A Murder of No Consequence

by James Garcia Woods

  He had covered nearly a kilometre before he could bring himself to accept that the alarm hadn’t been raised in time – that he had actually got away. He clutched a lamppost for support, and decided that what he wanted most in the world was a drink.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As he stood on the bank of the River Guadalquivir and looked down at the soothing water, it seemed incredible to think that only hours earlier he had been within seconds of death. In fact, the whole of the previous night seemed like nothing more than an unpleasant dream. But there had been nothing imaginary about it. What he’d found at the back of the silk factory had been frighteningly real.

  Paco looked at the river again. The morning sun beat down on it, turning the blue water into a stream of liquid gold. The river had played an important part in making Seville the great city it was. Without the Guadalquivir, it wouldn’t have been in Seville that Christopher Columbus announced the discovery of the New World. If the river hadn’t been there, the conquistadores of South America would have set off from somewhere else, and returned with their ships weighed down with treasure to a different town. The golden river had made Seville a golden city in the Golden Age of Spain. Paco wondered whether there would ever be a golden age for his country again.

  He lit a cigarette. He’d had one night without sleep, and after what he’d heard the guards in the silk factory say, he knew he could look forward to another one. So the smart thing would be to go to bed – to grab a little rest while he had the chance. But even though his body ached with tiredness, he knew that his mind wouldn’t let him rest.

  He kept walking, wrapped up in his own dark thoughts of a murderer who just might get away with his crime. He hardly noticed where he was going, and it was with some surprise that, a little after eleven o’clock, he realized he had reached the Plaza de San Fernando. There was a pavement café, at the opposite end of the square to the civil government building, and since chance seemed to have brought him to it, Paco decided he might as well have a drink.

  Several of the tables were free, and Paco chose one next to a middle-aged man in white overalls, who had several pots of paint at his feet, and was reading the newspaper.

  A waiter, in a smart green jacket, appeared. ‘What can I bring you, señor?’ he asked.

  ‘A Fundador,’ Paco said. ‘And a big glass of iced water as well.’

  A young man dressed in overalls sat down at the painter’s table. ‘Morning, jefe,’ he said.

  The painter put down his paper. ‘Morning,’ he replied. ‘Have you heard the latest?’

  ‘You mean about the army take-over in Melilla?’ his young assistant asked.

  The painter snorted. ‘Melilla! That’s old news now.’

  ‘So what . . .?’

  ‘They occupied Laranche just before dawn. That means they’ve got the whole of Spanish Morocco now. And that’s not all. General Franco’s gone and declared martial law in the Canary Islands.’

  Paco remembered the radio broadcasts the previous evening, spilling out of every bar he passed: ‘The situation is under control . . . under control . . . under control . . .’

  What a hollow claim that was already turning out to be.

  He looked round the square – at the elaborate Plateresque civil government building, at the shops, at the people going about their business. Everything seemed so normal, and yet less than 200 kilometres away, across a narrow stretch of water, the army had set up its own state.

  ‘D’you think there’ll be any risings on the mainland?’ the younger painter asked his boss.

  ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  And neither would I, Paco thought, as the waiter placed his brandy and water in front of him. After what he’d seen during the night, he would only be surprised if the risings didn’t occur.

  A distant rumbling sound made Paco turn his head. A convoy of army lorries was coming, slowly but surely, up the Calle de San Fernando.

  The painters had seen it, too. ‘They’re going to attack the civil government building,’ the older one said. ‘The rotten stinking sons-of-bitches!’

  The lorries reached the square and began to fan out around the civil government building. Now they were closer, Paco could see that each of them was dragging a heavy field-gun.

  A grey-haired man in a smart suit tapped Paco on the shoulder. ‘You don’t mind if I sit myself down at your table to watch the show, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Paco told him.

  The man sat, and took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Do you know the first thing the army did after it had taken control of Melilla?’ he said.

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘It rounded up everybody who might possibly be against it, and I mean everybody – socialists, communists, trades’ union members, the lot – and shot them all. Just like that! Without even a trial. And you mark my words, it’ll be the same here. I’m only glad I’ve never supported the left.’

  There would be a great many people in Seville who would suddenly claim never to have supported the left, Paco thought, noticing that the two painters – who were probably union members – had gone without finishing their drinks.

  Gunners were swarming out of the backs of the lorries, uncoupling the field guns and aiming them at the civil government building. How many soldiers would it need to take over a city with a population of a quarter of a million? Probably rather less than it would take to control a herd of a quarter of a million sheep – because people learned by the example of what had happened to others.

  ‘I can’t say that I entirely approve of what the army’s doing,’ the man in the smart suit said. ‘But really, it was time somebody took decisive action.’

  Apart from the soldiers, no one on the square was moving. Paco stood up and walked to the entrance of the bar, where the waiter and a group of customers stood, their eyes fixed on the civil government building. ‘Do you have a public phone?’ he asked.

  The waiter blinked. ‘What did you say, señor?’

  ‘Do you have a public phone?’

  ‘It’s . . . uh . . . in the corridor next to the toilets.’

  Paco forced his way through the crowd, and headed for the corridor. But had he left it too late? Had the lines already been cut? He picked up the phone. There was a ringing sound, then the operator said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to place a call to Madrid,’ Paco said.

  ‘What number, please?’

  Paco gave her the number of the casa del pueblo, praying there was not already an army officer standing next to her, checking a list to see if it was a proscribed number.

  ‘Trying to connect you,’ the operator said, and Paco noticed that his hands were trembling again.

  It took two minutes to make the connection and a couple more before Bernardo could be found and brought to the telephone. ‘You sound very distant,’ the big market porter said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Seville.’

  ‘Seville!’ Bernardo repeated. ‘And what the devil are you doing there?’

  ‘Working on a case.’

  Bernardo snorted with disbelief. ‘Paco, there are no cases, any more,’ he said. ‘There’s no justice, either, unless you count revolutionary justice.’

  ‘Or military justice,’ Paco corrected him, remembering what the man in the smart suit had told him about the executions of left-wingers in Melilla.

  ‘They said on Radio Madrid this morning that the uprising has been confined to Morocco,’ Bernardo said. ‘How do things look where you are?’

  ‘Even as we’re talking, the army’s about to take over Seville.’

  Bernardo snorted again, with disgust this time. ‘When are those bastards in the government going to realize that it’s time to start telling us the truth?’

  ‘What’s the situation like in Madrid?’

  ‘Terrible. The army’s still loyal, but who knows how long that’s going to last? We marched on Sol – just like they did in 1808 – and demanded t
hat the government arm us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They refused point-blank.’

  ‘But haven’t you got weapons already?’

  ‘We have about 8,000 rifles. You can’t defend a whole city with as few weapons as that – especially when you’ve got enemies inside as well as out.’

  He was right about the enemies inside. Practically the whole of the Barrio de Salamanca would be on the side of the rebels. Paco wondered if he should contact his chief and tell him what he’d found out.

  ‘Have the police—?’ he began.

  ‘Don’t you understand what’s going on?’ Bernardo interrupted. ‘There aren’t any police any more – or if there are, they don’t dare show their faces. It’s the militias who are keeping order. They’re the only ones with either the will or the means.’

  Somebody had once said that the first casualty of war was the truth. The second, Paco thought, was the judicial system. ‘Where will you be tomorrow night?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow night?’ Bernardo echoed. ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue where I’ll be tomorrow night. Ostias, Paco, the way things are going I don’t even know where I’ll be an hour from now.’

  With his free hand, Paco fumbled for a cigarette. ‘I need to be able to reach you,’ he said. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘You’re not still going on about this stupid bloody case of yours, are you?’

  ‘No. This is something else.’ Paco stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and flicked his lighter open. ‘Something very important to you and your comrades.’

  ‘Important to me and my comrades? What does that mean? Be a little more specific, Paco.’

  Paco took a long drag on his cigarette. More specific? On an open line? In a city which was about to fall to the military? ‘I can’t give you any more details now,’ he told his old friend.

  ‘You’re the limit!’ Bernardo exploded. ‘You won’t tell me what you’re up to, but at the same time, you expect me to make myself available whenever you want to . . .’

  ‘I can help you,’ Paco said. ‘I can really help you. But you’ve got to trust me.’

  There was a pause, then Bernardo said, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let whoever’s on the switchboard know where I am. Is that good enough for you?’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’

  In the background, at the other end of the line, Paco heard some shouting, ‘The car’s just pulled up outside, comrades,’ then Bernardo said, ‘I have to go now. Salud.’

  Salud, not adios, Paco noted. No one on the left said ‘Go with God’, any more, because if God existed at all, he was now the merest irrelevance.

  He returned to the bar. Most of the customers were still crowded in the doorway, but sitting at one of the tables was a pair of guardias civiles – a private and a corporal. Paco wondered what would have happened if one of the guardias had decided to go to the toilet while he was on the phone to Bernardo, and heard him use the word ‘comrades’. He’d have to be more careful in future, at least until he’d closed the case.

  ‘Put the wireless on, Oscar,’ a man called from the door.

  The barman reached up to the shelf on which the wireless stood, and turned the knob. It took a few seconds for the set to warm up, but when it had, the whole bar was filled with the voice of an agitated announcer.

  ‘The army is threatening the Republic,’ he shouted. ‘Even now, the civil government building is surrounded by soldiers. Brothers, do not allow this to happen to us. Arm yourselves! Show the fascists what you, the workers, are made of . . .’

  The two guardias civiles exchanged glances, then the corporal stood up and walked over to the counter. ‘Turn that shit off!’ he said to the barman.

  ‘But I want to hear it,’ the barman protested. ‘We all want to hear it.’

  The guardia reached down to his holster and unfastened the flap. The butt of his pistol glinted menacingly in the sunlight which shone in through the window. ‘If you don’t turn it off, I’ll put a bullet through the wireless,’ he said. ‘And while I’m at it, I just might put one through you as well.’

  The barman blanched, then, with a trembling hand, he reached up and clicked the switch.

  The second guardia had now joined his partner at the bar. ‘Listen to me,’ the corporal said. ‘Only Reds would think of listening to filth like that – and you know what’s going to happen to Reds from now on, don’t you?’

  The barman gulped, and nodded.

  ‘We’ve got some important business to attend to,’ the guardia continued, ‘but we’ll be back, and if I hear you’ve switched that wireless on again, you’ll be for it.’

  ‘I . . . I swear I won’t . . .’

  ‘Well, you’d better not.’

  Without even offering to pay for their drinks, the two guardias swaggered towards the door. The crowd parted to let them through. Not one of the men standing there complained about the corporal ordering the barman to switch off the wireless. The military take-over had only just begun, but its effects were already evident.

  *

  Just to be on the safe side, Paco gave the two policemen five minutes to get out of the area before paying and leaving the bar himself. The crowd did not part for him, as it had for the guardias, and he had to jostle and elbow his way out through the door.

  On the square, the army had completed its deployment. The field guns formed a semi-circle around the front of the civil government building. Gunners were crouched down behind each weapon, and an officer was strutting self-importantly from one position to another.

  Paco looked at the windows of the besieged building, half-expecting to see a rifle barrel pointing from each one, but he saw only faces pressed against the panes.

  A sudden cheer went up from the soldiers, then they were on their feet, slapping each other heartily on the back and pointing at the roof of the building. Paco lifted his own eyes. A large piece of white material – probably a tablecloth – was being raised up the flagpole.

  ‘They’ve surrendered!’ somebody behind Paco shouted.

  ‘Just like that,’ said another man.

  ‘Without even a single shot being fired,’ exclaimed a third.

  Paco wondered if the workers in the outlying barrios would give in quite so easily. He hoped they wouldn’t.

  ‘Better to die on your feet than live on your knees,’ he said softly, thinking, even as he spoke, that that didn’t sound like him at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Soldiers – mostly young conscripts – stood in pairs on every street corner, holding ancient rifles in their nervous hands, and looking around constantly, as if they were expecting trouble. Guardias civiles passed from nearly-empty bar to nearly-empty bar, checking and re-checking the papers of the few customers who had been brave enough – or foolish enough – to pretend that nothing had changed. And the Falangists, whose moment had come at last, roamed the streets in packs, searching for communists. Or anarchists. Or anyone who might once have voted liberal. If the great heart of the city had not quite stopped beating, it had at least been slowed down by the military jackboot.

  It was an entirely different story in the working-class suburbs. The radio announcer had urged left-wing supporters from the surrounding countryside to come to the aid of their comrades in the barrios, and there’d been a constant stream of them all day. Now, as darkness fell on the first day of the military take-over, the churches out of the reach of the army burned, and the workers who’d set them on fire crouched behind their hastily erected barricades, and waited.

  *

  The hay cart had been turned sideways, so that it blocked one end of the bridge. There were a dozen men standing round it, but only three of them appeared to have rifles. Paco brought his Fiat to a halt about five metres from the wagon, opened the door, and, with his hands raised, slowly got out of the car.

  Two of the unarmed men stepped forward. The three men who did have guns didn’t move, but trained their weapons on Paco, because, eve
n if he was wearing a boiler suit, he was also driving a car and that marked him down as one of the enemy.

  The militiamen had reached the Fiat. One of them held out his hand. ‘Papers!’ he demanded.

  Paco lowered his arms, reached into his pocket, and produced his UGT card. The militiaman looked at it suspiciously, then shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it seemed genuine, so he supposed that meant Paco was all right. ‘What business have you in this barrio, comrade?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to take this vehicle to the socialist militia’s headquarters,’ Paco lied.

  ‘You’d have been more welcome if you’d brought a few guns with you,’ the militiaman said, ‘but I suppose we might need some transport once the real fighting starts.’

  He signalled to the other men, and putting their shoulders to the cart, they pushed it until there was a gap large enough for the Fiat to get through.

  Paco got back into his vehicle. ‘Good luck,’ he said as he slid out of neutral. ‘You’re certainly going to need it,’ he added silently to himself, as he eased the car past the road-block.

  *

  He parked on the street parallel to the one which ran past the silk factory, and entered Alvaro’s bar by the back door. The owner was standing behind the counter, washing glasses. There was no one else in the room.

  Alvaro looked up from his work. ‘Oh, you’re back again, are you, señor private detective?’ he said. ‘And wearing overalls this time, I see.’

  Paco grinned. ‘It seemed a lot safer than walking around in a business suit.’

  ‘In this barrio, you’re probably right.’ The barman took the glasses out of the water and placed them on the draining board. ‘Anyway, what brings you here tonight?’ he asked. ‘Have you, perhaps, found the girl, and come to give me the hundred-peseta reward that you promised me yesterday?’