Hand In Glove - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You were there, in Spain. You knew Vicente. You heard him talk about Delgado. You’ve a better idea than I have how such people think.’

  ‘Have I?’ He grimaced and reached down for his glass where it stood on the floor beside his chair. But it was empty. With a grunt, he levered himself upright and crossed to the desk, where the vodka bottle was waiting.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?’ said Charlotte, instantly regretting her presumptuousness.

  ‘I know I haven’t,’ he growled, pouring himself a substantial measure. ‘I can still remember, you see. The smile on Vicente’s face. The fatalistic shrug of his shoulders as he left the barn and scrambled down the slope to surrender. And a question Tristram asked me in Tarragona as he lay dying. “Was the patrol that picked up Vicente one of Delgado’s, Frank?” I didn’t know, of course. And I couldn’t see why it mattered.’ He swallowed some vodka. ‘Until now.’ Then he turned to face her. ‘If I had known – if Vicente had trusted me instead of Tristram – would I still have let him give himself up?’

  ‘I … I can’t say.’

  ‘No. And neither can I.’ He returned to his chair and lowered himself wearily into it. ‘I’m no use to you, Charlotte. I wasn’t any use to Vicente either. Don’t ask me what to do.’ Wounded pride and a troubled conscience were curdling inside him, sucking him down towards introspection and despair. Suddenly, Charlotte realized she had to shock him free of self-pity.

  ‘I am asking you! I’m asking you because there’s nobody else. Help me, Frank, for God’s sake!’

  Derek woke with a sudden jolt and looked round at her. ‘What … I’m sorry, I must have …’

  ‘You’ve been asleep,’ said Frank. ‘But not as long as I have.’

  ‘You … You’ve read it all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What … What do you think?’

  It was at Charlotte that Frank stared as he replied. ‘I think you have three choices. And they may all be wrong. The most obvious is probably the wisest. Go to the police. Tell them everything. If Delgado’s still alive – or if Cardozo is – the Spanish authorities should be able to find him. But whoever’s organized this is no fool. He won’t be waiting obediently with the girl trussed up in his drawing room. She’ll be well hidden. And his tracks will be well covered. It’s more than possible the police may fail to locate him before the eleventh. Or, if they succeed, they may simply frighten him into … desperate measures.’

  ‘You mean he’ll kill Sam?’

  ‘It’s a risk. It’s bound to be.’

  ‘But the police are experienced in this sort of operation,’ put in Derek. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

  Frank’s eyes were still fixed on Charlotte. ‘What’s the second choice?’ she asked.

  ‘Place the advertisement in the International Herald Tribune. When the kidnappers make contact, explain your problem. Try to persuade them the map is out of their reach – and everybody else’s. Appeal to their powers of reason. But remember: you’ll only have one chance at most. When the advertisement appears, the police will see it as well as the kidnappers. And they may respond more quickly. The second choice may become the first choice against your will.’

  ‘Then surely the sensible course of action is to make a clean breast of it straightaway,’ said Derek. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte could see him looking at her, but she did not shift her gaze from Frank.

  ‘What’s the third choice?’

  ‘Assume Delgado is responsible. Then find him yourself. Negotiate with him personally. Make him understand that killing the girl will trigger a scandal destroying his reputation. A good fascist cares about honour more than money. Pray Delgado isn’t an exception.’

  ‘But we already know he is,’ said Derek. ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to keep the gold for himself. He’d have donated it to the cause.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Frank.

  ‘And we can’t be sure he’s guilty. The real culprit might be Cardozo. Or somebody else altogether.’

  ‘Also true,’ said Frank.

  ‘Besides, we have no idea where Delgado is and no means of locating him. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Frank, his stare at Charlotte intensifying. ‘I think I can find out if he’s alive and, if he is, where he lives.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Yes. The question is: do you want me to?’

  10

  AS THEY ENTERED the outskirts of Swansea, the task of keeping pace with Frank’s Land Rover became more complicated and Derek’s reservations about their journey more numerous. It seemed clear to him that there was only one thing to do: go to the police, who had the necessary manpower, resources, contacts and experience, whereas Frank Griffith had only fifty-year-old memories and an excess of stubbornness. He had not even consented to explain why they were going to Swansea or why they had to travel in separate vehicles. Charlotte had freely admitted she had no idea. But she had decided to give Frank his head. And where she went Derek was bound to follow – even against his better judgement. Their friendship was something he valued more highly than logic and responsibility. It had survived several crises already and he was determined not to impose what might be one crisis too many. Charlotte trusted Frank. Therefore Derek was obliged – for the moment – to do the same.

  Thankfully, they would not have to cling to the old man’s coat-tails much longer. Charlotte had promised as much before leaving Hendre Gorfelen that morning. ‘I just want to see what he has in mind, Derek. He seems confident he can learn something about Delgado. Isn’t it worth finding out what?’

  ‘Before going to the police?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s just give him a chance, shall we?’

  ‘Starting in Swansea? What can we learn about a Spanish fascist in Frank Griffith’s home town?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. But I’m going anyway. Are you coming with me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I am.’

  And now here they were, heading south through drab suburbs beneath a louring sky. To their right grey swathes of housing climbed the hills, while to their left factories and derelict plots traced the straggling line of the river Tawe. Somewhere in all that seemed so harsh and alien to Derek, Frank Griffith had led the greater part of his life. And to something here he was now returning.

  They reached the seafront through the Saturday morning chaos of the city centre, then followed the line of the bay west towards the distant lighthouse on Mumbles Head. Their surroundings altered as they went, easing them into a gentler world of seaside guesthouses and ice-cream parlours, of putting greens and boating lakes. Then Frank turned up a steep and winding road where pine trees and rhododendrons screened the frontages of discreet Victorian villas. And in one of these they found their destination: Owlscroft House Retirement Home.

  ‘We’re going to meet a friend of mine,’ Frank explained in the car park. ‘Lew Wilkins and I started together as fifteen-year-olds at the Dyffryn Tinplate Works in Morriston. Nine years later, we caught the train to London one Saturday afternoon, made our way to the Communist Party recruiting centre in the Mile End Road and enlisted for Spain.’

  ‘Did he know Vicente as well?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘No. Nor Tristram. He was wounded at Jarama early in ’thirty-seven and invalided home.’

  ‘Then why—’ Derek began. But Frank did not stay to listen. Already he was marching away towards the ivy-hung entrance, leaving Derek and Charlotte to smile at each other and fall in behind him.

  Lew Wilkins’ room was small but brightly decorated, with a view of the garden and a distant glimpse of the bay between the tree-tops. He was a slightly built, wizened old man unable to rise from his armchair to greet them, whose voice seemed to waver in time to the trembling of his hands. But in his eyes the
re was the same fire that burned in Frank Griffith’s, inextinguishable even by age and infirmity.

  ‘What wind’s blown you here, Frank?’ he asked. ‘And who are these good people?’

  ‘Friends of mine, Lew.’

  ‘Friends? Well, things must be looking up for you, then.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Look, I can’t stay long.’

  Lew chuckled. ‘No more than you ever could.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Sylvester Kilmainham.’

  ‘Kilmainham? I thought you’d sworn to have nothing to do with him.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘You’ve never changed your mind in all the years I’ve known you. And that must be sixty or more. So, what’s it all about?’

  ‘I can’t explain. But I need to contact him. Will you help me?’

  ‘He’ll want to ask lots of questions. He’ll want to rake over ground you told me you’d turned your back on for ever.’

  ‘I know. Even so …’ They exchanged a long and eloquent stare.

  ‘Please yourself. You always did.’ He looked across at Derek. ‘See that pot on the bureau, young fellow my lad? Take a look through it. You should find Kilmainham’s visiting card somewhere among the betting slips.’

  Derek crossed to the bureau, removed the lid from a fat earthenware pot and lifted out the contents one by one. There was the predicted surplus of betting slips, along with several doctor’s appointment cards, sundry bills and receipts, some unidentified tablets running loose … and the smartly printed visiting card of Sylvester C. Kilmainham, Esq., complete with address and telephone number. ‘Here we are,’ Derek announced, holding it up.

  Frank walked over and plucked the card from his hand. ‘Good,’ he said, casting his eye across the inscription. ‘He lives in London. We can be there this afternoon. Is there a telephone downstairs I can use, Lew?’

  ‘Impatient after playing hard to get all these years, aren’t we?’ Lew grinned. ‘Yes, there’s a phone you can use. Ask the redoubtable matron.’

  ‘Who is Mr Kilmainham?’ put in Charlotte.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asked Lew. ‘Hasn’t my old comrade told you?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank. ‘He hasn’t. Why don’t you save me the trouble, Lew?’

  ‘If you like. Sylvester Kilmainham is an avid researcher of the Spanish Civil War. I’ve had him here picking my brains more than once. He’s compiling his magnum opus, you see. Has been for years. A biographical dictionary of the entire conflict. Everybody who fought in Spain, however ingloriously, on whichever side. He claims to have the most comprehensive collection of biographical information in existence, though, being a perfectionist, he can’t regard it as complete until every last foot-soldier and camp-follower has been included. Even now, some – like Frank – continue to elude him. It’s been as much as I can do on several occasions not to take pity on him and give him Frank’s address, but—’

  ‘His collection covers the Spaniards involved?’ Charlotte interrupted.

  ‘A good many, certainly.’

  ‘What about officers in the Nationalist army?’ asked Derek. ‘Colonels, for instance?’

  ‘Bound to be there. Every last one, I should think.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ said Frank. ‘Every last one.’

  11

  CHARLOTTE DID NOT know whether to feel glad or sorry that Sylvester Kilmainham had been at home when Frank telephoned him from Owlscroft House. If he had chanced to be out, she could justifiably have gone to the police with what she knew, arguing any further delay would be dangerous. As it was, having come so far with Frank, she had no choice but to go one step further. Their appointment with Kilmainham was at four o’clock. Afterwards, she promised herself, she would follow the course Derek had been urging upon her. Whatever they learned, she would hesitate no longer.

  Kilmainham occupied a basement flat in a quiet street somewhere on the indeterminate boundary between Hampstead and Cricklewood. He was a large, not to say corpulent, man in his mid-forties with a mop of curly hair the colour and texture of wire-wool and a squint which may or may not have been an illusion produced by his thick-lensed glasses. He was wearing a huge loosely knit sweater long and baggy enough to count as a smock, down which something – food or paint – had recently been spilt. The glee with which he greeted Frank was that of a train-spotter catching his first sight of a long sought-after locomotive. It eclipsed Charlotte and Derek completely and left them merely to spectate at the encounter.

  ‘Mr Griffith! What a rare and unexpected pleasure. I’d quite given up hoping to meet you.’

  ‘Lew Wilkins said you were anxious to speak to me.’

  ‘An understatement. You are one of the few British members of the International Brigades to have slipped through my net. As such, you are more welcome than I can say. Come in, come in.’

  Charlotte and Derek were spared no more than a nod as he ushered them into a large and ill-aired front room. Floor space was at a premium, thanks to ceiling-high shelving on every wall, a phalanx of whale-grey filing cabinets and a substantial table overflowing with shoe-boxes. Each was crammed with dog-eared index cards, many of which had flimsy notes attached, all set a-quiver by the draught of their entrance. The sides of the boxes sported titles scrawled in the bluntest of felt-tipped pens. They left Charlotte in no doubt that this was their host’s legendary Spanish Civil War archive, REPUBLICANS E–G, russians m–r, journalists d–f, miscellaneous a–d. And, pulled forward in readiness, BRITONS f–h.

  ‘I’m thinking of computerizing the whole thing,’ Kilmainham announced. ‘But I started before such technology was available and now … Well, I’ll have to get around to it sometime before 2011, won’t I?’ He grinned.

  ‘Why 2011?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘The seventy-fifth anniversary of the outbreak. That’s when I hope to publish. I’d aimed originally for the fiftieth, but it proved … over-optimistic. Would you care for some tea?’

  ‘I’d like to settle our business first,’ said Frank.

  ‘An admirable attitude, my dear sir. Your card’s waiting for you.’ Kilmainham seized one standing proud of the rest in the BRITONS F–H box, sat down at the table on a stool and brandished a pen. ‘Shall we check the little I already have first? Born Swansea, 1912. Is that correct?’

  ‘Not so fast. I want some information from you before I donate any.’

  Kilmainham frowned. ‘Well … This is somewhat unusual. I—’

  ‘Everything you have on a couple of Spaniards in exchange for everything you want from me.’

  ‘I see.’ The frown transmuted itself into a smile of resignation. ‘Well … Why not? Who are they?’

  ‘A Republican civil servant called Cardozo and a Nationalist colonel called Delgado.’

  ‘Cardozo and Delgado? They ring no bells, but …’ He gestured at the shoe-boxes. ‘That scarcely signifies. Let’s see what we have.’ He tapped his teeth with the pen for a moment, then pulled one of the boxes towards him and fingered through the cards, muttering under his breath as he did so. ‘Cab … Cal … Can … Cap … Car … Cardozo. Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘This must be him. Luis Antonio Cardozo, Junior Secretary at the Ministry of Finance, February to October 1936. Not much known about him, I fear.’

  ‘What is known?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Well …’ Kilmainham sucked at his teeth. ‘Born Madrid, 1910. Son of a civil servant – bureaucracy in the blood, apparently. Educated at the Augustinian College at El Escorial. Took a law degree at the University of Salamanca. Entered the Civil Service, 1932. Then a series of appointments leading to the one you know about at the Ministry of Finance.’ He paused, then added: ‘Not a happy ending, I fear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Disappeared in Cartagena, 27 October 1936, while assisting the Permanent Secretary, Mendez Aspe, during supervision of the shipment to Russia of the national gold reserve. Thought to have defected to the Nationalists. Subsequently alleged to have been spyi
ng for them from the outbreak of the Civil War. If true, they didn’t show much gratitude, I’m afraid. He’s thought to have been one of six prisoners executed in Burgos, 7 November 1936, on the orders of Colonel M.A. Delgado. Ah! Delgado. Well, there’s a coincidence.’ He looked up at Frank. ‘Or perhaps not, judging by your expression.’ Then he grinned. ‘The name’s asterisked, which means I have an entry on him. Shall I look it up?’

  ‘If you would.’

  Kilmainham pulled another box to the fore, riffled through the cards and picked one out. ‘Here we are. Marcelino Alfonso Delgado, colonel in the Nationalist Army. I’ve accumulated a fair amount on him.’ He flicked at some sheets of paper clipped to the back of the card. ‘Do you want all of it?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Very well.’ He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Born Seville, 1899. Son of a dentist – but no vocation for tooth-pulling, it seems. Educated at Toledo Infantry Academy. Went straight into the army from there. Posted to Morocco, 1919. Gained steady promotion to the rank of captain. Wounded during the campaign against the Riffs, October 1925. Right hand amputated. Nasty, eh?’ He broke off and looked round, as if expecting a reaction. When there was none, he shrugged his shoulders and resumed. ‘Returned to Spain and promoted to major. Posted to Corunna on the staff of the military governor of Galicia. A quiet berth, I suppose, in view of his disability. But it doesn’t seem to have hampered his romantic aspirations. Married a Galician heiress, Cristina Vasconcelez, 1927, thereby acquiring a substantial estate, Pazo de Lerezuela, near Santiago de Compostela. One son, Anselmo, born 1930. When the military rising began in July 1936, Delgado sided with the rebels against the governor, Caridad Pita. A wise choice, since the rebels took Galicia with some ease and Caridad Pita was subsequently executed. Delgado was promoted to colonel and appointed to the staff of the Nationalist junta in Burgos, where he established an intelligence-gathering outfit. Hence his link with Cardozo, presumably. Said not to have been well thought of by Franco, however.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That probably explains his transfer to a field command early in 1937 and lack of subsequent promotion. He didn’t make general until long after the Civil War was over and then only just before retirement. Saw action at Jarama, Guadalajara, Teruel and the Ebro. Acquitted himself well, with a reputation for brutality, both against his own men and the enemy. But the Generalissimo still didn’t take to him, so it was back to garrison duty in Galicia in 1939. End of story.’