A Maze of Murders

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘That the facts as I had ascertained them are correct.’

  ‘In other words, the entire investigation has been a waste of time and money.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Naturally not. However, do not try to gloss over that fact in your report, which will be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. Is that perfectly clear?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  The line went dead.

  Alvarez looked at his watch. There was not the time left before lunch to draw up a full report and after his siesta he had arranged to meet Phoebe. The solution, then, was to send a précis, certain that subsequently he would angrily be called upon to enlarge and amend …

  * * *

  He leaned back in the chair and raised his legs to rest his heels on some of the unopened mail on his desk. For every man, the world was a constantly changing entity, but for none more so than for him. A month before, life had had nothing special to offer him; now, its horizons were golden …

  The phone rang.

  ‘Is that you, Enrique?’

  He didn’t recognize the voice. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Emiliano here. How’s life with you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’ Emiliano who? ‘Where are you speaking from – Palma?’

  ‘That’s a sour joke! You think we get holidays? I’m in Bitges.’

  His mind slipped into gear. Emiliano Calvo, who’d helped him trace Lewis’s movements.

  ‘I’m ringing more in hope than belief. We’ve a case that right now isn’t offering us a single lead and I suddenly remembered your visit and wondered whether by some lucky chance your inquiries then could offer us anything now … A few days ago, a couple of Germans on holiday were scuba diving roughly a kilometre out from shore when they found a body, weighted down to the bottom by a block of concrete. Because of the state of the body it’s impossible to make a direct identification and all the experts can tell us is that it’s female, aged somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, and death probably occurred between two and six months ago. We’ve checked all local and national records of missing persons and no woman of the right age and size is listed, which means the odds are she was a foreigner, but there’s been no request from abroad for help in tracing such a female. Is there any chance that she could have some connection with the man you were tracking?’

  There was a good chance, but because the possibility ringed his heart with ice, he was not yet prepared to admit this. ‘Right now, I can’t think that there is,’ he answered, his voice hoarse.

  ‘It always was one hell of a long shot!’ Calvo changed the conversation and discussed Salas at length and in slanderous terms.

  When the call was over, Alvarez slumped back in the chair. A man’s world could be irretrievably turned upside down by a single telephone call. He struggled to convince himself that he was adding two and two and making five, but the more he tried, the more convinced he became that the total was four.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Nothing good ever came from bad,’ Dolores said mournfully.

  ‘That’s guaranteed to cheer me right up!’ Alvarez muttered. ‘So what are you expecting – that the plane will crash?’

  ‘How can you be so cruelly stupid?’

  ‘When you say things like that…’

  ‘What do you expect me to say when for days you have spent every hour with a woman half your age and now you’re taking her to Paris?’

  ‘I’ve told you a dozen times, she’s not half my age, I’m not taking her anywhere, I’m going on my own to Paris to work, and if I had my way, I wouldn’t be going.’

  She sniffed loudly.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I cannot perform miracles.’

  He left the house, climbed into his car, fixed the seat belt, and drove off. He reached the edge of the village and continued along the lane which bordered the dry torrente to reach the Palma road. The lights controlling the crossing to the sports centre were set at red and he braked to a halt. Yet again, he mentally checked what he’d done. He’d phoned Calvo in Bitges and asked for a chart of the dead woman’s teeth to be sent to England for confirmation of identity; using Salas’s name, he’d contacted the Police Judiciaire in Paris and requested their full co-operation, citing urgency as the reason for not going through the usual bureaucratic channels; he’d booked a room in a hotel in Paris, and, because he was desperately trying to fool himself into not accepting what he now was convinced was the truth, he’d told Phoebe he’d not be able to see her that evening, as arranged, because he’d had to travel to Paris in connection with a case which had suddenly cropped up …

  The lights changed and he drove forward. Dully, he wondered why he was pursuing the truth when only he was in a position to uncover it; were it to remain unknown, he could avoid so much pain. But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. The truth was always so much more important than the individual.

  * * *

  In early September, with the holidays over, Paris had regained its rhythm. Love, the excitement of love, the expectation of love, the illusion of love, the delusion of love, had returned to the streets, the cafés, the restaurants, the cinemas and the theatres; citizens seized every opportunity to express themselves, preferably by a show of curt rudeness towards foreigners.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Commissaire Pensec of the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘I am sorry, monsieur; I fear my French is not very good,’ Alvarez said, knowing he was fluent, but his accent not Parisian.

  Pensec, with a wave of the right hand, indicated that he was a tolerant man.

  ‘On the twenty-sixth of last month, Madame Fenella Dewar was supposedly staying at a hotel in this city. I need to make certain that she indeed did so.’

  ‘The name of the hotel?’

  ‘I regret I do not know it.’

  ‘You really expect us to check the past occupancy lists of every hotel in Paris?’

  ‘I realize it is a very considerable task, but hopefully it will not prove impossible. I imagine you have long since computerized your records – even we have recently done so.’

  This implied acceptance of France’s innate superiority in all things was sufficient to secure Pensec’s co-operation. ‘We like to help our colleagues from other countries whenever it is possible to do so.’

  * * *

  The telephone call was made at nine-thirty the next morning. ‘Inspector Alvarez, from Mallorca?’

  ‘That’s me, mademoiselle.’ His caller sounded sufficiently school-marmish to remind him of the vinegar-faced woman who had tried to teach him elementary algebra, a subject for which he had ever since felt great dislike.

  ‘I have been instructed to inform you that Madame Dewar stayed for three days at the Hôtel Les Colonnes, Rue Fouleries. This is in the eighth arrondissement. When do you wish to make your inquiries?’

  ‘Right away, if that’s in order?’

  ‘Officer Curien will meet you there.’

  He left his hotel, hailed a taxi, and was driven to a road that was wide and tree-lined and which possessed an ambience of bourgeois dignity. In keeping with the setting, the hotel was marked only by a small awning, a brass plaque, and a doorman in uniform. The doorman, able to judge a potential tip to the last centime, did not bother to open one of the two glass swing doors for him. The foyer was designer smart, with inlaid reception desk, thick pile carpets, leather covered armchairs, period-style tables, velvet draperies, and paintings neutral both in subject and execution.

  He crossed to the reception desk, which was staffed by two men in black jackets. One of them directed him to where a younger man was seated. As he approached, Curien came to his feet. ‘Monsieur Alvarez? I’m Pierre.’ He had sharp, aggressive features, but his manner was friendly.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Alvarez said formally.

  ‘Ditto … Before we move, suppose you set the picture for me.’ He sat, waited until Alvarez was seated, said
: ‘All I got from the boss was that you want to question the staff about an English woman who stayed here last month. What’s the angle to the questioning?’

  ‘I want to make certain that she was who she claimed to be: Madame Fenella Dewar.’

  ‘No offence meant – after all, your French is a thousand times better than my Spanish – but don’t you mean, you want to prove she was not Madame Dewar?’

  ‘No. It is as I said.’

  ‘You have me confused.’

  ‘My superior chief would not be surprised.’

  Curien grinned. ‘Sounds like all the superiors I’ve ever suffered … OK, so the object is to prove she’s who she said she was. I imagine you want to talk to any of the staff who might have had contact with Madame Dewar?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which means receptionists, porters, chambermaids, restaurant hands – the restaurant here has a fine reputation. If she’s a sensible woman, she’ll have dined here more than once. We’re talking about the end of last month. Memories ought to stretch that far back, but this is a popular hotel and must have a brisk turnover of guests, so you may need a bit of luck to get anything definite.’

  They spoke to the deputy manager, who offered them the use of a small room at the rear of the hotel, obviously an overflow store-room, which overlooked the large number of dustbins awaiting collection in the small courtyard below.

  The oldest of the receptionists had received Madame Dewar. Naturally, he had not only asked for her passport and noted the details, he had also discreetly checked that she was the person in the photograph.

  The doorman could not recall her.

  One of the porters said she’d tipped him generously, but that was all he could remember about her.

  The chambermaid who looked after room 41 was no longer young, but to judge by her make-up and manner, that fact had escaped her. ‘She was on her own. Next after the Germans who were always complaining.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Just answer the question,’ Curien snapped.

  She looked at him with sharp dislike.

  ‘Did she dress smartly?’ Alvarez prompted.

  ‘She was English.’ Her tone evoked ill-fitting twinsets. Pressed to answer more fully, she said that Madame Dewar had worn good quality clothes, but had lacked any sense of chic.

  ‘What was the colour of her hair?’

  ‘Blonde,’ she answered immediately. ‘And with a face that shape, she needed a totally different style.’ She explained why. It seemed she was an expert on hairstyles.

  ‘What else can you remember about her?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The managers are slave drivers so it’s always work, work, and no time to worry about the guests unless they’re ill-mannered and complain … If you want to know more, try asking Héloïse – she’s always ready to stand around and chat.’

  ‘Why should she have met Madame Dewar?’

  ‘I was taken ill around that time; can’t say for certain, but maybe she did room 41 while the Englishwoman was still there … The doctor said I was to stay home for five days, but management tried to argue I should be back after three. They’d have us working after we’re dead, if they could.’

  ‘Then it’s fortunate for the guests that they can’t,’ said Curien. ‘Find Mademoiselle Héloïse and ask her to come here.’

  After she’d left the room, Curien said sympathetically: ‘Not much luck so far.’

  ‘I’m learning enough,’ Alvarez answered.

  ‘You surprise me!… And forgive me saying so, but if you are, it doesn’t seem to bring you much cheer.’

  ‘I was hoping I’d learn nothing.’

  ‘You now confuse me even more! However, one thing I understand, you must become cheerful. When are you returning to Spain?’

  ‘On the first available flight.’

  ‘With your agreement, I will discover that that is not until tomorrow morning. Then tonight we will go to Le Nouveau Petit Chou. I hear that the show makes old men young and young men frantic. If I have a word with…’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Enter,’ he called out.

  A young woman stepped into the room, stood uneasily just inside the doorway. Round faced, brown-cheeked, the maid’s uniform sitting uneasily on a solid frame, she lacked any stylish smartness. Country born and bred, was Alvarez’s immediate judgement.

  ‘Shut the door,’ said Curien impatiently.

  ‘Sit down and get comfortable,’ said Alvarez. When she was seated, he continued: ‘I expect you know why we want a word with you – we’re hoping you’ll be able to tell us something about one of the guests.’

  ‘Madame Dewar?’ Already, Alvarez’s quiet, friendly manner, in sharp contrast to Curien’s, had restored her confidence.

  ‘Can you remember her?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell us about her.’

  She spoke with considerable detail, much of it immaterial, and at one point Curien would have hurried her along but for a quick shake of Alvarez’s head. She had reported for work at seven and had been preparing to serve breakfast when Jules had told her that Madeleine had reported sick and she must share Madeleine’s duties with Denise. That had meant extra work, but since she’d be paid more, she hadn’t minded; she sent as much money home as possible because her father was an invalid and the social allowance was far from generous. She had taken a breakfast of two croissants and coffee into room 41. Madame Dewar had been in bed. Unlike some guests, she’d been friendly and, even though her French had been difficult to understand, they’d chatted for quite a while; Madame Dewar had asked where in France she was from and she’d told her and how difficult things were for her father … Madame Dewar had been wearing a kind of a negligee over pyjamas …

  ‘What colour was her hair?’

  ‘Blonde. And it looked genuine because there was no darkening at the roots; leastwise, none I could see.’

  ‘Did you speak to her again?’

  ‘When I collected the breakfast tray. She’d dressed and was packing because she was leaving that morning.’

  ‘How was she dressed?’

  ‘Nice, but not smart, if you know what I mean. Not like the lady who was next in the room, with a husband who maybe wasn’t her husband. When Madeleine came back to work, she said that that lady really had style, but where I come from, when someone dresses like her, we don’t say she’s smart, we say she’s a … It’s of no account.’

  ‘When you collected the tray, was that the last time you saw Madame Dewar?’

  ‘That’s right. When I went in later to do the room, she’d gone.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘I don’t know why you’re asking or what’s wrong, monsieur, but she seemed a really nice lady.’

  ‘You don’t think she might have been putting on an act?’ Alvarez’s voice was suddenly bitter.

  ‘I … I don’t understand,’ she said uneasily.

  ‘It’s of no account.’ He was annoyed with himself for letting his inner feelings briefly surface.

  ‘If she wasn’t a really nice person, she wouldn’t have left me the note.’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘Saying she was giving me the present to buy something for my father to cheer him up. There’s mighty few like that, I can tell you!’

  ‘What was the present?’

  ‘Some money.’

  ‘How much?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and her expression became blank.

  ‘Well, how much was it?’ Curien demanded.

  She did not answer.

  ‘You’re meant to put all tips in the pot, I suppose?’

  ‘It’s immaterial,’ Alvarez said. ‘And if it was given to her specifically for her father, then it was not for sharing.’ He turned. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. And I hope the present gave your father much pleasure.’

  She gave him a brief smile of gratitude for his understanding, left.

  ‘That’s the last
of the staff,’ Curien said.

  Alvarez nodded.

  ‘So was she Madame Dewar?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he answered sadly.

  ‘Then shall we arrange things for an evening at Le Nouveau Petit Chou?’

  He thought it would be much more in keeping with his present mood to arrange to spend the night on a bed of thorns, but accepted that Curien’s proposal was the more sensible.

  CHAPTER 24

  The stewardess brought him a second brandy and, as she handed him the glass, he was certain she was trying to judge whether he might cause trouble before the end of the flight. She need not have worried. If a man drank to forget, he remembered; if to overcome inner pain, the pain increased.

  How did the saying go? A man in love was always betrayed, if not by his lover then by himself. He recalled how, worried by the duplicity, he had almost baulked at using Phoebe as an unwitting source of the truth. How she must secretly have been laughing at him … Of course, he’d been stupid long before she’d been introduced to the scene to make a complete fool of him. Once he’d identified blackmail as a likely motive, he should have realized what was at stake – any man of reasonable intelligence would have done …

  Clough – personable, amusing, smart, an entrepreneur and exposing just that suggestion of amorality which intrigued, but did not warn – had successfully pursued both profit and women. But then, as had many others, he’d been caught out by changing financial conditions and had found himself in growing financial trouble. The banks, always eager to lift those who were on their way up and kick those who were on their way down, became ever more demanding and threatened to bankrupt his business. To be seen to fail would be almost as painful as the actual failure. He had followed a well-worn path and set out to marry a woman whose attraction was not physical or emotional, but wealth.

  It had been a dull marriage and he’d continued to search for, and find, excitement with other women. For a time, Vera had not suspected because it was her nature to trust. He’d wanted to buy more land, convinced that this would enable him to climb out of his financial problems, and she had agreed to offer further surety. Then she’d learned that he had been messing about with another woman and had withdrawn her agreement, only to listen to his denials of adultery and reinstate it …