Steen picked up the money. “But now I owe you four thousand for the two remaining paintings which you’ll get rid of.”
“Señor, we leave that. Perhaps I also sell them and I give you more money and you need give me nothing.”
Steen hesitated, then said: “O.K. But take them down after a week.”
“A week only? But I would like…” He stopped and shrugged his shoulders. “I will do it. But please give me some paintings I can hang for a good time.”
“I will.” Steen stood up. “Thanks a lot.”
“I think it is me who should thank. If there are many artists like you, I am rich!”
Steen shook hands and left. He walked out into the sunshine, still hot despite its being November, and crossed to his car which was parked on the hard shoulder of the road. He sat behind the wheel and stared through the windscreen at the mountains which stretched down past Puerto Llueyo. It was ironic, he thought, that Vives should ask him to leave those two paintings since he wanted to be able to tell Penelope that he had sold all three in order to explain the two hundred and forty pounds he had just changed at a bank. Now, he would be able to account for only eight thousand pesetas — she was bound to visit the gallery within the coming week. If he became at all successful and actually sold his paintings in any number, then the whole object of the exercise would be defeated!
He started the engine, made a U-turn, and drove back towards Ca’na Xema. When he had left Penelope, she had been laughing and her tanned face had been free from strain. It was incredible to realise that it was no longer true to think of her as always a potential invalid.
He turned off the metalled surface on to the dirt track which wound round to Ca’na Xema, past fields intensively cultivated and the large, ugly house owned by a very rich American woman. In some ways, he thought, he hadn’t yet become mentally acclimatised to living in Mallorca. He’d look at his watch and momentarily wonder why he wasn’t hard at work at the bank, trying to explain to a bewildered customer the Bank of England’s rules regarding transfer of capital: at three in the afternoon, he’d remember the need to take all the travellers’ cheques and foreign currency down to the strong-room. He felt uneasy that he wasn’t working — he couldn’t regard his painting as work — because he’d been brought up to believe every honest man should do a full day’s work. (He could appreciate the irony of this. He wasn’t honest and his conscience should have been troubled by the theft, not a nagging fear that he was in danger of becoming a layabout).
He rounded the corner, to come in sight of the house and the orange grove below it. He could see Penelope working in the garden, weeding one of the flower beds. She was working harder than she had ever been able to do at home, yet never suffered exertion asthma. Life was miraculously good.
*
From the moment he’d decided that Steen had pulled the wool over the police’s eyes, Thomas was desperately impatient to get to Mallorca, yet he knew only too well that if he were to avoid the other four becoming at all suspicious of him he had to stay and seem to share their sullen resentment at the way things had gone, their fear of a future which had to be faced penniless and in the knowledge that any informer would shop them, and their seeming inability to pull themselves together and do something constructive. It was the end of November before they finally drifted away and he was free to move.
He bought two stolen passports, unused, from a man in London who charged him five hundred pounds each. He contacted a woman he’d known a year before and offered her a thousand pounds to travel to Jersey with him as Mr and Mrs Trenton. She refused. He explained what would happen to her if she continued to refuse and now she agreed. He disguised himself as far as that was practicable, with cheek pads, a different hair parting, and his moustache (grown over the past few weeks. Chase and the others had never guessed at the real reason for this). Both he and the woman had their passport photos taken in a D.I.Y. cabinet. He took these back to the seller who impressed the photographs and the title pages with a beautiful imitation of the Foreign Office seal and stamped in the issuing dates.
He booked them on a ‘Pre-Christmas fun flight’ to Jersey. On their arrival he gave her a thousand pounds and her passport (which had never been asked for) and told her to get lost. Then he bought a seat on the morning scheduled flight to Paris.
From Paris he travelled by train to Marseilles. He caught another train to Nice, hitch-hiked back to Cannes. He flew from Cannes to Palma, confident that no one would ever be able to trace out his journey.
*
Every year the mayor and town council of Llueyo held, in conjunction with the Club Llueyo and the Ministry of Tourism, a painting competition. Open to all residents on the island, of any nationality, the major prize was fifty thousand pesetas. There were six different categories in which a painting could be entered and in each category there were three minor prizes. Since the six judges were five town dignitaries and a local artist who believed himself a genius it was generally agreed that if one seriously hoped to win a prize too much artistic merit was a severe handicap.
Prize giving was held in the theatre at the back of the Club Llueyo. It was customary to clap loudly and not to laugh whoever won a prize and the setting had something of the air of an English minor public school sports day.
Steen was awarded third prize for his landscape of Cala Borca.
“Bill,” said Penelope, as they left the club building and went out into the square, “I feel as if I’d drunk a bottle of champagne.”
“That’s wonderful, because now there’s no need to offer you a drink.”
She smiled. “You’re going to take me out to dinner to celebrate. Seriously, though, aren’t you absolutely delighted?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you’re determined not to show it? Stop being such a coward.”
“A what?”
“A coward. You always seem to get so scared of anything good happening. What’s the matter? Do you think someone’s going to kick you hard just to even up things.”
“I suppose in a way, I am.”
“Then forget it. There’s nothing superstitious about this, Bill. Years ago I said you were good, but you wouldn’t believe me. Now you’ve proved to everyone you’re really good, so enjoy it.”
He enjoyed it, not because he’d won a prize but because he’d made her feel so proud.
The square, illuminated in honour of the festival with coloured lights, was busy: because the night was so balmy, the two cafés which overlooked it had left out tables and chairs. They sat down at one of the tables and a waiter took their orders.
They sat in silence, content to enjoy the peace which somehow was enhanced, and not destroyed, by several children who were playing a complicated and noisy game of tag at the far end of the square, by the church. A donkey cart jogged past, feet clopping, to strip away decades.
The waiter brought them two sweet red vermouths and soda.
She raised her glass. “Here’s to the day you win the big prize.”
“And have my name inscribed in gold?”
“In letters six inches high… Bill, one day paint the bay for me. When the water’s deep blue and the mountains get lost in the heat haze. When we’re old and rheumatic and not able to get around I’ll be able to look at it and remember everything… Especially how you threw up your job, sold the house, and risked the future just for me.” She twisted the glass round in her fingers. “I’ve somehow never been able to tell you…”
He interrupted her. “Then don’t now.”
She looked directly at him, her blue eyes intense. “But I want to.”
“I know, without your telling me.” He hated all the lies he had been forced into, but he hated even more the way in which she believed his sacrifices had been so much greater than they had. Once he had sacrificed his honour, the rest had been easy.
*
The cemetery, surrounded by fields, was a kilometre beyond the outskirts of the town. It was walled, with towers
on either side of the large, intricately patterned wrought-iron gates. Inside were family burial chambers, some plain in style, some rococo, some Islamic.
Thomas entered and looked around, contemptuous of such fanciful trappings for death. An elderly man, badly dressed, his back bowed and one eye clearly glass, came up to Thomas and spoke in Spanish. Thomas said in English: “I’m looking for the grave of Silas Steen. Steen. He was English.”
The man seemed perplexed, but then he suddenly nodded. He turned and walked up a path of loose chippings to the far end of the cemetery where, against the wall, was a completely plain burial chamber. There were small ‘shelves’ outside and on one of these were roses in a glass vase and a plastic-covered, black-edged card which read: ‘Silas Steen, born 15 August 1904. Died aged 73. R.I.P.’
He’d so convinced himself that the death had been faked that now he knew both bewilderment and an impotent anger in discovering it had not. He cursed Silas Steen for having lived and died.
The man spoke and Thomas gave him a fifty-peseta piece to shut him up. And it was only as the man shuffled off that it belatedly occurred to Thomas that a clever man who ‘killed’ an uncle so he could be left with a house would surely go one step further and arrange for a grave. After all, a grave was the final proof of death. Or was it?
*
That night, Thomas broke into the cemetery. The burial chamber at the far end was locked, but the lock was of simple construction and he forced it within a minute. Inside were a number of ‘gratings’, on three of which were coffins. One of the coffins was clearly new. He unscrewed the lid and found it was filled with earth.
Chapter 18
Ca’na Xema stood on the dying slopes of a mountain and behind the house there was a three-hundred-metre strip of maquis scrub. Trees climbed a little way up the mountainside, then it rose more precipitously and its surface held only pockets of grass, bushes, or an occasional stunted pine.
Thomas parked the rented Seat 600 in one of the dirt lanes and walked up the rising road which led into a valley. When he’d gone far enough he turned off and climbed the dry-stone wall, which carried the small aqueduct from a spring in the valley down to the farms, and carried on up the mountainside until he had a good view of the immediate countryside. He sat, half hidden by a spurge bush which was growing out of a crack in the rock, unslung a pair of field glasses, and studied Ca’na Xema and its surrounding land.
From his point of view, the house was conveniently situated. Although not isolated in the strictest sense, the nearest house was over four hundred metres away: beyond screaming distance, he thought with twisted amusement. He traced out the electricity wires, but could see no telephone ones: since no wires were put underground outside the towns, he could be certain the house was not on the phone. He checked the approach. Would Steen be scared of reprisals for stealing the money and therefore be prepared for them? No, he decided. Although Steen was clever, he was a civilian and civilians didn’t understand. If Steen had ever thought about it, he’d merely have imagined that after their escape the bank robbers would have resignedly shrugged their shoulders over the loss of the money.
Thomas watched the wife begin to prune a rose. He hoped for her sake that Steen still had most of the money ready to hand.
*
Rook was preparing to leave his office on what was a typical December night — the day-long drizzle had turned to rain and the cold east wind hinted at sleet — when the telephone rang. He briefly wondered whether to ignore it, but his strict sense of duty forced him to reach out and pick up the receiver. “D.I.”
“Detective Sergeant Trubshawe, sir, Barrackton police. I thought you’d want to know that we picked Jenkins up this morning after an abortive smash-and-grab job.”
“Flash Jenkins?”
“That’s him.”
Rook, suddenly no longer feeling tired and worn out, sat down on the edge of the desk. “What kind of news has he got for us?”
“Precious little. We got him talking and he says the bank money just vanished and none of ’em has the slightest idea where it vanished to.”
“Surely to God someone has.”
“He swears not. He’s skint and, as he said, they wouldn’t have split up and written the money off as a dead loss if anyone knew anything about it… He also gave us one bit of news you’re going to like even less.”
“What?”
Trubshawe spoke with great care. “They were trying every way they could to trace the money and one of the ways was to make direct contact with someone in your force for information on whether you’d any idea who’d got the money. If you had had, they’d have tried to move in first.”
Rook gripped the receiver tightly. “Who was their informant?”
“He doesn’t know her name, but it was a woman. He won’t say why he’s so certain. Nor will he name the fifth member of the mob.”
For the moment, Rook didn’t give a damn about the fifth bank robber. A traitor? Instinctively he identified her as one of the civilian employees, solely on the grounds that by his standards it was impossible any member of the force could be a traitor. He’d get her, he thought harshly.
“We’ve had to charge Jenkins on the smash-and-grab, but you’d probably like to come up and question him?”
“Yes.” There were rules about the interrogation of a man in custody and after he’d been charged, but a seasoned detective knew a way round most of them.
“My D.I. says if you’ll just give us an arrival time, we’ll lay everything on for you. He can give you a bed if that’ll help and your expenses are being cut back anything like ours are.”
“Tell him thanks a lot. I’ll check out things my end and then ring you back and let you know my plans.”
After replacing the receiver, Rook drummed on the desk with his fingers. If a member of the bank mob had no idea where the money had gone, what had happened to it? Had one of the gang swindled the others — a possibility which had not arisen before? Had Dutch Keen made the switch and salted the money away and somehow found the courage to take the secret of its whereabouts with him? Had Steen worked the switch and then covered his tracks far more cleverly than had been considered possible? Each possibility must be checked out…
*
Thomas drove up the track and parked the Seat under the spreading branches of an algarroba tree. The night was as yet moonless and the car would be hidden unless a direct light was shone on it. He climbed out and checked the contents of his pockets: a .25 Walther with full magazine, a cosh, a gas-filled lighter, a roll of broad adhesive tape, a torch, a small tube of very strong adhesive, and a square of mutton cloth.
He switched on his torch and walked through the maquis scrub, swearing when he inadvertently collided with a small prickly pear cactus. He found the water channel which he had earlier noted and followed this along the tops of dry-stone walls to the estanqui it fed. From here the house was just discernible as a black mass unbroken by any light inside. He went down the steps by the side of the estanqui, which abutted one of the dry-stone walls, along a dirt path, and reached the patio.
He stood still, checking the sounds. Nearby a dog was barking and further away another picked up the call: as almost every field had a dog chained up at the entrance, supposedly to guard the field, no one took any notice of their barking, which was virtually constant. There was the hum of very late traffic on the Llueyo-Puerto Llueyo road. A light wind was moving the leaves of trees.
He crossed the patio. The front door was glass panelled for the top half: he tried the handle, but it was locked. He smeared the adhesive over the pane of glass nearest to the door handle and stuck the mutton cloth down on the adhesive. After allowing five minutes for the adhesive to set, he used the cosh to smash the glass. The noise was muted and although the glass was shattered, not a single slither fell. When he pulled the mutton cloth it brought with it much of the glass and the remainder he was easily able to work free. He reached inside and unlocked the door, then entered.
He stood in the hall and again checked the sounds about him. There was none.
He switched on his torch, saw the stairs and crossed to them. They took him up to the solar, an oblong space now not used and off which were three doors, the middle one of which was ajar to show that this led into a bathroom. He listened at the left-hand door and after a while heard a rustle of movement which was almost certainly caused by a sleeper turning over.
He took the automatic from his pocket after transferring the torch to his left hand, pushed down the handle of the door, kicked the door open and stepped inside.
They slept in a double bed, Penelope on the left-hand side. The noise of the door’s opening had half woken her and she stirred, but Steen appeared to be still sleeping soundly.
She moved a couple of times, reached up and scratched the side of her head, then opened her eyes. Bewilderment gave way to terror. She grabbed Steen and shook him.
“Switch the light on, lady,” said Thomas.
She opened her mouth.
“Don’t scream. It ain’t no use.”
Steen had woken. For a second he could not understand what he’d woken to, then he threw back the bedclothes.
Thomas brought the automatic forward so that it was clearly visible in the torchlight. “Cool it.”
Steen became still, his left leg half over the side of the bed.
“Switch on the light,” ordered Thomas, for the second time.
With a small whimper of fear, Penelope reached to her right and switched on a bedside light.
“Both of you turn over on to your fronts.”
It was obvious that Steen was judging the distance between himself and Thomas. Thomas moved forward to the side of the bed and held the muzzle of the automatic a foot away from Penelope’s head. He dropped the torch on to the bed and used his left hand to rip back the bedclothes. Automatically, she reached down to adjust her nightdress. “You can forget it, lady, I’m not after that… Turn over, or I’m pulling the trigger.”
Hostage to Death Page 14
