A Maze of Murders

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘You’re saying that Señor Lewis had a lady in his room?’

  ‘There was no notice on the door and it was well into the morning so I just went straight in. They were both in one of the beds … Must have been real tired after a busy night to be able to sleep that cramped,’ she added, with a touch of earthy humour.

  ‘Then you woke them?’

  ‘Of course, since I wasn’t trying to be quiet.’

  ‘How did they react?’

  ‘He wasn’t the kind to be worried. She was very upset, but it seemed that was just because of the time. I’m only learning English and she was talking real fast, but I think she was telling him that if she wasn’t at the Colón in half an hour to greet the new guests, she’d lose her job … You’re sure you won’t tell Señor Pons about it?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘It’s just that if he heard, he’d give me hell for not telling him about it. Might even sack me.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘If his uncle didn’t own the hotel, he’d not crow so loud.’

  ‘Perhaps his uncle will die and leave it to his mistress.’

  ‘Life never works that fairly … Why are you asking all these questions about the señor?’

  ‘Sadly, he was murdered in Mallorca. I have to try and discover who killed him.’

  ‘Murdered?… And he was so alive.’

  CHAPTER 16

  There were times when one had to be sufficiently optimistic to hope that another’s sense of logic was the same as one’s own. If, Alvarez decided, he were English, staying in Bitges, and looking for female company, he’d make for the nearest seaside resort. He opened a map and spread this out on the bed. The only main road in the area ran eastwards from Bitges to Playa de Samallera, which made the latter the nearest resort both by distance and time. Playa de Samallera lay on a bay that was ringed by mountains and so the next resort on either side – which would be reached by driving through Playa de Samallera unless one enjoyed mountaineering – was more distant both in kilometres and time. So while it might he possible to drive to Playa in half an hour, it was certainly impossible to reach anywhere else along the coast.

  * * *

  The local police in Playa de Samallera were less than helpful. ‘In the height of summer when there are more tourists than fleas on a dog and most of ’em causing twice as much trouble?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult,’ Alvarez said peacefully. ‘There’s surely not more than one Hotel Colón and there can’t be many English-speaking reps who work there.’

  ‘How would you know whether it’s going to be difficult or impossible? You come from a sleepy island where a drunken tourist is a novelty.’

  ‘We suffer twice as many tourists in a year as the whole of the Costa Brava.’

  They called him a liar.

  * * *

  Designed by an architect who had been an admirer of Gaudí, but blessed with the ability of knowing when to stop, Hotel Colón was a place of odd angles, unusual slopes, and peculiar surfaces, which attracted attention but not necessarily incomprehension. It catered for upmarket holidaymakers and the foyer was a place of space, curving arches, and a fountain in which swam a number of very large goldfish. The staff wore a uniform of light fawn linen jacket, white shirt, blue tie or neck scarf, and dark fawn linen trousers or skirt.

  The receptionist said: ‘The local police have been on to us and we’ve had a word with the female tour representatives who work here. Señorita Dunn is a friend of Señor Lewis.’

  Alvarez knew the warm pleasure of attaining success against the odds. ‘Is she in the hotel at the moment?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but she’s usually around during the afternoon so I’ll have her paged.’

  ‘Thanks. Where can I have a word with her?’

  ‘At this time of the afternoon, the lounge is usually empty.’

  Through the picture window of the lounge, Alvarez saw a curving stretch of sand, sea, and the southern half of the bay backed by mountains with roller-coaster peaks. Despite the crowds, the multicoloured beach umbrellas, the Tahiti sun cones, and the armada of power and pedal boats, it was a scene of beauty. Though not, of course, anywhere near as beautiful as Llueso Bay.

  He sat in one of the comfortable armchairs and relaxed …

  ‘Are you the policeman who wants to speak to me?’

  Jerked fully awake, he looked up. She was sufficiently young and attractive to make him regret that he could look back on so many years. Her hair was blonde, eyes blue, mouth generous; she wore just above her right breast a name tab. A man could spend a long time reading her name … Rather late in the day, he remembered the English custom and stood. ‘Señorita Dunn?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered in Spanish.

  ‘My name is Inspector Enrique Alvarez, from Mallorca.’

  ‘Why are you…’ She came to a stop, unable to find immediately the word she wanted.

  ‘I speak English, señorita. Would that be easier?’

  She smiled briefly. ‘It would, only don’t tell my boss. As far as he’s concerned, like all reps, I’m totally fluent in Spanish and even not bad in Catalan.’ Her tone changed. ‘The local police asked me if I knew Neil Lewis. If you’re here because of him, why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Shall we sit and I will explain.’

  A waiter looked through the doorway, came across to ask if they wanted something to drink.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee,’ she said.

  ‘Two coffees,’ Alvarez ordered. Then he added: ‘And a coñac.’

  As the waiter left, she said: ‘Well, what is this all about?’

  ‘Señorita, I much regret I have to tell you that Señor Lewis is dead.’

  ‘My God!’

  He saw surprise, but not shocked grief. He was grateful for this. The hardest part of his job was to have to give news that so obviously introduced tragedy into someone’s life.

  ‘I suppose he had a car accident? I always said he would.’

  ‘It was no accident. He was on a boat when he was murdered.’

  ‘Christ!’ She began to fidget with the arms of the chair. ‘Who? Why?’

  ‘It is to try to find the answers that I am here.’

  Her voice rose. ‘You can’t think I killed him?’

  ‘Of course not, señorita.’

  ‘Then how … Look, how did you ever discover I knew him?’

  ‘I learned in Bitges that he was friendly with someone who was probably working for an English travel company. That suggested you worked here, in Playa de Samallera.’

  ‘I suppose it was the chambermaid at the Gandia who told you. She kept apologizing the day she burst into the room and we were both asleep in bed, but I was sure that inside she was laughing…’ She stared into the distance.

  The waiter returned, placed coffee, milk jug, sugar bowl, and a glass of brandy, on the table, left. She did not move. Alvarez helped himself to milk and sugar, drank enough coffee to be able to pour the brandy into the cup.

  She said suddenly: ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’ She helped herself to milk, but not sugar. ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘He was dragged off the boat and held underwater.’

  ‘God, someone didn’t like him!’

  ‘I think that is because he was trying to blackmail his murderer.’ He watched her. ‘You don’t seem very surprised at the possibility?’

  ‘I’m not – That’s one hell of a bitchy thing to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘If it’s the truth, it is not bitchy.’

  ‘Is that necessarily so? Never mind, I’ll believe it is in order to keep my conscience happy.’

  ‘Why does it not surprise you that Señor Lewis may have been blackmailing someone?’

  ‘Because there was something about Neil that made me think … well, that he didn’t operate to the normal limits. Does that sound daft? The thing is, in my job one gets to have a feeling about people very quickly. When I meet an incoming flight, it’s no time before I mentally sort everyone out in
to easy and pleasant, bloody-minded and complaining, and wandering hands. I’m seldom wrong, especially over the last category.’

  ‘And you judged Lewis to be a criminal?’

  ‘No. At least, not in those sort of terms. I thought he was always ready to act recklessly, so if he wanted something, he’d go hell-bent after it and forget the consequences. To be real corny, there was a touch of the buccaneer about him.’

  ‘Have you any idea why he was staying in Bitges?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew someone who lives in the area?’

  ‘If he did, he never mentioned them.’

  ‘Do you know where he went when he left here?’

  ‘He said Barcelona and that he’d get in touch. He didn’t, of course.’ She showed no resentment. She drained her cup. ‘Is that all? I’m sorry to rush, but very soon I have to be on show so that the punters can ask me stupid questions.’

  He smiled.

  ‘You don’t believe they do? Yesterday, a woman came up and complained bitterly that the noticeboard said Patricia Dunn would be on duty every afternoon to answer customers’ questions, but she was never around. I showed her my name tag – resisting the urge to ask if she could read – and politely asked how I could help. “I only wanted to make certain you’re where they said you’d be.”’ She stood. ‘I wish I could have helped you find whoever killed Neil. He was fun.’

  As she walked to the doorway, he thought it was odd how often women were attracted by the hint, but not the reality, of lawlessness.

  When he had finished the coffee and brandy, the waiter entered and presented the bill. One thousand and fifty pesetas. Small wonder, he thought sourly as he paid and asked for a receipt, that the hotel possessed an air of luxury.

  On his way across the foyer, he saw Patricia, standing by a noticeboard, and was inexplicably seized with the childish urge to go across and ask her a stupid question. ‘Why do the locals speak a funny language?’

  ‘So that you won’t be upset by learning what they think of you.’

  He smiled. ‘Goodbye again, señorita. It has been a pleasure knowing you.’

  ‘And meeting you.’

  He began to walk away.

  ‘Hey, hang on a sec!’ she called out.

  He returned to her side.

  ‘Your complaining about the locals not speaking English suddenly reminded me of something. I don’t know if it’s of any account, but soon after I met Neil, he turned up one evening in a hell of a temper and said he’d been trying to find an address but everyone he asked for directions was an idiot. It turned out he’d been so mispronouncing the name it was small wonder no one could understand that he was looking for Pellapuig.’

  ‘Is that a village?’

  ‘An urbanización along the coast.’

  ‘Did he say why he’d been trying to find the place or name anyone who lived there?’

  She shook her head.

  * * *

  Once again, the local police were less than immediately helpful. ‘You expect us to identify someone who lives in Pellapuig when you don’t know the name or address?’

  ‘The person is probably English.’

  ‘That’ll be a great help when the English are the only bastards rich enough and stupid enough to live in such a place!’

  ‘You have the photograph I’ve given you to show people. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Yeah? Only because it’s not you what’s got to do the trying.’

  CHAPTER 17

  The house was large and Catalan in style, with two round towers. Its setting was dramatic. The land ended in a sheer, hundred-metre cliff and the south face of the house was within ten metres of the edge.

  Alvarez knocked on the front door. It was opened by a woman in her forties who looked to be in her sixties because her skin had been tanned and wrinkled by summer sun and winter wind. He introduced himself, said he’d like a chat with her. She made it obvious she would not welcome a chat with him. ‘There’s no reason to be concerned,’ he assured her.

  ‘I told the policeman when he came here that I didn’t know who the man was. He called me a liar and said I was trying to pervert justice, whatever that means.’

  ‘He didn’t know what he was talking about.’ He smiled.

  She was reassured by his easy, friendly manner. ‘I suppose you’d best come in.’

  He entered a hall that was barely furnished. ‘Is it right that this house is owned by someone in Barcelona who lets it to tourists during the summer? Must make the odd peseta doing that.’

  ‘If I had what he gets in the season, I wouldn’t be doing this job!’

  As he had immediately judged, she was from a peasant background. This enabled him further to gain her confidence by introducing subjects that would most interest her. They briefly discussed the inequalities of life, the inequalities of the lottery – it was always the wrong people who won it – and the poor prices farmers received.

  She asked him if he’d like some coffee, led the way into a kitchen that was only basically equipped. She filled a sauce-pan with water and put this on the gas stove, then said she always brought a merienda to work but seldom finished it and would he like some? They shared a large spinach empanada and when he praised it as one of the best he had ever eaten, the last of her reserve vanished. Her husband had always liked her empanadas. She talked about the rented farm she and her husband had worked and how, when her husband had suddenly died, the tenancy had come to an end. She’d had to earn a living, so she’d found a job with the company that let houses to tourists. It was boring work, lacking any sense of satisfaction – not like growing things – but it provided the money necessary to see her two children through university. And sometimes the tourists were generous and gave her extra money which bought a luxury, or two …

  ‘You remember the man whose photograph you were shown by the local police?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who was renting this place when he called?’

  ‘Two sisters. Leastwise, one of ’em was here all the time, the other only for a bit.’

  ‘Tell me about them. What were their names?’

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘You’re not given a list of the people who’ll be staying here?’

  ‘The company just tells me when someone’s coming.’

  Her suddenly blanked expression suggested she could read only with the greatest difficulty – when she had been young, schooling had cost money and her family had probably not been able to afford even the few pesetas necessary. He would have liked to tell her that far from feeling shame because she could not read, she should be proud that she had done everything possible to make certain her children had a full education, but knew it would be kinder not to pursue the matter. ‘So there was just the one sister to start with? What kind of person was she?’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Pleasant?’

  ‘Not really. Not like the other. Maybe they looked alike, except for the hair, but she acted like she was some great person’s wife while the other was always friendly.’

  ‘When did the second sister arrive here?’

  ‘A few days later, just after the friend left.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘The man that stayed for three days.’

  ‘Here, in the house?’

  ‘Haven’t I just said?’

  ‘Where did he sleep?’

  ‘Where d’you think?’

  ‘With her?’

  ‘Only he didn’t want me to know, so he tried to make out he spent the night in the second bedroom.’

  ‘How do you know he didn’t?’

  ‘I make the beds in the morning, don’t I? His sheets were hardly ruffled, hers looked like the two of ’em had been running races.’

  ‘Maybe he was a sound sleeper and she was a very restless one?’

  ‘You think I can’t tell after all the beds I’ve made for foreigners? In any case, once he’d left, her bed was di
fferent.’

  ‘You’ve seen a photograph of Señor Lewis. Can you remember who was living here when he called that day?’

  ‘The two of ’em.’

  ‘Which two?’ he asked patiently.

  ‘The sisters.’

  ‘Tell me about his visit.’

  She had a peasant’s memory for details. She’d been sweeping down the patio, because there’d been a wind which had brought sand from Africa, when there’d been a ring on the front door bell. The señoras had been out. The Englishman had been so stupid he couldn’t understand what she’d been trying to tell him even though she’d spoken as simply as if to a child. In the end, without a word of thanks or even a smile, he’d driven off.

  ‘Did he return another time?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Didn’t see him again.’

  ‘How did the two sisters get on together?’

  The question puzzled her, so he simplified it.

  ‘They seemed to be friendly enough,’ she said.

  ‘Did they leave together?’

  ‘Must have done.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The let ended on my rest day, so they was gone when I returned to get the house ready for the next lot.’

  He finished his coffee, put the mug down on the kitchen table. ‘Can you describe the sisters and the male friend?’

  She found it more difficult than most to provide word pictures. They weren’t young any more, but didn’t look old – when you hadn’t worked in the fields, you could hide the years much more easily. The blonde had used lots of make-up, the black-haired sister hardly any; one dressed up, the other hadn’t seemed to mind what clothes she wore. The one was as mean as a lawyer from Santiago – she’d not left as much as a peseta in her bedroom; the other was the most generous of señoras and left twenty thousand – yes, twenty thousand. No other señora had ever approached such generosity. The money had bought her son a new jacket which he’d been needing for a long time …

  As he listened to her, he gloomily realized that if he possessed any intelligence, before he’d left the island he would have obtained a photograph of Vera Clough. ‘Tell me about the señor.’