by A. J. Cronin
“There is nothing definite here. They offer no proof whatsoever.”
“No, sir,” agreed Alvin, earnestly. “But it all looks fearfully suspicious. I talked it over with Carol and she was frightfully upset … begged me to come to you at once. Don’t you think, under the circumstances, you should take some steps?”
Harrington Brande’s pale lip curled.
“Are you … and your esteemed wife … instructing me as to what I should do?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Alvin protested with a quick flush. “ But this … this fellow seems such a dangerous character … and if he should be your butler …”
Again the Consul was conscious of a piercing thrust. Yet, in a coldly level tone, he answered:
“Garcia has been in my household for several months now. I have, at close quarters, had ample opportunity to study him. And I will say outright that I have never had a better or more trustworthy servant. In short, I regard this letter as wholly inapplicable. It’s obviously a circular sent out by the agency to all their clients.”
“But surely, sir,” Alvin exclaimed, with great sincerity, driven from his habitual diffidence, “you will make some inquiry? I feel my own responsibility acutely.”
“I think you may be assured that I shall do precisely what is needful”—the laboured irony twitched the Consul’s cheek—“if only to relieve you of your weighty burden of anxiety.” He folded the sheet carefully and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. “ You will, of course, say nothing of this letter to anyone. Any such breach of confidence I should regard in a most serious light.”
“Yes, sir,” Alvin acquiesced in a subdued manner, yet darting a queer glance towards his chief. “You may depend on me.”
“I trust so,” said Brande in a pained voice. Rising from his chair, he put on his hat, paused a moment in secret hesitation at the door of his room, then turned and went out, his steps sounding heavy yet hollow upon the wooden stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
Earlier that afternoon, lying fully dressed in his room, a sudden intensification of his heartsickness had swept over Nicholas. This separation from José was not to be borne. Was there nothing he could do to end it?
He knew that Professor Halevy had gone, relieving him at last of the misery of these questionings which, though he could not grasp their purpose, sent always a quick shame into his cheeks. And Garcia was away, driving the car to Barcelona, while Magdalena, more secretive, more unapproachable than ever, kept herself apart in her own quarters.
The deadly stillness of the house, petrifying though it was to his childish spirit, was at least an incentive to action. He got up, went into the garden, so sadly empty of life and movement, and, after a moment’s throbbing indecision, gathered all his forces and set out along the coast road towards the town. At least it afforded him relief to put his limbs in motion and to have, at the back of his mind, some semblance of a purpose.
It was intensely hot, the sun, a dirty orange, beat down on him ferociously, and the way, which he had never walked before, now seemed interminable. When he reached San Jorge, quite tired out, he paused irresolutely. The dusty and deserted Plaza lay like a panting dog, the fronts of the houses, shuttered against the day, were like blind eyes, the narrow alleyways hoarded their shadows in secret.
Daunted, but not defeated, Nicholas made his way bravely across the square to the barrack ground, where the gaol was situated. But, alas! there, too, he halted, crushed suddenly by the formidable aspect of the prison, which stood squat and crenellated, flanked by twin towers, with a massive archway and rusted iron portcullis. The place was the old fortress of the town and, chilled by its blank façade and gloomy depths, by the floating vulture which cast its broad winged shadow over it, the child felt his heart sink. His naïve idea of finding some loophole through which he might speak with his friend faded and died within him.
For some time he hung about, keeping his distance, in a timid fashion, hoping that some fortunate circumstance might arise to aid him. But nothing happened, nothing—it was as though no life of any kind existed behind these barred and stony walls. And suddenly, overcome by an access of panic, Nicholas took to his heels and bolted from the barrack square.
If he had been alarmed before, now he was desperately scared, and as he fled he had the awful fancy that the tall towers behind were reaching out long arms in an effort to entrap him. In his haste and terror he lost his way in a maze of little crooked lanes, a man in a black sombrero shouted after him, he almost fell over the figure of an old woman, a water-carrier, reclining on the pavement with her clay pitchers beside her.
Presently, however, by a stroke of fortune, he found himself in one of the narrow but familiar streets leading to the river. From far off a clock struck three frail strokes, the cry of a vendor of lottery tickets, though heard faintly, further reassured him, and, a spark of confidence returning, he slowed his pace and turned towards the Calle Corriente. He found José’s home quite easily. Still breathing fast, he took up a position on the opposite pavement and stared up at the top storey with bright, distracted eyes. He had not the courage to mount the winding stairs to the little apartment, yet surely, if he waited, some sign would be manifest to him.
He did wait, for more than an hour, while the sun sank from its zenith and the air began imperceptibly to cool, but not one member of José’s family appeared. Then, as he was about to give up and move disconsolately away, he saw old Pedro come out of the passage leading to the house. He swallowed dryly and, after an instant of paralysis, darted across the street.
“Pedro!” he exclaimed. “It’s me … Nicco. Have you any news?”
The old man drew up and directed towards Nicholas his sadly troubled gaze.
“There is news, Nicco.” He shook his head slowly. “But it is not good. José is to stand trial in the High Court at Barcelona. I fear it will go hard with him there.”
“Oh, Pedro!”
“Yes, it is a bad business for everyone.” The old man sighed. “But worst of all for José.”
“How is he?” The boy’s voice shook.
“Not well. He does not take kindly to being enclosed. From his earliest days he has lived out of doors. And if they should shut him up for a long time …” Pedro broke off with a doleful, significant sigh.
There was a dismal pause.
“I wonder … does he ever speak of me?” Nicholas could barely articulate the words.
“Yes.” Old Pedro nodded. “Every time I see him. He sends a friendly message. And bids me tell you that somehow he will get out of this.”
“But, Pedro,”. Nicholas whispered huskily, “ could that be possible?”
The old man glanced warily up and down the empty street, then, bending upon Nicholas an eye turned surprisingly penetrating, he said in a low tone:
“I should not tell you this, Nicco. But you love José as we do, and therefore you are one of us. Now, listen, my child, there is just one chance that José may escape the snare. If he goes to Barcelona he is lost; on that we are all agreed. Also, there is nothing to be done while he remains here, in the gaol. But on the journey to the city”—the old man lowered his voice to a whisper—“it is perhaps possible that something may occur. We do not hope greatly, but still, we hope. And if we should succeed, then José will make his way into the mountains, to that old mill-house where you went to fish with him. There he can lie safely for many weeks till everything is passed over and forgotten.”
A short, stifled breath broke from the little boy’s chest, and his wan face lit up with a sudden gleam. The old mill-house, by the stream … oh, what a perfect place for José to hide … and he could see him there, visit him on some pretext. So glowing was the prospect he scarcely dared to think of it. He stood there, motionless, gazing intently up at Pedro’s wrinkled face; then, all at once, he pressed the old man’s arm with fierce intensity.
“Yes … yes,” he exclaimed fervently. “Tell him … tell him he must do it.” And, turning, he sped away, with parted l
ips, as though smiling to himself, cherishing some secret, heartening thought.
His tiredness forgotten, Nicholas ran all the way home, and it was fortunate that he did so, since his father arrived at the villa somewhat before his usual time. Garcia had returned too, and for a moment the boy was fearful that he might be questioned as to how he had employed the afternoon. But the Consul was in a mood more than ever preoccupied and withdrawn; they sat down to dinner together without incident, and Nicholas breathed again as the danger passed.
For the past week Brande had treated Nicholas with a kind of formal courtesy. His love for the boy deterred him, absolutely, from any form of severity. There were moments when, swept by an inordinate longing, he desired to clasp his son passionately in his arms. But his pride, his deep sense of the injury which he had sustained, forbade such a show of weakness. He must first reassert his position, repair the damage to his paternal prestige, before their former relationship, so dear to him, founded, indeed, upon the child’s admiration and respect, could be restored.
To-night, however, from his heavy air, a new problem seemed to possess his mind and, beyond a few trite remarks, he did not speak to Nicholas. Instead, his attention seemed focused, strangely, upon Garcia, and several times, contrary to his custom, he addressed the man when he came in to serve them.
“You saw Professor Halevy off?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Was his train on time?”
“Are these trains ever on time, señor?” The butler’s face expressed a saturnine contempt and he postured, negligently, one hand lightly on his hip.
“No, I suppose not.” Brande coloured slightly, as though sensing for the first time a vague familiarity in the man’s manner. “ But he did get away safely?”
“Undoubtedly, señor. Do I ever fail the señor? At eleven o’clock.”
Nicholas could not quite fathom the meaning of these exceptional exchanges, yet they made him uncomfortable, and he was glad when a nod from his father dismissed him, gave him liberty to retire to his room and, while he undressed, to treasure in solitude that brave new hope which his conversation with Pedro had planted in his heart.
Downstairs, the Consul still sat at table, dallying interminably with his port, revolving the glass between fretful fingers as though consumed by a crisis of indecision. Twice the butler had opened the pantry door to see if he might clear away, yet Brande had not moved. At the third appearance, however, the Consul suddenly raised his head.
“Garcia,” he exclaimed, and broke off.
“Yes, señor.”
Under the butler’s level stare, the brows raised in arch interrogation, yet the eyes so expressionless as to be almost inhuman, Brande felt himself flinch. For the first time he sensed in that opaque gaze a vague derision masquerading as servility. Was it true, then, what Nicholas had so often and so timorously asserted? A flood of doubts, of suspicions, hitherto undreamed of, rushed into the Consul’s mind, sending a deeper wave of confusion across his beset and brooding brow.
“Garcia,” he said again resolutely, “I wish to speak with you.”
The man bowed, too low by far, the very caricature of an obeisance. Brande gritted his teeth.
“When did you arrive back with the car?”
“At five o’clock, señor.”
“But Professor Halevy left at eleven.” Brande affected to consider. “Allowing two hours for your journey home, you should have been back at one.”
Garcia’s eyebrows lifted a trifle higher.
“One must eat, señor,” he answered sardonically. “It was necessary for me to partake of a modest, a frugal repast.”
“So you spent four hours over this modest repast?”
“I did not realise that there was need for haste. And I found it pleasant to prolong my luncheon.”
“Did you drink during this prolonged luncheon?”
“Señor?”
“I have been watching you carefully during the past hour. It occurred to me that you had been drinking.”
The butler’s mouth drew down sharply at the corners. For a moment his look was deadly; then a glint of contemptuous mockery, of careless malice, flashed in the depths of his clouded eye.
“I am a human being, señor, and must take advantage of my opportunities. Frankly, I am accustomed to good wine. When I was with the Aosta family in Madrid I was served with the best marsala.”
The Consul bit his lip sharply.
“You are very fond of referring to these Aostas. When were you with them?”
Garcia answered indifferently, with suppressed insolence:
“Some time ago.”
“When?” repeated the Consul in a firmer tone.
Now indeed a perceptible change came into the butler’s hooded eyes, a filming of the pupils, as though mud had been stirred up in their depths, creating a screen beyond which one could not penetrate.
“It is written in my papers,” he said slowly. “They are all in order.”
“Of course,” said the Consul in a strange voice. He paused for an instant. “And you have never heard of an individual named Rodrigo Espantago?”
The butler’s fleshy eyelids flickered once. His features, graven to immobility, seemed to solidify. There was a strange thickness in his voice as he replied:
“Why should I know of such a one? Who is he?”
“A criminal,” Brande answered, “wanted by the Madrid police.”
A bar of silence throbbed within the room. Garcia’s face was deeply congested, his nose and cheeks suffused by a fine reticulation of purple veins. And suddenly he burst out, incoherently, through his swollen lips:
“Really, señor, I feel myself insulted. What do you think I am, to hurl such insinuations at my head? Is it my fault if I have made enemies? No, señor, a thousand times, no. And always I have found a way to confound them, these sneaking brutes.” He was almost shouting now. “I spit upon them.”
“Be quiet, Garcia,” Brande exclaimed sternly, concealing his alarm.
“I am used to persecution,” cried the butler, growing more and more excited. “I am a remarkable man. Often, when passing strangers in the street, I have heard them murmur: ‘He is distinguished … of noble blood.’ Bah! It is nothing. I am not proud. But am I responsible for the envy I excite amongst these others? There must be an end to it some day. Otherwise life becomes impossible. No man can continue to give everything and receive nothing. A meaningless sacrifice to which I will never submit.…”
“That will do.”
Brande, in his concern, half rose from the table, but suddenly the butler’s eyes were emptied of all light. A slight shiver, almost a convulsion, passed over him. He breathed heavily, then drew the back of his hand across his lips to wipe away the white froth which had gathered there. A moment later, he glanced sideways towards the Consul. His manner was calm again, obsequious and ingratiating, yet in his voice there hung a veiled and subtle menace:
“Obviously someone has been slandering me. But I think I have always given satisfaction. Is not that correct, señor?”
“Of course,” the Consul muttered.
“I am glad you are satisfied, señor. In that case, it should be easy to forget these foolish notions. Surely you have already had enough trouble in your household?”
There was a pause. Brande drummed his fingers on the table, unsatisfied, resentful, and ill at ease, yet strangely unwilling to press the issue further. When he spoke the words came almost diffidently:
“You can assure me there is no truth in these … these suggestions?”
“None whatever, señor. Let your mind be at rest. I shall get more papers from Madrid. In a few days I can give you all the proof you require.” Garcia showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a confiding, chilling smile. “And now, señor, have I your permission to clear the table?”
“Yes,” said Brande heavily. “I have finished.”
He went out of the room and slowly climbed the stairs, hesitated for a moment on the landing, t
hen entered his bedroom, where he stood, staring ahead of him, in deep, tormented thought. It was enough, he told himself, that Garcia had denied the accusation. For his own part, he had not faltered in his duty, he had placed the matter squarely before the butler, questioned him closely, and been reassured. What more was there to be done?
And yet, at the back of his mind, there lurked the horrible certainty that Garcia was indeed the man sought for by the police. His behaviour during the interview had been so strange—‘unbalanced’ was the only word which fitted it—and his last smile, placating yet cunning, so charged with baleful complicity it gave the lie to all his protestations, and fatally betrayed him.
Brande felt his head reel, like a mountain-climber who, suddenly confronted by a precipice, is unable to advance or retreat. Yet advance he must, he had gone too far to draw back. All his forces were focused, concentrated now in flaming incandescence, upon the prosecution of José. Any steps which he might take against Garcia must delay, perhaps defeat, this main objective. No, no. Further investigation of Garcia must be postponed until José’s case was settled. After all, the butler had promised to produce proofs of his identity within the next few days. It was only reasonable to afford him this short space of time to do so. Then, if everything was not in order, measures could be taken to secure his prompt removal.
Thus Brande argued, with frowning, feverish obstinacy, closing his mind to the fact that if Garcia should be all that was suspected of him, then José, almost certainly, was innocent. Blind and deaf to reason, he shut out all externals; the matter was settled, his final decision had been taken, and he now awaited the approaching moment of fulfilment.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday came still and humid, filled with immense, opalescent sheets of light. Out of the grey and glassy sky a soft heat poured silently, in unseen waves which failed to stir even the thin, motionless leaves of the mimosa trees. The long fronds of the tamarisks fringing the lane hung limp and drooping like the tongues of thirsting beasts. Sounds travelled from afar, vibrated upon the ear, as from the strumming of some gigantic harp. At the Gasa Breza the hum of the distant town was unnaturally clear, yet oddly muted. Only the rasping of the cicadas broke the inexorable stillness, insatiable, interminable.
