troq’ asked.

  ‘We have it, señor. He had two suitcases, a camera case and a small canvas holdall. He took all but one suitcase.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, señor. But he had hired a car. We know that because the porter had to fetch it for him each day. We do not have a car park here and the cars are kept in a vacant lot at the back of the hotel. Under guard, of course.’

  ‘Is the car there now?’

  ‘No, señor. He took it the morning he last appeared, and neither the car nor the professor has been seen since.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell anyone where he was going?’

  ‘I questioned everyone, señor.’

  ‘We will see the porter,’ Barribal said.

  The manager shrugged. ‘I regret he is not here, señor. It is his day off.’

  ‘He lives in Mexico City, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then send a car for him.’

  The manager sighed, made gestures and spoke rapidly to an assistant manager and a porter went running for the front door.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Barribal said, ‘which is his room?’

  ‘Cinquente-siete. Fifty-seven.’

  ‘We’ll see it.’

  The manager spread his hands as if he were showing them the stigmata. ‘I regret, señores. It is now taken by a married couple.’

  ‘We’ll still see it.’

  The hotel manager protested that, since the key was not in its place, it might well be occupied, but Barribal was insistent. They took the lift to the fifth floor and Barribal knocked on the door. There was a startled cry from inside.

  ‘Quien?’

  ‘Policía.’

  Even through the door, they could hear the hurried scrambling beyond and eventually it was opened by a small bald-headed man with lipstick smeared across his mouth. Beyond him, a woman was hurriedly zipping up her dress.

  ‘Documentos!’ Barribal snapped.

  The man fished out his papers nervously and Barribal turned to the woman who dug into a handbag and offered them with a wail of despair. Barribal took one look at them then flung them back at her.

  There was a lot of self-important shouting by Barribal and loud apologies by the manager until the woman burst into tears and the man looked as though he’d soon follow. It soon became evident that the woman was not the man’s wife and he thought the presence of the police was because his wife had found out about his transgression. The manager explained and then the man began to grow indignant. Shouting at the manager, he grew red in the face with anger and the woman burst into a fresh paroxysm of sobbing. It all went clean over Barribal’s head as he opened wardrobe doors and looked in the bathroom.

  When it was over, Barribal marched out – followed by the embarrassed Frenchmen – putting on a big show of Mexican macho to hide the fact that he was embarrassed, too.

  ‘Libertinos,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Hombre disoluto. Desgraciados animales.’ He turned to Pel. ‘The world’s full of guys like him. I expect he’s got a faithful wife waiting with the children at home. We’ll examine the luggage.’

  They were conducted to a room near the manager’s office which looked as though it were a staff rest-room and within a short time the suitcase arrived. It was locked, but the label – in a leather container attached to the handle – said ‘Professeur Henri Martin’. His address in France followed.

  ‘We’ll open it,’ Barribal announced portentously.

  He was looking round for something large and sharp when De Troq’ produced a bunch of keys and got to work on the lock. As he threw the lid back, Barribal turned to the manager.

  ‘You see?’ he said, gesturing. ‘The efficiency of the French. Why don’t you have keys?’

  The suitcase contained little but clothes, though there were a few scribbled sheets of paper and a notebook.

  Barribal took the notebook and turned again to the manager. ‘Have you no idea at all where he went?’

  The manager shrugged. ‘There is the Mayan site at Tula,’ he said. ‘If he is a historian he could have gone there. It is very interesting. It is also an interesting town. I believe he also visited the Biblioteca Nacional, or the National History Museum, which is housed in the Castle of Chapultepec.’

  ‘We will visit them.’

  As they closed the case, the porter was ushered in. He was an old man with grey flecks of beard on his dark unshaven chin. He wore a rumpled cotton uniform with green collar and cuffs.

  ‘Tula, señor,’ he agreed when they questioned him. ‘Yes, he mentioned Tula.’

  ‘In what context?’

  ‘He asked me the road to Tula.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No, señor.’

  ‘You can add nothing more than that?’

  ‘Nothing, señor.’

  Barribal dismissed the old man with a wave of his hand and the porter disappeared, looking bewildered and clearly wondering what it was all about.

  ‘We’ll take the suitcase,’ Barribal said. ‘And now we’ll go to the library.’

  In the reading and reference room of the library, they found another trace of Professor Martin. The assistant, who spoke good English with an American accent, recognised him from De Troq’s description and, reaching behind her, fished a pile of cards from a drawer.

  ‘Request cards,’ she said in English. ‘This is an important library and when people wish to read here, they have first to fill out a card with their names and professions.’ She sorted out the cards and removed one. ‘Martin,’ he said. ‘Henri. Professor of Modern History. University of Dijon. He is vouched for by the Hotel Tepentitla. Will that be him?’

  Pel nodded and, replacing the cards, the assistant produced another batch. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘When they wish to have books, they must fill in request cards. Too many books have been stolen by students. Now, if one is missing, we know where to look. It is now difficult to steal.’ She studied the cards for a moment. ‘I remember he did not speak much Spanish and the books he requested were largely in French. De La Gorce’s Histoire du Second Empire. Expédition du Mexique, by J Niox. An English one, The Mexican Adventure by D Dawson. Bibesco’s Combats et Retraite des Six Mille, Kératry’s La Contre-Guérilla Française au Mexique. Général Brancourt’s Lettres. There is also La Intervención Francesa en Mexico sugun el Archivo del Mariscal Bazaine, published here in Mexico in 1907.’

  Here it was again, the French intervention in Mexico to put the unwanted Austrian Archduke Maximilian on the throne.

  ‘Was Tula involved in the battles of the French intervention?’ De Troq’ asked.

  The assistant shrugge
d. ‘I don’t think so, señor. Tula is only the site of Mayan remains. Pyramids. Figures. That sort of thing. There’s little there, and in those days it would be no more than a small village. It would have no importance and no value. It wouldn’t be worth fighting for.’

  ‘So why did Martin want to go to Tula?’ Pel said. ‘It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with what he was researching.’

  They drove back to police headquarters and joined Barribal in his room. Pel was hot, angry and frustrated and by this time had come to the conclusion that Barribal was a lunatic.

  The appearance of three bottles of cold beer cheered him and eased his view of Barribal a little as they began to examine the suitcase.

  The clothing gave no indication of what Martin had been up to, so they turned their attention to the sheets of paper and the notebook. Most of the contents were in shorthand which De Troq’ recognised as the Sloan-Duployan system, often used in France.

  A court shorthand expert summoned by Barribal identified it at once. ‘People here tend to use an adaptation of the Gregg system or the Marti system,’ he said. ‘But there are other systems, of course, for different languages.

  He couldn’t read the Sloan-Duployan shorthand easily but turned up during the afternoon with a man who could. Chiefly, the notebook consisted of notes that seemed to deal with the career and travels of the Emperor Maximilian after his arrival in Mexico.

  There were a lot of what appeared to be meaningless dates and place names – San Miguel de Allende, Acapulco, Veracruz, Mexico City, Zacatecas, Querétaro, Chapultepec – and names of Mexicans De Troq’ recognised from his reading – Juárez, Mejía, Miramón, Escobedo; even Bazaine, once even De Troquereau – and names of European royalty. But none of it seemed to lead anywhere and it seemed more like disconnected notes made to refresh Martin’s memory rather than a connected diary which would indicate his movements.

  But there were also passages in longhand that indicated Martin was contemplating a journey to the north of the capital, and once there was the word, ‘cama’ – bed – written in pencil as if it were a reminder. Alongside it, in ballpoint, were the words, ‘Pilar’ and ‘Las Rosas’. There were also at several points among the shorthand, the letters, ‘ASS’.

  ‘Pilar’s a girl’s name, mí jefe,’ Barribal explained. ‘Perhaps it explains “Las Rosas” – roses – and bed. He is reminding himself to send her roses and intends to get her into bed. Or maybe he has got her into bed and is sending the roses as a delicate memento.’

  ‘And ASS?’

  Barribal shrugged. ‘Asociación de Seguridad Secundaria? Or Secreta?’ He grinned. ‘Or maybe Sexual? I will check.’

  There was also a roll of film in a small plastic cylinder with a self-seal lid.

  ‘Could this have been used?’ Pel asked.

  ‘If it hadn’t, it would be in a box, patron,’ De Troq’ pointed out. ‘You don’t take them out of the cardboard container until you’re going to put them in the camera. Afterwards, you put them in the cylinder to keep the light from them. I think it has been used.’

  ‘Then it might be of interest to see what’s on it.’

  ‘I’ll fix it,’ Barribal said.

  Pel watched the door close behind him and fished for his cigarettes. He had run out but De Troq’ produced a packet of Gauloise.

  Pel lit one and stared moodily at the rising smoke. ‘One day,’ he promised, ‘I know I shall give them up. In the meantime I smoke less and less, but not much less, so it becomes a race against time. Which will come first? Me giving them up or cancer of the lungs?’ He drew on the cigarette and looked up. ‘This French intervention in Mexico. What do you know about it?’

  ‘A little, patron. My family has always known about it because of my great-great-grandfather.’

  ‘I was never very good at history,’ Pel admitted. ‘Inform me. And make it so it’s finished before that lunatic returns.’

  De Troq’ drew a deep breath, clearly enjoying himself. ‘I’m not sure of the reasons for it all, patron,’ he said. ‘I think there was a lot of French investment here in the 1860s but the country was in a chronic state of civil war and it seemed to Napoleon III that a good solution would be to get rid of the president and put a French puppet in his place. He also thought it might be a good idea to have a solid Latin bloc to the south of the United States who at the time were engaged with their own civil war. They persuaded the brother of the Emperor Franz Josef of Austria that it would suit him, and he was brought to Mexico and landed at Veracruz, backed by the French Army and Navy. There were battles because the Mexicans didn’t want him, and the elected president, Benito Juárez, never wavered in his opposition. Maximilian was established in Mexico City but there were a great many casualties from the fighting.’

  ‘How did it end?’

  ‘Alors –’ De Troq’ shrugged ‘ – although Maximilian was very decorative, he was far from bright and when the American Civil War ended, the Americans made it clear that they didn’t want Europeans interfering on their side of the Atlantic. I expect you’ve heard of the Monroe Doctrine, which says exactly that. It also began to seem to Napoleon III that he’d rather put his foot in it, because things had started to go wrong. To cut the story short, he withdrew his troops, Maximilian’s wife, Carlota, went mad, and in the end Maximilian was besieged with a few loyal troops at Querétaro where he eventually surrendered. He was shot. You’ll have seen Goya’s painting of his death.’

  Pel hadn’t but he muttered something, hoping that De Troq’, who was known to be a bit of an intellectual and a little frightening, would think he had.

  ‘Anything else?’

  De Troq’ shrugged. ‘That’s all I know, patron. A sordid sort of business. It ought never to have happened, and when it failed nobody was very surprised.’

  De Troq’s summary had been neat and succinct. ‘Why would Martin be interested in that?’ Pel asked. ‘Other than the reason we’ve already considered – profit? We have no information that he’s writing anything about it, though he might well be. And if he is, why is he visiting this place, Tula? That doesn’t sound like him. Martin’s a man who likes the limelight. And the money that goes with it. So is his interest in Tula because he’s found something there that has a bearing on the French intervention? Something nobody knows about and would be worth investigating? Or is it simply that he’d found something that would produce money? Mayan relics or something of that sort? It must have been something like that, because Serrano Navarro wasn’t the sort to be interested in limelight for Professor Martin, was he?’

  They tossed it back and forth until Barribal returned. ‘I had them check those letters, ASS,’ he said. ‘They went through the directories, but nothing that would interest us turned up. They’re still looking, though.’

  He had a fistful of large photographs in colour, fresh from the dark-room. He spread them on the table and they leaned over them.

  Two of them were of a girl, obviously Mexican because she was dark-haired and beautiful and was wearing a brightly coloured dress. She appeared to be standing on some sort of high platform that showed the countryside all around. In the background they could see a huge strange stone figure, like a column with a crude head cut in it.

  ‘That’ll be Pilar, whoever she is, I suppose,’ De Troq’ said, indicating the girl.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Pel suggested dryly, ‘the reason Martin went to Tula was more simple than we imagine – to meet her. What else do we have?’

  There were two pictures of Martin himself, wearing sandals, a wide-brimmed straw hat and a red shirt, but they were not as good as the ones of the girl. He was not in the centre of the pictures and one of them was slightly lopsided.

  Most of the rest of the reel consisted of straightforward pictures – Mayan remains; a country cart; a splendid church.

  ‘The Church of San Francisco Xavier at Tepozatlán,’ Barribal said. ‘It’s near Tula. Dates back to the early seventeenth century.’

  The end of the reel
showed houses, ordinary undistinguished wooden houses which weren’t Mexican in style, with flat façades and stoops, and the last pictures of all showed a deep valley containing what appeared to be a town. Beyond the town the plain stretched away to distant hills and in the centre they could see a tall church and a stadium which looked like a bullring. In the foreground was what appeared to be part of another building, a wall of pink bricks, its summit built in a series of graceful downward arcs with pointed peaks. There were two or three other pictures taken in a town, showing a church, a square surrounded by clubbed jacarandas full of magpies, and what appeared to be a hotel.

  De Troq’ indicated the indifferent pictures of Martin. ‘It looks as if the girl took those,’ he said,

  ‘Women can’t be relied on,’ Barribal said with all the arrogance of a Mexican male that they’d already noticed wherever they’d gone. ‘And they were taken at Tula. The big statue is Mayan. I once take my sons there to see their history. I think they are taken on top of the pyramid.’ He moved the pictures about and they saw close-ups of the carved heads, and of what appeared to be small chambers.

  ‘Something could have been hidden there,’ Pel said, indicating the strange wooden houses.

  Barribal frowned. ‘They’re not Mexican,’ he said.

  ‘They don’t even look occupied,’ Pel said.

  But Barribal placed his finger on a row of figures sitting in the sun alongside one of the houses, heads down, wide-brimmed hats over their eyes. ‘Men,’ he said. ‘Sleeping Mexican men. Some guy lives there.’

  Pel indicated the other pictures. ‘And these?’

  ‘San Miguel de Allende,’ Barribal said immediately.

  He indicated the view of the wide valley. ‘That is a famous picture. Everybody takes it. You approach from the plain and pass a large modern motel and you’re just wondering whether to spend the night there or try a little further when the road drops away. It is narrow and winds much, so you have no choice except to continue. Then you come to this view as you turn the corner. You have the whole plain and the town before you and you stop to take the photograph because just at that point the road widens enough to park your car and there is a little balustrade where you can lean your camera to hold it steady. Also the sun is over your shoulder and the picture is perfect. Everybody does this. I’ve seen dozens of that photograph. It is in all the brochures. All the guys in the force taking their family north, stop and take it. Visitors take it. Americans looking for old Mexico take it. They go there because San Miguel is a fine example of colonial Mexico and it is very popular because it’s easy to reach from Mexico City and tourists like easy trips. It has good hotels and an American art school and the wealthy Norteamericano mammas and papas come to visit their children there. Good bars. Good restaurants that sell Norteamericano food. Lotsa shops where you buy gifts to take home to grandmamma.’