Prade, around thirty, just short of six feet tall, a head of straight black hair, rugged rather than handsome, wearing a casual blue shirt and grey cotton trousers, came down the main staircase to the lobby. He shook hands with a firm, dry grip.
Tm sorry to bother you, señor, when I understand you are not very well,’ said Alvarez.
‘How the hell d’you know that?’
‘I had a word with señorita Brown.’
‘Did you, then! Nice girl that, and efficient. Got hold of some medicine for me that really did the trick so I’m virtually back to normal.’ He grinned sardonically. ‘Got to be fit to go back home and tell everyone what a wonderful holiday I’ve had.’
‘Señor, can you have a coffee with me in the television room?’
‘I’m up to drinking coffee, yes . . . Look, what’s wrong?’
‘Please come with me.’
There were no guests in the television room, but a maid was sweeping the floor. Alvarez asked her in Spanish to leave and she looked at them with worried curiosity before going.
Alvarez said: ‘I fear I have some serious news which you may not have heard. Sadly, during Monday night señor Peter Short suffered a serious accident from which he died.’
‘My GodI’
Alvarez led the way over to one of the tables and sat. Prade brought out a pack of cigarettes and took one, then, with a start, remembered his manners and offered it. ‘What kind of an accident?’
‘The señor had chartered a boat in Palma and sailed it round to Puerto Llueso, where he moored. He was aboard when there was an explosion which started a fire. It was impossible to put the fire out and the boat sank. His body was recovered.’
‘Jesus!’ Prade fiddled with his cigarette. ‘Even though he wasn’t a close friend, it’s still one hell of a shock! I mean, when you see someone in the evening and you learn he died that same night . . .’
‘Señor, were you not expecting to sail to Menorca with him?’
‘You seem to know more about me than I do myself! How d’you learn that?’
‘The harbourmaster told me, after he’d spoken to the charterers . . . Were you not surprised when you didn’t see him again on the Tuesday?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But you didn’t try to get in touch with him to find out what had happened?’
‘I was going to, of course, but his name wasn’t in the telephone book and one of the desk clerks told me that there are still a lot of houses without the phone. Then I went down with this tummy bug and that made life very difficult. And on top of that . . . I don’t know quite how to explain without making myself seem a bit . . . well, precious. When he first suggested taking me for a boat trip I reckoned it was probably because he’d nothing better to do. You know what it’s like—a holiday in the sun sounds wonderful, but if you’re on your own it can become pretty boring. So when I didn’t hear from him again I put it down to the fact that he’d probably found something better to do. And I suppose I’d better admit that I was a bit piqued and wasn’t going to go chasing him.’
The door opened and a waiter, carrying a tray, entered. He put the tray down on the table in fronts of them and left.
They helped themselves to milk and sugar.
‘Señor, because of certain facts concerning the death of señor Short, I have to try and find out more about him. Will you help me do this?’
‘Yes, of course. But I must stress that we weren’t close friends.’
‘I understand. When and where did you first meet him?’
‘In Paris, something like eighteen months ago. We were both staying at the Hotel Grimauld—in the Rue Clement-Marot, I think—and having a drink at the bar. When you’re abroad you talk more freely to strangers and we were roughly the same age so we started chatting. We got on quite well together and went out and about a couple of times.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘Yes, there was no one with him.’
‘Was he on holiday?’
‘Not completely. He did talk about having some business to do.’
‘Did he mention what kind of business?’
‘If he did, I’ve forgotten.’
‘Can you suggest what it might have been?’
‘No, beyond the fact that he obviously made a fair bit of money at it.’
‘When did you next see him?’
‘A couple of months later on. I was in my flat in London and the phone rang and it was him. He suggested dinner together.’
‘Where did he live?’
‘I never found out. He seemed always to be on the move. As a matter of fact, I did ask him once where his base was, but he very carefully didn’t answer.’
‘If he had no permanent address, how did you get in contact with him?’
‘I didn’t. He always got in touch with me.’
‘Did you not find this unusual?’
‘Yes. But then there was something just a bit odd about him . . . He was good fun, amusing, knowledgeable about a lot of things, but the moment the conversation ever became at all personal, he clammed up. I remember I once asked him where he’d gone to school. He behaved as if I’d just tried to borrow a hundred quid. His secrecy used to irritate me, but I learned to live with it.’
‘When did you last see him before you came here?’
‘A few weeks ago, in London. We had dinner together at a Chinese restaurant. I said work was getting me down and I was worn out and ripe for a holiday and that’s when he said I ought to have a break out here. He told me he’d hire a boat and sail to Menorca. Incidentally, and just to show you how secretive he could be, that’s the first time I heard he’d a house on this island.’
‘Did he invite you to stay with him?’
‘No, he very carefully didn’t.’ Prade finished his coffee, drew on the cigarette. ‘I just didn’t understand that! I mean, there he was, asking me to join him on the boat trip, yet there was no invitation to stay at his place. If he couldn’t stand his secrecy being breached, how come I was asked on the boat?’
Alvarez stubbed out his cigarette. He’d been so certain that if he could identify Short’s friend, the friend would be able to tell him sufficient about Short’s background for him to be able to judge whether the death was, in fact, connected to the other two . . . Prade had been able to tell him nothing other than that Short had been strangely secretive. He said wearily, now not believing there was anything further to be learnt: ‘What happened on Monday when he met you at the airport?’
‘I was surprised to see him because the arrangement had been that he’d get in touch at the hotel. But he said he’d drive me to his place and we’d have drinks before he ran me out to the hotel, so I went back and found the courier and told her what was happening.’
‘You drove straight to his house?’
‘That’s right. We had some drinks and he showed me round the place: I was quite tired but I had to look at absolutely everything. And I don’t mind admitting that when I saw the empty bedrooms I wondered again why he couldn’t have asked me to stay with him—it would have saved me a few quid . . . Still, that’s history. In the end, he drove me all the way back here. Said he’d pick me up fairly early in the morning because he wanted a good start. I had the earliest breakfast I could bully the staff into giving me and then sat around.’
Alvarez thought for a moment, then said: ‘Did señor Short have any physical peculiarities, such as scars?’
‘I never saw any. But then I never saw him stripped.’
‘Were his teeth his own?’
‘That’s one hell of a question—after all, we didn’t share a bedroom! . . . Though, come to think of it, I do seem to remember him once mentioning his teeth were soft and always giving trouble.’
‘What about gold fillings?’
Prade was silent for a moment, then he said: Tm pretty certain one of his front teeth was gold-backed. You noticed it when he smiled.’
‘Was this in his upper or lower jaw?’
> ‘God knows! . . . And what’s it matter?’
‘I have to confirm that it was he who died in the boat.’
‘Can’t you tell by looking at him?’
‘He was too severely burned for any normal visual identification.’
‘Oh!’ For the first time it seemed Prade realized how serious the fire had been.
‘Do you know if he wore a ring?’
‘Yes, he did. Some kind of signet ring that was too big for my taste.’
‘Can you say what kind of design the signet had?’
‘No. No way.’
‘One last thing, señor. Would you be kind enough to let me take your fingerprints?’
‘Would I what?’
‘I will need them to help identify señor Short, by elimination.’
‘I don’t like it, and that’s straight. Fingerprints are . . . To us British, they’re a bit of an emotive issue: police state and all that sort of thing. But I’ll give them if it’ll really help.’
‘You are very kind. Please wait here while I return to my car for the necessary equipment.’
Ten minutes later, after thanking Prade for all his help, Alvarez left.
CHAPTER 13
At 6.36 that afternoon. Professor Fortunato’s secretary rang from the Institute of Forensic Anatomy in Palma.
‘Inspector Alvarez? The Professor has asked me to give you preliminary details of the post mortem on señor Peter Short.
‘The deceased was aged between twenty-five and forty years of age and was one metre eighty-two or eighty-three in height. It has proved impossible to determine the colour of his hair or eyes. He had at no time suffered any major fracture or undergone any major internal surgery.
‘There are no signs of injuries other than those consistent with an explosion, but because of the extent of tissue destruction it is impossible to state categorically that he received no others.
‘Analysis of his stomach contents shows that he consumed a meal four to six hours before his death and his blood alcohol ratio was just over point one per cent—in other words, he would have been influenced by the alcohol, but would not have been drunk.
‘His teeth show signs of regular and frequent attention and the pattern of fillings has been taken. The second front tooth of the upper jaw had at some stage become badly chipped and a gold backing introduced: the quality of this dental work was high.
‘Because his right hand must have been partially under his body much of the time, it did not suffer such severe tissue destruction as most of the rest of his body. It has thus proved possible to obtain subdermal prints of his third and fourth fingers. Copies are being sent to you.
‘The Professor is of the opinion that the deceased met his death in an explosion and the subsequent fire.’
Alvarez was closing the shutters in his office when the phone rang. It was still rather early for him to be stopping work for the day so, reluctantly, he returned to the desk and answered the call.
‘Superior Chief Salas has asked me to tell you,’ said the woman with a plum in her mouth, ‘that they have received a report from England. The passport number which you asked to be transmitted there is that of a passport which was stolen from the consular office in Mettram, northern Italy, just over a year ago. They are therefore unable to furnish any biographical details of the holder.’
‘Then there’s now no shadow of a doubt! Tell señor Salas that the three deaths are connected, they’re murder, and it’s ten to one that somewhere along the line we’re dealing with a criminal conspiracy.’
After replacing the receiver, he sat down behind the desk. By God, he thought, he’d been right all the time, even in the face of Salas’s supercilious disbelief! So what now?
Clarke and Allen had known each other, but this fact had only come to light through the photograph Tracey had had. The third person in that photo had clearly not been Short, being a much older man. Was he, whoever he was, also connected with the conspiracy, whatever that was?
Short had had plenty of money. Assume he’d come into this as suddenly as had Clarke and Allen and then there were three men who’d become wealthy. The odds had to be that the source of this wealth was criminal. Yet Clarke and Allen did not have criminal records. How often did amateurs make a fortune from crime? In practical terms, and ignoring computer frauds, virtually never. Successful crime demanded hard experience and a mentality which had been brutalized into ignoring consequences. So here was a total contradiction.
Could anything fresh be learned from studying their backgrounds again? (This meant concentrating on Clarke and Allen—Prade had been able to tell him nothing about Short.) They came from very different backgrounds so was it odd that they’d known each other? Had they been on holiday when they first met? Had this holiday been the start of whatever it was that had led them to their fortunes? . . . But assuming that photo had been taken in Mallorca (Allen’s wife had said her husband had been to the island for holidays), how could they, as foreigners, commit any but the simplest, and therefore unrewarding, crimes without being found out or betrayed?
Sweet Mary, a man’s mind could only accept so many questions before it was in danger of exploding, like an over-revved engine. He leaned down and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk.
She had the body of a woman five years younger and this without rigorous dieting. Rightly proud of it, she loved him to exclaim over it as he stroked her satiny flesh.
He ran his fingers down the small of her back, so lightly that he felt the brush of down.
‘Do you know what you’re doing to me?’ she murmured. Tm purring. I’m a cat in front of the biggest saucer of cream in the world. I’m so happy that it’s like a hundred sunbeams inside me.’
He leaned over until he could substitute his lips for his fingers. Then, suddenly, he stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
He resumed. It was hardly the moment to admit that he’d suddenly realized that package holidays often catered for particular pleasures or hobbies . . .
CHAPTER 14
Alvarez stood in his office and stared down at the photograph on his desk. Clarke, Allen, and an unidentified older man, stood on a beach ringed by palms, beyond which were several many-storeyed, tourist-styled buildings which were backed by stark mountains, the peaks of two of which were unusually shaped.
A typical holiday snap, taken anywhere, any time within the past twenty years wherever tourists found sun and sea. But two things about this snap were of particular interest and might just possibly help to identify the location and the time: the two mountain peaks which leaned towards each other as if to touch and form a circle, and the oxygen bottles in a harness which rested on the sand in front of Allen. Surely there must be someone who’d be able to recognize that skyline? Scuba-diving was very popular in certain parts of the island and it was a sport which brought together people from widely different backgrounds.
He drummed on the desk with his fingers. Who did he know who’d been all over the island and had a good memory? His fingers stilled. Manuel Rotger.
The hotel Parelona was justly world famous. In an age of rapidly falling standards it tenaciously held to those of more spacious days: couples when booking in were expected to give the same surname, at dinner guests usually wore dinner-jackets or long dresses, bedlinen and towels were changed every day, and the staff were polite. The doorman socially classified Alvarez with one quick glance, but even so he still opened the swing door with gloved hand and said gravely: ‘Good morning, sen or.’
Alvarez crossed the marble-floored lobby to the reception desk, behind which stood the receptionist, a tall, thin German, who spoke six languages fluently, dressed in black coat and striped trousers despite the heat, and Rotger, in the hotel uniform of deep pink coat and black trousers.
Rotger had been head concierge at the Parelona for fourteen years and in that time he had developed a generous waistline and a commanding presence. A great man, he had learned to deal with even t
he most tricky emergency with complete aplomb. Once, a well-known member of a royal family had, when by the pool, started howling and ripping off ladies’ costumes. Rotger, hastily called to the scene, had walked him along and introduced him to a wealthy widow from Detroit who’d been making life hell for an unusually handsome waiter. The royal was not heard to howl again.
Alvarez asked Rotger if they could have a quick word together somewhere private and Rotger gracefully inclined his head, then led the way into a small office immediately beyond the reception area.
‘How are things going?’ asked Alvarez, as he sat.
‘I can’t complain,’ replied Rotger. Many of the hotel guests would not have complained had they been as wealthy as he.
‘And the family’s well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘What’s the score—four kids?’
‘Five. We had a girl at the beginning of the year.’
‘Not retiring yet, then?’
Rotger smiled his I-am-not-very-amused smile. He now judged that this visit was not likely to embarrass him personally and therefore saw no reason to be amused by a boorish remark.
‘I’d like you to do something for me.’
‘I shall be only too pleased to help in any way I can,’ he answered automatically.
‘Look at this, will you.’ Alvarez brought the photograph out and passed it across. ‘Was it taken on this island, and if so, whereabouts?’
Rotger briefly studied the photo. ‘Don’t you realize this could be anywhere in the Mediterranean where those package holidays go?’ He spoke the words ‘package holidays’ in tones of contemptuous dislike.
‘I know. It needs a miracle to identify the place. But I was told that if anyone in the world could work that miracle, you could.’
Rotger nodded.
‘You must have been all over the island and you’ve a memory like an encyclopaedia.’
He put on a pair of spectacles and examined the photograph very much more carefully than before. ‘The beach, the trees, the hotels . . . impossible to tell. But those mountain crests . . .’ He took off his spectacles and replaced them in the case. He leaned back in the chair, joined his fingertips together, and then gripped his upper lip between his two forefingers and plucked it repeatedly, to the accompaniment of plopping noises. ‘I seem to remember that unusual formation. I can recall looking at it and thinking that if the two crests had been just a bit larger they could have joined together to form a hole: a whole mountain.’ He smiled, appreciating so sophisticated a witticism.
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