Pel Among The Pueblos

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Hacienda de las Rosas.’

  Pel glanced at De Troq’.

  ‘Las Rosas, patron,’ De Troq’ said.

  ‘Where is this Hacienda de las Rosas?’

  ‘Not far away. Just west of San Miguel.’

  Barribal turned to the old man. ‘What happened when you got there?’

  The old man grinned, showing a magnificent set of false teeth that looked as if they’d been made out of porcelain. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We didn’t find anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’d been told it was buried in the floor of one of the stables. We dug them all up. Every one. There was no treasure.’

  ‘So it might still be there somewhere?’

  The old man grinned again and shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. We heard later that Porfirio Díaz had heard about it too. Long before he became presidente. We heard he’d dug it up.’

  ‘But he might not have done?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘It’s just possible. But, knowing Porfirio Díaz, I think he would have.’

  ‘Is this hacienda still standing?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. It’s a hotel now. Splendid. Very popular with Americans. It was converted in 1970. Some American put money into it and they created a museum and hotel out of it.’

  It seemed well worth visiting the Hacienda de las Rosas. It was a huge place, with what had been the houses of the peons employed at the grande casa – the big house – surrounding the four sides of a huge square. They had been turned into motel dwellings and the whole interior of the square changed into parking lots and gardens. The house had been turned into a hotel for non-motel visitors, with a huge dining room, bars and swimming pool, and the stables had been turned into a museum.

  The house had originally been built as a monastery with enormously thick walls which kept out the heat in summer and the cold in winter. At the back near the pool there was a sunken garden which had been built out of the original stone swimming bath. With its long corridors, numerous chambers, odd balconies, its own church, shop, great yards and outbuildings, the place was a small town in itself and was perfect for conversion to a hotel and motel.

  The museum, dark and cool like the rest of the buildings, was open to non-residents and contained magnificent examples of Spanish furniture, far too large for a modern hotel. It was kept in air-conditioned rooms, among other exhibits such as revolutionary and Juárista weapons, a cannon, a stagecoach, farm wagons, and a whole array of pictures of both Maximilian and Juárez and the heroes of the 1910 revolution.

  There was no attendant because there were free printed guides in several languages and all the photographs were in frames and screwed to the walls; all the weapons and smaller memorabilia were in glass cases, while the rest of the exhibits were too big and too heavy to be removed. They wandered among them for some time, not quite certain what they were seeking, studied the ancient furniture, most of it black with age and with its secret panels and drawers exposed, and the uglier furniture of the last century which had still been in use at the time of the 1910 revolution.

  Outside again, for a long time, Pel stood in the courtyard blinking in the glare and staring about him, wondering where in this vast space the treasure could have been planted. It had to be here somewhere – but where? Fontano’s grandfather and his group had dug up the whole interior of the stables and found nothing, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still there. Yet there was so much land enclosed by the four walls of the hacienda, the chance of digging it up again was very slight indeed. Certainly impossible during Pel’s stay in Mexico. It began to look as if his theory that Jacqueline Hervé had made off with it was wrong because nobody would be able to recover a buried treasure without a major operation and with tourists and cars constantly going in and out.

  Barribal seemed to think the same. He pushed his hat back and lit a cigarillo. ‘Oyeme, muchachos,’ he said. ‘I think a drink’s called for.’

  They sat on a veranda outside the hotel, chatting desultorily while a waiter took their order for beers.

  ‘We’ll talk to the manager,’ Barribal said. ‘He might know something. He might even have documents.’

  When the beers arrived they were surprised to find that the waitress who brought them was Pilar Hernandez, dressed now in a cream dress with a green apron. She stopped dead as she saw them, plonked the beers on the table and turned away hurriedly.

  ‘Alto!’ Barribal yelled. ‘Stop right there!’

  As the girl stopped, rigid with terror, the head waiter appeared and hurried towards them.

  ‘Is something wrong, señores?’

  ‘No,’ Barribal said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then, please sir, may I ask you not to raise your voice.’

  Barribal took out his identity card and flipped it at the waiter. ‘Policía,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to this girl.’

  ‘She has done something wrong?’

  ‘Not that we know about. But she was questioned two days ago about the disappearance of someone we were interested in. I’d like to talk to her again.’

  ‘Señor – ’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ Barribal snapped. Just find another waitress and tell us where we can talk.’

  ‘I must see the manager.’

  The manager, who was American, arrived soon afterwards. He was not looking for trouble and acceded to Barribal’s request at once.

  ‘I have to know, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘if you are about to bring charges against the girl. We have to think of our guests and we cannot afford to have doubtful characters among our staff. Is she suspected of dishonesty?’

  Barribal looked at Pel. There was a lot Pilar Hernandez was guilty of but most of it seemed to concern loose morals rather than theft. They had no proof of dishonesty.

  Barribal gestured. ‘Nothing. It’s simply that she was on the fringe of a case we’re investigating and knew the man involved. We’ve nothing against her. You needn’t have, either.’

  The manager nodded. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. This way, gentlemen.’

  He showed them into a room which looked like the staff dining room. It contained none of the splendid furniture of the rest of the hotel, simply Formica-topped tables and tubular chairs. As the door closed behind the manager, Pilar Hernandez sank into one of the chairs.

  ‘Thank you for what you said,’ she whispered. ‘I don’ want to lose my job.’

  Pel said nothing, because he suspected that, despite Barribal’s assurances, the manager would use the first opportunity he could to get rid of her – if she didn’t first disappear with one of his customers.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Barribal asked.

  It was too much of a coincidence to think she was there by sheer chance but that was how it appeared.

  ‘I needed work,’ she said. ‘I needed money. I hear of this job. One of the girls from the Posada San Francisco tell me about it. I walk all the way here to get it.’

  Barribal gestured. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Just a few questions then you can go. This is the place where you stayed with Martin, isn’t it? The hotel you mentioned near San Miguel!’

  She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Did Professor Martin ever talk of treasure?’ She frowned. ‘Once.’

  ‘Maximilian’s treasure?’

  ‘Maximilian?’ Her knowledge of history was not deep.

  ‘The Emperor Maximilian.’

  ‘Ah! No, he didn’t. He just said “treasure”. But I think it had something to do with this Maximilian. I remember the name.’

  ‘Did Martin ever come back here after your first visit?’

  ‘He was going to bring me to stay here again. But then he disappears and now I’m here as a waitress.’

  ‘Was he looking for a treasure?’

  ‘He don’ say so.’

  ‘Was he going to dig it up somehow?’

  ‘I don’ know. I don’ think so. He ha
s nothing to dig it up with. I ask him once but he don’ say. He just say it don’ have to be dug up. So I ask him how he is going to get it away because treasure is heavy. He say I needn’t worry about that. He has all the tools he need.’

  They let her go and went to see the manager. He seemed satisfied with their explanations but Pel knew he would never take his eyes off her.

  ‘How old is this place?’ Pel asked.

  The manager shrugged. ‘Perhaps two hundred years. The land was bought in 1750 and originally it was to have been a monastery. We have all the deeds. But then the plans were changed.’ He smiled. ‘I guess somebody did some horse-trading and built a house instead. The Church in Mexico in those days wasn’t noted for its honesty. He made a hacienda of it. His name was Juan Ramírez y Róbles. His family lived here until the revolution, when his descendant was shot. They nailed him to his own front door and used him for target practice. After that it was taken over by one of the rebel generals and allowed to deteriorate. It went down in value, the land was sold to raise money, until eventually there wasn’t much more than the buildings and the land they surrounded. We acquired it in 1970.’

  ‘Apart from improvements, is it exactly as it was?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No new buildings?’

  ‘We had more than enough.’

  ‘So no foundations were dug for new walls?’

  ‘None at all. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Treasure. Maximilian’s treasure.’

  ‘Here?’ The manager was interested at once and, as he listened to their story, they could see his brain working over the possibility of publicity.

  ‘I guess we should have a new prospectus printed,’ he said as they explained. ‘With pictures. We were due to and I’m sure glad I’ve learned this before we went ahead. We’ll have to think again now. You’d be surprised how Americans enjoy something old, a bit of history, a bit of tragedy. We also have a hotel in Querétaro, so the two can be linked. We could run trips between them. They’ll love it. Especially as we still have all the original furniture. You’ll have seen it in the museum. Original beds, chairs, tables. Magnificent. Some of it even has small hidden drawers and compartments. You’ll have seen those too. Still and all, that was often the case in those days here in Mexico. In the States and in Europe, too, I guess. Because there weren’t many banks and people needed somewhere safe for their valuables. Somehow the furniture survived all the revolutions and we even have all the visitors’ books from as far back as 1770. Ramírez y Róbles kept them. They’re in the museum. They show everybody who stayed in the house almost from the beginning.’

  ‘Did the Emperor Maximilian stay here?’

  The manager nodded. ‘Yes, sir! So did a few of the people who tried to bail him out at Querétaro. Perhaps you’d like to see the records.’

  They would, and the manager proudly indicated Maximilian’s entry. It was dated 1867 and said simply ‘Camara Azule, Lado Oriente. El Emperado Massimiliano y su Acompañamiente.’

  ‘“Blue Room, East Wing. The Emperor Maximilian and his suite”,’ he translated for Pel’s benefit. ‘Judging by the number of bedrooms they took, there were twelve of them, unless they doubled up, in which case there might have been twenty, which I guess, is probably a more likely figure for an emperor.’

  He led them into the museum and indicated a brass bedstead. It was old, flecked with rust and topped with brass balls. ‘That’s the very bed he used when he stayed here before going on to Querétaro,’ he said. ‘Not very pretty and, of course, it was replaced in what was the Blue Room when we took over the hotel. Modern beds. Spring mattresses. I guess you know the way it goes. But the Ramírez y Róbles family would have used this, because it was new then and brass bedsteads were de rigueur in the nineteenth century. Looks ugly to us now, I guess, though they are coming back into fashion, but in those days they were all the rage. It was an age of cast iron and brass, wasn’t it? Several other famous people also slept here – probably also in that bed – en route to or from Mexico City. The Blue Room was one of the best in the place. Juárez slept there, for instance. So did Princess Salm, who tried to bribe the guards to let her husband escape after his capture. Even offered herself, so the story goes, to the guard to allow him to go free. I guess that’s true heroism and true love. She stayed here while she was working on the attempt. She finally managed it, too. American girl,’ the manager said proudly. ‘Porfirio Díaz, who became dictator-President of Mexico, also slept in it. About the same time. Later, Pancho Villa slept in it. I think they chose this bed because it has a steel bed-spring while most of the old ones have nothing but wide strips of leather and weren’t as comfortable.’

  He paused. ‘Funny you should be interested in beds,’ he said. ‘We had a guy here interested in them a few weeks back. We’ve never had anybody interested in them before and now we have two in two months. Are you connected?’

  ‘In a way,’ Pel said. ‘What was his interest?’

  ‘Why, he was unscrewing the brass knobs off. He said he collected them and could he buy the bed for them? Now that’s a funny thing to collect, isn’t it, though I guess some of ’em might be called decorative. All the same, I had to tell him no. They weren’t for sale.’

  They left the hotel deep in thought, Barribal wondering if he could obtain permission to dig up the ground inside the walls and, if he could, if the management of the hotel would slap on an injunction to protect their property. Pel was occupied with wondering how much his brief covered. He wasn’t concerned with recovering long-lost treasure. He’d been sent to bring back Donck, and Donck had disappeared.

  As it happened, the matter was settled for him when he returned to San Miguel de Allende. A cable was waiting for him at the desk in the hotel, signed by the Chief.

  ‘Return at once,’ it said. ‘Hervé found murdered at Fontenay L’Église.’

  Fifteen

  Pel’s face, when he appeared in the Hôtel de Police, didn’t encourage questions. Darcy tried a couple, nevertheless, to get the lie of the land and the pressure of Pel’s temper.

  ‘Enjoy the trip, patron?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Pel snapped.

  ‘Got over the jet lag?’

  ‘No.’

  Darcy gave up and went back to his office to pass the word round that Pel’s voice would peel paint and he was best left alone. Sitting in his office, Pel stared at the files on his desk awaiting his attention. The last forty-eight hours in Mexico had been grim. He had used up every French cigarette he had brought with him, plus the rest of De Troq’s, and he had found Mexican cigarettes so appalling he had even tried to roll them, with the same success he had had in France. Either they were too tight and the effort to draw on them caused his eyes to bulge, or too loose, in which case, at the application of a match, they disappeared in a puff of smoke and a flare of flame that almost singed his eyebrows.

  He was convinced his health had gone down the drain and that he needed an overhaul – perhaps even a wheel change and a respray. He had a headache and felt as if he’d been trampled on by a herd of wild elephants. In addition, he felt he was about to fall asleep at any minute with his head in the ‘Pending’ tray. This time it wasn’t his first experience of jet lag and he was determined not to enjoy it.

  He had not been able to sleep at all on the return flight across the Atlantic. He had tried whisky in the hope that it would lull him off but this time his mind had been too busy. Why had Jacqueline Hervé been found murdered in France, he was wondering. There could only be one reason: As he’d suspected, she had utilised Donck’s stay in the penitentiary to find the treasure they’d talked about. And that seemed to indicate that Donck, who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth since his escape from prison, had discovered that unacceptable fact and had promptly followed her home – with the false passport that Pel had no doubt he possessed. But that set up another question: Why risk coming back to France where he was wanted for the murder of Navarro and Des
georges? There could be only one reason: Because he knew that Jacqueline Hervé had found the treasure and returned with it. And that set up yet another question? How had Jacqueline Hervé got the treasure across the Atlantic and back into France without questions being asked?

  Everybody they’d talked to had believed the treasure consisted of gold and silver coins, but the amount they had mentioned would have weighed a great deal and been impossible to hide. So could the people they’d interviewed have been wrong? Could the treasure they’d talked about have consisted of something much lighter? Diamonds, for instance? The palm of a hand could contain enough diamonds to account for the amount mentioned? Had Maximilian, unknown to his contemporaries, exchanged his gold and silver for diamonds? It seemed unlikely, because you couldn’t pay soldiers with diamonds. And again there was that story of the old Dorado that the treasure had been found decades ago by Porfirio Díaz, who could well have known about it because he was a contemporary of Maximilian’s.

  Pel had worried and fretted over the questions all the way across the Atlantic until he had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep just as the pilot was lowering his flaps for the descent to the west of Paris. He had tottered from the aeroplane feeling a wreck, almost forgetting the Mexican toy gun he had brought back for Yves Pasquier next door, the two large bottles of whisky, the cigarettes, the gold necklace, the large bottle of perfume and the magnificent Mexican sarape he had found in the duty-free shop.

  Sensing his mood, De Troq’ had said little on the journey south and the French countryside had been so achingly beautiful Pel had wondered how the Chief had dared send him away, especially to somewhere as harsh and un-French as Mexico. Here the land was not tawny but green, there were no dust storms, no abrasive wind to chap the lips, and the sun was mellow, not harsh and cruel. When they stopped for a beer, De Troq’, knowing Pel, chose a country bar with a large garden alongside. It was warm enough for two old men to be playing a slow game of boule, watched by a stout middle-aged woman with a long loaf sticking out of her shopping bag. The whole place, under the fading sign for Byrrh painted on the gable-end, smelled of coffee and Gauloises and wine, and brought back a little of Pel’s spirit. He looked like a man coming up after almost drowning.