by Mark Hebden
‘Who does he remind you of?’ Pel asked.
De Troq’ grinned. ‘Inspector Darcy, patron.’
‘I’m glad you noticed, too.’
De Troq’ smiled. ‘Have you also noticed, patron, that his driver looks like Misset?’
Pel’s eyebrows rose. That was a thought. Were policemen duplicated in other countries? Were there Darcys and Missets – even Pels – all over the world? Were there such people as Daniel Aleksandrovich Darcyskis? Were there English, Russian and Italian Missets? It was a terrifying prospect.
After a while, the girl rose and left and soon afterwards Barribal discovered he had business to attend to at the police station. They noticed, however, that he went in the direction the girl had taken, which was opposite to that which would have led him to the police station.
Since the shops were still open, Pel felt it was time to buy the gold necklace he had promised his wife. He had tried sending a postcard to her but the post office had been out of every kind of stamp but the lowest denomination and he had had to stick on so many there had been room only for the words: Love, Pel.
He found the right shop without difficulty. No one spoke either French or English but it didn’t worry him. He had never had any doubts how to pronounce foreign words. You simply decided, pronounced them, and stood by your decision, and if there were problems you just shouted louder.
Returning to the hotel, he had a last drink with De Troq’ in the courtyard and went to his room. As he started to undress, he realised why Barribal had offered no objection when he had insisted on changing rooms. While the sun was out, the flocks of magpies which inhabited the jacarandas in the square had made the daylight hideous with their chatter. Now it was the brass band. Car horns also sounded constantly, as if the owners were driving round and round the square, honking at the girls, while the chatter of the magpies had been replaced by the shouts and shrieks of young men and women.
It was long after midnight when he fell into a shallow sleep. He remembered hearing three dogfights during the night, with what appeared to be about ten Alsatians on each side and three-minute rounds. Drowsily he wondered why sixty Alsatians would want to start a fight at three o’clock in the morning.
Now there was a youth singing – ‘Y si Adelita se fuera con otro’ – for some unknown reason in the street outside and then – perhaps because of it – he found he had a severe case of indigestion and was convinced he was dying, but couldn’t conceive how it had happened, because he had been well aware of the dangers of Mexican food and had chewed everything he had eaten thirty-two times before swallowing it. It hadn’t been easy to make minced meat go that far but he had managed it, and he felt twinges of resentment that it hadn’t worked.
The girl, Pilar Hernandez, kept coming to his mind, and he dreamed he was chasing her round the old film set but could never catch her.
As he came to consciousness it seemed everyone else in the place, every other man, woman, child, beast and cockerel, to say nothing of the lorry drivers, who were already moving their jet-propelled vehicles about the town, had also awakened and there was a cocktail of calling voices, braying, crowing and barking and the high revving of engines. To the last moment he had been dreaming of chasing Pilar Hernandez, then somebody had levelled a shot-gun at him, but instead of the crash of a shot it was the jarring of a bell.
He sat bolt upright in bed to realise it was daylight and that the first vehicles of the new day were moving up and down the hill past the hotel. Bells were going like mad all over the town and he decided that St Paulinus, who was reputed to have invented the church bell, had a lot to answer for. As he stared about him, the telephone bell rang again and he snatched it up.
‘Don Evaristo Pel?’ the voice said. ‘Jefe de Policía Francesa?’
It was enough like Chef de Police for Pel to be able to answer. ‘Sí,’ he said. ‘Pel.’
‘Momento.’
There was a series of clicks and buzzes then a voice came on the line. It was speaking Spanish and Pel looked round in a panic for help. Then it changed and he heard English with a thick American accent.
‘Chief Inspector Don Evaristo Pel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, Don Evaristo. This is Police Chief Cardeñas. We met yesterday.’
What in God’s name, Pel wondered, was the Chief of Police wanting at this time of the morning? Surely not to say it wasn’t Martin they’d found the previous afternoon.
‘I have thought thoughts, Don Evaristo.’
‘Oh?’
‘The girl. I have tried to contact Inspector Barribal, but I am informed he is out.’
He would be, Pel thought.
‘I have therefore decided to speak to you. Momento.’ Pel heard pages rattling, then the voice came again. ‘Pilar Hernandez. I have remembered where I saw her.’
‘What?’ Pel scrambled for a piece of paper and a pencil to write down the address. ‘Where?’
‘The Posada San Francisco.’
‘Posada San Francisco?’ Pel muttered the words as he scrawled them frantically. What in God’s name was the Posada San Francisco, he wondered. A bar? A brothel?
‘The Posada San Francisco,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’
There was a laugh from the other end of the line and the police chief’s fruity voice came again. ‘Right there, señor. You’re on top of it. It’s the hotel where you’re staying. She works there.’
Twelve
Normally, Pel liked to start the day with a smile and – if you were lucky – a breezy comment. He knew the mood wouldn’t last long so he always felt it would be best to get it out of the way and then he could forget it for the next twenty-four hours and go about his business, concentrating on what was happening. But that was in normal circumstances, when he came to consciousness normally, slowly, anticipating his breakfast and his first cigarette of the day.
This was different. He glanced at the clock and saw it was the unearthly hour of 7.30. He couldn’t imagine what the Chief of Police was doing about at that hour of the morning – and cheerful too! – and his reaction was twice as strong. De Troq’, still dozing in a room along the corridor, leapt to life at the thunderous knocking on his door, then, ignoring all the niceties, Pel burst in.
He was in his dressing-gown and was unshaven, and a few thin strands of hair stood straight up on his head like the crest of a cockatoo.
‘Patron! What’s wrong?’
‘That woman! Pilar Hernandez! I’ve found her! She’s here! In this hotel! She works here!’
‘What?’
‘Get up! Get dressed! We need to get on to this before she disappears again.’
De Troq’ had been thinking of his breakfast coffee and rolls and he didn’t take kindly to the suggestion of immediacy. ‘I’ll get dressed and get some breakfast, patron.’
‘There’s no time,’ Pel snapped. ‘We might lose her.’
De Troq’ picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll have a word with the manager, patron,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him to get hold of her and hang on to her, then we’ll get dressed and have breakfast.’
Pel scowled, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that, and he listened as De Troq’ spoke in Spanish into the phone. The phone clattered back at him, then De Troq’ smiled and replaced the receiver.
‘We’ve lost her again, patron,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘She’s not here any more.’
‘Where is she?’
‘That was the assistant manager,’ De Troq’ said. ‘The manager doesn’t appear until later and the place is run in his absence by three under-managers. That was the early shift. He knows the girl and says, yes, she did work here. But not any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘She just left. She didn’t let them know. She didn’t turn up. It seems to be a habit of hers.’
Pel glared. This, he felt, was cheating, and he began to think horrible things about the police chief for waking him up so unnecessarily. But then, as De T
roq’ held out a packet of cigarettes and he drew the first lungful of smoke down, he came to his senses and realised that, though their quarry had disappeared again, at least they had picked up her trail.
‘So what’s happened?’
‘The under-manager says he’ll make enquiries. He suggests we take breakfast and then call on him and he’ll supply us with whatever he’s found out. It seems sensible, patron.’
Even Pel had to admit that it was.
They were finishing their coffee when Barribal appeared. He looked a little hung-over.
He ordered coffee, lit a cigarette and brushed a hand across his forehead. ‘I have quite a night,’ he said. ‘American girls!’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Mucho caliente! Very hot.’
He chattered about the girl he’d seen the night before, the state of the economy, the police chief in Mexico City, whom he seemed to hold in great contempt, and the number of American girls in Mexico.
‘They got the post-mortem report on this hombre, Professor Martin,’ he said. ‘He’d been tortured all right. Cigarette burns on his chest, just like we say. His fingers are broken. And he is beaten up. Whoever put him there want something from him very bad. I’ll see you get a copy of the report.’
He was still talking with his mouth full when Pel told him what they’d learned about Pilar Hernandez.
‘Qué?’ Crumbs exploded from Barribal’s mouth as he sat bolt upright. ‘What? You find her?’
‘We didn’t. The police chief did. She was here. In this hotel.’
‘Living here?’
‘Not quite. Working here.’
‘Then why don’t we go talk to her?’
‘Because she isn’t here any more. She’s left. She’s always one step in front of us. We’re due to see the under-manager. He’s making enquiries. We can go as soon as you’ve finished.’
‘I’ve finished!’ Barribal swallowed the rest of his coffee and clattered the cup back to the saucer. ‘Let’s go!’
‘Agostino P Vey’, the triangular strip of wood on the desk announced, and Pel noticed that on the other upright side, facing away from them, it said ‘Calo H Fernandez’. Doubtless the bottom of the three sides, the side on which it rested, carried the name of the third under-manager. It seemed a good idea and a great saving in expense.
Agostino P Vey was a slim young man, beautifully dressed in a dark suit with an immaculate white shirt and sombre tie. Obviously the Posada San Francisco, conscious of its American visitors, liked to put on a good front.
‘Pilar Hernandez,’ he said in American-accented English. ‘She came here three weeks ago and asked for a job. The housekeeper, Señora Ramirez, took her on. She was an attractive girl and she said she had come from Mexico City looking for work.’
‘She hadn’t,’ Pel said. ‘She came from Tula with a man. He probably left her, to do some business he was occupied on, and he was murdered. His body was found at Chapadores yesterday. He’s a Frenchman. That’s why I’m here.’
Agostino P Vey listened carefully, then he nodded. ‘I heard about that. Inspector Barribal spoke to me about it.’
He would, Pel thought. ‘When did she leave?’ he asked.
‘One week ago. She wasn’t satisfactory and Señora Ramirez suspected her of going to the rooms of male guests at night. Then, during the day a week ago, she was seen talking to a Señor Arkwright. He’s an American who has a house up the hill. They seemed to be deep in conversation. The following day she didn’t appear.’
Pilar Hernandez’s habit of talking to men and then disappearing obviously hadn’t left her.
‘After twenty-four hours we replaced her,’ Vey said.
‘This Arkwright? Who is he?’
Vey turned to a pad by his elbow. ‘George R Arkwright. An American. Very wealthy. He doesn’t have a good reputation here. He’s often in town. He comes in here to drink occasionally. We don’t like him but we can’t forbid him because the bar’s open to the public. She isn’t the first girl we’ve lost in this way.’
‘To Arkwright?’
‘Sí, señor. They go to work at his house. At least, that’s what is said. Then we hear of them back in the town working somewhere. It seems he tires of them quickly.’
‘This hombre got a bad reputation?’ Barribal asked.
‘I have heard that the police have made enquiries about him. I understand he’s been warned.’
‘I think we better go see Señor Arkwright.’ Barribal smiled grimly. ‘But first we call on the police and see what they know of him. It might help.’
He borrowed Vey’s phone and spoke into it for a few minutes, then he rose and gestured. ‘We got him,’ he said. ‘They know him.’
Outside the police station, they stopped while Barribal disappeared. He came back with a sheet of paper in his hand and a wide grin on his face.
‘He’s been warned about young girls,’ he said. ‘Under-age girls. It is not hard in Mexico to tempt girls with money. There’s not a lot of it about. Let’s go.’
Climbing from the town, they soon found Arkwright’s house. It stood at the top of the steep hill above the town, close to a modern motel called La Ermita and set back from the road behind a white-painted board fence that was entirely American. Around it, it had a hectare of land, the outer edges of which seemed to consist largely of rocks and cactus, though close to the house there were green lawns, flowering shrubs and potted cactus. The veranda was ablaze with bougainvillea.
George R Arkwright certainly seemed to be very wealthy because there appeared to be an army of servants working on the garden and another army busy with dusters, feather mops and vacuum cleaners in the spacious interior. The house was built in Spanish style with barred windows, white walls, dark furniture and brightly coloured rugs and furnishings.
They announced themselves and asked to see Arkwright. The elderly Mexican woman who let them in nodded, bobbed a curtsey and turned away. A moment or two later, Arkwright himself appeared. He was middle-aged, large, fat, and full of smiles. He wore linen trousers, a red shirt and sandals.
‘Police, hey?’ he boomed. ‘Don’t often get a visit from the police. What have I done wrong?’
Barribal hastened to point out that he’d done nothing wrong but that they were making enquiries about a body which had been found on the film set at Chapadores.
‘Hell, I read about that. Nothing to do with me.’ Arkwright gestured. ‘Siddown. Make yourselves at home. Lemme get you a drink.’ As he busied himself at a table where the bottles stood he talked over his shoulder. ‘Nice place I got here, don’t you think, hey? My Dad spent all his life making money and expected me to. Pet food. That was his line. It wasn’t for me. I didn’t even like the smell. But he kept me at it, teaching me the business, showing me how to watch costs and cut corners. When he died, I sold it within a month. National chain. Glad to have it. Me, I was glad to get out.’
He handed them their drinks, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Didn’t even like Chicago where we lived. Moved around some. Ended up here. Here, I can live as well as my old man did without lifting a finger. Mex’s cheap. The greasers work for nothing. I can live without hardly disturbing my capital. Hardly bites into the interest the bank makes for me.’
‘Pilar Hernandez,’ Pel said quietly.
Immediately Arkwright’s face changed. ‘What’s that?’
‘Pilar Hernandez. You know her, I believe.’
Holding his glass in his hand, Arkwright studied them for some time. Then he took a quick swallow and stared at them again, this time aggressively.
‘So what? It’s no business of the police.’
‘It might be,’ Barribal said.
‘Hell, I know these folk here don’t like me none. They think I got too much money. They think because I have parties up here and invite a few local girls, I’m dangerous. Sump’n wrong with havin’ parties, havin’ a few dames in?’
Barribal said nothing and Arkwright went on. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘There’ve been complaints but they all
got sorted out.’
‘The girl, Pilar Hernandez.’
‘She’s above age. She’s twenty-one. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there? She came of her own free will and accord. I didn’t lasso her, tie her up and bring her up in the back of the estate wagon.’
‘We think she knew the man who was found dead at Chapadores.’ Pel said. ‘He was a French professor and she met him in Tula as he was on his way north from Mexico City.’
‘So what? I didn’t ask what her background was. I’m not a judge of morals. I ain’t got that many myself.’
‘Is she here?’
Arkwright stared at them, then swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘I don’t have to answer that,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do, señor,’ Barribal snapped, and for the first time Pel began to concede to himself that perhaps Barribal was not mad after all and, in fact, was probably a good policeman who hid his efficiency behind a façade of light-heartedness. ‘If you don’t, in fact, I arrange for your residence permit to be taken away from you.’
Arkwright sneered. ‘Listen, cop, I’ve got enough money to fix you any time.’
‘I don’ think so, señor. Mexicans are poor compared with your country but some of them are honest. You don’ answer our questions, I will have you declared an undesirable alien. Then you will have to go back to the States. Or maybe you prefer Brazil or Uruguay?’
Arkwright’s stare had become a glare. ‘That’s the trouble with this goddamn country,’ he said. ‘Too goddamn moral. All those goddamn priests. They’re everywhere and – ’
‘Señor –’ Barribal’s voice cut sharply into the diatribe so that Arkwright stopped dead ‘ – we wish to see the girl. Is she here?’
Arkwright was silent for a while, obviously considering the pros and cons. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted at last. ‘An’ you guys had better take her away. I don’ want nothin’ to do with girls who’re involved with the law. I gotta clean record.’
‘Not all that clean,’ Barribal said, smiling. ‘Would you like to see it? I take the precaution of bringing a copy with me.’