He lay in his bed and stared at Puig Llueso, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Today was Thursday, and so there were only three more full working days until Sunday. Often on Sundays he went off into the country in his car and had a solitary picnic, usually in a field. This habit tended to upset his cousin, who believed in the traditional family Sunday meal, but the solitary picnics in the countryside offered him a spiritual rejuvenation. He came from the soil and longed to return to the soil. He knew exactly the kind of house he was going to retire to. It wouldn’t be modernized and it wouldn’t have electricity or running water — far too expensive — but it would be old and built of rock, its tiles would be weathered and held down by stones, it would have a donkey well which he would restore, and it would have land right round it. Rich, friable, red-brown loam which gave a man’s hands more pleasure than a woman’s naked flank.
The telephone rang.
He swore, then looked at his watch. Only eight o’clock, yet someone was demanding to pour out a load of troubles and then to leave him with the job of clearing them up. God had erred when he had created the human race with sufficient imagination to invent the telephone. He reached across to the receiver and lifted it. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s the post here, Enrique. We’ve just had an Englishwoman in and she was damn near hysterical.’
‘Why bother me? Call a doctor.’
‘Come off it, you lazy bastard … Her Spanish was grim, but if we understood it anything like right, she says that an Englishman, by the name of Calvin, has committed suicide.’
‘D’you say Calvin?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll get right over. Hold her until I arrive.’
‘Hold her yourself. She’s already gone, faster’n a bat out of hell. Said she had to get back to her own house before her husband returned.’
‘She’s been busy, then?’
‘She’s English, so what d’you expect?’
‘I don’t know that I expect anything. What’s her name?’
‘Ormond. O-R-M-O-N-D.’
‘Where’s she live?’
‘On the Llueso/Playa Nueva road at Ca’n Ormond. But she said no one’s to go if her husband’s there.’
‘How are we supposed to know if he is, or isn’t?’
‘That’s your worry, mate, not mine.’
Once the call was over, Alvarez climbed out of bed and walked along the passage to the bathroom, where he had a quick shower. Then he dressed and went downstairs. His cousin was in the kitchen and she poured him out a bowlful of soup, still hot from having been warmed up for her husband who had just gone out to work, and cut him a thick slice of bread. She was obviously curious about the cause of his hurry, but when he said nothing she left to start cleaning the sitting-room, by now well used to his silent, secretive manner.
His car was parked immediately outside the front door. He drove to the end of the road, turned right and later right again and this brought him to the bridge over the torrente — now dry, with the stones on the bed bleached white so that there might not have been any rain in months. Beyond the bridge was the Laraix road.
In the sunshine, still with a quality of softness in it because the heat was not yet intense, Ca’n Adeane looked beautiful, a natural part of the land. He opened the ornate gate and drove down the track, past the vines, parking in the circular turning point. Any man who owned this place and committed suicide was a fool, no matter what the pressures.
The wooden front door, with its cat hole, was open, moving almost imperceptibly to the very slight breeze. He parted the fly curtain and tried the handle of the glass-fronted door. It turned and he pushed the door open, stepped into the hall. He called out. There was no response and he went into the sitting-room, through to the dining-room, back into the hall and from there into the kitchen. There was no sign of Calvin, drunk or sober, dead or alive. There was one further room to the side of the kitchen and this was clearly used as a study: there were bookshelves half filled with books, odd cases which looked as if no other home could be found for them, a long table on which was a typewriter and a litter of books and papers, and against the far wall a glass-fronted gun cupboard. This was empty of guns.
Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and one bathroom. One of the bedrooms was large, with a double bed, and it was furnished as exotically as the sitting-room downstairs with, amongst other things, two paintings of nudes which made Alvarez purse his lips because he was a great believer in discretion. The other two bedrooms were much smaller, each containing only a single bed, and they had the air of rooms very seldom used. There was no body in any of them nor, looking through the windows, could he see a body lying on the ground outside. Why had Señora Ormond been hysterically convinced that Calvin had committed suicide?
He returned downstairs and went out and round to the back of the house. For twenty metres there was rough grass, then there were trees, part of a belt which ran parallel with the road. He crossed the grass and went in amongst the trees, a typical mixture of pine, evergreen oak, and a thick shrub layer of maquis. Five metres on was the torrente which ran past Llueso and he checked that Calvin was not lying on its bed. Would the señora have climbed down into the torrente, with its somewhat precipitous side and boulder-strewn bottom, and then climbed up the equally precipitous far side to search for the missing man? He doubted it. Nor did he think she would have gone very far in either direction through the belt of trees since the undergrowth could cause quite painful scratches.
He returned to the house. Somewhere, something had alerted Señora Ormond. What? The hall and sitting-room were bare of alarms. There was nothing in the dining-room. In the study he went round the table to check the papers on the top and that was when he noticed for the first time the typewritten note which was wound into position, with the beginning of the note a few lines clear of the roller. He pulled it free and read it.
Will whoever first reads this please call the police.
I am going to commit suicide and if all goes to plan my manly beauty will be somewhat marred in the process. However, I have always understood that the police are used to gruesome sights and will therefore not be unduly disturbed by my mortal remains.
My reasons for suicide are simply explained: I feel an explanation is necessary as most people still suffer under the delusion that a person has to be at least partially insane to kill himself and I would like to be remembered — should anyone take the bother — as sane. Ulysses avoided the Sirens by deafening his crew and having himself tied to the mast, but I am less resourceful and can see no way out of the untenable position in which I suddenly find myself. (The fact that I can only save myself from one peril not at all of my making by falling into the clutches of another which is, holds an irony which at other times I should find amusing.)
I believe that under Spanish law at least part of my estate has to go to my wife and the fact that we are separated is of no consequence. In any case, under my will she is my sole beneficiary. I truly hope that on the sale of my house and its contents she will receive enough money to replace the capital I received from her at the beginning of our married life.
The English community has a habit of showing the flag — should I write shroud? — and attending the funeral of a compatriot, irrespective of the past (a chequered past on the part of the victim always seems to bring out the greatest number of mourners: perhaps because the merit of their presence is even more satisfying to themselves?). I should prefer no such hypocritical display. Those who disliked me should feel absolutely free to continue to dislike my memory: I would, being magnanimous in my final hour, offer them a measure of consolation — no man could be as successful in the pursuit of love as rumour has had me.
I have no intention of apologizing to Brenda for the past — but in proof of the fact that I have always had her welfare to heart, if not to hand, I offer her some sound advice. Invest her money where she cannot easily get at it. She is far too generous with all she possesses.
Alvare
z dropped the signed paper on to the typewriter. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He was shocked. When a man was preparing to face his Maker, he should at least show some respect for the proprieties.
*
Ca’n Ormond was an old finca which had recently been so extensively modernized and altered that now only from the north, or mountain side, was it possible to realize what the building had once been. There was a swimming pool to the south and on one side of this was a small complex with covered eating area, barbecue pit, bar, and one changing room. The garden had been laid out with far too much precision, but because of extensive watering the plants had grown with such lush vigour that they sprawled out of their beds to mask boundaries and in doing so had brought life to the scene.
Alvarez crossed to what appeared to be the front door — from the car there had been a choice of three — and he rang the bell. A maid, in neat white and blue checked apron, opened the door. ‘Is the señora in?’
The maid, middle-aged, with a face that looked scarred but wasn’t, said: ‘She isn’t feeling very well, so you can’t … ’
‘Cuerpo de Policia. It’s an important matter.’
‘Oh!’ She looked at him with uneasy surprise. ‘You’d better come in, then. I’ll tell her you’re here.’
He was shown into a sitting/dining-room, L-shaped with the dining-room in the short arm of the L and separated by two elegantly curved arches. He knew little about furniture, yet was certain that the various inlaid pieces, with the patina of age and care, were valuable. The three paintings on the far wall each had above a strip light and the silver on the large side table in the dining-room was elegant and plentiful. The Persian carpets were very lustrous. No need to wonder if they were rich.
The maid came down the stairs to say that Señora Ormond would be with him as soon as possible. He sat down in a tapestry-covered chair and waited. If he were rich, he wouldn’t live in a house like this, even though he could appreciate its elegance — he’d live in a plain house and use his money to buy land and more land, so that he could tramp it each day and revel in its possession, as a miser counted and recounted his gold.
Mrs Ormond entered the room some fifteen minutes later. He guessed her age at the middle thirties. She was dressed with great care and chic and her hair was piled up in bouffant style. Her face was round and regular and beautiful in a childish sense, unmarked by any sharp lines of character: right then, she was clearly frightened. She spoke with a rush of words, interrupting him as he began to introduce himself. ‘I said you must ring up to see if my husband were back.’ She looked fearfully at the drive, visible through the large picture windows.
‘I’m sorry, señora, but the matter is too urgent.’
‘But he said he’d be back by eleven.’ She looked at her diamond-studded watch. ‘If they get back early …’
‘Early from where, señora?’
‘Mike sailed with Bill to Menorca. He said they’d be back in the Port by eleven because Bill’s flying home this afternoon. If Bill sailed in early … ’
‘Señora, let me ask you the few questions I must, as quickly as possible. Then I will leave.’
She looked at him, her face working. ‘Did you … Is it true?’
‘I have searched the house and the land, but I have found nothing. Can you tell me … ’
She interrupted him again. ‘I was worried sick and I ran into the house and called out and there wasn’t a sound. I looked for him and even though it wasn’t a day for the maid his bed was made up and since he could never be bothered to make it himself that meant he couldn’t have slept in it. Then I found that note in the typewriter. Oh God! He can’t have done it. He’s got to be joking, hasn’t he?’ she appealed with desperation.
‘Why were you originally worried about him, señora?’
‘Because we’d arranged everything, but when I phoned there wasn’t any answer … ’
With quiet, tactful questioning, he managed to persuade her to tell the story in some sort of chronological order. Ormond had told his wife two days before that they had been invited on a twenty-two-hour trip to Menorca and back. She, on the pretext of being so bad a sailor, had refused to go: when she’d spoken to Calvin, they’d arranged to meet whilst her husband was away. (Alvarez tried hard not to show his sharp disapproval of all her actions: although a man of considerable compassion, he would not have been sorry to see the husband drive through the gates whilst he was still there so that explanations would have been inevitable. Women’s morals should be beyond suspicion.)
The moment her husband could be assumed to be safely at sea, she had telephoned Calvin’s home. There had been no answer. Throughout the day she had gone on telephoning, always without success, and she’d become more and more worried that something had happened to him. By the time she’d gone to bed, she’d convinced herself he must be in trouble and during the night, when she slept very badly, trouble in her mind turned into tragedy. (Women’s minds — English women’s minds, that was — were not only born to deceive others, they were also born to deceive themselves: why hadn’t she considered the possibility of Calvin’s having found himself another and more stimulating woman for the night?)
She hadn’t been able to go to Ca’n Adeane too early in the morning — her visit must seem to be above board. (English hypocrisy at its starkest.) In the house she’d found the bed made and, terrified, she’d pictured the accident up in the mountains with his car rolling over and over down the side of a precipitous slope … She’d found the suicide note and the shock had all but killed her.
‘When did you last see the señor, señora?’
‘Just before Mike told me about the boat trip. I can’t see him very often as Mike gets so jealous.’
But clearly not jealous enough. ‘And had you heard from him since?’
‘The agreement was that I’d phone him as soon as Mike was at sea and we’d arrange when to meet.’
Alvarez imagined the scene. The motor-cruiser casting off with the husband giving a last, fond farewell look at the mountains because near their feet lived his loving wife … And she was already on the phone, trying to contact her paramour.
She took a small, lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her frock and kneaded it with trembling fingers as she said: ‘You still haven’t told me. Do you think he really has … has killed himself?’
‘Señora, I just cannot say any more than that I have searched the house and the land and have found nothing.’ He stood up. ‘I will go now and try to discover more.’
‘I pray he’s safe.’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘Will … will Mike have to know everything?’
‘Only if that becomes absolutely necessary, señora. Otherwise I will remain silent,’ he said coldly.
He left. There was a hell of a lot to be said for being single.
*
The captain of the Guardia Civil was a large man whose once athletic body was now running to fat. In character an authoritarian, and very aware of the importance of his own position, it irked him beyond measure that Alvarez should work from his post and yet not be directly under his command. He had frequently applied to Palma for Alvarez to be posted elsewhere, but it seemed all his applications must have ended up in wastepaper baskets.
He leaned back in the chair in his ground-floor office and stared across his desk at Alvarez. ‘Four men? You want four men to search one finca? What’s the matter — are you too tired to do it yourself?’
Alvarez answered with the insouciance of a man unplagued by ambition. ‘I’ve searched and there’s no sign of him anywhere around the place. But the trees along both sides of the torrente at the bottom of his field go on for a way and he might have strolled some way before he blew his brains out — or maybe he’s in one of the fields a bit from the house. He could’ve reckoned it would be kinder to his wife not to do it in the house or field and so give it a reputation.’
‘Where’s his wife now?’
‘I don
’t know. I’ve got to try to find out.’
The captain could think of no valid reason for refusing the request.
*
Alvarez drove down to the Port. He parked under a young palm tree, one of many which lined the sea side, crossed the road, and climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the flat on the first floor. There was a small balcony, then a glass-fronted door. He knocked on the open door, turned, and looked out at the bay. The mountains which ringed it were soft and friendly in outline, the water was azure blue, and the shoreline had not yet been buried under concrete. If only, like some enchanted castle containing the Sleeping Beauty, the bay could stay forever as it was …
‘’Morning. What d’you want?’
He turned. The speaker was a man dressed only in a swimming costume. He had a deeply tanned, handsomely built, well muscled body. ‘Good morning, señor. I would like, if I may, to speak to Señora Calvin.’
‘What about?’
‘I would prefer to explain that to her personally.’
‘She’s busy. In any case, she’s not buying anything.’ Adamson spoke with careless insolence.
‘My name is Inspector Alvarez. Cuerpo de Policia.’
Adamson’s expression abruptly changed. ‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you say so? I’m sorry, but you didn’t … Come on in and I’ll call Brenda.’
At some time or other, thought Alvarez as he stepped into the flat, the man had been in sharpish contact with the Spanish police and had learned to respect their wide powers.
The sitting/dining-room, entered directly from the balcony, was in a complete muddle, with papers and magazines on the floor, the remains of breakfast — perhaps supper as well — on the table to the right of the empty chairs, and a scrumpled frock on one of the shelves of a battered book-case. But Alvarez far preferred this muddle and the dowdy furnishings to the immaculate, expensive interior of the Ormonds’ house: this flat spoke of warm, energetic, libidinous life, not deceitful, frigid existence.
Brenda came into the room. She was wearing a T-shirt over a bikini and at first sight could have been wearing nothing under the T-shirt. Alvarez tried to remember when he had last seen anyone so obviously and excitingly lascivious.
Two-Faced Death (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1) Page 7