The Little Spanish Girl

by Ales Matko

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The events that followed felt like parts of a morbid dream: the full post-mortem examination of Constanza's body, the long, slow walk back to the mansion to confront Elsa, the procession of guards rushing to the greenhouse as if there were something that could still be done.

  The evening seemed to have come earlier than usual, and the darkness that had proliferated outside deepened to the color of tar. There would be nothing on the dinner menu tonight. All the residents seemed to have retreated into their apartments, not daring to peek out of their doors. The only human beings visible were the guards patrolling the mansion. The master of the estate, who took the news of his mother as one would expect, was nowhere to be seen.

  Not that anyone had tried all that hard to track him down. Having been supplied with a big bowl of day-old marmelade biscuits, courtesy of one of the few maids brave enough to still be on duty, Klauder and Beatra hunkered down in the detective’s room with the door locked. But the sweetness of the biscuits did little to assuage the bitterness they felt on the inside. And one thing was painfully clear: the case was very far from being solved.

  ''The question is - why,'' Klauder said to himself in between mouthfuls. ''Why kill her? It doesn’t make any sense.''

  ''I suppose this means she wasn't the one who shot at you or poisoned your insulin after all,'' Beatra suggested.

  ''To the contrary, inspector, she most certainly did at least one of those things. I'd stake my reputation on it. Look at how well it all fits together: her presence in the cellar where I left my case, her previous warning about how we needed to stop poking around, all the things she had done in the past, her overall attitude. I am quite sure it was her. But we're still missing something.''

  He picked up another biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth, gleefully savoring the magical union of the sugary pastry with his taste buds.

  Beatra rolled his eyes. ''Please do take your time,'' he said flatly. ''They say digestion begins in the mouth, after all.''

  ''Quite so,'' Klauder agreed as the last delectable morsels disappeared down his gullet. ''Slow eating is the key to health.''

  ''I couldn't agree more,'' Beatra said, looking at Klauder as if he were a schoolboy claiming the dog ate his homework. ''And now that we've done everything possible for the moment to secure your longevity, would you mind letting me in on what we're supposedly missing here?''

  ''Hmm ... Let's sumarize what we know so far. Ana-Maria gets kidnapped on Friday night; the chef Pierre puts something in her food, something that makes her ill. When she goes to bed, one of the maids, apparently forced by Pierre into cooperating and unaware of his motives, abducts her, gives her a shot of a powerful sedative stolen from the doctor’s office to keep her quiet, and hides her in a closet.''

  ''So what was his motive?''

  Klauder shrugged.

  ''I'm afraid I'm at a loss to tell you at this point. But this is hardly the whole story. Next there was Benjamine's murder, apparently involving some sort of bizarre ritual. We don’t know if Pierre was involved in this as well, though his alibi is shaky, but he may well have been with a woman at that time, judging by the scent of perfume I picked up on in his room, together with the note we found.''

  ''Yes,'' Beatra chimed in, ''and then of course there was the message in Ana-Maria’s room, followed by the sabbotage at the factory.''

  ''Indeed. The poison gas then escaped into the air, killing several guards, and as señor Elsa mentioned, a large amount of money was subsequently found stashed away in the residence of the saboteur, suggesting that he had been bribed.''

  Beatra scratched his beard. ''So you think the attack on the factory had something to do with the rest of what’s been going on?''

  ''Without a doubt, inspector. And then there's the incident with the butler. Somehow I can’t quite get him out of my mind. Was he really guilty only of taking those incriminating pictures?''

  ''Well, as the cliché says, dead men tell no tales. But he had been questioned, or more accurately, tortured. Yet he confessed to nothing more than being a sexual deviant.''

  The detective stood up from the bed and stretched his legs. Stepping over to the window, he glanced at his own reflection for a moment, then stared out into the darkness.

  ''And finally we have lady Constanza’s attempts to get rid of me. And when we tried to confront her, we found her dead. And that's where things now stand. Have I left anything out?''

  Beatra thought for a moment as he methodically chewed on the one buscuit he'd managed to snag for himself.

  ''A few details, perhaps,'' he said, ''among the more significant of which is the earring belonging to señora Elizabeth.''

  ''Ah, yes,'' Klauder sighed. ''The little piece of jewlery found in Ana-Maria’s room after someone wrote that ...''

  He went silent for a moment and listened to the howling of the icy wind outside.

  ''Inspector, yesterday you told me that story about why señor Elsa is so feared around here and why no-one dares to cross him. Satanic powers, as you put it.''

  ''That’s true,'' Beatra said, fidgeting slightly.

  ''You say he supposedly put some kind of hex on the people living in the city, a curse that - and these were your own words if I remember correctly - caused the people to literally rot alive. You see where I’m going with this?''

  He turned away from the window and gazed over at his companion who was sitting on a stool nearby with a stern look on his face.

  ''So it wasn't anything supernatural after all,'' Beatra said. ''It was poison.''

  ''A deliberate poisoning, yes. Elsa – aided, I would guess, by his engineer – must have purposely manufactured a substance that would wreak terror among the townspeople, yet dissipate quickly enough that toxicologists couldn't detect it. The superstition of the people did the rest. And it must surely have been a similar if not this same substance that escaped into the air in the explosion today.''

  Beatra's expression went from stern to grim as he followed the detective's line of reasoning.

  ''Fear is a powerful weapon,'' Klauder continued. ''However, this does not imply that everyone was intimidated by Elsa’s carefully created reputation. The person behind most or all of what's been going on these last few days certainly doesn't appear to be.''

  ''And who might that be, detective?''

  Klauder licked his lips, hoping to catch a stray bit of biscuit.

  ''I have my suspicions. But let's face it: right now, almost anyone here could be the culprit. Everyone is a suspect.''

  ''Everyone? Does that include me, señor Klauder?''

  ''Apart from Elsa,'' Klauder continued, as if the question had been rhetorical, ''any one of these people could be involved. I do, however, find it highly unlikely that Elsa would have ordered the kidnapping of his own daughter and then played all these charades, including having his own mother killed. There would be no point in all that, I'm sure you agree.''

  Beatra smirked. ''Yes, it does sound rather far-fetched.''

  The detective clapped his hands.

  ''Tomorrow, inspector. Tomorrow we'll redouble our efforts! We must not allow this case to drag on any longer.''

  ''I certainly won't argue that.''

  Having no particular enthusiasm for sleeping alone that night, they decided to stay put. They made sure the door was locked and placed a heavy chest of drawers in front of it, then shut off the lights, and went to bed in complete darkness.

  After a few moments, Beatra's voice broke the silence. ''Is there a chance you won’t be able to crack this case after all, detective?''

  Klauder hesitated.

  ''The question is not whether I'm capable, but only whether I crack it before more people – ourselves very possibly included – end up dead.''

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The night was anything but placid.

  Beatra kept waking up because Klauder was constantly rolling over to his side of the bed, occasionally getting up and walking around the room,
debating the case with himself. To make matters worse, once the detective did finally fall victim to the sandman's touch, he snored like a bear. It was no surprise that Klauder woke up feeling relatively refreshed, while Beatra could hardly keep his eyes open.

  ''I need coffee.''

  The inspector felt woozy as he tried to get up from the bed, and immediately sat back down. He looked over at his partner, who was putting on his vest.

  ''So what’s the plan now, detective?'' he yawned. ''It seems like all the possible leads are dead - literally.''

  ''No, not all of them, inspector,'' replied Klauder, stretching his body in what appeared to be some exotic form of morning aerobics. ''Remember the love note? I think we should focus our attention there. You mentioned yesterday there's a notebook the staff record their attendence in. Let’s go have a look at it, shall we? You do still have the love letter, I trust?''

  A few minutes later they stopped at the staff room, where they spotted Ignes and two of the other maids preparing for their shift. They seemed in no mood to chat with the investigators, and when Beatra asked them to bring him the attendence book, the maids exchanged a horrified look.

  ''It’s nothing to be alarmed about, señoras,'' Beatra lied. ''Just a minor detail we need to check.''

  None of the maids believed this for a moment, of course, but there was nothing they could do but hand the attendance register over.

  The investigators stepped aside, sat down at one of the tables, and examined the handwriting of the various entries in the notebook. To their great disappointment, none matched the writing in the love note.

  ''Puta madre,'' Beatra sighed.

  ''Don’t be upset, inspector,'' Klauder consoled him. ''This just narrows our search. At least now we know the note wasn't written by a member of the staff, meaning it must belong to one of the other four women: señoras Beatrice, Elizabeth, Pilar or Antonia.''

  ''Which one shall we start with?''

  Before getting into that subject, Klauder had to quell his morning appetite, a process which on this particular occasion involved three large cups of oatmeal with raisins and a whopping eleven-egg omelete, courtesy of the servant in charge of the kitchen now that the chef was permanently indisposed.

  After eating his fill, Klauder gave himself another insulin shot while the apprehensive Beatra stood by watching for any sign indicating that the detective might be about to drop dead. Ten minutes later, however, he was still very much alive and well.

  ''We'll have to express our condolences to señor Elsa when we see him,'' Beatra said. ''I’m not sure he heard us say we were sorry yesterday.''

  ''That can wait. Our first priority is to find our amorous authoress.''

  They left the kitchen embroiled in a discussion about which of the four remaining candidates should be questioned first, but their plans were quickly thwarted by none other than Marcus, who stopped them on their way up the stairs.

  ''I've been looking for you two,'' he said in his robotic monotone.

  ''¿Por qué? What’s wrong now?'' the visibly inconvenienced Klauder asked.

  ''Come with me, both of you.''

  The two investigators were very much alarmed when they arrived at the front door to the mansion, only to see Marcus preparing to open it and lead them outside.

  ''But wait – what about the poison gas?''

  ''No longer a threat,'' Marcus replied. ''I've been out all morning along with several others. Engineer Duvali assures us that the danger is passed. Now please, the clock’s ticking.''

  Beatra and Klauder exchanged yet another nervous look and followed Marcus out into the cold, white morning. Despite a significant drop in temperature, it had stopped snowing during the night and the fog had lifted.

  ''Buenos días, señora.''

  Pilar was standing in the courtyard, smoking a long, thin cigarette. It seemed she had been crying, and a silent nod was the only greeting she could muster.

  ''This way, gentlemen,'' Marcus said, brusquely ushering them past her. ''Señor Elsa is expecting you.''

  He took them in the direction of the factory. Klauder and Beatra did not feel comfortable discussing what they had just seen – or any details of the case, for that matter – in his presence. Yet the silence they fell into heading into the icy cold morning soon became unbearable, so they decided to ask the guard a few questions.

  ''Tell me, señor Marcus, where exactly is señor Elsa at the moment? We have not seen him since yesterday.''

  He gave the detective a long look with his permanently grim expression.

  ''You'll find out shortly.''

  ''And how is he today?'' Beatra inquired. ''Is he all right?''

  ''Would you be, in his place, inspector?''

  When they arrived at the factory, they found the big, sturdy fence torn apart. The explosion had demolished a major part of the facility and there was now an enormous, black crater at the epicentre of the blast. Twisted metal could be seen sticking up everywhere, and pieces of destroyed machinery, cement and rubble were scattered all over.

  There were quite a number of armed men present, all of whom were busy salvaging various objects from what remained of the building: trunks of weapons and bullets and sealed up plastic containers that Klauder could only assume contained drugs. The guards were loading all of this onto the backs of all-terrain vehicles.

  Duvali was also there, a look of consternation on his face. An emotional man, there were tears glistening in his eyes, barely hidden behind his glasses.

  A few of the guards under his supervision, the only ones still wearing protective suits, were rummaging through the demolished center of the factory and pulling something that appeared to be bone fragments from a big barrel-like cannister. These were very fragile, and they turned to grey dust as soon as they were lifted up in the air.

  Marcus did not allow the investigators to linger here for long.

  It took them another twenty minutes to finally reach their destination, and if the guard hadn't told them this was the end of the line, they would never have guessed they had arrived. They were quite literally in the middle of nowhere. The big iron fence with barbed wiring at the top could be seen not too far away, separating the marsh from the snow-covered conifers and frozen tundra.

  If they had looked closely, they might even have spotted the aligator that sat motionlesly observing their arrival.

  ''Okay, so where is segñor El…''

  Klauder was cut off mid-sentence by a blow to the back of the head with the butt of Marcus's rifle and fell forward into the snow. Beatra quickly tried to draw his revolver, but the skilled bodyguard was too fast, and aimed his weapon at him.

  ''Toss it!'' he barked. After the third such command, Beatra complied.

  ''What are you doing?'' Klauder shrieked, rubbing the back of his head. And then he realised. ''No, please, for the love of God!''

  Beatra said nothing. Unlike the detective, he knew full well that begging and pleading were useless.

  Marcus took two small steps back and aimed. They were both simply going to be shot, probably on Elsa's own orders for their failure to find Ana-Maria or prevent his mother's murder. But whatever the reason, the guard with the half-paralised face offered no exaplanations or apologies.

  Klauder's moaning was interruped by a loud bang, and in the next moment he found himself staring into the barrel of Marcus's rifle. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to remember a prayer to say, but his panicking brain froze.

  Another bang, so loud it left his ears ringing. He felt and smelled the warm gust of gunpowder, but there was no pain, and nothing seemed to have changed. He slowly came to the realization that he was not dead.

  He opened his eyes. Marcus was bending down to pick up the revolver that Beatra had discarded a moment before. He brushed the snow off and stuck it under his belt, the sniper rifle already hanging on his back.

  ''Consider this your final warning,'' he said coldly. ''Señor Elsa says you have until this evening to find the culprit. And if
you don’t, our next excursion won’t end as innocently as this one. I also advise you not to attempt to run, or you will both be shot on sight.''

  Klauder only heard about a third of Marcus's speech, and understood even less. Turning to look for his companion, to his surprise, he found Beatra alive and, if not well, at least in one piece.

  Marcus turned to leave. ''I trust you'll be able to find your way back to the mansion.''

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ''I guess it's on your shoulders now, detective,'' Beatra said at length, as they slowly back-tracked across the desolate marshland. ''I sure as hell don’t know who’s behind all this.''

  Until that moment, Klauder was sure he would never be able to speak again. He was quite suprised, if not necessarily gratified, to find his faculties of verbalization restored so quickly.

  ''I'll do my best, inspector.''

  Though they did not talk about it, Klauder and Beatra both knew there was no escape from a place that was guarded by such an absurdly overpopulated batallion of gun-toting thugs.

  It was hard to pinpoint the exact thoughts going through the detective's head just by looking at his face. But to Beatra it seemed that the mind of his renown partner was now running at double speed, and so he did not dare say anything more to him for fear of putting any additonal pressure on a man whose knees must have already been buckling under all the responsibility he had been saddled with.

  Wandering through the cold, grey morning they came upon an object almost entirely buried in snow and very nearly stepped on it.

  ''Christ Almighty!''

  It was the body of a little blonde girl, her upper torso stripped naked and her stomach ripped apart, the organs scattered around it, and another message in the snow, this time conveyed with only a single word:

  Damnation

  ''Christ Almighty ...''

  At least two sets of footsteps were visible by the body. One came from the direction of the shanty town and continued off towards the factory, and the second, no doubt the prints left by Marcus on his way back, pointed toward the mansion.