by Jack Treby
‘What happened to him?’ Tejada asked.
‘He broke Mrs Talbot’s fall,’ I replied grimly.
‘Idiot.’ The general turned his attention back to me. ‘You seem to have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, señor.’ He grunted. ‘You discovered Señor Catesby’s body. You were there when Señor Talbot fell down the stairs. And now this...’
‘It was an accident,’ I protested. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘That is for me to decide. What were you doing in the Talbots’ bedroom?’
‘Mrs Talbot...Jane...she asked me to collect up her things.’
‘When you left her behind in the village.’
‘Er...yes. I came through the door and found Mrs Montana rifling through her clothes.’
‘That’s absurd!’ Montana growled again. ‘My wife was having a lie down in our bedroom.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Montana?’
‘I sure am,’ the American declared forcefully. ‘You were the one looking through Mrs Talbot’s things. My wife must have heard the noise. She came out onto the balcony to take a look, then took fright when you stepped out of the bedroom.’
‘That’s not how it happened.’
Montana’s face was reddening now, his eyes blazing with anger. ‘It was your fault she fell. I ought to break your god-damned neck, you son of a bitch!’
‘Enough!’ General Tejada bellowed. A row of people were now gawping at us from behind Mr Montana. ‘This is not a freak show.’ The general glared at the unwelcome onlookers. ‘Back inside, all of you!’ The group retreated through the windows into the living room. ‘Not you,’ he barked at Mr Montana. ‘Or you, Señor Buxton.’
Doctor Rubio had now settled Mr Langbroek and moved back to examine the unconscious Anita Montana.
‘Why would the señora be searching the Talbots’ bedroom?’ Tejada asked.
‘I’m telling you...’ Montana protested.
The general raised his stick. ‘One more word from you, señor, and you’ll be locked up with the negro.’
I gulped quietly at the mention of Joseph Green. The door of the hut where he had been confined had swung shut after the labourer had departed but the padlock was hanging loose for all to see. Thankfully, nobody had noticed that as yet.
Tejada’s gaze was fixed on me. ‘Well, Señor Buxton?’
I pulled out the banker’s draft from my jacket. ‘She was looking for this,’ I said. Reluctantly, I handed the piece of paper across.
His eyes narrowed again, scanning the document. ‘Nine thousand American dollars. And that’s Señor Talbot’s bank?’
‘Yes. The Anglo South American.’
‘That money belongs to me!’ Arthur Montana exploded. ‘It was money owed to me.’
‘I see.’ The general gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘So your wife went to the Talbots’ bedroom to search for this draft?’
‘I...’ The American hesitated, realising his mistake.
‘You will not lie to me, señor. You will never lie to me.’
‘She...she may have taken it into her head...’
‘So, you were in dispute with Señor Talbot, before he died,’ Tejada concluded.
Montana was becoming flustered. ‘Well, look, not exactly.’
‘Very convenient. Where was this found?’ He waved the draft at me.
‘In Mrs Talbot’s suitcase,’ I said. ‘Probably in one of the pockets of her husband’s clothes.’
The general scowled. ‘Velázquez! I thought you searched that room thoroughly.’
The sergeant cowered at his master’s voice. ‘I do, general. Muy thoroughly.’
Tejada’s cane whipped out and struck the man across the face. The sergeant let out a yelp and clutched his cheek. ‘Not thoroughly enough. I am surrounded by idiots.’ The general folded up the draft and placed it in his top pocket, next to the keys he had confiscated from Mr Gonzales. I opened my mouth to protest but then thought better of it. He pointed his swagger stick at me. ‘This draft was found in the señora’s suitcase?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you allowed the woman to remain in the village?’
I swallowed awkwardly, grasping the implication. Perhaps Mrs Talbot had murdered her husband and then scarpered. But that was not possible. I had spoken to Jane Talbot a few moments before Mr Talbot had fallen down the stairs. ‘I don’t think she can be involved in any of this. If Mrs Talbot had known about the money, why would she leave it behind?’
‘Perhaps Señor Montana knows the answer to that,’ Tejada suggested, glaring at the American.
‘Look, general, I beg you,’ Montana implored. ‘Whatever questions you have, I’ll answer them. But my wife. I need to get her to a hospital.’
Tejada considered for a moment. ‘Very well. Velázquez! Get the stretcher from the cart. Rubio, you’ll have to go with her. Make sure she’s comfortable.’
The doctor shook his head sadly. His hand was holding her wrist. ‘I’m very sorry, general. Señor Montana. It is already too late.’
Arthur Montana let out a howl and rushed across to his wife. The hefty American crouched down beside her, cradling her lifeless head in despair. ‘My sweet darling,’ he cooed, tears beginning to run down his face. I looked away in embarrassment. ‘This is your fault,’ he breathed, glancing up at me for a moment. ‘You did this.’ But his grief overwhelmed his anger and he howled once again, pressing his face against the forehead of his poor dead wife. I closed my eyes. He was right. I had killed Anita Montana; or at least, I had been responsible for her death. I should never have attempted to take that draft by force.
Mr Langbroek was beginning to recover his senses. ‘What...what the bloody hell happened?’ he muttered, finding himself propped up against the foot of the terrace.
‘Don’t try to move,’ Doctor Rubio advised him, shifting across. ‘You’ve suffered a heavy blow to the head. You may have concussion.’
‘It’s not my head,’ the overseer muttered. He let out an expletive as a shaft of pain shot through him. ‘It’s my leg. My god-damned leg!’ He clutched the errant limb with both his hands and his podgy face screwed up in pain.
Rubio gave the leg a quick examination. ‘It looks like it might be broken. We will need to set it properly. We can’t do it out here. We will have to get you into the house. Señor.’ He gestured to me. ‘If you could give me a hand?’
I did not feel particularly inclined to offer assistance.
‘Help him!’ Tejada snapped.
I moved across as instructed and reluctantly provided Mr Langbroek with an arm, enabling the beleaguered overseer to rise up without placing any undue pressure on his injured leg.
‘We will move him into the living room,’ the doctor suggested.
The general regarded Langbroek scornfully. ‘You are an idiot, señor. I leave you to do one thing...’ He held out a hand. ‘Give me the key to the storage hut. Then get out of my sight.’
The overseer was too disorientated to respond.
‘Top pocket!’ Tejada barked, this time at me.
I slid my hand into Langbroek’s breast pocket but I already knew that I would not find anything inside it. ‘There’s nothing here,’ I mumbled, bowing to the inevitable. I had been hoping to get away before the general discovered that Joseph Green had escaped, but it was too late for that now.
The policeman glowered at the three of us. ‘Where is the key, chico?’
‘I...I...’ The overseer did not know.
Sergeant Velázquez had finally noticed something amiss with the hut on the opposite side of the path. ‘General! Mira!’ The padlock was hanging open. ‘The building, it is not locked!’
‘What!?!’ General Tejada exploded. He rushed across to the door of the small outhouse and flung it open. That’s torn it, I thought. He could see at a glance that Joseph Green was gone. ‘You locked this up?’ he snapped at the sergeant, raising his cane again.
‘It is locked, general.’ Velázquez
cowered. ‘I swear.’
The policeman glared at the overseer. ‘No-one went near this room?’
‘Not...no...’
‘Someone must have grabbed the key...’ I suggested, a little too hastily.
Tejada scowled. ‘You were upstairs? When the señora fell?’
‘Yes. I...I rushed straight down. I couldn’t have been more than two minutes. And Doctor Rubio arrived here ahead of me.’
The doctor confirmed that with a nod.
‘You saw nothing?’ the general asked him.
‘No, señor.’
Tejada growled again. ‘Someone must have been waiting for an opportunity. But whoever it was, they can’t have got far.’ He reached down and pulled out a whistle. The other two policemen heard it and rushed across from the front lawn. ‘The prisoner’s escaped,’ he said, ‘but he can’t have been gone more than five minutes. Someone must have helped him. We need to search the grounds while it’s still light. Has Weiman got any dogs?’
That question was aimed at me. ‘I...I’ve no idea. I don’t think so.’
‘Pity.’ He pulled out the pistol from his holster and turned his attention back to his men. ‘He’ll most likely have headed into the fields. There’s a path up from the back garden.’ He waved one of his underlings in that direction. ‘Velázquez, you take the stables. I’ll take the other path. You.’ He gestured to the last of the policemen. ‘Search the negro cottages. He might try to hide out there.’
‘And if we find him?’ the sergeant asked.
‘He’s had his chance,’ the general said. ‘Don’t bother taking him alive. Shoot on sight. That goes for his accomplice, if you find him. Whoever he may be.’
Doctor Rubio and I exchanged worried glances.
‘Don’t move anywhere!’ Tejada snapped at me. ‘I have a few more questions for you. That goes for you too, Señor Montana.’ The American looked up from his bloodied wife, his face stained with tears. ‘A curfew is now in place,’ the general declared. ‘Anyone seen moving about outside the main house will be shot. No exceptions. Get to it!’ he commanded his men.
And the police raced off in search of Joseph Green.
I was struggling to contain my anger. ‘I don’t know who the devil that man thinks he is,’ I growled. I had poured myself a large brandy from the decanter in the far corner of the dining room and sat myself on one of the chairs surrounding the central table. ‘He’s practically declared Marshal Law. He’s acting like he owns the bloody place. Oh, forgive my language, Mrs Weiman.’
Susan Weiman was sitting opposite me, next to her husband. ‘Susan, please. That’s quite all right. It’s been a very stressful day for all of us.’
‘That’s no excuse.’ I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. ‘Susan. You invited us here to your house and now all hell breaks lose. And it’s that man’s fault, more than anyone. General Tejada.’
‘He’s out of his depth,’ Freddie suggested, taking a sip of brandy. ‘That’s why he’s lashing out.’ The Englishman was seated to my right. He had helped himself to a drink from the decanter too, with the Weimans’ permission. Greta had brought in a pot of coffee for the owners, but the rest of us needed something a little more alcoholic. ‘He only came here to rubber stamp an accident and now he’s knee deep in corpses. Oh, sorry, Susan.’
Once again, Mrs Weiman declined to be offended. ‘There’s no point sugar coating the truth, Freddie. But Joseph...’ Her brow furrowed. ‘How did Joseph come to escape?’
‘He was let out,’ I said. ‘Someone must have been hiding out there, by the sheds, waiting for their chance.’
‘One of the labourers?’ Freddie suggested.
‘Very probably.’ At this juncture, I did not feel inclined to tell anyone about Moses. I had no desire to get the boy into any more trouble than he was in already. ‘They must have grabbed the keys from the overseer when he was out cold. But Green should have stayed where he was. He’s signed his own death warrant, running away like that.’ I took a slurp of brandy. ‘They’ll track him down like a wild animal and shoot him dead. No trial. And no real evidence against him.’
Gunther Weiman frowned. ‘You believe he is innocent?’
‘I do. In fact, I’m sure of it. He was nowhere near the hacienda last night. He was in that little cottage of his at the other end of the estate.’
‘But the general said...’
‘Oh, he got up for two minutes to answer a call of nature. That’s what one of the labourers told Tejada. But I spoke to the man myself. Nathan. Sensible fellow, if I’m any judge. He said Green was only away for a couple of minutes. But the general will kill him all the same.’
That prospect troubled Mr Weiman greatly. ‘But if he didn’t kill Steven...’
‘Then somebody else did,’ I concluded. ‘And most likely someone in this house.’ I took a last swig of brandy and placed the tumbler back down on the table. There was a brief silence as the room digested my uncomfortable assertion.
Miss Bunting leaned forward. ‘What was Mrs Montana searching for in the Talbots’ bedroom?’ she asked. She had taken a quick sip of coffee – without milk, this time – and used the brief pause to reflect upon the events of the last half an hour.
We were a sorry sight, the five of us, seeking refuge in the dining hall while the world was falling apart around us. Miss Bunting was sitting on the far side of Freddie, with the Weimans opposite us, pouring themselves another cup of coffee from the metal pot. I had helped Doctor Rubio settle Mr Langbroek in the living room and then left him to it, closing the intervening door to give the fellow a bit of privacy. The engineer, Gonzales, had gone out to help carry the body of Mrs Montana onto the porch, to lay her out respectfully. Arthur Montana was sitting with her now, mumbling to his dead wife and saying prayers for her soul. It was a pitiful sight. I would not have imagined the American man would have collapsed so readily, but collapse he had.
‘She was looking for a banker’s draft,’ I replied, answering Miss Bunting’s question. ‘She found it too, in their suitcase. Nine thousand dollars.’
Freddie whistled appreciatively. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘When I caught her at it, she ran for the window and tripped.’
‘The poor woman,’ Mrs Weiman breathed. ‘Falling from the balcony like that. I can’t believe she’s dead. Do you really think she was up to no good?’
‘I can’t say for certain. But the draft was drawn on the Anglo South American bank.’ The bank that George Talbot had worked for.
That provoked a sudden thought from Miss Bunting. ‘Crumbs! You don’t think that might have been what was stolen from your flat last week? From the bureau?’
‘That’s exactly what I think. We had a robbery last week,’ I explained, for the Weimans' benefit. ‘From Giles Markham’s apartment. The one he used before he....well, anyway, I’m convinced that that draft is the money he stole from our office. He must have deposited it in Talbot’s bank little by little and then drawn it out shortly before he died.’
‘And hid it away in the bureau for safe keeping,’ Miss Bunting concluded.
‘That’s about the size of it. And someone else must have known it was there and broke in last week to collect it.’
‘Goodness!’ Mrs Weiman exclaimed. ‘You surely don’t think...Steven?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I do think the robbery had something to do with his death. He had financial problems, didn’t he?’
‘Not exactly,’ Gunther Weiman replied. ‘Steven did like to gamble, but it was never large amounts. He was certainly not in debt. Actually, he was saving up to purchase a small parcel of land, to start a farm of his own.’ That must have been the bit of business they had been discussing the previous day. ‘Not a coffee plantation,’ the German added, taking a quick sip of his own brew. ‘He wanted to grow chicle. Chewing gum. It is quite a big seller in the United States.’
I screwed up my face. ‘Disgusting habit. But...he didn’t have the funds to buy the land?’
‘He thought he had. He was going to go into partnership with Giles.’
‘Good lord.’ That I hadn’t known. I stood up and moved back to the side table to refill my tumbler. ‘So Giles Markham was going to become a farmer?’ I frowned. A British intelligence operative, throwing everything up to grow chewing gum? ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘The two of them were good friends,’ Weiman explained. ‘They had found a suitable plot of land to develop. Arthur – Mr Montana – had agreed to sell it to them. It was land that belonged to the company he works for.’
I grabbed the decanter and poured out a measure of brandy while Weiman continued his explanation.
‘United Fruit has a lot of land it cannot use. Land not suitable for growing bananas, or even coffee. Normally, it likes to hold onto it as a bargaining chip, but sometimes small parcels are made available to favoured buyers. Steven and Giles put down a deposit together.’
‘We were happy for him,’ Mrs Weiman gushed, as I returned to the dining table. ‘Steven was so sad after the death of his wife. And now he was finally getting his life back together.’
‘He was confident they could pay off the balance,’ Gunther Weiman continued. ‘The payment was due at the end of April, I believe.’
Which presumably was why the cheque had been drawn up in March.
‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ I said. ‘Markham couldn’t have used government money to buy a plot of land. He’d never have got away with it. The books would have been checked and the money missed, especially if he resigned to go and work on the farm.’
‘I cannot explain it,’ Weiman admitted. ‘We had no idea the money was stolen. Giles was a man of means, or so we believed, and the land was a legitimate purchase. George would not have allowed himself to become involved if he had thought there was anything untoward going on. He was acting as an intermediary, overseeing the contracts. He is...was a trained lawyer, as well as a banker. But then, when Giles committed suicide, the whole thing fell apart.’
‘Steven didn’t give up, though,’ Susan Weiman said. ‘He was convinced he could find the money and he asked Arthur to hold the deal open for another three months. Until...’
