A Maze of Murders

by Roderic Jeffries

  He used a metal tape measure to determine the gap between rails at the stern. Thirty-one centimetres. So here was the coincidence too many. He pictured the murderer climbing aboard as the Aventura lay at anchor, entering the cabin where the four lay drugged, grabbing Lewis and dragging him out of the saloon – half-heard by Kirsty – and struggling to bundle him over the stern. An uncoordinated body was one of the most difficult things to handle, with arms and legs flopping this way and that and unexpectedly altering the centre of balance. As he’d tried to heave the unconscious Lewis over the rails, he had lost control and Lewis’s back had slammed into them. In the water, the murderer had held the body underneath …

  Alvarez replaced the tape measure in his pocket. For once, Salas was going to have to admit his work had been inspired and faultless.

  * * *

  He phoned Palma at a quarter to six that evening and spoke to Salas’s secretary. ‘May I speak to the superior chief?’

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘It is important.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s had to fly to Salamanca.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Can you get in touch with him?’

  ‘If you want something, you’ll have to speak to Comisario Borne.’

  He thanked her, rang off.

  Comisario Borne was a man who took life so seriously that he believed his superiors’ edicts were engraved on tablets of stone; who lacked the imagination to see how a fact might suggest one thing taken on its own, but could point to something entirely different when slotted in with another fact. It would be useless to ask Comisario Borne to override an order of the superior chief. Yet to conduct any further investigation into the deaths of Lewis and Sheard before he had express permission to do so would be asking for trouble …

  He left the building and returned to his car, drove out of Llueso, through the Laraix valley and up the twisting, tortuous road to the mountains. He parked in a natural lay-by, left the car and crossed to the shade of an evergreen oak where he sat on a rounded boulder. To his left was a valley, on the far side of which the mountain slopes were bare except for odd patches of scrub grass; to his right, the uneven land, pitted with outcrops of rock striated by age and patched with clumps of bowed trees, rose to become the flanks of more mountains which were higher, starker, and touched with menace even in the harsh sunshine. There was not a building in sight.

  He came here when he was troubled. The solitude, the land that had not altered in aeons and was therefore both past and present, the acceptance of the fact that amidst such natural grandeur he was an alien, produced in his mind a feeling of total insignificance; experience had taught him that only when one knew that one was totally insignificant did one begin to think with true honesty.

  When he was convinced that he was right and everyone else was wrong, was his conviction fuelled by perverse pride? Salas thought him incompetent, so did he contradict merely because this was a weak man’s way of trying to assert himself? Born a peasant, had he remained a stubborn, bloody-minded peasant?

  He believed justice to be only slightly less essential to a man than the food he ate, the water he drank, and the air he breathed. Without justice, there could only be chaos in which the few strong prospered and the many weak perished. Justice demanded the truth, so surely if a man sought it he must be in the right, even if his motive for doing so might be suspect?

  He drove back to the village, went up to his office, phoned the Institute of Forensic Anatomy and asked for a full analysis of Lewis’s blood to be made.

  He replaced the receiver. It was mortifying to realize how long it had taken him to work out that if someone had doped the whisky, had waited until it had taken effect, then swum to the boat and dragged Lewis over the side and drowned him, that someone was a man of imagination and fore-thought; such a man would replace the doped bottle of whisky and the glasses so that if any suspicion was raised and an analysis of their contents carried out, the result would be negative, leading to the conclusion that Lewis’s death had been an accident.

  * * *

  The two calls came in quick succession on Thursday morning.

  ‘We’ve completed our analysis in the Lewis case,’ said the assistant at the Forensic Institute of Anatomy.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘We have.’

  Alvarez enjoyed the narcissistic satisfaction of having proved the world wrong.

  ‘Are you familiar with chloral hydrate?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s a hypnotic, occasionally used medicinally to induce a condition resembling natural sleep. In the past, it was a favourite with criminals who encouraged potential victims to drink something into which it had been introduced; then the victims could be robbed at no risk to themselves.’

  ‘You’re talking about a Mickey Finn! I didn’t recognize it by its proper name. So that’s how Lewis was drugged!’

  ‘To be precise, no. Chloral hydrate is usually described as having a disagreeable taste – you or I would call it filthy. So it was difficult to obscure this in a drink and if the intended victim wasn’t more than half seas over, he’d probably take one mouthful and spit it out. But a renegade chemist in the States who’d been working on the problem managed to eliminate most of the foul taste with a slight modification in the hydrolysis of the trichloroethanal. As a result, the narcotic could be introduced into a dry martini or a bloody Mary and, even if sober, the victim would cheerfully drink it. According to reports, this modified narcotic has only one drawback in so far as the criminal is concerned. It promotes a temporary hysterical violence in a few people before they pass out. One would-be thief was beaten to a bloody pulp before his victim collapsed. A rare case of the biter being bit!’

  ‘And it was this modified chloral hydrate that Lewis drank?’

  ‘It was.’

  As soon as the call was finished, Alvarez reached down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and bring out a bottle of brandy and a glass. He was about to pour himself a congratulatory drink when the phone rang again.

  ‘Are you really as stupid as your actions inevitably suggest?’ demanded Salas.

  ‘I understood you were in Salamanca, señor…’

  ‘Did I, or did I not, order you to close inquiries into the death of the Englishman, Lewis?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘One more “but” and you join the ranks of the unemployed. Did you, or did you not, agree that my order was incapable of misinterpretation?’

  ‘Yes, señor, only…’

  ‘Only instead of misinterpreting it, you flatly disobeyed it by asking the Institute to carry out further analyses of specimens from the dead man.’

  ‘Because of the facts…’

  ‘Which informed you – or would have done, were you capable of accepting information – that there was no evidence to suggest the cause of death had been anything but accidental drowning.’

  ‘Actually, there were two bruises on the dead man’s back…’

  ‘Which you were told could well have been caused after death.’

  ‘The thing is, they were parallel and thirty centimetres apart.’

  ‘Had they been twenty or forty, you would have accepted the obvious conclusion without argument?’

  ‘That made me think.’

  ‘Please do not exaggerate.’

  ‘I went aboard the Aventura and measured the distance between the rails at the stern. They are thirty-one centimetres middle to middle. This makes it almost certain that the bruises were caused when Lewis fell against them.’

  ‘It has not occurred to you that a drunken man tends to fall about?’

  ‘All the evidence suggests he wasn’t drunk.’

  ‘Evidence provided by equally sottish companions.’

  ‘I’m sure Señorita Glass wasn’t tight. She has a rather delicate stomach and if she drinks very much, she suffers…’

 
‘How is it that when you are asked to explain your total disregard of orders, you start talking about some woman’s digestive problems?’

  ‘I was trying to explain why I’m certain Lewis wasn’t drunk.’

  ‘If he was sober when he fell, he’d have swum back and pulled himself aboard; if for some reason he couldn’t do that, he would have called for help.’

  ‘He didn’t fall overboard, señor.’

  ‘Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Haven’t you been trying to tell me that the bruises on his back were caused when he fell overboard?’

  ‘When he fell against the rails. He was dragged out of the saloon and thrown over the stern. But it’s very difficult to manage an unconscious body and as he was heaved over, his body jackknifed and his back hit the rails with considerable force.’

  ‘You are now suggesting that one of the others on the boat, who according to you only a moment ago were all unconscious, threw him over the side?’

  ‘The murderer swam out from the shore or, more likely, another boat…’

  ‘Why content yourself with but one aquatic homicidal maniac? Why not take the chance to compound confusion by suggesting two, three, four?… You should not be surprised to learn I consider that this conversation has confirmed the proposition that you are not fit to hold the position you do. It is therefore my intention…’

  ‘Señor.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Institute of Forensic Anatomy?’

  ‘How else did I learn that you had flatly disobeyed my orders; that when informed there was every reason to suppose the drowning was accidental, your immediate reaction was to ask for full and very costly analyses to be made of specimens from the dead man?’

  ‘But they didn’t give you the results?’

  ‘Hardly necessary.’

  ‘They phoned me just before you did. Lewis had been drugged with modified chloral hydrate, which explains why he didn’t cry out or swim.’

  There was a long pause. ‘What is chloral hydrate?’

  ‘We know it as a Mickey Finn. Apparently it used to be so foul-tasting it was difficult to disguise even in a strong drink, but a chemist in America has managed to make it much less obnoxious so that now it’s all too easy to use successfully. It has only one unpredictable disadvantage…’

  ‘There can be no doubt?’

  ‘None, señor.’ Alvarez thought that a little joke might lessen the superior chief’s resentment. ‘I reckon we ought to christen the new dope, Mickey Swede.’

  Salas cut the connection.

  Alvarez poured himself a larger drink than he would have done had the superior chief not phoned.

  CHAPTER 14

  The fax from England arrived on Friday morning; it proved to be a fuller report than Alvarez had expected.

  Lawrence Charles Clough had no criminal record and his name was not on the ‘yellow list’. (There was no explanation of this term, but it was obvious that it referred to the information all detective forces collected and kept on file – the names of men and women suspected of crimes for which there was insufficient evidence to bring any charges.) He had been engaged in property development and had run into trouble with investments which had become of doubtful value due to the general economic malaise. The banks from whom he’d borrowed capital, watching the fall in property prices, had demanded either repayment or further security. He had sought and found the latter by marrying Vera Reece, a very wealthy woman; she had allowed a part of her fortune to be used as security against his debts. At a later date, he had identified some land which was for sale and which he believed could restore his fortunes. She had agreed with the bankers to increase the amount of her capital being used as security, but only days later had cancelled this agreement; then, the following week, she had renewed her pledge. The reason for this was not known, but it did seem reasonable to assume that she had suspected her husband of being unfaithful (he was known not to take his marriage vows seriously), but he had somehow convinced her that she was wrong. Earlier this year, he had managed to gain planning permission for the land in question and with the proceeds gained from selling it, he had been able to liquidate his debts. Not long after this, he and his wife had left England to live abroad.

  Little was known about Neil Andrew Lewis, prior to his conviction for robbery at the age of nineteen. At the age of twenty-three, he had been convicted along with two other men of robbery with violence and had served four and a half years before being released from prison towards the end of the previous year.

  Neither man had any known connection with the drug trade.

  Alvarez put the fax down on his desk. If not drugs, what? Blackmail?

  * * *

  He rounded a bend to come in sight of Son Preda. Envy might be one of the deadly sins, but how was one to avoid it when looking at such an estate? Were he to win El Gordo, or the primitiva when the bote had risen to eight hundred million, he’d buy such a place and lavish his newly-won money on the land. The olive trees would be pruned and harvested; the olive press would be restored and the olives, packed in layers and squeezed by the huge wooden press driven by a mule, would give up their golden-green virgin oil. The water wheels would be restored so that their leather buckets dipped down to scoop up water, then rose to discharge it into channels that led to the estanques. There would be no diesel-stinking tractors, compacting the earth, no combines designed for prairie vastness, dodging around almond and fig trees and breaking their branches; only mules and horses, single furrow Roman ploughs, reapers and binders, and the corn would be winnowed by the wind as it had been until only a few years ago …

  He sighed. There was no fool more senseless than the one who looked to the past instead of the future.

  He braked to a halt in front of the house, climbed out of the car, crossed to the stone steps and climbed these, swung the heavy wrought-iron knocker to cause the deep, thudding sound that came from the past he so espoused.

  The door was opened by a young woman in maid’s uniform whom he’d not previously met. ‘Is the señor in?’ he asked.

  Her manner was direct, rather than diplomatic. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Inspector Alvarez, Cuerpo General de Policia.’

  She looked at him with some interest, but remained unimpressed. ‘He’s been out since just after breakfast.’

  ‘Then is the señora in?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘I’d like a word with her.’

  ‘Then you’d best come in.’

  She led him into the same room as before. After she’d gone, he studied the flintlock rifles. Who was most at risk when one of these was fired – the man in front or the man behind?

  He heard the door open and turned. As Vera Clough entered, he said: ‘Good morning, señora. I hope I am not unduly disturbing you.’

  ‘I’m afraid my husband’s out.’

  ‘So the maid told me.’ Once again, he was vaguely surprised by her appearance – the rich usually, subtly or unsubtly, flaunted their wealth, but she made no effort to do so. ‘I need to speak to you as well as to your husband.’

  ‘I…’ She hesitated, then spoke in a rush. ‘I think he ought to be here.’

  ‘Naturally I will wait if you wish. But I’ve only come to give you some serious news and ask you to confirm what you have previously told me.’

  ‘What serious news?’

  ‘You will remember that when last here I asked if you or your husband knew Señor Lewis who had disappeared from a boat and had to be presumed drowned. Very sadly, that presumption has been confirmed. Further, we can now be certain that his death was not an accident and he was murdered.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ She gesticulated with her hands. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because…’ She took a couple of paces to her right, slumped down in a chair.

  He patiently waited.

  ‘My husband told you how this sort of thing aff
ects me,’ she said in a low voice, staring at the floor.

  ‘Indeed, señora, which is why I so regret having had to tell you.’ Her reaction to the news had been far stronger than he would have expected, even allowing for her emotional identification with others’ miseries. ‘I will be as brief as possible.’ And also as quick as possible, hoping that that would prevent her remembering to demand that her husband be present. ‘Are you positive you have never met Señor Lewis?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And he’s never been in contact with you either by phone or letter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he has not attempted to blackmail you or your husband?’ He noticed that she suddenly clasped her hands together on her lap; she had acted similarly when she’d first learned of Lewis’s death. People often unknowingly betrayed an inner tension.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ she said loudly.

  ‘If he had, it would be in your interests to admit that fact.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous thing to suggest.’

  ‘Señora, these days, when little or nothing in a person’s private life is considered sufficiently immoral to be concealed at all costs, blackmail is levied almost always on someone who has committed a serious criminal act. The police, knowing that the victim’s evidence will be necessary to prosecute the blackmailer successfully, treat that crime as sympathetically as is possible.’

  ‘He wasn’t blackmailing us.’

  ‘I’m sorry that it’s been my job to suggest such a possibility … There is one final thing. May I see the frocks, please?’

  ‘What frocks?’ She stared at him, panicking because she could not understand the question and therefore fearing it the more.

  ‘The ones you had made by the lady from England who, understandably, has no wish to pay taxes.’

  She tightened the grip of her hands. ‘I … You’ll have to ask my husband about them.’

  He stood. ‘Thank you very much for your help, señora.’

  As he drove along the dirt track towards the road, he thought that luck had finally been with him. Because Clough had not been there to act as a shield, his wife had surely confirmed the motive for Lewis’s murder.