Two-Faced Death (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1)

by Roderic Jeffries

  He introduced himself and after she was seated, he sat on the second armchair which proved to have broken arms. Adamson pulled one of the dining-room chairs out from under the table and turned it back to front so that he could rest his arms on the top of the back.

  Alvarez wondered whether he should present the news of Calvin as good or bad, in view of the fact that Brenda was obviously living with Adamson. Play it safe, he told himself, and keep it neutral. ‘Señora, earlier this morning I was called to the finca owned by your husband because it was reported he was missing. There I unfortunately found a note addressed to the police in which he says he has committed suicide.’

  She looked at him, amazement elongating her face and making her look as if she had just swallowed something very hot. ‘John … John’s killed himself?’

  ‘That is what is written in his note.’

  ‘Oh, my God! … And has he?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot answer you. I have searched the house and the land around it and have found nothing. Now I have to have men search the other fields nearby.’

  ‘He’d never commit suicide,’ she said with sudden harshness. ‘He’s a fighter. Anyway, why should he?’

  ‘He was, to my knowledge, in a certain amount of financial trouble.’

  ‘He’s always in financial trouble because it hurts him to spend. That would never make him kill himself.’

  ‘This trouble, señora, might have made him spend a very great deal of money.’

  ‘That’d make him choke to death, even if he didn’t knock himself off,’ said Adamson.

  She looked at him, but said nothing.

  ‘Señora, there is a gun cupboard in the study. Were there normally guns in it?’

  ‘There was always one, the one he was so proud of. Isn’t … isn’t it there now?’

  ‘No, señora.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘There is a message for you, in the note he left in the house. Would you be kind enough to read the note?’ He took a brown envelope from his pocket and from it drew out the note he had found in the typewriter. He handed it to her.

  She read it through very quickly once, then much more slowly a second time. Tears welled out of her eyes during the second reading: they trickled down her cheek and she shook her head to displace them, as if angrily denying what she read.

  ‘Would you think that is Señor Calvin’s signature, señora?’

  She nodded, sniffed, then said: ‘And it’s his way of writing. That sardonic, to-hell-with-you attitude … Oh God! he must have killed himself, then, or he’d never have written such a note and left it.’ She looked vaguely at Alvarez, then concentrated her gaze on Adamson. ‘Steve, he’s dead.’

  ‘Señora,’ said Alvarez, ‘if I may have the letter back? For the moment I must keep it.’

  She handed it to him. ‘Steve, he must be dead!’

  ‘You called him enough names when he was alive, so don’t get all weepy just because he’s turned up his toes.’

  ‘You … you don’t understand.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘He understood you, right enough. D’you know the last thing he wrote in that letter?’

  ‘How the hell could I, since I haven’t read it?’

  ‘He’s left me everything, but says to keep it somewhere really safe because I’m too generous with my possessions.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s passed the house on to you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’s great. He wasn’t such a complete bastard, after all.’

  ‘Steve! How can you?’

  ‘How can I what?’

  ‘Talk like that about someone who’s just dead?’

  ‘Easy.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say nasty things about the dead.’

  ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum, and all that? There’ll be a hell of a long silence if we try to think of something nice to say about him.’

  ‘You’re being quite filthy.’ She half turned and spoke to Alvarez. ‘He doesn’t realize.’

  ‘How much is the house worth?’ asked Adamson.

  She shrugged her shoulders, then cried a few more tears. ‘If I’d still been with him, it wouldn’t have happened. I’d have talked him out of it, whatever the trouble was.’

  ‘You’d have been talking yourself out of a house.’

  She looked as if about to shout something at him, but finally slumped back in her chair and for a brief moment seemed quite lifeless, like some huge doll carelessly thrown aside.

  Adamson spoke to Alvarez, a trace of nervousness in his manner. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Clearly, señor, I have to discover whether Señor Calvin really has committed suicide.’

  ‘It’s all a joke,’ she said. ‘He was always fond of nasty jokes. It has to be one because I can’t think of him as dead.’

  ‘Señora, I must go and make further enquiries. If you should learn anything definite, please tell me at the Guardia post in Llueso.’

  ‘And if you learn something definite … come and tell me right away.’

  ‘Of course, señora. Let us hope that since he did make nasty jokes, this is one of them.’

  Alvarez said goodbye and then left the room and returned down the rickety steps to the street. He went back to his car and drove along the front road, past a hotel pier which contained a large patio and a swimming pool, and took the next turning to the left which brought him to the square. He parked and went into the corner café and ordered a cognac and a coffee.

  ‘You look kind of harassed,’ said the bartender.

  ‘I am. It’s been go, go, go, since dawn.’

  ‘You want to watch it. It’s that kind of strain which keeps the undertakers rich.’

  ‘And the strain of waiting for what I’ve ordered.’

  The barman chuckled. ‘Know something? If you ever need a blood transfusion, they’ll have to mix the new blood with cognac or the shock’ll be too much for you.’

  CHAPTER VIII

  The four Guardia Civil were in shirt-sleeves and open necks, but even so they were debilitatingly hot. They sat under the shade of an ancient algarroba tree, whose trunk had been tortured by the centuries, and stared resentfully up at Alvarez.

  ‘You’ve searched all the nearby fields?’

  ‘Every bloody field this side of Llueso,’ said the youngest of the four, who had constituted himself their spokesman.

  ‘And you checked the woods both sides of the torrente?’

  ‘We’ve been over every square centimetre. And d’you know what it got us?’ The guard pulled up his trouser leg to show several scratches.

  ‘We even checked the pigsties down the lane,’ said one of the older men, and he laughed.

  The youngest Guard turned. ‘It’s all right for you to snigger! You didn’t land in a load of pig muck.’

  ‘Didn’t your dad ever tell you it was slippery?’

  ‘When I was a kid I lived in a town where you didn’t spend your time paddling in pig muck that stinks.’

  ‘You should’ve lived forty years ago,’ said Alvarez, with all the harsh contempt of a born countryman. ‘Then you’d’ve known a town can stink of worse things than pig muck.’

  ‘Forty years ago you all lived in caves on this bloody island.’

  Alvarez was glad he was getting old because he’d discovered he’d nothing at all in common with modern youth: especially modern youth from the Peninsula. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed it around and they all smoked.

  ‘He’s having you on,’ said the youngest Guard resentfully. ‘He’s no more dead than I am.’

  Alvarez scratched his heavy, square chin as he remembered the empty gun cupboard.

  ‘My stomach’s telling me it’s time to eat,’ said one of the other Guards. ‘Come on, Enrique, let’s call it a day.’

  For the moment it was difficult to think what else they could do. After all, if Calvin had shot himself he’d obviously done it at least half a kilomet
re from his house, and it was virtually impossible to search the rest of the valley which was almost ten kilometres long. Sooner or later the body would turn up. Alvarez stared across the valley at the mountains on the other side and watched a thin coil of smoke rise from the point at which the face became too rocky and sheer for vegetation. ‘OK. There doesn’t seem anything else we can usefully do, so let’s get back and get some grub.’

  They came to their feet.

  The eldest Guard sniffed loudly. ‘I’d say there was a bit of a pong around here somewhere.’

  The youngest Guard stamped off out of the shade into the sunshine, to the accompaniment of loud laughter.

  ‘Now what’s upset him? No sense of humour — that’s the trouble with the youngsters today.’

  ‘They’ve had it much too easy,’ said Alvarez, with companionable agreement.

  *

  Alvarez cut his siesta very short and left the Guardia post as four o’clock was striking from the church in the square. The heat was greater than ever: it was so hot in the airless street that the sweat poured down his face, neck, back, and chest. Sweet Mary! no man, no matter how great a sinner, should be condemned to work at such a time. If Calvin really had killed himself, then he truly deserved his place in even hotter climes.

  He drove out to Ca’n Adeane, to find the maid dusting the sitting-room with plenty of vigour, but little expertise. ‘Good afternoon, señora,’ he said politely.

  She studied him. ‘You must be from the police. Is it true? Has the señor cut his throat with a razor that left his head hanging with only one sinew? When I heard, I can tell you I had quite a turn. Can’t think of him as dead.’

  He crossed to one of the armchairs and gratefully sank down into it.

  ‘Have a seat while we chat.’ She was in early middle age, with the tanned, heavily creased face of a woman who had worked for much of her life in the fields. Housework for the foreigner paid far better than endless labouring in the fields, sowing, weeding, and harvesting, by hand, and it did not strain a woman’s back and rack her joints in agonizing rheumaticky pains. A few people had reason to be grateful to the foreigners.

  She spoke the moment she was seated. The old mother of Juan, the butcher, had told her. Just one piece of sinew left …

  ‘It’s not quite like that,’ said Alvarez.

  She looked disappointed to discover the gory tale was incorrect.

  ‘All we know for certain is he said he was going to commit suicide and now we can’t find him: not in the house, the woods, or the fields.’

  She sucked in her lower lip, then released it with a plopping noise. ‘Then where’s he done it?’

  ‘Search me. Maybe he hasn’t.’

  ‘If the señor says he’s going to do something, he does it. Always has done.’

  ‘I had a word with his wife earlier on — she said it could all be a joke because he’d that sort of a humour.’

  ‘He was always cheerful,’ she answered, missing the point of what he’d said.

  ‘D’you know his wife?’

  ‘She was here when I first came to work. Always laughing, but I never knew what about because she can’t speak Spanish. We used to talk with hand signals and she got most of them wrong. But she didn’t spend all her time running round to see if I was doing the work, like some of the old cows I’ve worked for.’

  ‘Did she row much with him before they separated?’

  ‘Row? I’ve never heard better, even though I didn’t understand the words.’ She chuckled coarsely. ‘Thought I was going to see murder done, one day. She threw a shoe at him and missed and knocked over an ornament. Smashed it. You should’ve seen his face!’

  ‘I suppose you’ve no idea what they usually rowed about?’

  ‘I didn’t need to understand English to know that! Women.’

  ‘He liked ’em?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep away from ’em. He’s not so young as he was, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he carries on. And since his wife cleared out … You wouldn’t believe all I could tell you.’

  Probably not. He thought how interesting it was the way in which they both switched backwards and forwards from the present to the past when they discussed him. ‘How’d you say he’s been the last few days?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. It’s only a day or two ago that I said to myself, there’s something serious up and that’s fact.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  ‘Because he wasn’t himself. Snapping, telling me I wasn’t doing me job proper — and me keeping the place like a new pin, like always.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘It would’ve been Tuesday afternoon, when I was here.’

  ‘You’ve just said he was snappy — did he ever suggest he was in some sort of trouble and might do himself in?’

  ‘Never said anything like that.’

  ‘You’re being very helpful, señora.’

  She smiled complacently. ‘I’ve always kept my ears open.’

  ‘And your eyes, I’ll be bound. Tell me — how many guns does he usually have in that cupboard in the end room?’

  ‘One,’ she replied immediately. ‘But I’m telling you, I’m not allowed to go near the cupboard. “Hands off, not up,” he used to say. “That gun’s worth more than you are.” Come to that, I didn’t do the room very often because he didn’t seem to want me in there.’

  ‘But you did clean it up from time to time?’

  ‘When he said to.’

  ‘And whenever you’ve been in there, there’s only been the one gun in the cupboard?’

  ‘That’s right. One day he took it out and showed it to me. D’you know what he said the gun was worth?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘A quarter of a million pesetas. He was always joking.’

  ‘This time he was probably not joking. Some English guns are very expensive.’

  ‘But a quarter of a million! Just for a gun what one can buy on this island for ten thousand!’ She shook her head and it was obvious she still believed it had been a joke.

  ‘I had a look round this house and noticed the gun cupboard’s empty now. Have you seen the gun lying around anywhere?’

  ‘That I haven’t, but I ain’t done everywhere yet: just the upstairs and a bit of this room here.’

  ‘Let’s have a look right round together.’ He stood up. ‘He might have taken the gun out to clean it and have left it somewhere by mistake.’

  But the gun was nowhere in the house.

  *

  Goldstein drove carefully into the garage and parked with precision, with the windscreen just touching the small plastic marker ball which hung from the ceiling. He switched off the engine and climbed out of the car, closed the garage doors and locked them from the inside, and went through the wash-room into the kitchen. There was the sound of pop music. His lips tightened.

  His wife was in the sitting-room, listening to the hi-fi. As he entered, he heard the words: ‘Love’s a bloom, Or a withered prune: A heart’s v-room, Or a maudlin’ gloom.’ He crossed to the set, pressed the reject switch, and the music ceased. ‘God knows how you can listen to such drivel,’ he said coldly.

  She spoke defensively. ‘Not everyone likes Bach.’

  ‘Of course not. Decent music requires a modicum of intelligent understanding before it can be appreciated.’

  She looked at him, her expression one of sad resentment. ‘Perce, why do you go on and on … ’

  ‘Will you please stop calling me Perce.’

  She curled up in the chair, with her bare feet under her, and stared despondently at the carpet.

  He walked into the centre of the room and then stopped when six feet from where she sat. He studied her. ‘I heard some news just now that’s maybe going to interest you.’

  She knew, from bitter experience, that such a tone of voice could mean only trouble for herself.

  When she didn’t answer, he said: ‘Have you been out today?’


  ‘You know I haven’t, except to go to the shops and buy food.’

  ‘You didn’t stop off on the way back and visit some of your strange friends?’

  There was usually a point at which she said to herself, ‘To hell with it,’ and answered him back, even though certain he must inevitably succeed in wounding her far more than she could wound him because he allowed no limits to what he said. ‘What’s so strange about my friends? They’re perfectly normal.’

  ‘That depends on one’s definition of normalcy. Is it normal to enjoy a moronic level of life? Or is it normal to demand a level of intelligent sophistication … ’

  ‘For God’s sake, put a sock in it.’

  ‘Crudity is the last resort of the mentally bankrupt.’

  ‘Do you know what Hazel said about you the other day?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘She said … ’ Amanda checked her words. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘On the contrary, I wish to know. What did she say?’

  ‘It just doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You raised the subject so now you’ll complete it. What did she say?’

  ‘That you were so full of wind, it’s no wonder you’re always gurgling.’

  ‘She is one of the most crude, vapid women I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. I’m surprised that even you could find sufficient in common with her to be in the least friendly.’

  ‘She’s alive and fun and warm-hearted — not like you. And shall I tell you something? She’s got ten times more friends than you: and they’re the kind of friends you’d give your right arm to have, but never will, not if you buy two Rolls-Royces and give a thousand quid to every one of Lady Eastmore’s pet charities.’

  ‘Your lack of judgement doesn’t surprise me.’ He crossed to his chair. ‘Only that you seem to take pleasure in parading the fact.’ He sat down. ‘I heard some news this evening, down at the bar, that will interest you.’

  She felt frightened because she could see that he believed he was now going to get his revenge for the things she had just said.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what the news is? After all, you’ll no doubt be rather concerned. Some might say, intimately.’