Death Trick

by Roderic Jeffries

  Although the house was large, its basic layout was simple and there was a direct, if rather lengthy, route to the living quarters. She entered the left-hand hall and was about to cross to the stairs when she checked herself. From the room now on her right there came a strange sound, rising and falling both in tone and pitch, which she could not immediately identify, but which for some reason disturbed her. She hesitated, then crossed to the door and knocked—in a spirit of contempt, he had ordered her to knock before entering any room; in truth, she would never have done otherwise for fear of what disgusting scene she might witness if she did not. There was no answer to her knock and the sound inside continued. She opened the door. The body of Roig was slumped across one of the tapestry chairs and it had become an attraction for a swarm of blowflies. She crossed herself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Alvarez stared down at the untidy pile of papers on his desk, an expression of sad bewilderment on his pudgy face. Ten years ago, perhaps even as little as five, that quantity of paperwork would have encompassed a couple of months’ crime, yet now it barely represented a fortnight’s. Where would it all end?

  He slumped back in the chair. Politicians. They created the troubles of the world, but left others to clear up the mess, vilifying them when the task proved impossible. Anyone but a politician would have known that to relax the laws against drugs was an act of insanity. Yet the present government had done just that and so now one could buy any drug one fancied in Puerto Llueso—if one wasn’t mugged first. Puerto Llueso, so beautiful, it clutched at a man’s soul, once so peaceful it had seemed as if angels often gathered there . . .

  The telephone rang. His caller was the superior chief’s plum-voiced secretary who said that Señor Salas wished to speak to him. As he waited, he modified his previous conclusion. The problems of the world were created by politicians and superior chiefs.

  ‘Alvarez—presumably you’ve heard about the murder in Prevaix?’

  ‘I read an account in the paper, señor, but . . .’

  ‘In his practice, Roig dealt with a large number of foreigners. The investigating inspector, Jaume, speaks no foreign languages which makes for difficulties, so you are to assist him.’

  ‘But surely he can . . .’

  ‘Why do you always have to argue? It is an unfortunate fact that you are the only inspector on the island with an adequate knowledge of any foreign language; were there any other even partially competent linguist available, rest assured I would never call on you to help, since bitter experience has shown that you delight in complicating the simplest of issues. Why I, who have always done my duty and honoured State and Church, should have to bear such a crippling cross, I just do not understand.’ He cut the connection.

  Alvarez checked the time. Ten to one. Even if Jaume was still in his office, he’d be on the point of leaving it to go home to lunch; if he was not in his office, there was small point in phoning. The call could reasonably be left until after lunch.

  Rising a little late from his siesta, Alvarez did not return to the guardia post until well after five. He climbed the stairs, sweating from the exertion, and went along to his room, where he slumped down in the chair to recover his breath. He looked at the telephone with a sense of bitterness and cursed Jaume—a man whom he normally liked. Why the devil couldn’t Jaume cope with his own problems, instead of incompetently forcing them on to others? As Alvarez slowly regained his breath, his mood became less belligerent. Jaume was smart, so surely there was every chance that by now he’d found out who’d murdered Roig and there’d be nothing to do . . .

  ‘You must be joking!’ said Jaume, the telephone exaggerating his gravelly voice which ill-suited his small, slim build.

  Alvarez’s gloom returned.

  ‘It’s not too much of an exaggeration to say that right now all we know for certain is that he’s dead.’

  ‘No obvious suspects?’

  ‘He was enough of a bastard that I reckon anyone who knew him could be called a suspect . . . But as a matter of fact, there was a caller at the house in the late afternoon and there was a row between him and Roig.’

  ‘Then surely there’s every chance that that’s who you’re looking for?’

  ‘But all we know about him is that he spoke English and drove a white Seat 127. How many white 127s d’you think there are on the island?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t bet on it. And in any case, we’ve nothing to say that he was still around at the earliest estimated time of death, which is ten.’

  ‘What about the murder knife?’

  ‘It came from the kitchen—the daily identifies it.’

  ‘Were there any dabs on it?’

  ‘Quite a few, but an initial check shows they were all the daily’s.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make her a suspect?’

  ‘That life should be so easy! She left the house at around five and that’s confirmed by the farm labourer who saw her cycling off. She went straight home and cooked a meal for herself and her son and then went on to a neighbour’s place to help nurse the sick wife. There are three people to swear she was in that house from around eight to well after one the next morning.’

  ‘Has she any idea who the murderer might be?’

  ‘None that helps us, since she inclines to the idea that Roig’s death was inspired by the Almighty as a punishment for his wicked life.’

  ‘Was it wicked?’

  ‘Depends on your definitions; mine say he had a whale of a time. Seems like there was a succession of women, much younger than himself, and enthusiastic. But the daily’s one of the old brigade who reckons life should be dull; became almost incoherent at one point, saying he’d ruined sweet innocence and deserved to die. I’ll bet they were innocent!’

  ‘Have you talked to any of ‘em?’

  ‘I’ve only been able to identify the last one and there’s not been the time to get hold of her yet.’

  ‘Did his wife know what was going on?’

  ‘Frankly, although she’s obviously not prostrated with grief, I’ve thought it best to keep off the subject for a bit. Still, if you ask me to guess, I’d say she had a pretty shrewd idea. All the daily can say is that she’s never seen the wife at Casa Gran. Obviously, that was Roig’s secret love-nest.’

  ‘The rich lead different lives, don’t they?’

  ‘Envy won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘Can the daily give a good description of the man in the 127?’

  ‘She was upstairs when the car arrived and she looked out of the window, but saw only the top of his head; ordinary brown hair, straight, perhaps beginning to bald at the crown. When she went downstairs, the two men were in the main sitting-room and she’d no cause to go in there. Just before leaving, she heard Roig shouting, but it was in English so she’s no idea what he was saying; the visitor was talking in a normal voice and as the door is very solid, all she caught was a murmur.’

  ‘Not very promising.’

  ‘I told you, so far it’s a real cow. But on top of that, I’m feeling like death.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Look, Enrique, there’s something you can do for me right away. There were a few papers about the place and we came across one with a note of a telephone number—530782. That’s your end of the island, so check it through and find out if it can have any significance, will you? I need to get hold of something that’ll keep Salas quiet.’

  ‘Try strychnine.’

  Jaume chuckled.

  When the call was over, Alvarez looked through the drawers of the desk for a copy of the telephone directory, eventually found that he’d used it to prop up the corner of a very battered cupboard. Because numbers were listed under separate towns and villages, it did not take him long to discover that the one Jaume had given him belonged to Gerald Oakley of Ca’n Tardich, Carretera Llueso/Puerto Llueso, s/n. Oakley sounded to be an English name; Roig had spoken English to the visitor to Casa Gran on Monday morning.
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  Twenty minutes later, he drove up the narrow dirt track and parked in the shade of the olive tree which stood outside Ca’n Tardich. He climbed out of the car. In his. fantasies, this was the kind of house he’d buy after winning the lottery . . .

  He rang the bell to the right of the front door and then, when there was no answer, walked round to the vine-covered patio. He stared at the sheep in the field, their neck-bells clanking as they moved, and he thought how, if the land were his, he’d drill for water and when successful would turn the parched field into a cornucopia of beans, peas, peppers, aubergines, tomatoes, onions, garlic, radishes, strawberries, artichokes, lettuces . . .

  He returned to the car and drove off, stopping outside the ugly, square house that stood on the wider dirt track. Two young girls were playing with dolls on a patch of weed grass and he asked them if their mother was around; the elder ran into the house. When she returned, she was accompanied by a woman who held a baby in her arms.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, señora.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she answered, with the weary acceptance of someone whose every waking hour, and many of her sleeping ones, were disturbed.

  ‘I’m looking for Señor Oakley.’

  ‘He lives over there.’ She pointed in the direction of Ca’n Tardich.

  ‘I’ve just been there, but the house is locked. I wondered if you’d any idea where he might be?’

  She shook her head. ‘We don’t really say anything but good-morning to each other.’

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  She thought. ‘I’ve not seen him for a day or two, but then I’ve been tied up with the baby who’s teething . . .’ As if to underline her words, the baby began to cry loudly; she rocked him in her arms.

  He scratched his chin and his fingers rasped across stubble, reminding him that he’d forgotten to shave that morning. ‘D’you know anyone who might be able to tell me where I could find him?’

  ‘There’s Beatriz—she looks after the house.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘In the village, in Calle General Ayer, but I don’t know the number.’

  ‘I’ll soon find that out. Thanks, señora, and I hope the baby’s teeth will soon calm down.’

  ‘You can’t hope that any more than I do!’

  He drove on to the main road and then round to the west side of Llueso, often referred to as the new part although the houses were, on average, well over fifty years old. At the start of Calle General Ayer, a boy on a skateboard—the craze had not yet entirely disappeared—said that Beatriz, who worked for foreigners, lived at No. 21. He continued on to a house halfway along the street on the left-hand side. Like all the others, it appeared drab from the outside despite the brightly painted shutters and window-boxes filled with flowers; but inside it was considerably more spacious than might have been expected and was spotlessly clean; beyond the second downstairs room there was visible a small patio in which grew an orange tree.

  Beatriz was in her middle forties, small of body, but clearly sharp of mind, and never still; she reminded him of a sparrow at nesting time. ‘Why d’you want to know about the señor?’

  He explained.

  ‘Then . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘Then what, señora?’

  ‘Then something really has happened to him.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  She did not answer him directly. ‘I wondered whether I ought to tell someone. Then I thought that maybe that was being stupid. I mean, a man doesn’t always act the same as ever, does he?’

  ‘Has he been acting strangely?’

  She gestured with her hands. ‘He’s never before gone off without telling me. And the señora came to see what was wrong because he’d been meant to have a meal with her but never turned up.’

  ‘Suppose you tell me what’s been happening?’

  She nodded, but went into the next room to return with some knitting; she knitted quickly as she spoke. She worked for Oakley and two other persons down in the port. She went to Ca’n Tardich in the mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It wasn’t the señor’s house, but he rented it from another Englishman who had obtained it on a life lease—which included a clause permitting sub-letting— and had reformed it. He’d first lived there about . . . Must be two years back. He wasn’t there all the time; just came and went, never staying very long.

  He always told her when he was going away and wrote or telephoned to say when he was returning. Yet last Wednesday she had arrived at the house and although he’d not been there, the house had been unlocked. At first, she’d thought nothing of that. He’d gone out shopping or visiting and had forgotten to lock up—not that he’d ever done so before. But he didn’t turn up by the time she left and that was even more unusual, because she was due to be paid and he’d never before forgotten to pay her; if he was not going to be in when she finished, he left the money in the kitchen —but there’d been no money there. Perhaps, for some reason, he’d left it somewhere else? She’d checked the three rooms she hadn’t cleaned that morning; no money. But in the spare bedroom, one of the paintings had been swung back, revealing the wall safe it normally concealed; the door was open and the safe was empty. It did seem very strange he should have left it like that . . .

  She’d locked up the house. By now definitely uneasy, she’d looked in the garage; the car wasn’t there. This seemed to confirm that he’d left, in a tearing hurry . . . As she’d been about to leave, a car had driven up and the driver had leaned through the open window and called her over. The señora hadn’t had the manners even to say good-morning, but had spoken very rapidly in English and had become annoyed when asked to speak more slowly. It appeared that the señor had been invited to a meal at her house the previous night, had accepted, but had never turned up. The señora had three times telephoned to find out what was the matter, but there’d been no answer. So now she wanted to speak to him . . .

  ‘I don’t think she was worried about the possibility the señor could be ill,’ said Beatriz. ‘She was just furious because he hadn’t turned up at her place.’

  ‘D’you know who she is?’

  ‘Her name’s Señora Neatherley; she and the señor have been to Señor Oakley’s more than once. Her husband’s a much more pleasant person.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘Up in the urbanization, but I’ve no idea which house.’

  ‘You’re being very helpful. There’s something else you can maybe tell me. Has a man called Señor Roig ever visited the señor’s house?’

  ‘I’m certain he hasn’t,’ she answered confidently. But then she added: ‘But I do seem to know the name.’

  ‘Could it be that he’s telephoned some time and you’ve taken the call?’

  ‘D’you know, I think that’s right. In fact, now I remember exactly. It’s not all that long ago when the telephone rang and the señor was out, so I answered. The caller wanted the señor to ring him back as soon as possible; he said his name was Señor Roig.’

  ‘I wish everyone had as good a memory as you . . . A bit earlier on, you spoke of the señor’s car—what kind is it?’

  ‘A Seat 127.’

  ‘And the colour?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘One last thing. What would you say the top of the señor’s head looks like?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He smiled. ‘I haven’t gone round the bend! What colour’s his hair?’

  ‘Just an ordinary brown.’

  ‘Straight?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Beginning to show signs of baldness?’

  ‘He quite often jokes and says that he’ll be completely bald in a couple of years and then he’ll be a very old man. As I always tell him, there’s a good bit of life left in him yet.’

  ‘You Sound as if you like him?’

  ‘I’ve worked for enough foreigners to know they come in all sorts—he’s the best. Doesn’t think we’re st
upid just because we do things in a different way. And he’ll sit down with me for a cup of coffee in the middle of the morning; you’d be surprised how many of ‘em would sooner be dead than be seen doing that.’

  ‘I don’t think I would.’ He stood.

  She stared up at him. ‘You think something has happened to him?’

  ‘I simply don’t know at the moment.’ He thanked her, said goodbye, and left. He was not surprised that the name of Roig had evoked no startled reaction. News of the murder had been in all the papers, but few women bothered to read about events which took place beyond their own villages and it had not been mentioned on the television.

  CHAPTER 6

  Alvarez reluctantly climbed out of bed, to sit on the edge. He stared at the closed shutters, the slats and the sun creating bars of harsh light, and yawned.

  ‘Come on,’ Dolores shouted from downstairs.

  He wondered how she managed to be so bright and sharp this early; too sharp, if the truth were told . . .

  ‘Enrique, it’s after eight.’

  He stood, padded across to the window, undipped the shutters and pushed them open and back against the wall. The heat surged in. He stared across the roof-tops at the sugarloaf-shaped Puig Antonia, on top of which was the untidy huddle of buildings of Santa Antonia, once a hermitage, now occupied by nuns. They had almost certainly been up and about for hours. Maybe there was something about a holy life that made it easier to get up in the morning?

  Ten minutes later, he went downstairs. Dolores, his cousin—the relationship was, in fact, more remote than that—was already preparing lunch and she looked up from the vegetables she was peeling. ‘You’re getting up later every morning.’