He returned to the road and walked along the front, checking the people who were sitting at the outside cafe tables, but did not see her. Then he looked in at several of the cafes which lay back from the front, but again he failed to find her. His alarm grew, but he tried to still it by telling himself that while he’d been away from the flat, she’d probably returned and was wondering what on earth had happened to him. He hurried back to the flat.
She still was not there. Going down the stairs once more, he tried to work out calmly and logically where to look for her assuming, as he must do now, she had met trouble . . .
‘She’s gone out,’ said a woman in Mallorquin from inside the opened doorway of the lower flat. ‘Left just after eight.’ She stepped out: elderly, wearing a print dress and a delicate lace shawl over her shoulders, she had some knitting in her hand. ‘She went off in a car.’
‘Did she hire it?’
She said, with wicked pleasure: ‘Do hire cares now come with a handsome driver?’
He longed to find out who the driver had been, but was not going to give her the satisfaction of asking. ‘I expected them to be back by now,’ he said, as casually as he could.
‘Shall I tell her you were looking for her?’
‘If you like.’
He said good-night and returned to his car. Who could Tracey have gone out with? And why hadn’t she waited for him? He’d been late, but it hadn’t been his fault and he had warned her . . .
When he arrived home, the family was watching a television quiz. He sat down with them and stared at the screen, but saw nothing of the show. Had Tracey ever mentioned knowing someone in the port? But hadn’t she told him she’d come there simply to be with him? Then who . . .
‘Hey, Enrique! Are you deaf, or something?’ asked Dolores sharply.
He jerked his mind back to the present to find that the show had finished and the family were all staring at him.
‘Or something,’ chuckled Jaime.
‘Be quiet!’ She said to Alvarez: ‘I said, have you had supper?’
‘No, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘Not hungry?’ said Jaime. ‘You know your trouble? You’ve been having too much . . .’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Dolores. Jaime looked at her resent fully, but did not complain aloud. Spain was still very much a country where the women were expected to treat the men with reverence, but when married to a woman of Dolores’s nature there were times when it was expedient not to stress that fact.
‘You’d better come through to the kitchen and I’ll find you something,’ she said.
‘Please don’t bother. I’m really not . . .’ began Alvarez.
‘I’m not having you go hungry in my house.’ She left, to go through to the kitchen.
‘Uncle, what is it you’re having too much of?’ asked Juan.
Jaime laughed as Alvarez followed Dolores.
In the kitchen, Dolores opened the refrigerator and brought out an earthenware bowl. ‘I’ll heat this up for you.’
‘I really don’t want very much.’
‘You’ll eat a square meal.’ She put the bowl down on the cooker. ‘Where d’you have lunch?’
‘A restaurant in Playa del Xima.’
‘Why’d you go there?’
‘Because of the case.’
‘You were on a case?’
‘Why should I drive all that way if it wasn’t work?’
‘I just thought . . .’ She stopped. She lit the gas under the bowl, then looked at him with a very concerned expression. ‘Enrique, don’t let yourself be hurt.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he demanded roughly.
She stirred the savoury rice. Men could be such fools it hurt to watch them.
On Saturday morning, Alvarez received a letter from the Palma Institute of Forensic Anatomy. Due to the fact that Short’s right hand had not been burned as severely as most other parts of his body, it had proved possible to cut away the skin of the fingertips of the second and third fingers, treat these areas of skin with a formaldehyde solution, and then photograph, with an oblique light, the papillary pattern on the inner surface. Photographs were enclosed.
He searched the office for the case which contained the fingerprint equipment and eventually found it. He drove out to Ca Na Rostra, let himself into the house, and went through to the sitting-room. He put the case down on one of the occasional tables and brought out of it a bottle of fine black powder and a camel’s-hair brush. He picked up each of the glasses on the silver tray in turn, by inserting two fingers inside and then splaying them as he upended the glass, and painted the powder over the outside surfaces. A large number of prints were raised, some of them clear, others too blurred or overlaid to be of any use. He checked the clear ones first against the record he had of Charles Prade’s prints—those on one glass matched. Then he checked those on the second glass against the photographs and these matched.
Upstairs, in the only bedroom in which the bed was made up, he treated possible surfaces for prints and raised two sets, on a cupboard handle and on the dust-jacket of a book on the bedside table. They were different from Prade’s, but matched both those on the second glass and those of the dead man.
Alvarez began to repack the equipment. Even his ever suspicious superior chief could not harbour any doubts now. The dead man was Short.
Alvarez returned to the guardia post. The building seemed hotter and stuffier than ever and by the time he’d climbed the stairs and reached his office he was sweating heavily and short of breath. He sat. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he’d start getting back into condition: no smoking, no drinking, and early morning jogging.
As soon as he was feeling better, he telephoned Salas’s office. To his dismay, the plum-voiced woman said that Superior Chief Salas would speak to him.
‘Well?’ demanded Salas, ‘what’s gone wrong now?’
‘Nothing’s gone wrong, señor.’
‘That makes for a welcome change.’
‘You will remember I told you about the photograph of the three men, two of whom were Allen and Clarke, on an unknown beach? I managed to find a way of tracing the location of that photograph. I remembered that the head concierge of the Hotel Parelona is a man who’s travelled all over the island . . .’
‘Would you get to the point?’
Sadly, Alvarez realized that Salas was not interested in his series of brilliant deductions, only in the results. He gave them.
‘It’s taken you long enough to find all this out,’ said Salas. ‘But at least it must now be clear even to you that this man, Llobera, let slip the fact that he knew exactly where the boat had sunk and the five men, led by Massier, decided to search for it. They found it and the treasure and instead of declaring that to the authorities, stole it . . .’
‘As I said at the beginning, señor . . .’
‘Kindly don’t interrupt. Llobera may have died in an accident or he may have been murdered: since it happened three years ago, we probably will never know for certain. However, we can be certain of what is happening now. One of the five men has determined to appropriate for himself the shares of all the others. Clarke, Short, and Allen, have all been murdered, in a manner which attempted to make it seem their deaths had been accidents.’
‘I did suggest . . .’
‘Will you let me finish? Since Marsh and Massier are still alive, in so far as we know, one of those two has to be the murderer. I must confess that, in spite of experience, I am still surprised I have to explain all this to you.’ ‘But, señor, it was you who kept saying . . .’ ‘I suppose I’d better now detail what has to be done. The whereabouts of Marsh and Massier must be ascertained and they must be closely investigated to discover which of them is the murderer. At the same time, as much of the jewellery and plate as remains must be recovered and returned to the surviving daughter of the Marques de Orlocas. Is that clear?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have already . . .’ ‘Even you, inspector, should be una
ble to confuse and confound the issues now.’
Alvarez parked his car and crossed the road. As he approached the stairs leading up to Tracey’s flat, he looked at the bead curtain which covered the downstairs doorway. He thought he caught a sign of movement. The old woman who lived there was watching and probably laughing to herself at the sight of him chasing after a foreigner.
He reached the patio to find Tracey stretched out face downwards on a Li-lo, sunbathing: the top half of her bikini was by her side. He knelt and kissed the back of her neck.
‘That’s nice. Do it again.’
As he kissed her a second time, he ran the tips of his fingers down her spine.
‘That’s even nicer. I’m purring loud and clear,’ She turned over.
The patio was on a level with the windows of the house on either side and he hurriedly looked to see if anyone were watching.
‘What’s the panic?’
‘Well . . .’ He gestured at her bare breasts.
‘For Heaven’s sake! Surely you know that the beaches are filled with bare tits?’
‘You are not on the beach. And even if you were, I wouldn’t like you to be undressed like this.’
‘You wouldn’t? And who the hell are you to start telling me what to wear?’ She reached out and slid her hand up his right leg. ‘Look, love, I’ve a thick head and I need humouring, not lecturing. So come and sit down and be extra nice to me.’
He sat on the edge of the Li-lo. He reached out and picked up the bikini top and handed it to her.
‘You don’t like my tits?’
‘They’re very beautiful, but . . .’
‘But you can’t bear to think of anyone else goggling at them? Typical male hypocrisy. See a bit of flesh on someone else and it’s wonderful, see it on the woman you’re with and it’s panic stations.’ She finally fitted on the bikini top and clipped it behind her back. ‘Is that better?’
‘Very much better.’
‘I’ll remember that the next time you want to play with them . . . I’m thirsty, so what say we have a drink?’
He stood. ‘What would you like?’
‘A sweet Martini with soda, masses of ice, and a large slice of lemon.’
The kitchen was in a muddle and it looked as if she hadn’t washed up for several meals. He poured out two drinks, added ice to both, a sliver of lemon to hers, and carried them outside.
She sat up on the Li-lo and settled on one of the chairs. He cleared his throat. ‘I came here last night, but you weren’t in.’
‘I waited, but in the end reckoned you must have forgotten.’
He spoke indignantly. ‘How could you imagine I’d ever forget? I was over the other side of the island and couldn’t get back here until nine.’
‘I’ll believe you.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Out.’
‘But out where?’
‘What’s it matter?’
‘I need to know.’
‘For God’s sake, forget it. Concentrate on telling me how much you love me and charm my headache away.’
He accepted that he ought to avoid an argument, but he could not contain his jealousy. ‘The woman from the flat below said . . .’ He stopped.
‘What did the inquisitive old bitch say?’
‘That you went off in a car with a man.’
‘Well?’
‘Did you go out with someone?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Who was he?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘You listen to me. I’m over eighteen and single so I’ll go out with whom I like, when I like.’
‘You’d no right to go out with anyone else.’
‘For God’s sake! . . . Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not putting me in purdah, like you would one of your own women.’
‘But we’re . . .’ He struggled to find the words he wanted and failed because he could not bring himself to admit that they were no more than lovers without any declared commitment to the future. Sick with jealous despair, he blundered on. ‘Who was he? Someone you knew from Bahia Mocamba?’
‘I never set eyes on him before last night.’
‘You what?’ he said, horrified.
‘Now what’s the trouble? Look, you never turned up. And I was feeling down, so I said to hell with it and went out for a drink. And while I was at the cafe a man started talking and he was fun. So when he said, let’s eat and try a disco afterwards, I said, why not? What’s so dreadful about that?’
He was shocked that she could not realize how outrageous her behaviour had been.
Her tone hardened. ‘So now you’re wondering if I slept with him? If it makes you any better company, when we got back here he tried to come up but I told him, nothing doing. So he left.’
‘But you went out with him even though you’d never met him before,’ he said despairingly.
‘You know something?’ she said in a lower, softened voice. ‘It’s like trying to talk to someone who speaks a different language and no interpreter. I’m living in the present, you’re living in the past. You reckon a man can have fun, but a woman’s got to stay at home and die of boredom.’
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘Why d’you think I refused to let him come up?’
‘But now you’re saying . . . But for me and even though you’d only just met him . . .’
‘Forget it, my very old-fashioned darling. Live for now, not yesterday, not tomorrow. Grab what’s going and to hell with anything else.’
He shook his head.
‘Come on, it’s easy when you’ve learned how.’ She leaned over and kissed him. After a while, he cared only about now.
CHAPTER 17
Sticky from the heat, Alvarez slumped back in the chair in his office. Despite Salas’s curt, ungracious summation of the case, there were two, not one, possible motives for the murders: self-preservation or gain. Self-preservation?
Perhaps either Marsh or Massier had had reason to fear that he was about to be betrayed. Yet if that were so, then either he’d no clear idea of who the potential betrayer was or he believed that Clarke, Short and Allen, were in the conspiracy to betray him. Either possibility seemed unlikely. And would someone betray him when to do so must be to expose to the authorities (if the deaths were not accepted as accidental) the fact that the Marques de Orlocas’s fortune had been recovered? (Hadn’t Llobera almost certainly been murdered in order to prevent his stupidly giving away the slightest hint of what had happened?) Gain? There were five of them to share the fortune. From all accounts, the jewellery and plate had been of such quality and in such quantity that to have sold it all at once would have been to draw attention to it, whereas a piece or two could be sold from time to time without undue comment. Then the odds must be that the bulk of it was still hidden somewhere. Five of them each owned a fifth of this. Allen’s wife had had no knowledge of it and this suggested, as was logical, that each man had been sworn to total secrecy. In these circumstances, the death of one man must moan his share would go unclaimed or, to put it another way, on the death of one man what was left would be divided amongst the survivors. So the murderer stood to gain the whole fortune for himself . . . Where would the jewels and plate be hidden? They’d want to be within easy reach of their fortune. Clarke and Allen had lived on the island. Short had owned a house here and had been a frequent visitor. But in an age when air travel was so quick and simple, to be near to something did not necessarily mean one had to be physically near to it. So it was perfectly feasible to imagine that neither Marsh nor Massier was living on the island. Where would they be if they weren’t? The Peninsula? France? Germany?
He picked up a pencil and began to make notes. Requests would have to be made to all possible countries for information on the present whereabouts of James Marsh and Raymond Massier. A photograph of Massier could be provided, but they’d no description of Marsh. Still, if Marsh were not living in
the UK, but in a country where everyone had to have some form of identity card, it should be reasonably simple to trace him.
He put the pencil down, sighed, rubbed his forehead. This was going to involve a great deal of work. But with any luck, not too much of it should fall on his shoulders.
Palma phoned on Friday morning. Salas’s secretary said: ‘The superior chief has asked me to give you the following message. The police in Nice have informed us that a James Marsh, an Englishman, is living in Pelonette. Do you know where that is?’
‘No, señorita.’
‘It is a village nine kilometres inland from Nice,’ she said, in a tone of voice which suggested that every educated person knew exactly where Pelonette was.
‘Then we must ask the French police to . . .’
‘It will be necessary for señor Marsh to be questioned.’
‘Yes, of course. So if we . . .’
‘You are to fly to Nice.’
‘I’m what?’
‘The flight has been booked.’
‘It’s . . . it’s impossible.’
‘Are you ill?’
Perhaps, he thought, he was ill. What else could explain why his mind should suddenly fill with the blurred picture of a man, much younger than he, returning with Tracey to her flat and this time not being refused . . .
‘Well, Inspector?’
‘Señorita, I am far too busy to be able to leave here.
Surely we can ask the French police to carry out the preliminary interrogation . . .’
‘If you wish to query the order,’ she said with schoolmistress primness, ‘you must do so with Superior Chief Salas, not with me.’
Salas’s voice was loud and clear. ‘Absolute nonsense.’
‘Señor,’ protested Alvarez, ‘I really am overwhelmed with work. I’ve countless serious crimes under investigation.’
‘Really? I don’t remember receiving your preliminary reports?’
‘I’ve been too busy to make them,’ Alvarez said weakly. ‘Señor, if I go to France and am not here to continue with all these investigations, what will happen?’
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