As the don had spoken, Burke had felt an unease ripple through him. So far he had avoided any cases that touched on slaves. He was no slave hunter, and he couldn’t abide the thought of such cruel work. But there was his livelihood to consider. Don Hernán could ruin him. And so he clenched all feeling from his heart and said, “I am at your service.”
Marcita, Burke learned, had disappeared in the Calle O’Reilly while marketing in the company of two slave boys, Domingo and Miércoles. They were out on an errand, so he arranged to have the boys meet him in the city at five. Then, before leaving the don’s villa, he made an inspection of Marcita’s quarters. She lived in a small room near the kitchens. One wall was decorated with an advertisement for an Italian soprano who had appeared on the stage two years before, and another with a collection of Honradez cigarette labels from a series depicting the progress of a pollo, a fop, from prince of the ball to beggar. Another series of labels, these for a Villargas brand, lay on her bedside table. They showed each of the islands of the Antilles as ladies, Cuba regal and bedecked with pearls and tobacco leaves, sprinkling sugar onto a globe, Santo Domingo a weeping negress with torn skirts. In a plain earthen jar Burke found a bundle of feathers and dried leaves, of the kind you could buy from the guinea women in the night markets for good luck, and beneath a loose tile he discovered a burlap sack filled with coins. He paused over this last item before he left, wondering what might have compelled Marcita to forget the sack when she ran—perhaps it meant she had fled on impulse.
Burke didn’t return to the Calle del Sol, where the old mansion his rooms were in stood, until past one. The midday heat had already blanketed the city, and after a light lunch he isolated himself in his bedroom and rested. At three he woke to the call of a water vendor in the street below. The city was not yet stirring—the water vendor’s cry was the only noise that came from outside—and he moved to his study and remained there while the heat lifted. He tried to compose a letter to Don Hernán, regretting that he could not finish the case and begging the don that it would not cost him his esteem, but he could not find the right words. No matter the phrasing, the don would be disappointed and insulted. Besides, Burke had already given part of his fee to Fernandita to pay off the butcher. He had no choice now, and when his clock struck four forty-five he rose and left his rooms and went out the courtyard gate to keep his appointment with the don’s two slave boys.
The sky was high and blue, and with the worst of the day’s heat finally past, the city had spilled once more into the streets. Gentlemen in broad-brimmed straw hats walked together speaking of business, Capuchins delivered alms, a company of soldiers marched in seersucker uniforms, a lottery ticket seller cried out that his numbers were blessed. Burke had to pass through this throng as he crossed the Plaza de Armas, skirting Ferdinand VII on his pedestal, then going along the university walls and into the Calle O’Reilly. There he found the street, as usual, blocked with volantas. Pale ladies shaded by umbrellas sat in the carriages while shopkeepers came out of their shops to present them with their wares. Burke picked his way around them and after a block found the two boys waiting for him by the sweet shop. They were dressed in the don’s blue livery and engrossed in a game of punching each other in the arm. Burke introduced himself, then took them aside from the bustle and asked them to show him where Marcita had disappeared.
Miércoles, who was the older of the two boys, pointed toward a row of shops past the Calle Habana intersection. “She tole us to get some oysters, so we were loadin’ up the baskets, and when we done, she was gone.”
Domingo, the smaller and darker-skinned of the two, nodded.
“And you saw nothing?”
Miércoles said he’d been watching the road while he held his basket and hadn’t seen her come back past. He thought she’d gone farther up the street.
Burke put his hands on the boys’ shoulders and walked them closer to the shops. The first shop off the Calle Habana intersection was the oyster stall, and next was the narrow stall of the Gallitos brand’s tobacco shop, and after that a bookseller’s. A corpulent, red-bearded fellow was dressing the Gallitos window with rolls of cigarettes. The prices were absurdly high, even for Havana standards, and the shop looked empty. Next door the bookseller was doing a brisk business selling copies of David Copperfield. He sat beside his crate and handed copies up to passing volontas, catching the coins in his palm, all without looking up from the newspaper in his lap. Burke asked what the boys had done after Marcita disappeared, and Miércoles told him that they waited a half-hour, then returned to the don’s villa on the horse trolley.
“And you didn’t worry?”
“Not on Tuesdays,” Domingo said.
Miércoles glared at Domingo, and Domingo clapped his hand over his lips.
“What happened on Tuesdays?” Burke asked.
Domingo kept his hand over his mouth, and Miércoles looked at his feet.
“I’d hate to have to tell Don Hernán you were uncooperative,” Burke said.
The boys needed little time to think this over. Miércoles nodded to Domingo, and Domingo said, “That’s when she met her man.”
“Her man?” Burke asked.
“But last time she didn’t give us any money,” Miércoles added.
“What money?”
“She always gave us money to keep quiet,” Miércoles said.
Burke had the boys lead him to the lover’s rooms. They took him up the block to the Calle Compostela, turned right and past the Church of Santa Catalina, then walked north two blocks, then turned again, toward the city walls. They stopped finally before a dingy, mud-daubed building in the Calle Villegas. Burke asked which room was the lover’s, and the boys pointed toward a window on the top floor, the one farthest to the right. Leaving the boys in the street, Burke walked into the courtyard, up the stairs and onto the interior veranda, found the lover’s door, and knocked. There was no answer. Beside the door someone had tacked a piece of paperboard that read Enrique López, Merchant—a grand title, Burke thought, for one who lived in one of the poorest buildings in the city. He waited and knocked again. Still no answer. Burke wasn’t sure what to do—this was his first case of this kind—and at last he took his card, wrote Marcita’s name on it, and slid it under the door. Then he came out and walked the boys back to the sweet shop, where he bought them sugar sticks and sent them on their way.
The case, it seemed, was already shut—Marcita had absconded with her lover. That was an explanation he could give Don Hernán. Tomorrow morning he could send him the man’s name. Surely that would be enough—he couldn’t see himself tracking the two further, clamping Marcita in irons.
He sat in a café and drank a horchata. As he sipped the cool drink and watched the street, he remembered what his mother had last told him. Burke had been brought up in the plantation house by his father, taught to read the books in the library, and allowed to range freely over his father’s land with his own gun to shoot birds in the marshes. There was no white wife—Burke’s father had been a bachelor—and so Burke’s mother was allowed to come spend evenings with him every month or so. “You sure make me proud,” she’d told him that last time, pulling on the sleeves of his little velvet coat. He was eleven. “And you’re gonna keep making me proud. You’re gonna grow up and do good and be good to people.” She’d died two weeks later, when fever spread up the bayous.
When he’d stumbled on detective work, he’d thought again of his mother’s words. It was all he’d wanted, to do good, and here was his chance—he eased troubled minds, rooted out wrongs.
Later, hours past supper, Burke lay down to sleep and found he couldn’t. A thought had come to him and refused to leave. Sending the lover’s name to the don—would it be any different from putting the irons on Marcita himself?
The next morning Fernandita brought him coffee and a buttered roll and set them on his desk. As he ate the roll, he watched the tangle of masts outside his window and considered whether he could write the letter. T
hen he heard a shout below. He was so lost in thought that it came twice again before he caught it. “Murder!”
Burke leaned his head out the window and looked down. It was a beggar in a tattered hat, looking to sell his news to the street.
Burke whistled and the man looked up. “What murder?” Burke asked.
“Toss me a roll and a real and I’ll tell you.”
Burke did so, and the man told how some soldiers had been drinking in a field outside of town when they found a slave’s body.
“Where?” Burke asked.
“Between the Paseo de Tacón and the railroad.”
“Man or woman?”
The beggar shrugged.
Burke crossed the study to the door, and once in the street he hailed a carriage, a hack with a negro driver. It was a stretch, but it gave him an excuse to delay writing to the don. “Take me to the Paseo de Tacón,” Burke said, and the driver began weaving out of the city, moving his carriage skillfully through the crowds.
Twenty minutes later they came to a field scattered with soldiers. An army lieutenant and two government clerks stood at the back of the field, beside a grove of bushes, smoking, and behind them an orderly tended a coffee urn. When Burke got out of the hack, he made for them. As he approached, one of the clerks, a short man with gray sideburns and the flat, bland face of a sheep, stepped forward.
“You have no business here,” he said.
“I might,” Burke answered, and offered the man his card. “I’m in the employ of Don Hernán Vargas y Lombillo.”
The man broke into a grin and thumped the card with his forefinger. “I know of you,” he said. “You solved the case of the false pirates for Braganza. My name is Galván. You are most welcome.”
“Thank you. I only want to see the body.”
“Ah, that is a problem,” Galván said, looking across the field, where soldiers and policemen in brown holland uniforms were beating the grass with sticks. “We haven’t yet found the body. All we have is the head.”
“Only the head,” Burke said, then asked, “May I look?”
“Of course.” Galván spread his arm. “It’s just over there.” He pointed to the grove. “Forgive me if I don’t join you. I’ve had my fill.”
Burke thanked the man, then went over to the grove, parted the branches, and saw the head. His heart sank. The head belonged to a dark-skinned man with a scar running from his forehead to his cheek. He’d not admitted it to himself, but he’d hoped to find Marcita here and so be free of his burden. He thought to leave, but then decided to take a closer look. As he knelt and examined the head, all the noises behind him—the lieutenant’s guffaw, the policemen’s and soldiers’ complaints, the sush of their sticks against the grass—fell away. The head lay face up, the skin ragged with gore along the neck where it had been severed. But no blood had drained onto the soil—a fact Burke found curious. The head must have been severed at some other place. He looked at the eyes, felt a chill when their gaze seemed to catch him, and wondered why the body was not here as well. He stood and went over to Galván.
“What’s near here?” he asked.
“Only the railroad tracks, the woods, the field, and those factories.”
Burke looked around the area. The tracks divided the field from the woods, and the factories—three of them, a nail factory, a cigarette factory, a snuff mill—stood on the field’s western end. Any evidence of the killer’s path had been destroyed by the soldiers beating through the field with their sticks.
He had no business with the murder, but he found himself interested. “Would you mind sending me word once the body is found?”
“It’d be a pleasure,” Galván answered.
When Burke returned to his rooms, he found a note under his door. Fernandita was out, marketing for his supper, and the note was from Marcita’s lover. He’d come by, hoping to speak.
After leaving his card at the lover’s room, Burke had both worried and hoped that the man would flee, if he hadn’t already, that he would take Marcita from her hiding place and disappear. But instead the lover comes to seek him out? Burke stuffed the note in his pocket and turned around, going back out into the courtyard and through the streets toward the man’s dismal building.
When Burke arrived and knocked on the lover’s door, the man answered and beckoned him inside. He was a mulatto, at least two shades lighter than Burke and twenty years his senior. His cheeks and nose were covered with freckles, and he had a high, wide brow. The flesh beneath his eyes was puffed, the eyes themselves red.
“Please, sit,” the lover said, clearing stacks of handbills from a chair. Burke did so and looked about the cramped room. Its walls were stained a pale yellow, and aside from another chair, the only other piece of furniture was a couch whose crimson velvet had been worn to bare pink patches. He was about to ask the lover about Marcita when the man, unable to contain himself, shot out, “Tell me where she is. I beg you. Tell me what you know. Tell me anything.”
Burke, alarmed, straightened in his chair. “I was hoping,” he said, “you’d be able to do that for me.”
“But I thought she’d sent you!” Enrique said, then pleaded, “Why torture me with your note?”
“I’m trying to find her,” Burke said.
Enrique was silent a moment. Then something seemed to catch. “Why?” he asked. A nervousness entered his voice. “Who hired you? Was it Don Hernán?”
“I’m under his employ, but he didn’t—”
“He knows?” At that he went to the window. A gauzy sheet hung there, luffing in the wind. “Oh, no no no.”
“I can assure you Don Hernán knows nothing,” Burke said, “and I can further assure you that he will learn nothing. You are safe. I’m charged only to find Marcita. That I will do, and nothing else.”
Enrique pulled back the curtain and looked out. Then he stepped back toward Burke. “I love her,” he said. “When she is free, we’re going to move to Santo Domingo, away from the don, away from this island. I’ve been saving money to help her. See?” He offered Burke a handbill. It was for a brand of tinned butter. “I sell this, for my living, for her. I was waiting for her last Tuesday. We were going to have an hour. But then she didn’t show. I worried. I thought the don had found out. Then I saw the notices the don put in the paper, and I thought maybe she had run.”
Burke’s mind began to leap with what Enrique had told him. “You were waiting for her on Tuesday?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” Enrique said.
“Where, exactly?”
“At the corner of O’Reilly and Compostela.”
“And you kept a hard watch for her?”
“I always do.”
Burke rose. “Thank you,” he said. Then, without another word, he went to the door.
“Is that all?” Enrique asked, still standing by the window and staring after Burke.
“It is enough.”
Burke walked directly to the Calle O’Reilly. There, halfway between the Habana and Compostela intersections, he planted himself in the center of the street. He looked eastward, toward the intersection where Miércoles and Domingo had waited, O’Reilly and Habana. Then he pivoted and looked westward, toward the intersection where Enrique had kept a sharp lookout, O’Reilly and Compostela. Between these two lookouts, one at either entrance to the block, Marcita had vanished.
On the left side of the street were the oyster shop, the bookseller’s, and the tobacco shop he’d seen before, and farther on a linen shop and a silversmith’s. On the right stood a tea shop, a music shop, a large shop selling glassware, and a perfumery. There was nothing strange about the block. The shops were all elegant, glass-fronted establishments that catered to the city’s gentry. They had preposterous names like the Empress Eugénie (the perfumery) and the Bower of Arachne (the linen shop) written in gold letters above their doors. Burke walked up and down before them, observing everything around him, looking again and again into the same glazed shop fronts and at the crowds moving pas
t, the gentlemen, the vendors, the slaves. He even knelt and examined the street itself, paved in smoothed cobblestones. But after two hours’ investigation, Burke had found nothing. Returned to the Calle del Sol, he sat at his desk to think, and when Fernandita brought in his supper, he refused the plate of red sausages and rice with a distracted wave of his hand.
“As you wish,” Fernandita said. In a moment, though, she had returned. “I almost forgot,” she said. “A boy brought this.” She handed Burke a message. It was from Galván, and he’d written only three words: Body not found.
Later that night, once full darkness had fallen, Burke dressed in trousers and a shirt made of old sailcloth and left his rooms to walk through the city. It was all he could think to do. He hoped that, passing among slaves, visiting their night haunts, he might hear rumors—of Marcita, of the murdered slave, of the others the don mentioned had gone missing. He went to the abandoned lots and shadowy groves where slaves were known to gather for their dances and their guinea magic, but each one he found deserted. The only slave he saw that night he stumbled on by chance—a fresh bozal standing outside a tavern, far from any of the slaves’ usual places. He seemed agitated—he was staring in through the tavern’s window at white men eating and drinking, gnashing his lips.
Burke approached him. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
The slave turned to him. Tribal scars ridged his forehead and shoulders. His front teeth were filed into points, and his breath stank of aguardiente. “I lost my little Anto,” he said.
Just then the tavernkeeper came out and waved a stained rag at the two of them. “Bah!” he said. “Go on! Get moving!” He snapped the rag at the slave and then at Burke, who, as he leaped back, bumped into a creole passing by. Without breaking stride, the man struck him with his gold-tipped cane, then continued on down the street, paying him no more attention. Burke recognized the fellow—Maroto? Sánchez?—had even shaken his hand at a salon where he’d been invited to play cards and share stories about his cases. He wanted to shout, but by the time he’d overcome his shock at being struck, the creole was gone, disappeared into the night. He turned to find the slave with the pointed teeth, but he was gone, too.
The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 Page 45
