Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I gave them the details from his residencia and I have been back on to the office and they assure me that I got all the details right.’

  ‘Find out who he really was and try to decide once and for all whether he was murdered.’ Superior Chief Salas slammed down the receiver.

  The English, thought Alvarez, were the world’s trouble-makers, even when dead. He stood up, yawned, looked at his watch to see how long it was before he could break off for lunch, sighed, and left the room. His car was parked in the square and he walked to it. He drove out on to the Puerto Llueso road and then, at the islands, went past the new football ground and up to the urbanizacion. He took the spur road down to Casa Elba.

  Señorita Cannon interested him because he was certain she had no counterpart in Spain. There were ungainly women, ugly women, even, it was said, sexless women in Spain, but all of them would possess dignity and pride. Señorita Cannon could have neither dignity nor pride.

  When she opened the front door, she said: ‘What do you want?’ in a tone of voice devoid of all welcoming hospitality.

  ‘Señorita, I would be most grateful if you would be so kind as to answer one or two questions for me.’

  With obvious reluctance, she stepped to one side to let him enter. Lying about the sitting-room were papers and magazines, records in their jackets, two bottles in the grate which had not been cleared of ash, and a clothes-horse in front of the fireplace on which were several underclothes. Dolores, he thought, would have to be very seriously ill before she ever allowed her home to get in such a state.

  ‘What do you want to know, then?’ she demanded roughly. As she finished speaking, a telephone rang in one of the bedrooms along the corridor. Without bothering to apologize, she swung round and left to hurry down the corridor.

  He crossed the room and looked at the records. They all seemed to be of old, romantic musicals in which everyone nice lived happily ever afterwards. Poor woman, he thought with sudden compassion. She could only know romance vicariously. He moved and looked at the books in the large bookcase, expecting them all to be romances. A few obviously were, but the rest of the titles showed that he’d been wrong in attributing to her such narrow intellectual and emotional interests. On the shelves were books on archaeology, history, travel, biographies, flora, fauna, and insects of Northern Europe and the Mediterranean . . . and a green bound book entitled Vegetable Poisons by P. J. Meegan.

  It was not a very thick book. Each chapter was clearly headed: the poppy; hashish; cocaine; atropine, hyoscyamine, and scopolamine: curare; the double-faced strophantus and the two hemlocks: the death cap, the destroying angel, the fool’s mushroom, and the edible table top . . . The chapter on poisonous fungi had obviously been well read and two pages, facing, were quite dirty. Almost at the bottom of the first of these was a fresh paragraph which carried on to the second page:

  There grows in the Balearics, and in particular on the largest of the islands, Majorca, an edible fungus known locally as esclatasang. (In Mallorquin, a dialect of Catalan, one of the four languages spoken in Spain, this means popping blood. The esclatasang exudes a red liquid.) These are held to be delicious and are highly priced - perhaps too highly priced for anyone who has eaten the field or oyster mushroom in northern Europe. The casual fungicologist, however, eager to sample the specialities of the islands, must be on his guard when searching for these fungi. For among the esclatasangs may be found occasional examples of Amanita mallorquinas, distinguishable by the savant, but not by the incognoscente. Amanita mallorquinas (known locally as Uargsomi - in Mallorquin, this is a corruption of Uarg somni, ‘long sleep’; the Mallorquins often display a macabrely ironic sense of humour) like its cousin Amanita phalloides, must be considered quite deadly. A small amount if eaten will cause severe illness, a whole cap will almost invariably cause death which comes in its most distressing form, racking the body with acute abdominal pains, very severe vomiting, raging colics . . .

  He heard her returning along the corridor. He replaced the book in the bookcase.

  When she entered, she looked at him with surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there, and then flopped down in one of the armchairs.

  ‘Señorita, I will be as brief as I can be,’ he assured her kindly.

  She continued to stare at the fireplace.

  ‘Certain points concerning the unfortunate death of Senor Freeman have raised questions.’ He walked over to the second armchair and sat down. ‘It occurs to me that you may be able to help answer the questions. How long did you know Senor Freeman?’

  She might not have heard him.

  ‘Señorita, how long did you know Senor Freeman? Did you know him before you came to this island?’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘I never met him before. D’you hear -1 never met him before.’

  Alvarez rubbed his heavy chin. ‘Then it is only coincidence that you and Señor Freeman applied for your first permissions and then your residencias on exactly the same dates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps you should know that I have been told you were friendly with the señor from the time you first came to Llueso.’

  ‘Who’s been prying into my life?’

  ‘Señorita, in a small community surely everything is known to everybody?’

  ‘No.’

  He waited, because he thought she was going to say something more, but she was silent. ‘Señorita, may I see your passport, please?’

  ‘Why d’you want to see it? I won’t show it to you.’

  ‘I am very sorry, but I must insist on seeing it.’

  She stared with hatred at him for a while, then she jerked herself out of the chair and left the room. When she returned, she threw the passport at him.

  He studied the number. ‘Señorita, would it again be only coincidence that the number of your passport is in sequence with that of Señor Freeman’s?’

  ‘Oh God, why can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘You did know him before you came to this island, didn’t you?’

  She closed her eyes as if to shut out the threatening world.

  Because he was a man of compassion, he hated the necessity of having to question her further. ‘Señorita, do you remember my asking you whether you knew about the poisonous fungus which on this island we call llargsomi and I now learn the experts call Amanita mallorquinas?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You told me you had never heard of it. Yet there is a book on the shelf over there which describes the llargsomi and details very closely what happens to a person who eats one.’

  ‘I’ve never read that.’

  ‘But the pages are much used . . . Señorita, poison does not always strike as a book says it will. One person is killed by an amount the book says is merely dangerous: another person can eat an amount that is said to be fatal and live. Tell me, did you just wish to make him ill, to suffer a little for what he had done to you?’

  She opened her eyes and stared at him.

  ‘On Thursday you went to his house and found him with another woman. It would have shocked anyone, but perhaps it shocked you more greatly because you were very fond of the señor. So you determined to punish him a little . . .’

  ‘Are you trying to say I gave him the poison and killed him?’

  ‘I do not think you intended him to die . . .’

  ‘You filthy swine! Get out.’ She jumped to her feet. Her face was twisted with hatred and her mouth was opening and shutting as if she were panting for air.

  ‘Señorita . . .’

  She screamed. She leaned over and picked up an occasional table and threw it. Her aim was poor and the table missed Alvarez by at least a metre. It hit the settee and fell to the ground. She began to sneeze, violently, and tears, caused either by the sneezing or her wild emotions, flooded down her cheeks. Her nose dripped.

  Sweet Mary, he prayed, see me safely out of this madwoman’s house. He came to his feet and hurried across to the front door, cow
ard enough to imagine her rinding a handy carving knife and racing towards his unprotected back . . .

  He pulled open the door, shot out, and slammed the door shut behind himself. What ignorant fool, he wondered, had described the English as a phlegmatic race?

  As he walked towards his car, parked under the shadow of a crooked pine tree, another car came down the slip road. He identified the driver as the woman he had first seen in company with Señorita Cannon and he experienced another, and very different, rush of emotion.

  Caroline braked the hired Seat 600 to a stop, opened the driving door and climbed out. ‘Hullo,‘she said. ‘We met the other day, didn’t we? You’re a policeman. Have you just been in to see Mabel?’

  He was momentarily tongue-tied. The passenger came round the bonnet and Alvarez looked at him for the first time. He saw a man in his early twenties, powerfully built, with a strongly featured, tanned face, dressed in very worn yachting T-shirt, jeans, and plimsolls. A boat-bum, he thought immediately, having seen so many of them hanging around the harbour, scrounging what they could, working only when they had to. He knew a sharp, indignant anger. That she should be in the company of such a man.

  ‘What’s up, then?’ asked Anson, not intending to sound as belligerent as he undoubtedly did.

  Alvarez continued to stare at him.

  ‘Seems like he doesn’t speak English. Come on, Carrie, let’s go in and get it over with.’

  ‘I speak a very little, señor, but that little not very well,’ said Alvarez, with the self-deprecating politeness which in Spain sometimes took the place of rudeness. ‘I fear I make many mistakes.’

  ‘Well, it sounds to me as if you speak it wonderfully well,’ she said gaily. ‘I only wish I could speak Spanish half as well.’

  Her eyes were deep blue where Juana-Maria’s had been dark brown, yet to look into them was to look at what had lain in Juana-Maria’s.

  ‘How is Mabel?‘asked Caroline. ‘I hope she’s a bit better. She’s been so depressed that I’ve been worried.’

  ‘Señorita, I am afraid that now she is also disturbed by what I have said to her.’

  ‘That’s all we bloody wanted,’ muttered Anson.

  ‘Don’t get into a panic, Teddy,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Who’s panicking?’

  ‘From the sound of things, you are. Look, if she’s too upset now for us to talk to her about it all, we’ll just come back some other time.’

  ‘Señorita,’ said Alvarez, ‘permit me to suggest that it would be best not to speak to the señorita on this occasion. She is not as calm as one would wish.’

  ‘Then that’s that, isn’t it!’ Anson kicked a stone across the road. ‘I told you it would be a waste of time.’

  She spoke to Alvarez. ‘Have you any idea why she’s so upset?’

  ‘I had to ask several questions, señorita, and she did not welcome them.’

  ‘Questions about Geoffrey Freeman’s death?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, no wonder you say she’s disturbed! Teddy, it’s not going to be the slightest use speaking to her today.’

  ‘There’s not much time left,’ he said perversely.

  She wanted to tell him to snap out of it, but realized that he was on edge, suffering from excitement, apprehension, and reaction.

  ‘Goodbye, señorita,’ said Alvarez. When she smiled at him, he was momentarily a rich man.

  He remembered her goodbye smile all the way to Llueso.

  Alvarez was far too much of a countryman really to like any town, but he was never sorry to visit Palma because there was something rather countrified about those parts of it which weren’t entirely dedicated to the tourist trade - also, the toy shops had a much greater selection than those in Llueso or Puerto Llueso and he could be certain of buying something really nice for his nephew and niece.

  He drove into the underground car-park in the Plaza Mayor and walked round to a tapas bar where he had small dishes of squid, tripe, and meatballs, and a glass of wine followed by a brandy. From there he walked to the large toy shop in Calle General Mola where he spent over half an hour choosing two toys and it was not until well over an hour after arriving in Palma that he entered the Calle Juan Rives branch of the Banco de Credito Balear.

  The assistant manager saw him in the manager’s office.

  ‘We’ve been handling an account in the name of Senor Geoffrey Freeman, Inspector, so when the request for information came through we immediately got in touch with you. I hope there’s nothing wrong?’

  Bankers always worried so, thought Alvarez. ‘Nothing likely to upset you, I’d say. It’s just that the señor has died and I need to know what sort of business you did for him.’

  ‘That’s easily explained. He has an account with us into which he occasionally pays large sums of money and on which he draws fairly regularly.’

  ‘Was the money paid in with English cheques or bank drafts?’

  The assistant manager looked annoyed at himself for not having the answer pat. He opened a folder and quickly read through some papers. ‘All payments appear to have been made in Swiss francs by means of cheques.’ He looked up. ‘With most currencies having been so volatile, he’s been fortunate to have been in Swiss francs.’

  ‘Can you give me the name of the Swiss bank on which the cheques were drawn?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The cheques go to Madrid and then back to the issuing bank. Since no cheque was ever refused, I have no separate knowledge of which bank it was.’

  ‘I wonder why he did things this way? It surely would have been easier to have worked entirely through you or his other bank?’

  The assistant manager smiled with discreet amusement at such naive questions.

  ‘Is there anything more about his account you can tell me?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Inspector.’

  ‘Then I’ve just one more question. Do you by any chance handle another account for an English señorita by the name of Mabel Cannon?’

  ‘One moment. I’ll make enquiries.’

  The assistant manager left. Alvarez stared at the far wall and wondered whether if he were wealthy, with many millions of pesetas, he would appear less than middle-aged to a young woman with corn-coloured hair and deep blue eyes who lived in a world filled with evil and yet remained untouched by it.

  The assistant manager returned. ‘Yes, we do handle her account.’ He tapped two sheets of paper he carried in his left hand. ‘It’s precisely the same pattern. Large sums of money paid in in Swiss francs, smaller sums in cash drawn out at roughly regular intervals. The only real difference is that the señorita has never withdrawn a very large sum since the beginning, when I imagine she bought her house.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘The most that’s been paid in is around a hundred thousand and almost all withdrawals are for less than twenty thousand. But the señor paid in and drew out fifteen million.’

  Alvarez whistled. ‘When was this?’

  ‘The middle of April . . . A man can do a lot on fifteen million, can’t he, even in these days of inflation?’

  Alvarez pushed aside the empty glass down on the desk and looked at his watch. Surely it was now too late to visit an English señorita who, despite appearances, probably worried about her virginity from the moment it became dark? An unwelcome shaft of honesty made him admit that he was afraid. What if she should be even more emotionally upset than on his previous visit? Would he escape with his life? He poured himself out another brandy and wondered why he couldn’t reconcile himself to being a coward?

  He drove from the Guardia post to Casa Elba. There were lights on inside. He sighed, because until now it had always been possible she might have gone out.

  He left the car and walked, the uncut bushes brushing him, to the front door. He pressed the illuminated bell push and heard the bell sound.

  She opened the door to the extent of the chain and peered out and when she recognized him her expression became bit
terly antagonistic. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Señorita, I fear I have returned to ask you further questions.’

  She said something he didn’t catch, shut the door until she could release the chain, then opened it. He stepped into the house. There was a smell of cooking, but it was a thin smell, not the kind of rich, full, garlicky smell to which he was accustomed. Thank God he wasn’t eating here! The sitting-room was in an even more untidy condition than previously and the record-player was playing a sugary waltz.

  ‘If you’ve come to make any more filthy accusations..’ she began aggressively.

  ‘Señorita,‘he cut in hastily, ‘I am here to make no accusations, merely to ask you about a bank account.’

  She stared at him for a few seconds, her head thrust forward, then she whirled round and strode over to a chair and sat.

  ‘Señorita, you have a bank account with the Credito Balear in Calle Juan Rives in Palma.‘He raised his voice to counter the music.

  ‘Still spying,‘she said contemptuously.

  ‘I fear I have to make many enquiries when people do not tell me the full facts.’

  ‘I’ve told you over and over . . .‘She stopped abruptly and reached up to her throat. She had some difficulty with swallowing and after a while she stood up and clumped past him to go into the kitchen.

  Through the open hatchway, between the sitting-room and the kitchen, he watched her fill a glass from the tap and drink. She waited, shook her head as if something were sorely puzzling her, and poured out another half glassful of water.

  When she returned, there seemed to be a certain uneasiness to all her movements, as if something had suddenly begun to ache. She stared in front of her and ran her fingers through her mouse-coloured, straggly hair, trying to brush it away from her forehead.

  ‘Señorita, you pay into your account with the Credito Balear certain sums of money in Swiss francs. Will you please tell me the name of your Swiss bank?’

  She made no answer.

  ‘I am afraid I have the power to make you tell me . . .’ He stopped because she was plainly not listening to him and now there was a look of growing fright on her face as if she could see something of immeasurable evil.