by Jack Treby
I howled and fell backwards onto the grass.
‘I do not like liars,’ Tejada declared forcefully.
I stared up at him, too shocked to respond. That stick of his was lethal. The side of my face felt like it was on fire and I could feel fresh blood dripping down from my nose. My head, too, had fallen back into the same patch of mud which I had previously vomited all over. That, however, was the least of my concerns. ‘No, honestly,’ I mumbled at last, desperately pulling myself back onto my elbows. ‘I’m telling the truth.’ This time my voice lacked any conviction. A smack across the face does that to a person. ‘The man just tried to kill me. Why would I lie about that?’
Tejada gazed down at me scornfully. ‘Montana tried to kill you because you had just killed his wife. I would have done the same in his position.’
‘But...’ I rose up again onto my knees and fumbled for the handkerchief in my breast pocket.
‘Señor Montana was not responsible for the death of Señor Talbot.’
‘But he was, I assure you. He said...’
The general raised his cane again and I trembled at the sight of it, almost falling backwards without him even having to hit me. ‘Do not lie to me, señor. Do not ever lie to me. Arthur Montana was not responsible for the death of George Talbot.’
‘But...but how can you be so sure?’ I stopped and met the man’s gaze. He did seem very certain of what he was saying. Worryingly certain. His mouth formed into a tight smile – a knowing smile – and all at once I realised the truth: he knew because he had been responsible. I blanched, my hand frozen to the side of my cheek. ‘You killed him,’ I breathed, in horror. ‘You killed George Talbot.’ I dropped my handkerchief. ‘Or arranged to have him killed.’
Julio Tejada was not about to admit anything. ‘I came here to investigate an accident,’ he asserted crisply. ‘Nothing more. It should have been a simple affair. Then you arrived, señor, and things became more complicated.’ He regarded my blood spattered body with contempt. ‘Look at you. The grand Englishman. I should kill you now. Put you out of your misery.’ He observed me grimly for a second and then, without ceremony, he thrust his cane into the muddy earth, twisting the top of it to form a short “T”. I flinched again as he perched down on the top of the blunt cross and then moved his face close to mine. ‘Luckily for you, señor, you can still be of some use to me.’ He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the vomit and shifted his head back a fraction. ‘That is the only reason you are still alive.’ His hands were toying with his revolver. He was trying his damnedest to unnerve me and it was working.
‘George Talbot.’ I was still trying to make sense of that look in his eye. ‘Did you...did you really have him killed?’
Tejada curled his lip. ‘Talbot was interfering in my affairs. He was drawing attention to things that were none of his concern.’
Police corruption. That was what William had told me on the phone. Extortion. Money laundering. ‘He was kicking up a fuss about your financial affairs?’ I rubbed my nose nervously.
‘He tried to. Mine and those of my fellow officers. So I drew his concerns to the attention of my brother-in-law. The general agreed with me that the man was making too much of a nuisance.’
Lord. I shuddered. If the chief of police had got involved then this was deep water indeed. George Talbot could not have fully understood what he was up against.
‘And so...you arranged to have him killed?’ My eyes dipped a little as I asked the question, but this time Tejada did not deny it. In fact, he did not say anything at all. His eyes were fixed on my face and I could see the calculation there. He knew he had nothing to fear from me. He could tell me anything he liked. I took a chance and asked the obvious follow up question. ‘How did you do it?’
He smiled coldly. ‘I have eyes and ears everywhere. People to do my bidding.’ He lifted the revolver for emphasis. ‘Whether they wish to or not.’
‘But how did you know Mr Talbot was coming here this weekend?’ I was struggling to understand the logistics of it all.
‘I just told you,’ he snapped. ‘I have eyes and ears everywhere.’
‘And you arranged for him to be...pushed down the stairs?’
The general laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. ‘Accidents happen,’ he declared. It was as close to an admission of guilt as I was likely to get.
‘And that’s why you came here in person? To investigate his death. To make sure it was all covered up.’
‘You’re not a complete fool then,’ Tejada conceded.
‘But who...who did the actual deed? Who pushed him down the stairs?’
‘That is none of your concern.’
It didn’t matter. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. ‘It was the engineer, wasn’t it? Mr Gonzales?’ He was the one who had gone down to the village to summon the authorities in the first place. ‘He called you in’
‘That idiot?’ The bushy eyebrows furrowed.
‘And he must have cut the telephone lines for you too.’
That got a reaction. ‘How do you know about the telephone?’
‘Er...just guesswork.’
The policeman grunted; but it was of no consequence. ‘Sergeant Velázquez cut the line. He borrowed my motor-bicycle and drove out here last week.’ So that was the vehicle Isabel had seen. The two were rather similar.
‘But it was Mr Gonzales who called you in?’
Tejada shook his head. ‘That fool has nothing to do with any of this. I have a man in the post office. He made sure the call was put through to me.’ The general really did have eyes everywhere.
‘And what about Mr Catesby? Steven?’ I scarcely dared to ask. ‘Did you...did you arrange his death too?’
He scowled. ‘I have no interest in Señor Catesby, alive or dead. The man is nothing to me. Though his death has caused me a lot of unnecessary trouble.’
That I could believe. I had been in the bedroom when he had first caught sight of the body. ‘But you do know who killed him though?’ I couldn’t resist posing the question, curiosity trumping my usual caution.
The general’s response was unequivocal. ‘Joseph Green killed him.’
‘But he couldn’t have done. You know that as well as...’
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he growled. ‘It doesn’t matter what you or anybody else thinks. I did not come here to investigate a murder.’
‘No, you just wanted to cover everything up.’
Again, the man did not deny it. ‘And Joseph Green is a convenient scapegoat. Nobody will be surprised at a coloured man killing his employer, not when he has just been whipped. There will be no awkward questions.’
Tejada would see a man hang, just for the sake of convenience. What kind of a policeman was he? A very successful one, it appeared. ‘But how are you going to explain the other deaths? Mrs and Mrs Montana?’
‘That has made things rather more complicated,’ he admitted tersely. ‘I hold you responsible for that. But I do not think it will be difficult to explain.’ He jabbed a finger at my left shoulder. ‘You killed Señora Montana. Her husband assaulted one of my officers and tried to kill you. I shot the man dead. That is all.’
His confidence was worrying. Was he intending to arrest me for the murder of Mrs Montana? Having just saved my life? ‘But...but if you want to cover all this up...I mean, no-one’s going to believe these deaths are just a coincidence. A man falling down the stairs.’ I waved my hand for emphasis. ‘Another having his throat cut. A woman dropping off a balcony and then another man being shot while resisting arrest. You can’t seriously believe no-one’s going to question any of that?’
The general sat back on his cane and regarded me with something akin to amusement. ‘It does not matter what anyone believes. I am the law here. The truth is whatever I say it is.’ He looked down at his revolver, which he had still not put away. Idly, he clicked open the barrel and checked the ammunition. There were still five bullets in there. He was probably right, I thought. His bro
ther-in-law would back up anything he said and make sure there were no embarrassing consequences. ‘All you have to consider, Señor Buxton,’ he declared, closing up the barrel, ‘is your own skin. Do you wish to die now, resisting arrest, like that fool down there?’ He gestured contemptuously to the man he had just killed. ‘Or do you wish to go free?’
I frowned, not sure what he was getting at. ‘Free?’
Tejada leaned in again. This time his eyes were intense. ‘Joseph Green. You heard him confess to the murder of Steven Catesby. He spoke to you and admitted entering his bedroom and cutting his throat. You will make a statement to that effect. And then you will live.’
I stared at the fellow in disbelief. ‘You want me to incriminate Green?’
‘That is exactly what I want you to do.’ That was why he had pulled up a seat out in the garden; why he was bothering to talk to me at all. For all his brutality, he was a clever, calculating man. ‘And in return, I will conclude that Señora Montana’s death was an unfortunate accident. And Sergeant Velázquez will confirm it.’
‘But...but....’ I stammered. ‘You can’t....I mean...I can’t let an innocent man hang.’
‘It is your choice,’ Tejada stated grimly. He lifted his revolver and rested the barrel of the gun against my temple. ‘You have ten seconds to decide.’ His finger tightened around the trigger.
‘No, but...’ I stuttered. My head was spinning. This was all too much to take in.
‘One...’ he began.
For a moment, I was unable to breathe. I had no doubt that the general would carry out his threat. If I didn’t agree to his plan, he would shoot me dead; not at some future date, but right now, this instant, out here on the lawn. If I refused to incriminate Green then I would not live another minute; and while I had no desire to see the labourer hang, I valued my own life too. I stared blindly at the revolver, just out of focus above my eyebrows. I could feel the pressure of it against my temple and I shuddered. Was I prepared to give my life to save Joseph Green? Even if I did, could I be sure Tejada wouldn’t just kill him anyway? Better to save my own neck, surely? At least agree for the time being?
‘Six....seven...’
I was just on the point of articulating my complete capitulation when a flicker of movement from the far side of the garden caught the general’s attention. The foliage was rustling, just beyond the gate. He abandoned the count and raised the gun from my temple. ‘You there!’ he bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘Stay where you are!’
My head whipped round and I caught sight of a slim figure on the dark pathway leading away from the house.
Tejada took careful aim with his revolver. ‘Move forward where I can see you,’ he barked. But the figure ignored his instructions and the general opened fire. The shot went wide, though only because the retreating figure had ducked down as he had scuttled away. I had a moment of déjà vu, watching him go. This, I felt inexplicably certain, was the same fellow I had seen rushing across the lawn on Saturday evening; and though I could scarcely make out anything in the all-consuming darkness between the trees, I was convinced I knew who it was. The house boy Moses. He was the one who had spiked the generator.
Tejada did not get the chance to take a second shot. Instead, I heard a loud clang and, looking back in surprise, I saw the policeman freeze, his mouth framed into an abrupt ‘O’. Then, with grim inevitability, his body began to fall towards me. I leapt sideways as the general crumpled to his knees. He clipped the back of my legs and lurched to the ground. Behind him stood a formidable middle-aged German. It was the housekeeper, Greta. In her hand was a large metal coffee pot. She had been carrying it back to the kitchen for another refill, but seeing what the general was about to do she had crept down the steps and struck Tejada from behind. Now she regarded his body in horror, spread-eagled as it was alongside the corpse of Arthur Montana. I could read her expression and the same thought echoed inside my own battered head: what on earth had she done?
‘I could not let him shoot Moses,’ the housekeeper mumbled, in her thick German accent. She too had recognised the lad in silhouette. ‘I could not.’
‘It’s all right,’ I reassured her, as she dropped the coffee pot to the ground. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ But I was lying. Things were far from fine, and any joy I might have felt at seeing a brute like Tejada clobbered from behind had already been tempered by the realisation that such an assault would have serious repercussions. I stared down at the uniformed figure. The general had offered me a way out of this mess – albeit a rather dishonourable one – but that offer had evaporated the moment Greta had hit him. I would probably be blamed for her actions, if he was still alive. He would say...my god. If he was alive. I looked down at the bulky figure in sudden panic. Please god, don’t let him be dead, I thought.
Greta had had the same thought. Her hands were shaking at the enormity of what she had done. ‘Is he...?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, my own body shuddering as I shuffled across on my knees to examine him. If Tejada was dead then that was the end of everything. It wouldn’t just be my life that was over. Nobody here would be safe. A senior policeman dying in the middle of an investigation. It was unthinkable. There would be reprisals. His brother-in-law would see to that. No one here would escape. The labourers, the house guests, the owners. It would be nothing short of a massacre.
The weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders as I reached out and tentatively placed a hand on the back of his head, where the coffee pot had struck him. There was no brain matter or blood there, except the dull smudge already on my fingertips from Arthur Montana; and now that I was close to him, I could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I shut my eyes momentarily, the relief shuddering through me. ‘He’s still alive,’ I breathed. I opened my eyes and smiled weakly up at the housekeeper. ‘He’s out cold, though. You must have hit him pretty hard.’
‘My boy...’ she muttered again, in half-hearted explanation.
The general’s revolver had flown from his hand and skittered across the lawn. I pushed myself up onto my feet, wincing slightly as the life finally returned to my legs, and moved across to retrieve the weapon. Two guns, in fact. Montana’s stolen revolver was lying next to Tejada’s. I picked them both up and stuffed them into my jacket pockets. Better to get them both out of circulation.
Lord, what a mess, I thought, straightening myself up. Four men clobbered in the space of fifteen minutes and one of them now dead. It was too much to take in. I had come here for a quiet weekend, but in the last hour I had been held at gunpoint twice and had only managed to survive by the skin of my teeth. The worst of it was, it was not over yet. I looked down at my sodden clothes and took a moment to wipe some of the mud from my trousers. The suit was completely ruined. Maurice would have a fit. And as soon as Tejada woke up, my life would be at an end. Greta would be put up against a wall and shot; and the same would probably happen to me too. What the hell was I going to do?
Behind us, Susan Weiman had returned to the terrace. ‘Moses!’ she called out, across the lawn. She too had recognised her son.
‘It’s all right!’ I shouted, peering through the gloom beyond the garden gate. ‘The general’s out cold. You can come back to the house now. It’s safe.’
General Tejada took that moment to let out a muffled groan, giving the lie to my reassurance. Lord, he was beginning to come round.
Greta’s reactions were quicker than mine. She dipped low, retrieved the coffee pot and clouted the general a second time across the back of the head. My mouth fell open as the man slumped back into the mud, instantly unconscious.
‘For heaven sake!’ I hissed, glaring at the housekeeper. ‘What the devil did you do that for?’
‘Moses...’ she muttered, gesturing across to the gate. I could see the anger in her eyes as well as the fear. She would not allow any harm to come to her adopted son.
I squatted down next to the policeman, to make sure she hadn’t done any permanent
damage. ‘We need Tejada alive!’ I declared. Thankfully, he did not appear to be seriously injured. I stood up anyway and grabbed hold of the housekeeper. ‘Do you understand? If he dies, we all die.’ My hands gripped her shoulders tightly and my eyes bored into her. ‘You cannot lay another finger on him.’
She nodded stiffly, unable to meet my gaze. Susan Weiman stepped down from the terrace to join us. I took the coffee pot from the housekeeper’s grasp and handed it to her mistress. Greta stared down at the unconscious figure, her face quivering with fear and hatred.
Moses was now moving back towards the garden. The light was so dim I could barely make him out, but I could hear the rustle of the trees. Isabel had brought a couple of lamps out onto the terrace, illuminating the grim tableaux and serving to reassure the young lad that everything was all right. With our encouragement, he pulled open the gate and sprinted across the grass, skipping around the two prone figures. Greta threw open her arms and Moses leapt into her embrace, hugging her as tightly as he could. The housekeeper had tears streaming down her face.
