“What short?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Louie. Have you perforated your goddamned ear-drums? Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said. Hitch has got a short he made which shows a blonde being savagely murdered . . .”
I gave him a cold look:
“Karl, what the hell did you have for breakfast? Bourbon?”
“I swear it’s the truth . . .!”
“Have you seen this short?”
“No, but Vince and Todd . . .”
“Oh, sure, I might have guessed,” I snorted: “Yahweh and his holy prophet.”
We’d only known Vince and Todd since they’d begun shooting the film.They were always larking about, and had lots of success with the fair sex, but I’d be damned if this explained Karl’s belief in everything they told him as if it was the sacred word of his parents, or of our boss, Mr Berwick himself.
“Look at it this way,” insisted Karl: “would they make up that short if it wasn’t for real?”
“Look at it this way, Karl: we’re working on a film.” We were perched on a fence next to the stables. In front were painted sets, real ones as well as fantasy. I nodded towards them. “Look around you: facades of houses that don’t exist, cameramen, sound technicians, carpenters, make-up artists . . . It’s a film, Karl. As fake as a $3 bill. No one here dies for real.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “And even if it were to happen, by some awful stroke of ill-luck . . . it would be an accident.”
As soon as the phrase was out, I looked up to qualify it, but he’d already jumped on it, nodding grimly:
“They want it to look like an accident, Louie. That’s the plan.”
“Oh come on, Karl . . .You’ve worked in too many films.”
Karl had been in front of the lens more often than I had, and was proud of his experience. Directors like John Huston or John Ford had shot him in various group scenes, and he couldn’t say two words to anyone on set without alluding in some way to “the time Mr Ford wanted . . .” It made him an incorrigible romantic, seeing grisly murders in every scene and a sadist inside every director. But beneath this facade of being right in the thick of things was a timid, impressionable soul. I certainly wasn’t ready to believe it just because he said so.
“The other day I heard a conversation between the boss and that fat, sadistic bas . . .”
“Leave it out, Karl,” I cut him short. “You already told me. And you’re getting paranoid.”
But then, while I was moving away, I heard him say something else:
“Do you think you’d kill someone if they ordered you to, Louie?”
I think of myself as neither good nor bad. I am what I am, and pay my own way. In Hollywood we’re all like that. My grandfather Fred told me I’d become a cardboard cutout, and he maybe had a point. But then my grandfather was from the country, and I’m “city” nowadays. I prefer hanging out in glamorous joints, where you meet beautiful girls and people treat you with respect, not like an animal good for nothing but a kick in the belly. Having said that, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit Karl’s question at the end of the conversation left me thinking: “Do you think you’d kill someone if they ordered you to, Louie?”
My father used to say that every question has just one answer: the truth. In this case, I was startled by what my answer might be, so to quell my conscience, I decided to accept Karl’s harebrained plan for the following midday. When the crew moved off to the lake to shoot the boat scene, we likewise made our way to Hitch’s roomy trailer, bang in the centre of things and highly visible. Along the way we bumped into the bewitching Ms Suzanne Pleshette who was having words with the director’s assistant, Peggy Robertson.We spotted each other some way off, and Ms Pleshette gave us a wave, a fairly friendly one it seemed. I was more concerned with Ms Robertson though. Seeing Peggy hanging round meant Hitch couldn’t be far off, and I shared my concern with Karl.
“It’s just what we need,” he replied.
“Huh?”
“What were you thinking? That we were going to fiddle around with his expensive projectors and break them? No, we’ll wait under a window until that fat . . .”
“OK, you already said that. How do you know he’ll come?”
“He comes every afternoon, together with the boss and Mr Boyle, and they go over the murder short again and again.”
“What about us?”
“We’ll be right there at the window so you can see it.”
The plan was Karl to a “T”: naïve, passionate, and very stupid.
“And what if they find us?”
His wounded pride made him scowl:
“Are you kidding, Louie? We’re better than that.”
So we stationed ourselves by the window ledge, and kept our eyes peeled to make sure no one would catch us. From this spot we also had a good view into the interior: a spacious salon with all the furnishings of a typical VIP pad, a large screen, a projector and some reels piled high on a table.There was also a strong smell of the cigars Hitch puffed, plus a director’s chair with his full name embroidered on the back, just so everyone would know that that was where Mr Alfred Hitchcock sat.
“That’s it,” said Karl pointing: “the one with a red ‘X’ on top. Can you see it?”
I nodded, spotting a reel set aside from the rest. But now that we were fully committed to our “crime”, I was beginning to feel nervous.
“And if they don’t play the reel today?”
“We’ll come back tomorrow, Louie.” Karl had started on a snack bar to keep himself occupied. “But you’ll see.They’ve been planning the scene for quite some time.”
“And . . . who do they want to . . . kill? Ms Pleshette?”
“The blonde,” replied Karl poker-faced. “And don’t say ‘who do they want to kill’, but ‘who do they want us to kill’.”
“Oh, but that’s . . .”
“They’re here now!” he said in a stage whisper.
The sound of the door and voices gave me a turn. I’m easily unnerved, but have managed to get the better of it on most occasions. My father used to say that fear, like sex, is only good if experienced at the proper moment. He got that about right, but at this point an overpowering curiosity, much stronger than fear, kept me glued to the window.
We kept completely quiet, raising our heads just enough to peer in without calling attention to ourselves. Sure enough, what I saw was Hitch, Boyle and Berwick jabbering away, though when I listened carefully, I realized the last two were simply replying to what the first had asked. Sometimes the reply might contain a question in turn but Hitch, unlike the others, hardly ever replied. I guessed that was the definition of being important within one’s field.
And, of course, they screened the short.
We saw it fairly well, taking turns to raise our heads. When it was over, we managed to slip away without anyone being the wiser.
“Convinced now?” asked Karl, anxiously.
I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, I felt like laughing. On the other, well there was something creepy about the whole thing.
“It was . . . just a dummy, Karl. It wasn’t a real woman.”
“But it’ll be real on the day they shoot,” insisted my pal.
Worst of all, there was a ghost of a smile hovering on his lips.
It was March, and in the Californian seaside town where we were shooting spring seemed everywhere, filling every little corner with its fresh and heady aroma. The very sea smelt vaguely of flowers and blossom, and under any other circumstances, I’d have been glad to be alive with the excellent food, friendly locals and light workload. But instead I spent my days obsessed with the scene in the short. True, the figure was a dummy, but the murder itself was cruel and utterly merciless. The victim’s eyes popped out as if on springs, her dress was torn to shreds, and the joints of her outer limbs broke as if they were dry stalks. Simply remembering it made me want to throw up, as did Hitch’s voice floating calmly above all the horror: “Let’s place her closer to the wal
l . . . No, no, Bob: I want her to receive the first wounds when she raises her arms . . .”
“Do you think you’d kill someone if they ordered you to?”
“It would depend who gave the order,” I thought. I could hardly imagine the kindly Mr Berwick asking anything of the sort. It wasn’t as if I particularly liked the blonde, either. She was pleasant enough and had long legs, but it happened that I was much more interested in Ms Pleshette. Still, the blonde was a woman, not a dummy. I’d never harmed a woman in my life, and had no intention of changing things on that score. But . . . what would I do if Mr Berwick ordered me . . .?
“Do you think you’d kill someone if . . .?”
It’s today, Karl told me bluntly one fine day. “We’re doing it today.”
We were sitting on the same fence as our first conversation, a bad omen in itself as far as I could see. I stared at my friend wide-eyed.
“Berwick will give us instructions,” he continued soberly. “And you know as much as me that you’ll do it, just like you know I’ll do it, Louie.We’re here to do whatever they say, like everyone else in Hollywood. We’re just cogs in the machine. We’ll do it – and you’ll see how – the moment we receive the order from that fat, sadi— . . .”
“To the set, boys,” snapped Todd, hurrying past.
I followed him feeling ever more unsettled, as did Karl. Mr Berwick was waiting for us on a piece of smooth ground, together with the rest of the crew. Any last-ditch hope that this was all a gigantic farce (at the end of the day, wasn’t cinema just that?), evaporated into thin air when the blonde appeared, attractive as ever but as terrified as we were, and the boss explained what we were all supposed to do.
Karl was right about one thing: we did it.
And how, my God.
Even now, after a certain amount of time has passed, the memory of it all remains more than I can bear. I would call it “inhuman”, but the expression is not nearly cruel enough. After the appalling act, I never saw Karl again, and I never worked again in the movies. I went back to the circus, as it paid well and other jobs were hard to come by. I now have children, and although they’re very young, they bring joy to my days. It can’t be said I live any worse than before, but the nightmares are what torment me.The memory of what I did, of what we did, just won’t leave me in peace.
The blonde survived our terrible attack, I suppose, but the fact is I saw her sobbing for real, heard screams that weren’t faked, and received some of the frantic blows with which the poor girl tried to keep us at bay. As if that weren’t enough (and I admit this without any hesitation, although I doubt I’ll ever be brave enough to tell my own children), I was one of those who, confused and disoriented by the savage violence inflicted on her by our coach, slashed her left arm leaving deep incisions in her skin.
The poor woman’s wounds may now be nothing more than scars, but they still remain fresh in my heart. After that day I swore never again to work in movies.
My only wish now is to grow old in peace, and also to give up the circus as soon as I can. It is one of life’s paradoxes, but I’ve recently begun to feel nostalgic about my country childhood, and when work and my new boss allow, I like to spread my black wings and fly as high as possible, leaving the world of men far behind.
Strange to say, flying is when I feel more human than ever.
Translation by Martin Davies
The Strawberry Tree
Ruth Rendell
1
The hotel where we are staying was built by my father. Everyone assures me it is the best in Llosar and it is certainly the biggest and ugliest. From a distance it looks as if made of white cartridge paper or from hundreds of envelopes with their flaps open. Inside it is luxurious in the accepted way with sheets of bronze-coloured mirrors and tiles of copper-coloured marble and in the foyer, in stone vessels of vaguely Roman appearance, stands an army of hibiscus with trumpet flowers the red of soldiers’ coats.
There is a pool and a room full of machines for exercise, three restaurants and two bars. A machine polishes your shoes and another makes ice. In the old days we used to watch the young men drink palo out of long thin bow-shaped vessels from which the liquor spouted in a curving stream. Now the hotel barman makes cocktails called Mañanas that are said to be famous. We tried them yesterday, sitting on the terrace at the back of the hotel. From there, if you are not gazing at the swimming pool as most people do, you can rest your eyes, in both senses, on the garden. There the arbutus has been planted and fl ourishes, its white flowers blooming and strawberry fruits ripening at the same time, something I have heard about but never seen before, for it is October and I was last here all those years ago in summer.
We have rooms with envelope balconies and a view of the bay. There are no fishing boats any more, the pier of the old hotel with its vine canopy is gone and the old hotel itself has become a casino. But the harbour is still there with the statue of the Virgin, Nuestra Doña de los Marineros, where, swimming in the deep green water, Piers and Rosario and I first saw Will sitting on the sturdy stone wall.
All along the “front”, as I suppose I must call it, are hotels and restaurants, souvenir shops and tourist agencies, cafés and drinking places, where once stood a string of cottages. The church with its brown campanile and shallow pantiled roof that used to dominate this shore has been almost lost among the new buildings, dwarfed by the gigantic Thomson Holiday hotel. I asked the chambermaid if they had had jellyfish at Llosar lately but she only shook her head and muttered about contaminación.
The house we were lent by José-Carlos and Micaela is still there but much “improved” and extended, painted sugar-pink and surrounded by a fence of the most elaborate wrought ironwork I have ever seen, iron lace for a giant’s tablecloth around a giant’s child’s iced cake. I would be surprised if Rosario recognized it. Inland, things are much the same, as far as I can tell. Up to now I have not ventured there, even though we have a most efficient rented car. I climb up a little way out of the village and stare at the yellow hills, at the olive trees and junipers, and the straight wide roads which now make seams across them, but I cannot see the little haunted house, the Casita de Golondro. It was never possible to see it from here. A fold in the hills, crowned with woods of pine and carob, hides it. The manager of our hotel told me this morning it is now a parador, the first on Majorca.
When I have performed the task I came here to do I shall go and have a look at it. These state-run hotels, of which there are many on the mainland, are said to be very comfortable.We might have dinner there one evening. I shall propose it to the others. But as for removing from here to there, if any of them suggest it, I shall make up my mind to turn it down. For one thing, if I were staying there I should sooner or later have to rediscover that room or deliberately avoid it. The truth is I no longer want an explanation. I want to be quiet, I want, if this does not sound too ludicrous, to be happy.
My appointment in Muralla is for ten o’clock tomorrow morning with an officer of the Guardia Civil whose rank, I think, would correspond to our detective superintendent. He will conduct me to see what is to be seen and I shall look at the things and try to remember and give him my answer. I haven’t yet made up my mind whether to let the others come with me, nor am I sure they would want to come. Probably it will be best if I do this, as I have done so much in the past, alone.
2
Nearly forty years have passed since first we went to Majorca, Piers and I and our parents, to the house our Spanish cousin lent us because my mother had been ill. Her illness was depression and a general feeling of lowness and lethargy, but the cause of it was a lost child, a miscarriage. Even then, before there was real need, my parents were trying to have more children, had been trying to have more, although I was unaware of this, since soon after my own birth thirteen years before. It was as if they knew, by some sad superstitious prevision, that they would not always have their pigeon pair.
I remember the letter to my father from José-Carlos.
They had fought side by side in the Spanish Civil War and been fast friends and sporadic correspondents ever since, although he was my mother’s cousin, not my father’s. My mother’s aunt had married a Spaniard from Santander and José-Carlos was their son. Thus we all knew where Santander was but had scarcely heard of Majorca.At any rate, we had to search for it on the map.With the exception of Piers, that is. Piers would have known, Piers could have told us it was the largest of the Balearic Islands, Baleares Province in the western Mediterranean, and probably too that it covered something over fourteen hundred square miles. But one of the many many nice things about my clever brother, child of good fortune, was his modesty. Handing out pieces of gratuitous information was never his way. He too stood and looked over our father’s shoulder at Goodall and Darby’s University Atlas, a pre-war edition giving pride of place to the British Empire and in which the Mediterranean was an unimportant inland sea. He looked, as we did, in silence.
The tiny Balearics floated green and gold on pale blue, held in the arms of Barcelona and Valencia. Majorca (Mallorca in brackets) was a planet with attendant moons: Formentera, Cabrera, but Minorca too and Ibiza. How strange it now seems that we had never heard of Ibiza, had no idea of how to pronounce it, while Minorca was just the place a chicken was named after.
José-Carlos’s house was at a place called Llosar. He described it and its setting, deprecatingly, making little of the beauty, stressing rustic awkwardnesses. It was on the north-west coast, overlooking the sea, within a stone’s throw of the village, but there was not much to the village, only a few little shops and the hotel. His English was so good it put us to shame, my father said.They would have to brush up their Spanish, my mother and he.
The house was ours for the months of July and August, or for us children’s school holidays. We would find it very quiet, there was nothing to do but swim and lie in the sun, eat fish and drink in the local tavern, if my parents had a mind to that. In the southeast of the island were limestone caves and subterranean lakes, worth a visit if we would entrust ourselves to the kind of car we would find for hire.Tourists had begun to come, but there could not be many of these as there was only one hotel.
The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 18