Dead Clever

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘It’s not got any better and none of the doctors seem to be able to do any good for her.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Will you give her my best wishes?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will.’

  They entered the hall. He jerked his thumb behind himself.

  ‘Not the most friendly type, is he?’

  ‘Him! When he speaks to the likes of us, his words are covered with ice.’

  He said goodbye to her and left the house. There was a white Seat 127 parked behind his car and on the rear nearside window of this was the form which every hire-car had to show. So the señorita was a tourist. Serena. Not a common name, he judged, and yet he had only recently come across it . . . He came to a stop, turned, hurried back to the door and rang the bell. When Cristina opened it, he said: ‘Can you tell me the surname of the señorita who’s just arrived?’

  ‘She told me what it was when she phoned before she came up here the first time. What was it?’ She frowned. ‘I know it sounded like someone who’s on the telly . . .’

  ‘Collins?’

  ‘How ever did you guess?’

  CHAPTER 14

  As Alvarez waited for Salas to come on the line, he heard a screech of brakes from the road, but for once this was not followed by the thump of one car hitting another. Most of Llueso had been built when mule carts had been the only form of transport and the narrow, twisted streets and the large stones sunk into the ground at every corner to prevent the carts’ wheels from scoring the walls, reflected that fact. Now, Mallorquin drivers, who so often saw themselves as matadors of the wheel, bumped into each other with expensive monotony.

  Salas said: ‘What is it?’

  Tm ringing about the Green case, señor. There’s reason to think he may be on the island.’

  ‘Surely it’s only very recently that you assured me he was in eastern France?’

  ‘That is one of the reasons why I think he may well be here.’

  ‘Alvarez, can you appreciate that there is a certain lack of logic in what you’d just said?’

  ‘I know it may sound a bit like that . . . I suppose you could call it a paradox.’

  ‘I doubt I would. I’d have thought that experience had finally and painfully left me incapable of being surprised by anything you might do or say. I would be wrong.’

  ‘It’s because anyone with even a gramme of common sense would be certain that he’ll keep as far away as possible, since he might be recognized which would make it all too clear he’s not dead, that I reckon he’s chosen to return.’

  ‘You are saying, in effect, that you lack that gramme of common sense?’

  ‘I’m saying, señor, that this is the one place where he will know we’ll be most unlikely to look for him now we’ve confirmed that his death was faked.’

  ‘Even if it does make—according to you—for a possible hiding-place, there are very many safer. So why should he have returned?’

  This was the question he had feared. To answer correctly and say that Green had returned to murder the Navarro brothers was to expose Miguel to the charge that he had been drug-running; as yet, there was no proof of his innocence; quite the reverse, really, since the circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he’d find it very difficult to prove his innocence. The case had developed such complications . . . ‘señor, I cannot yet give a decisive answer. But Serena Collins, the woman who is his accomplice, is on the island.’

  ‘From which you deduce what?’

  ‘That she is here to be close to him.’

  ‘An even riskier move. How did you discover she was here?’

  ‘It was because . . .’ He stopped as he realized that once again he could hardly explain that he’d been pursuing inquiries aimed at clearing Miguel. ‘Because I wanted another word with Bennett,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something about his evidence worried me, but I couldn’t pin it down.’

  ‘Worried you in what way?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t really know . . . I’m sorry, señor, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at explaining myself.’

  ‘Perhaps you are presenting yourself with an impossible task.’

  ‘Señor, we know that Green is using a false passport in the name of Thomas Grieves, but he won’t know that we know and all he’ll know is . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, do try not to confuse the matter any further.’

  ‘Yes, señor. I’d like to ask for a check on all airlines and the ferries to see if Thomas Grieves entered the island on or before last Sunday and with all hotels and hostals to see if he’s presently booked in at any of them.’

  ‘And all that simply because you’re worried about something Bennett may or may not have said?’

  ‘Because señorita Collins is on the island. We mustn’t forget that we were asked by England to give all possible assistance to señor Ware. If they should learn that Green is here now, but we don’t know where he is, they might think us rather incompetent.’

  ‘As to that, their conclusions would undoubtedly depend on whom they spoke to,’ snapped Salas, before he bad-temperedly agreed to the request and rang off.

  Alvarez drove past the No Entry sign and parked. He left the car and walked down to the front. The sandy beach was packed with sunbathers, the colour of their bodies ranging from white, through red, to brown; off-shore, several ski boats were churning white wakes and beyond them were yachts, with multi-colour spinnakers, ghosting along in the very light breeze; a firefighting seaplane dipped down in the middle of the bay and skimmed the surface, then rose with a sheet of water cascading from its hull as it began its short flight to a point where a fire, almost certainly set by an arsonist, was burning. He remembered his first sight of the bay—almost no sand on the beaches, perhaps half a dozen bathers, no power boats. Then, there had been peace as well as beauty. The peace had vanished, much of the beauty still remained. But how long before that was gone as well, banished by the press of people who sought it? It was acknowledged wisdom that one should never look back. Acknowledged wisdom did not go on to suggest how one avoided doing just that.

  Along the front were a number of hotels and he entered the first he came to, one which had recently been converted into a number of self-catering units. He asked the young man at the reception desk whether a señorita Collins was registered. The receptionist checked and said that no, they had no one by that name staying with them. He left.

  The front road at this point was closed to traffic other than buses, cars, and taxis, picking up or putting down passengers, and the sight of people drinking at the outside tables made him very thirsty, but the knowledge of the prices charged kept him walking—there was no Ware to pick up the tab. He came to the Regina, a hotel that was family run and which, even though most of its trade was with package tour operators, still offered courteous service.

  Two men were behind the desk, the receptionist and the concierge. The younger, the receptionist, said he’d find out whether señorita Collins was staying at the hotel and he began to check through the registration book while the concierge, who knew Alvarez slightly, began to explain how difficult life was for a man who had his eighty-one-year-old mother—for whom nothing was ever right—living with him. The receptionist interrupted the monologue of complaints. ‘We’ve a señorita of that name staying here.’

  ‘Is she in?’ Alvarez asked.

  He checked the keys. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘D’you want to get in touch with her?’ asked the concierge, his curiosity aroused.

  ‘Yes, but don’t bother her. I’ll come back later.’

  ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong? She’s a really nice person.’

  ‘Nice, but long in the tooth,’ said the receptionist.

  The concierge spoke scornfully. ‘He reckons that anyone over twenty-five has one foot in the grave.’

  ‘He’ll learn that life favours fifty.’ Alvarez left an
d as he walked back to his car he reflected that concierges saw so much of human nature they were left with few illusions, yet the other had said what a nice person Serena Collins was. Ware had said the same thing. Clearly, she was a clever woman who knew how to manipulate susceptible men. It was her misfortune that soon she was going to come up against a man who would prove to be totally unsusceptible to her charms.

  Alvarez ate the last slice of banana and two baked almonds. He reached across the table for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass. ‘I’ll be off in a minute.’

  ‘You’re going out now?’ said Dolores, surprised.

  ‘I have to have a word with someone down in the port; she wasn’t at the hotel earlier on.’

  Jaime, who’d been about to drink, put down the glass.

  ‘She’s a foreigner? One of. . .’ He began to outline a shape with his hands, but stopped when Dolores glared at him.

  ‘One of what?’ asked Juan.

  ‘Never you mind,’ snapped Dolores. ‘And since we’ve finished, except for those who can’t stop drinking, you can start clearing the table.’

  ‘Why have I got to do it?’

  ‘Because I told you to.’

  ‘Why can’t Isabel . . .’

  ‘She did it yesterday. If there’s any more argument from you, you’ll do the clearing the whole of next week.’

  Juan, a rebellious look on his face, collected up the plates as clumsily as he dared. Isabel jeered at him and he called her a name which made her cry out with rage and then inform her mother of what had just been said. He stoutly denied the allegation before inadvisedly adding that he’d never heard the word before.

  Alvarez left the house and drove down to the port; he parked in front of the Regina. The concierge had returned home and only the night receptionist was at the desk. He turned and looked at the numbered boxes. ‘The señorita’s key isn’t here, so she must be in the hotel.’

  ‘Will you try her room and if you get through say that Inspector Alvarez is here and would like a word with her.’

  There was no answer to the call. ‘She’s maybe still in the dining-room or having coffee outside. Shall I find out?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll look for myself.’

  The dining-room overlooked the bay and the favoured tables were those next to the windows; she was sitting at the corner one. He began to cross the room, threading his way between the tables, when the head waiter stopped him and demanded to know what he wanted in a tone which reminded him that he had forgotten to change his shirt that morning and it was some time since his trousers had boasted a crease. ‘Cuerpo General de Policia. I want a word with señorita Collins.’

  The head waiter’s manner became very correct and courteous. The señorita is over at that table, seated by herself.’ He led the way across.

  ‘Miss Collins?’ Alvarez asked in English. He introduced himself.

  She studied him, then said: ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we? You were at Patrick’s place earlier on.’

  He had expected her eyes to be hard, but they were large and brown and all he could see in them was warmth. ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And you want to speak to me now?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘But what on earth about?’ She smiled briefly. ‘But you can hardly tell me without speaking, can you? Look, I’ve finished eating so it’s time for coffee. Let’s go outside and have it there.’

  Outside the hotel there was a space, covered overhead, of about three metres before the pavement and here tables and chairs had been set out for guests. Two were vacant and she chose the nearer one. Once settled, she said: ‘I love sitting out here at night. I don’t think I’ve seen anywhere more lovely.’

  ‘And it used to be even more beautiful.’

  ‘Before all we nasty tourists arrived? Sometimes it must be awful, seeing strangers take over your land and changing it so. But there are some compensations, aren’t there?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘But you’d cheerfully forgo them all if time could be turned back?’

  Honesty compelled him to say: ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s really one of those unanswerable questions, isn’t it, not least because one knows time can’t be turned back . . . How wonderful to be rich and noble in the old days and to have every wish tended to by an army of servants; but that’s to forget the toothache which drove one half-mad and the appendicitis that was a death warrant. As someone once said, happiness is accepting life as it is, not as it was or will be.’

  A waiter came up to the table and she said: ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Allow me, señorita. I will have coffee solo; do you prefer it like that or con leche. And perhaps you will have a coñac?’

  ‘Coffee with milk, please, but I don’t think I’ll have a brandy.’

  He spoke in Mallorquin and ordered two coffees and one brandy. The waiter left. ‘señorita, I . . .’

  ‘I’ve been told that it’s always Christian names on this island; mine is Serena.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘But you obviously prefer to keep things on a formal footing?’ She studied him, a slight frown on her forehead. ‘Why? Have you decided you don’t like me?’

  ‘It’s not my position either to like or dislike you.’

  ‘How boring!’ She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on the upturned palms of her hands. ‘You should know something. I can read people’s true characters, however hard they try to conceal them. That is because my mother came from La Verry, in France. Have you ever heard of the village?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Verry is a corruption of verite. The town was given its original name in the sixteenth century because some of the women claimed to be able to see the truth that lay in men’s hearts. The Church objected to the idea, perhaps on grounds of self-interest, and held that such women were bewitched; several were burned at the stake. But even that dreadful fate couldn’t stop the gifts from being handed down through the generations, albeit for a time they were unwelcome and feared gifts. My mother traced her ancestry back to the sister of one of the poor women burned at the stake in fifteen-sixty-one; that is why I can see people for who they really are and not for who they would like others to think them.’

  She had spoken quickly and almost recklessly, as if careless about the quality of her words; he thought that this was because she was so eager to distract him from the reason which had brought him to the hotel.

  She continued: ‘So I can be certain that far from the stern, hard-faced man you wish to present, in truth you are warm-hearted, compassionate, and friendly. Admit it—am I not right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You’re embarrassed to have your good points exposed? You’d rather be vilified as someone ice-cold and heartless?’

  He had to smile.

  ‘That’s better! I’ll tell you something more about yourself. You should smile much more often; although, of course, it’s a complete give-away. When you smile, no widow will ever believe she’s about to be turned out from hearth and home.’

  ‘Señorita . . .’

  ‘Again? Despite all I’ve said?’

  ‘I’m afraid that my visit is an official one so it is necessary to be formal.’

  Her expression changed and she looked past him, as if vainly seeking a way of escape.

  ‘I must ask you certain questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Señor Green.’

  She nibbled her lower lip. ‘I . . . I can’t tell you anything about what happened.’

  ‘I believe that you can.’

  She opened her handbag, with some urgency, brought out a silver cigarette case and lighter, and lit a cigarette. Only then did she think to offer him one by pushing the case into the middle of the table. She stared out across the road at the beach.

  ‘Whereabouts on the island is Señor Green now?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘He is n
ot dead and you know that he is not.’

  ‘Oh God! . . . I’m not nearly as clever as I thought. If you can talk like that, I couldn’t begin to see the truth in you. Warm-hearted, compassionate, friendly? You’re beastly cruel.’

  She stood and left so suddenly that by the time he had come to his feet she was well clear of the table. He watched her go into the hotel, then sat once more. It had been a very difficult part to play and she had not been quite good enough an actress to play it successfully; at the beginning she had been too determinedly carefree, at the end unable to shed tears when these were called for.

  The waiter brought the coffee and the brandy. Alvarez slit open both packets of sugar and poured the contents into one cup. He sipped the brandy. He wished that he weren’t such an emotional fool that now he felt guilty because he’d forced her to realize that the attempt to fake Green’s death had failed. He wondered how much more guilty he would feel if—or was it really when?—he had to convince her that Green had murdered in order to try to preserve the fraud?

  CHAPTER 15

  Dolores looked across the kitchen. ‘What’s the matter, Enrique?’

  He jerked his attention back to the present and the bowl of hot chocolate and the large slice of coca in front of himself. He crumbled some of the coca and dropped the pieces into the chocolate. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you’ve not spoken for ages and have been staring into space.’

  ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘About a woman?’

  ‘No. At least, not in the way you’re thinking.’

  ‘Does a man think of a woman in any other way?’

  ‘My problem is, how do women think about men?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘But it is. How would you react if I told you that Jaime had either found or paid a woman to dress in a garter belt, black stockings, and long black boots, and to whip him?’

  Her expression was shocked. ‘Not Jaime,’ she whispered.

  Belatedly, he realized that she had misunderstood him. ‘Good God, I’m not suggesting that Jaime could ever do anything like that.’