The Devil's Brew

by Jack Treby

  Freddie, naturally enough, enquired about the state of the generator and Mr Weiman put a brave face on the matter. It was a mechanical failure, he told us with apparent sincerity, but not one that could be repaired this evening. I am not sure how many people believed him. I was not the only one who had heard the disagreement in the outhouse. Nobody felt inclined to challenge the official story, however. The watery soup was consumed in silence, until the sound of a motor-bicycle heralded the return of the engineer.

  After dinner, I sat up drinking with Arthur Montana and a rather strained looking Gunther Weiman. Everyone else – even Freddie – had decided to have an early night. In light of all that had happened, I could hardly blame them. I needed a stiff drink, however, and I was not ready for bed just yet. A round of cards was out of the question, so instead the three of us sat out in the courtyard, drinking cognac and reflecting upon the events of the last few hours.

  ‘Doctor Rubio will be here tomorrow morning,’ Weiman said, trying his best to strike a positive note. He had poured out a large glass of brandy for himself, though only after he had attended to Mr Montana and I. ‘Once the formalities are taken care of, we can arrange for the body to be returned to Guatemala City.’

  ‘What will you do about Mrs Talbot?’ I asked. There was still the matter of her daughter, who would need to be informed of the death.

  Arthur Montana swallowed a mouthful of cognac. ‘Anita and I will accompany her back to town tomorrow afternoon, straight after church.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the Christian thing to do.’ Montana made it sound more like a duty than an act of compassion, however.

  ‘Did you know Mr Talbot well?’ I asked him.

  The American pursed his lips. ‘Not that well. We’ve met a few times, through Gunther here. But we weren’t friends.’

  That I had already surmised. ‘My...er...my valet said the two of you had a bit of an argument this afternoon.’

  Montana placed his glass down on the table and frowned. ‘Did he now?’

  ‘None of my business, of course. I was just curious.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It is none of your business.’

  I coughed in surprise at the curt response. ‘It’s an odd thing, though. Mr Catesby said he’d had a bit of a set-to with him this afternoon as well. The poor fellow does seem to have ruffled a few feathers today.’

  ‘What exactly are you...?’

  ‘Steven and George had a robust relationship,’ Weiman cut in diplomatically. ‘I believe there was a minor disagreement, yes. They often disagreed on business matters. But it would have been resolved easily enough. George is...was a very reasonable man.’

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ I said. ‘It just occurred to me, if there was an argument with Mr Montana as well...’

  The American scowled. ‘What exactly are you implying, Mr Buxton?’

  ‘Oh, nothing at all. I just thought, if Mr Talbot had his head full of business matters, that might explain why he lost his footing like that. He might not have been paying attention to where he was going.’

  ‘I suppose that is possible,’ Gunther Weiman conceded, with a frown.

  ‘Especially if he’d just had a blazing row...’

  ‘There was no row!’ Montana responded forcefully. ‘A civilised disagreement, nothing more.’ He glared at me across the table.

  ‘More of a misunderstanding, I believe,’ Weiman suggested, anxious to avoid any conflict. ‘It was a matter of transportation fees, wasn’t it, Arthur?’

  Montana hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘George has been a good friend to me for many years,’ the German explained. ‘He has always sought to protect my interests, both personally and professionally. He would challenge anyone he thought was acting against me. Isn’t that right, Arthur?’

  ‘He thought I was screwing you over,’ Montana agreed, with a growl.

  I flinched at the crude language, but I could not resist probing further. ‘In what way?’

  Montana rose up and poured himself another brandy. He offered me a refill, grudgingly, which I was happy to accept. ‘United Fruit, the company I work for, has something of a monopoly on transport in this country.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed that,’ I agreed, taking the glass. The American, I was pleased to note, had not been stingy with the measure.

  ‘On the rail roads and the ports. It’s only fair that that should be the case. We built them, after all.’ He resumed his seat. That was not strictly true, I thought. United Fruit may have provided some of the finance, but it had been the indigenous people – and a fair number of imported West Indians labourers – who had done the hard work. ‘But the company’s number one priority is the transportation of its own produce. Getting it to the coast and off to America.’

  ‘That seems fair enough,’ I agreed.

  ‘If there’s any spare capacity we allow other producers to make use of our facilities. Passengers too. But at a fair premium.’

  ‘Transportation costs are very high,’ Weiman confirmed. ‘They represent a considerable part of our outlay.’

  ‘And with the price of coffee collapsing, it’s been a difficult couple of years for independent producers. Gunther and I have been friends for some time, and knowing the difficulties he’s had, I’ve been able to...’ He paused to find the right word. ‘Ameliorate the cost a little.’

  ‘Waive the fees?’ I asked.

  ‘Reduce them considerably.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you.’ I was somewhat surprised that the American would pull his finger out in that way, even for a friend; but I supposed not everybody who worked for United Fruit was a money-grabbing scoundrel.

  ‘It has been of great help to us over the last few months,’ Weiman said. ‘Arthur has been a great help.’

  Montana took another sip of brandy. ‘However, the company is now taking a firmer hand, ensuring a little more consistency in the application of fees. There’s been a diktat from on high. From now on, no exceptions are allowed. No favoured rates. Everyone has to pay full whack. I had to break the news to Gunther and Steven.’

  ‘This weekend?’

  He hesitated. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that was what you were arguing about with Mr Talbot?’

  ‘We often disagreed. He got the wrong end of the stick on that one. He thought I was imposing the new fees unilaterally; that I was just enforcing the company policy, with no thought to Gunther here.’

  ‘He was not aware of how much help Arthur has given me up to now. He thought I was being...what is the phrase?’

  ‘Stabbed in the back,’ the American prompted. ‘He got real nasty about it.’

  ‘So it wasn’t just a “civilised disagreement” then?’

  ‘He was trying to protect my interests,’ the German explained, before Montana could shoot back a reply. ‘But it was a misunderstanding and I was soon able to put him right.’

  ‘In fairness to the guy, he did apologise. But I have to admit, I came within an inch of thumping the son of a bitch. You English can be so god-damned patronising sometimes.’

  I smiled. ‘We do our best. So that was all it was? The argument this afternoon?’

  ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘Of course.’ I made a conscious effort not to frown. There was something about his explanation that seemed a little too pat for me.

  ‘I just hope the conversation did not in some way contribute to his death,’ Weiman said. ‘Poor George. He was meticulous in business but he was always a little clumsy physically. Jane would often berate him for bumping into things or damaging her crockery.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what she will do now. She and her daughter will be all alone in the world.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll go back to England?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Susan and I will do our best to support them, whatever they decide to do.’

  For a moment, the conversation died.
I had not had the nerve to ask Mr Weiman about the argument he had had with Steven Catesby in the generator room. Now did not feel like the right time. Mr Talbot’s death had cast a shadow over everything. ‘I suppose there’ll have to be some kind of inquest,’ I put in eventually. ‘Lord, I suppose I’ll have to come back here for that.’

  Weiman did not think that would be necessary. ‘The police will come tomorrow and they will take statements. After that, everything will be a formality.’

  ‘Who will they send?’ I asked. I wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of being interviewed by the police. The Guatemalan authorities had a reputation for brutality which had been well earned, though I suspected they would be courteous enough to foreigners. Rich white foreigners, anyway. ‘Some local constable?’ That would be the best option.

  ‘No.’ Weiman rubbed his beard. ‘Señor Gonzales tells me we have a rather senior figure coming. An acquaintance of George who has decided to investigate the matter personally. Señor Julio Tejada.’

  ‘The general?’ Montana scowled at the name. ‘That’s all we need.’

  I was perplexed. ‘A general? What, you mean a soldier?’

  ‘No, not a soldier. He is a senior police officer,’ Weiman said.

  ‘Don’t let the title fool you,’ Montana told me. ‘There are dozens of generals in Guatemala. It means nothing. It’s practically the default rank.’

  ‘But General Tejada is rather well connected,’ Weiman said. ‘So we must all mind our manners. We must not do anything to antagonise him.’

  ‘Unpleasant sort, is he?’ I asked.

  The American laughed humourlessly. ‘The worst kind of butcher. An enforcer more than a policeman. A nationalist too. Doesn’t like foreign interference in Guatemalan affairs. His brother-in-law is General Roderico Anzueto, director of the Policia Nacional. And he’s second in command to Ubico himself. A brutal man, Tejada. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  ‘It would be a good idea to avoid discussing politics tomorrow or anything other than the matter in hand,’ Weiman concluded.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I agreed. I would have to have a word with Freddie and Miss Bunting; warn them to mind their Ps and Qs.

  Montana was not so sanguine. ‘Just keep that devil away from me,’ he muttered. ‘That’s all I ask.’

  The candle flickered absently, illuminating the cramped downstairs room. I had no idea what the time was; two or three in the morning, perhaps. The house was completely dead, anyway, though the usual cacophony of insects continued to enliven the exterior of the hacienda. I had crept downstairs to answer a call of nature. I rarely slept a whole night through these days. A chamber pot had been provided in the bedroom but I have an aversion to using such things and it was not as if I had been asleep in any case. The mattress I had been given was rather uncomfortable and my mind was too preoccupied to allow me any respite from the waking world. Better to stretch my legs, I decided, and do things properly.

  A small gecko was minding its own business on the ceiling of the cubicle. I did not pay it any attention. I was far too busy ruminating.

  It was this damned business with Arthur Montana and George Talbot. The American, I was sure, had lied to me about the nature of their disagreement and it was obvious he had been prompted to do so by Gunther Weiman. The two men had put on a reasonable show, but I had dealt with enough dissembling over the years to know when someone was trying to pull the wool over my eyes. What were they trying to hide? I wondered. Mr Weiman didn’t strike me as a naturally deceitful man and I doubted he had told any outright lies; but he had chosen his words carefully. Perhaps he was just trying to downplay the seriousness of the dispute, in the light of what had happened. Or perhaps there was some sensitive business matter – something really confidential – which they did not wish to discuss in front of me. The fact that George Talbot had died, however, and that they were now so obviously withholding the truth, could not help but reflect badly upon the two of them. I was curious to know what the police would make of that in the morning. And what about the earlier argument between Catesby and Talbot? That, according to the man himself, was also a business matter. Could it have been the same sensitive issue? I had no idea. Then of course there was the sabotage of the generator and the death of Matthew Green all those weeks ago; not to mention the death of Giles Markham.

  The police would certainly have a lot to investigate; and they would want to talk to me first, since I had discovered Talbot’s body. I didn’t fancy being the one to broach the matter of raised voices. I had not witnessed either of the arguments the banker had been involved in; and it was the responsibility of Messrs Weiman, Montana and Catesby to outline their dealings with the dead man. Far better for me to keep out of it. If they chose to lie to the authorities, that was their affair. And in any case, whatever my suspicions, I had no concrete evidence that there had been any foul play. If I started throwing accusations around it might get me into all sorts of hot water. I had told Freddie yesterday afternoon that this whole business was best left alone and, despite the death of Mr Talbot, I was still of that opinion. Whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with any of us at the legation. Freddie may have brought me here with some mad notion of investigating the events leading up to Giles Markham’s suicide, but if I tried to ferret around and uncovered something unfortunate, it could well blow up in my face. No, better to let things be, have a nice breakfast in the morning, say nothing of any consequence to the police and then tootle off for the train in the early afternoon. That way, there would be no come back on any of us. David Richards would not be able to take offence at anything I had done and I could get on with my life, hopefully as far away from this damned finca as possible.

  The question of Talbot’s death still niggled at me, though. Who was it Miss Bunting had seen moving about at the top of the stairs? Was that what Steven Catesby and Gunther Weiman had been arguing about in the generator room? Despite my concerns, a small part of me was still curious to know the truth. Would it really do any harm to ask a few more questions; perhaps have another quiet word with Mr Catesby? I would have a few hours to kill in the morning, between breakfast and lunch, and I would probably never see the man again after tomorrow. I doubted I would have the nerve to ask him directly about the death of Matthew Green, but there was nothing stopping me from probing a little deeper concerning his business arrangements with George Talbot. Then too there was Joseph Green. It was a Sunday tomorrow. He would be off work. Perhaps I could wander over to the workers’ cottages and have a quiet word with him, when no one was looking. Our previous conversation had been interrupted and, in light of what I had discovered about his brother’s extra-curricular activities, there was clearly a lot more he could tell me; and perhaps some information I could give to him too, about Giles Markham. Presumably that was why he had sent me that note in the first place. Yes, it would do no harm to talk to Green, so long as I was discreet. This Doctor Rubio fellow would be arriving first thing, with the police, so all attention would be focused on him. Once I had made my statement, I could easily slip away for half an hour.

  I completed my ablutions and picked up the lamp. The gecko skittered away through a crack in the door as I grabbed the handle. A loud creak sounded from above. I glanced up at the ceiling. Somebody was up and about on the first floor. Which room would that be? I wondered. Either Freddie’s or Miss Bunting’s. I cursed, hoping I would not bump into either of them on the way back to my bedroom. I was dressed decently enough, in a long nightshirt, and my bandages were still in place, but there is always something acutely embarrassing about running into someone in the middle of the night, even if neither of you is doing anything wrong.

  I returned the lamp to the hall table outside the water closet. The candle had all but burnt out now. A telephone was resting next to the lamp, just below a framed map of the estate. Out of curiosity, I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear, but the line was dead. I moved towards the stairs and heard a door creak somewhere
on the upper landing. I peered up into the gloom. The entrance to Freddie’s room was at the top of the stairs, set back from the main drag. That door was firmly closed, so it had to be Miss Bunting who was creeping about. Oh well, I thought, there was no avoiding her now. I moved up the stairs. If she was heading for the little girls’ room, this was the direction she would come.

  Another thought occurred to me, as I reached the top of the stairs. Perhaps she had arranged a night-time rendezvous with Freddie. That thought made me smile, but all at once I caught sight of the girl and, to my surprise, she was heading in the opposite direction, towards the back of the house. Not visiting Freddie, then, or going to the lavatory. She was on the back landing now, to the north of the courtyard. She did not have a lamp with her but the star-spattered sky above the patio gave me just enough light to make out the white of her short-sleeved dress as she tip-toed down the corridor. What was she up to? There was another set of stairs at the rear of the house, leading down to the back hall, but she ignored them as well and veered left into another short hallway heading out onto the far terrace. At this point, she disappeared from view.

  I remained where I was for a moment, my curiosity piqued. I was not unduly surprised that Miss Bunting should be up and about at this hour, but I couldn’t fathom what she might be doing. Perhaps Freddie was awake as well and the two of them were planning to meet up somewhere, away from the house. But no, leaning in close to his door, I could hear a gentle snore vibrating across the bedroom. Freddie was in the arms of Morpheus. If Miss Bunting had arranged an illicit rendezvous, it was not with him. Who else could it be, though? All of the rooms on the east side were occupied by married couples. Perhaps she was heading out of the house altogether. The terrace stairs were easily accessible.