Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  ‘As in Arizona or Kansas,’ Barribal agreed. ‘Dodge City. Somewhere like that. With John Wayne. I have see them, too. But they don’t build houses like that any longer, not even in Kansas or Arizona or Dodge City. They need somewhere for the air-conditioner and the icebox and the washing-machine and the Coca Cola. American towns don’t look like that these days. And the numbers, Don Evaristo.’ He fished out the negatives and looked at the numbers. ‘They come on the reel before the pictures of Tula. And we know he was in Tula on the 17th. So if they’re pictures of Arizona or Kansas, he probably went to America. But he wouldn’t go up there then come back to Mexico. Madonna –’ he studied the pictures for a long time, frowning deeply, then he rose. ‘I got a magnifying glass in my briefcase,’ he said flashing his magnificent teeth at them. ‘Let us take a closer look.’

  Returning with the magnifying glass, Barribal studied Pel through it, one huge magnified eye staring at him. Pel glared back at him.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes, Don Evaristo,’ he said. ‘You ever read about that guy?’

  Pel had and he didn’t think much of him. ‘A very English detective,’ he said coldly. ‘Not very clever.’

  They bent over the pictures and Barribal suddenly gestured. ‘Those goddamn buildings have got no backs to them!’ he said, lifting his head to stare at Pel.

  He passed over the magnifying glass and Pel studied the pictures. Sure enough, it was possible to see sunshine behind the windows of the houses in the pictures.

  ‘They don’t have roofs, either,’ he said. ‘They’re nothing but façades. Just the front walls. Nothing else.’

  Barribal frowned. ‘Who builds a house without a back to it?’ he asked. For a long time he studied the prints. ‘It says on this one, “Wesley’s Emporium”,’ he announced. ‘That don’t sound very Mexican.’ He studied the prints again, then he slapped his thigh.

  ‘Madonna!’ he said. ‘I’ve got it! This isn’t a Mexican village! It’s a film set.’

  Pel gaped at him.

  ‘There are several in Mexico, mí jefe,’ Barribal explained. ‘There are two I know of – both near Durango. There’s also one near Taxco in Morelos. The Norteamericanos often make films here because it is cheaper. The extras don’t ask so much. They eat tortillas and minced beef instead of steaks. Several films are shot. They build the sets. Whole streets of houses like this. A church. A saloon. The heroine’s home. The heroine’s always the schoolmistress. You know the Norteamericanos – very sentimental about schoolmistresses. The territory is right also, because Mexico look like Arizona or Texas. There’s more than one place like this.’

  ‘And which is this?’

  Barribal grinned his wide, white-toothed smile. ‘Not the one in Morelos. The country’s wrong. This is the one near San Miguel. That hill in the background’s the Cerro del Mercado. Two hundred metres high and solid iron ore. I am up there two years ago when some guy murders the manager of the mine for the petty cash. It is near the village of Chapadores. That is why there are guys in the picture. It is right alongside the main road to San Miguel, after you turn off the highway past Querétaro. They got steers there. It’s a staging post because the railway runs close by and on to the slaughter yards. Very interesting.’

  Pel frowned. ‘I think,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that it would be as well if we went there.’

  Eleven

  They filled up at a petrol station operated by an entire family. While Father pumped in the petrol, Mother and children washed and polished with rags or merely with their sleeves. An hour later they had stopped by the film set.

  It wasn’t easy to distinguish it at first because it lay well back off the main road and there was no sign to indicate where it was. The village of Chapadores was there, though, a long straggly adobe village with the usual church, and with sheep and goats and pigs and chickens in the street. Raisin-eyed children in rags studied them solemnly as they passed, moving slowly and trailing the inevitable cloud of dust.

  Finally Barribal jerked a hand. ‘There it is!’

  Higher up the slope, connected by the winding dirt road through the village, they could see what looked like wooden-frame houses and a church spire.

  ‘This is the place,’ Barribal said at once. ‘That’s not a Mexican church. Our bishops always built them big and imposing. They preferred to spend money on buildings instead of on people.’

  After a while they came to cattle milling round in a corral, and two or three men with a truck lashing a gate in place with ropes. They took no notice of them as they passed, not even lifting their heads to look at them. They had obviously taken over the corral built by the film makers for their film and were totally absorbed in what they were doing. Then they passed a row of houses where dusty curtains blew in the breeze, past the ‘Wesley’s Emporium’ of the photograph with its stoop, and a place signed as the ‘Bar 2’, its swing doors hanging awry on their hinges.

  As Barribal stopped the car, they peered out, warily almost, as if they expected a posse of lawmen in stetsons on horses to swing out from behind the wooden façades and arrest them. Now they were close, they could see the emptiness beyond the doors and windows. Here and there, where filming had obviously taken place, crude shelters had been built behind them to throw the windows into darkness and give the impression of living homes beyond.

  Outside the car it was cold in the wind despite the sunshine, and Pel even found himself wishing he had brought Madame Pel’s knitted sweater.

  ‘It is the height,’ Barribal said. ‘We have left the bowl of Mexico for the highlands.’

  It was an eerie sensation to stand in the middle of the empty street, surrounded by the ghosts of a long-dead film. No one had stopped them, no one had shown any interest, and the people of Chapadores had clearly made no attempt to use any of the old buildings.

  ‘Why was he interested in this place?’ Barribal mused. ‘Why did he take photographs of it?’

  As they stood among the empty buildings, they heard a motor vehicle start, then, at the end of the street, a car shot away. Barribal’s head jerked round.

  ‘That’s a police truck,’ he snapped. ‘What’s happening?’

  He set off on his long legs down the dusty street between the empty façades, followed by Pel and De Troq’. At the end, near the wooden mock-up of the church, there was the well they’d seen in the photographs and, to the left, hidden by the wooden frames of the buildings, a small square, where there was an impression of a stable and a group of dwelling houses. A group of men stood by a pick-up truck, and a police car was parked in front of one of the ‘houses’. With them was a group of ragged children. As Barribal marched up to them, a policeman in the usual dusty blue uniform, his peaked cap pulled down over his eyes, looked up, then turned and marched self-importantly towards them.

  ‘Alto,’ he said. ‘Policía!’

  Barribal didn’t argue. He simply fished out his identity card and flipped it. The policeman immediately backed away, stiffened and tossed up what was meant to be a salute. For a second, the two of them talked quietly, then Barribal turned to Pel.

  ‘Something queer here,’ he said. ‘Someone – a woman, they say – telephone – they think long-distance – to let them know there is a body under one of the stoops. She leave no name and she is very brief. At the same time some of the muchachos from Chapadores come up here. They do sometimes. They pick up a bad smell and inform the father of one of the kids. He come up and recognise the smell at once and tell the police. His call comes just after the other.’

  The men standing in a group had spades, Pel noticed, and he moved closer, his nostrils wrinkling at the unmistakable sweetish smell that came out at him.

  ‘I think we’ve probably found Martin,’ he said.

  Barribal crossed himself, quick dabs at his breast with his finger tips. ‘I think we have,’ he agreed.

  An hour later, they stood back, holding their noses. Around them were the remains of the wooden stoop on one of the houses. The men had ripped the
planks up and were now staring into the hole they’d dug beneath the frame.

  ‘That him?’ Barribal asked.

  ‘That’s him,’ Pel said.

  ‘Somebody tortured him, patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘His hands are tied and you can see cigarette burns. They beat him up and shot him. Why?’

  ‘He was beaten to find out something,’ Pel said. ‘And he was shot because then he’d become dangerous. He might have gone to the police.’

  Barribal was busy organising the removal of the body. The police truck had returned with a police officer to whom Barribal turned over the whole affair.

  ‘It is not my business,’ he explained to Pel. ‘He is here a long time. Only because nobody come here is he not found. But I don’ want to be tied down here. I’ve ask for a full report and I come back here tomorrow. It’s late in the day now and we must be in San Miguel before it is dark. We can leave the local guys in charge.’

  As Barribal moved away, De Troq’ moved closer to Pel. ‘Who was it informed the police, patron? Pilar Hernandez?’

  ‘Or Jacqueline Hervé?’

  De Troq’ looked puzzled. ‘Why her?’

  Pel shrugged. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be Pilar Hernandez, would it? She strikes me as a rather dim, film-struck girl and she wouldn’t wish to be involved in this. And she certainly wouldn’t kill Martin, because she had no reason to torture him and certainly wouldn’t want him dead. He was giving her too good a time. That was Donck.’

  ‘So why would Jacqueline Hervé telephone the police and put them on to it?’

  ‘Was she dumping Donck?’ Pel lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. ‘It’s odd, don’t you think, that although she was prepared to help Donck get rid of Navarro and was willing to bolt from France with him, she never visited him in prison? Could it be that she’d had enough of murder and was scared – probably of Donck, too, by this time. After all, with this one, he’d killed three people and that’s enough to scare most women. Perhaps she wanted to bolt. She’s probably in Brazil now.’ Pel paused. ‘Mind you,’ he admitted, ‘that’s only a guess.’

  De Troq’ studied him. ‘All the same, patron,’ he said, ‘it’s probably not a bad one.’

  When Barribal returned, Pel stopped him. ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’ Pel said.

  ‘Sure. This Donck. You know what this means, don’t you?’ Barribal grinned. ‘We now have a murderer here in Mexico. And that means that we want that guy, too, so you can’t have him. We also have to show results, to provide good statistics, and I shall want to see him on charges in Mexico. Here. In the San Miguel district. It will be good for promotion.’

  ‘I have two murders to your one,’ Pel pointed out coldly.

  Barribal grinned. ‘But this is Mexico,’ he said. ‘You know the saying. Anything can happen in Mexico, and usually does.’

  ‘We’ll discuss that later.’

  ‘Sure. Right now I want to know why they kill him and why they torture him.’

  ‘To get something they were after,’ Pel said.

  ‘Proceeds of a big hold-up perhaps?’ Barribal suggested. ‘But we haven’t had any. Not lately. There may be some that have been forgotten that this Donck has learned about. But we’ve been doing well lately. We have a good record. A few guys are murdered. A few are arrested. But nobody get any loot we don’ know about and haven’t recovered.’

  Pel studied the Mexican for a moment. ‘Donck and the woman came up here,’ he said. ‘Borrillas told us they were coming to Querétaro. Why? To meet Martin? Perhaps they were looking for him. Perhaps they found his hotel in Querétaro and learned where he’d gone. They followed him and finally came up with him here.’

  ‘We check,’ Barribal said. ‘I’ll tell the police in Querétaro to ask at the hotels.’

  ‘I’d rather know why they wanted him,’ Pel pointed out. ‘And what this “treasure” was that Borillas heard them talking about. Borillas said he thought it was something old.’

  ‘We don’ have a record of hidden loot that far back.’

  ‘Did these Mayans and Aztecs have gold?’

  Barribal grinned. ‘Sure did. But I guess it’s all been found now.’

  ‘Could some have been missed?’

  ‘Could, I think. But how would Donck know about it?’

  ‘Martin? He was a historian. Donck obviously forced him to tell them.’

  ‘Antique civilisations weren’t his interest, patron,’ De Troq’ insisted. ‘Historians have to cover a lot of ground and most of them specialise. Martin’s interest wasn’t Mayan civilisation. That we know.’

  Pel turned and he explained. ‘In France, for instance, one historian will know about the Revolution. One will deal with Louis XIV. One with De Gaulle. In Mexico, it’ll be the same. One will deal with the antique civilisations, one with the war of independence, one with the great revolution. Navarro was checking on the French intervention.’

  The hotel in San Miguel de Allende was right opposite the main square, an old colonial house with the rooms built above a courtyard containing trees, bougainvillaea and a fountain. Clearly it was aimed at the Americans. It was spotless, efficient and well-ordered and, as Barribal had promised, a call at the police station fixed it so that rooms were available without argument. Pel’s was at the back but, as he didn’t fancy missing what was going on at the front, he insisted on exchanging with Barribal. Barribal smiled, shrugged and didn’t argue.

  It was late afternoon by this time and all the shops appeared to be shut.

  ‘The siesta,’ Barribal explained. ‘They open in the evening.’

  The Comisaría de Policía was just up the road, in a flat-faced building with a wide opening leading into a room where several uniformed men lounged. They were shown through to the officer in command and introduced.

  ‘El Jefe Don Evaristo Pel,’ Barribal said. ‘El Sargento De Troquereau. They are famous policemen from Europe involved in a case here in Mexico.’

  The Chief of Police rose and shook hands, and in faultless English with an American accent offered chairs and drinks.

  ‘British?’ he asked.

  Pel was indignant. ‘French,’ he snapped.

  They produced Martin’s photographs and the police chief stared at them. They didn’t ring a bell of any sort and he summoned his secretary and asked for the chief of detectives. The chief of detectives was a small man in green trousers, a yellow shirt and a white tie. His jacket was American in style with loud check.

  They studied the pictures again. Nobody, it appeared had seen either Professor Martin or Donck or Jacqueline Hervé, but the Chief of Police frowned.

  ‘The girl,’ he said, pointing to the photograph of Pilar Hernandez. ‘Who is she? Una turista Norteamericano?’

  ‘She’s some little mujercilla from Tula,’ Barribal said. ‘She’s left there more than once and returned. This time she went off with the man in the photographs whom my French compañeros are looking for. A Professor Henri Martin who’s been found dead under the stoop of one of the houses in the film set at Chapadores.’

  The police chief looked up. ‘I’ve just heard of that.’

  ‘It’s murder,’ Barribal said. His finger touched the pictures of Donck and Jacqueline Hervé. ‘We think these two – also French – were responsible, and that –’ the thick spatulate finger rested on the picture of Pilar Hernandez ‘ – that this woman might know something about it.’

  The police chief picked up the picture of the girl and stared at it. ‘I know this girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen her somewhere.’

  Everybody it seemed, had seen Pilar Hernandez.

  ‘I wish I could think where,’ the police chief said. ‘I’ve seen that face.’ He smiled. ‘She is beautiful enough to be memorable.’

  During the evening the loudspeakers attached to the bandstand in the square came to life. At first what they had to offer was dance music then abruptly it changed, and a high tenor voice broke into ‘Che gelida manina’, from La Bohème.

  Barribal gri
nned. ‘The band only play at the weekend,’ he said. ‘The rest of the week they play tapes from the mayor’s office and the mayor like opera. His secretary like jazz but when he comes in he makes him take off the tape and put on opera.’

  Barribal seemed happy enough and so did De Troq’, but Pel had no ear for music and considered opera consisted of rugby-forward-sized people yelling across a stage at each other. But it was a case of like it or lump it and the singing went on all evening.

  By this time, Pel was tired of Mexican food, which he felt burned away his palate so that he would never enjoy real food – Burgundian food – ever again, so Barribal found a small restaurant down a side street that ran from the main square opposite the hotel. It was suffocatingly hot and was full of Americans, and the food, not Mexican food, was dreadful, while the proprietor, a saintly faced New Yorker, told them he served only non-alcoholic drinks. Pel sat through the meal glowering with disgust. A Frenchman didn’t eat steak – however indifferent – with coffee or Coca Cola. Afterwards, they sat in a bar in the main street drinking brandy. The opera had finished – obviously the mayor had gone home – and the loudspeakers were broadcasting a brass band. It was different from French bands, more tinny, more shrill, more ear-piercing.

  Barribal struck up a conversation with an American girl and, as they whispered in a corner, Pel leaned towards De Troq’. ‘What’s he saying?’ he asked.

  De Troq’ smiled his careful smile. ‘Sweet nothings, patron. The usual clichés. Good Spanish compliments. Vida de mi vida. Alma de mi alma. Amor de mi amor.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Life of my life, soul of my soul, love of my love.’

  ‘People don’t still speak like that.’

  ‘They seem to in Mexico. Barribal certainly does.’

  ‘After only a couple of drinks, too!’ Pel pulled a face then he nodded solemnly, noting the words for future use. They would please his wife. He stared at Barribal, who had straightened up now, handsome, immaculate – even if gaudy – in his dress, and was flashing his splendid white teeth at the girl.