‘The Señora, perhaps, knew Lockhart?’
‘Not directly,’ said Chantale.
‘The Señora –’ there it was again, the obliqueness – ‘is perhaps from Algeria?’
‘Tangier.’
‘Ah, yes. Señor Lockhart knew many people in Tangier.’
Seymour wondered if he could make use of Chantale’s Arabness when he went to the café. Perhaps her being an Arab would in a way vouch for him. He suggested she go with him.
Chantale said it wouldn’t do at all. Arab women never entered cafés, even with their menfolk. It was a very bad idea.
Seymour had to accept this but he was reluctant to abandon the idea altogether. As a foreigner, he felt he needed some kind of entrée into the Arab world, some kind of guarantee that he was a friend. He knew from experience that with immigrants this would be especially important.
In the end they decided that she would not go into the café with him but they would establish the link outside. They would go into the quarter together and then part. Chantale would go to the little market and make some purchases, as if shopping for a family. Seymour meanwhile would go into the café alone. When she had finished making her purchases she would stand outside the café patiently waiting for him. That, she said, ought to clinch it!
The café was set slightly below ground, as was usually the case with Arab coffee houses, and to enter it you had to go down some steps. Inside, it was dark. It was the Arab way to retreat from the sun and heat. There were stone benches around the wall and men were sitting on them either drinking coffee from small enamel cups or puffing away at bubble pipes on the ground beside them.
The men were all Arabs and Seymour at once felt himself to be, or was made to feel, an intruder. He sat down, however, in a corner with a low table in front of him. It was some time before he was served, one of those ways in which a café can make a customer feel he is not wanted. But then a waiter came up and put a cup before him and poured coffee from a coffee pot with a long spout.
As he bent over the table, Seymour said, ‘Is Ibrahim here?’
The waiter inclined his head towards a man with a square-cut beard sitting with two men playing dominoes.
‘Would you whisper a name in his ear? The name is Lockhart.’
The waiter showed no sign of having heard and continued on his round with the pot. Shortly afterwards, however, Seymour saw him bending over the man with the beard. The man sat up with a start. A little later Seymour saw him studying him carefully. Eventually he came across.
‘You wish to speak with me?’
‘About Lockhart.’
‘Lockhart is dead.’
‘I know. That is what I want to talk to you about.’
The Arab hesitated but then slid on to the bench beside Seymour.
‘Who gave you my name?’ he said.
‘Hussein. The man in Lockhart’s office.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Seymour and I come from England.’
‘From England?’ said the man, astonished. ‘Why?’
‘Lockhart had friends there.’
‘He had friends here. But –’
‘They are interested in how he came to die.’
‘We, too, are interested in how he came to die. But what business is it of theirs?’
‘Naturally, as friends –’
The Arab shook his head firmly. ‘It is no business of people in England.’
‘Well, it is,’ Seymour insisted. ‘When an Englishman dies in a Spanish prison, the English Government is always interested.’
‘This is nothing to do with Governments.’
‘Did he not die in prison?’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘And how did he come to be there? Was not that something to do with Government?’
‘I do not think –’ began the Arab, but stopped.
‘And was he not taken in in Tragic Week when so many others were taken in? Including Arabs? And isn’t that something to do with Government?’
‘Yes. But it had nothing to do with Lockhart.’
‘Nothing to do with Lockhart?’ said Seymour, astonished.
‘No. It was a terrible thing. But it was quite separate.’
‘But did not Lockhart go out on to the streets so that he could bear witness?’
‘Well, yes, and that was the act of a good man. But that was not why he died.’
‘Why did he die, then?’
The Arab was silent for a while. Then he said: ‘Señor, this is really no concern of yours. Nor of people in England. It is a private matter.’
‘Private!’
‘Yes. To him, to us.’
‘As friends you may think that. But if the Government –’
The Arab shook his head. ‘This was nothing to do with the Government, either Spanish or British. It was, as I have told you, a private matter. That it happened during Tragic Week was, well, incidental. The confusion of Tragic Week provided them with an opportunity. But even then they couldn’t take it. They had to wait until he was in prison. Then it became easier.’
‘Easier?’ said Seymour incredulously. ‘To kill a man when he is in prison?’
‘Yes. Because then he didn’t have his bodyguard with him.’
‘What is this about a bodyguard?’
‘You don’t know about his bodyguard? No? Well, he had one. And they were very good, too. My people. People from the Rif. Good fighters, no nonsense. They would have protected him. But, of course, when he was in prison –’
‘Why did he need a bodyguard? Who was it against?’
‘Señor, you ask too many questions, when, really, this is no concern of yours. Go home to England. Leave it to us. We shall see that justice is done.’
He rose to his feet, took Seymour by the arm, and then escorted him firmly to the door. As they stepped up on to the street he caught sight of Chantale, waiting patiently outside, and stopped suddenly.
‘Is she with you?’ he said, surprised.
‘Yes.’
The Arab looked uneasy.
‘Are you from Leila?’ he asked her.
‘Leila? Lockhart’s wife? No.’
The Arab looked again at Chantale, as if he did not believe her.
‘I was thinking of going to see her, though,’ said Seymour.
The Arab shook his head.
‘I do not think that would be wise,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
The Arab disregarded his question. He kept studying Chantale, as if fascinated. ‘Why have you come here, Señora?’ he said abruptly.
Chantale, not unnaturally, was caught for a reply.
‘Because she must,’ said Seymour.
‘I have come to find out,’ said Chantale, cleverly.
‘Leave it to us, Señora. This is not for women. Go back to your own people.’
‘Who are her people?’ said Seymour.
The Arab looked at him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is the question, isn’t it? For all of us.’
Seymour and Chantale went for a walk along Las Ramblas. There was a slight breeze, which was very welcome because it was getting towards noon and the heat was already becoming overwhelming. The sunlight seemed to bounce back off the white boulevard. The flowers around the foot of the trees wilted. The onions on their strings seemed to hang more heavily. The piles of melons which had earlier shone green and gold seemed to whiten and lose their glow. The boulevard began to empty.
They found a little restaurant in a back street just off Las Ramblas. It was a humble place, consisting just of bare tables crammed together cheek by jowl, with the legs of the chairs often so interlocking that you could not get up or sit down without disturbing everyone else. But that did not seem to matter. It soon became apparent that most of the people there knew each other. Often they had children with them, who would crawl under the tables to escape or return. No one seemed to mind. In fact, the children appeared to be generally owned. Sometimes when th
ey were very small and creating a hullabaloo an apparent stranger would reach over from one of the adjacent tables with a piece of bread dipped in sauce and give it to the child. Usually it worked and the child would calm down.
Once they had got used to the hubbub, Seymour and Chantale rather enjoyed it. There was so much of human interest going on. And somehow the family atmosphere was just what they needed at the moment.
A man in yellow oilskins came up carrying a bucket of freshly caught fish and the proprietor came out to study them.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘that’s fine. But, look, people are asking for sea bass tonight. We’ve got some coming up from the market but we’ll need more. Can you get us some?’
‘I’ll ask Juan, and Silvia will bring them up if he’s got any. I want to go out.’
‘The fishing will be good tonight, will it?’
‘Yes, God willing.’
‘Or maybe you’ve got something else in mind,’ said the proprietor, laughing.
‘There is that,’ said the oilskinned man.
‘Well, just be careful, that’s all.’
The proprietor took the bucket inside and the man in oilskins waited for his return.
‘Got time for a quick one?’ asked someone at one of the tables, holding up a glass.
‘Not just now, Vincente,’ said the man in oilskins respectfully.
‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, good luck!’
The proprietor came out again with the empty bucket and the man in oilskins took it and went off.
There was a noisy group just beside them and Seymour and Chantale couldn’t quite make out what it was. In the end they decided that there had been a family christening and these were the family elders gathered to wet the baby’s head. Someone had produced a huge camera and set it up nearby and began to take a photograph of the group. It was taking some time. The photographer’s head disappeared under the cloth and he held up a hand. At the last moment a woman gave a cry, and the proceedings stopped while she took the bottles of olive oil and whatever off the table. She put them under the table so they would be out of the line of vision. Then the group recomposed itself. The photograph was taken and normal business resumed.
Then, suddenly, there was a dismayed cry. The woman, forgetting about the condiments, had kicked them over with her foot and now there was a great pool under the table and everyone was lifting their feet and inspecting their trousers and dresses.
The woman squeezed herself out and ran to one of the waitresses to get a cloth. The waitress stood with arms akimbo and said with mock severity, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just stay on for a few hours and clean it up!’
The offender began apologizing profusely. Suddenly the waitress collapsed into laughter and put her arms around her. Everyone in the restaurant roared. A couple of waiters darted over with cloths and a bucket and began wiping the people down. The owner of the café appeared, chuckling, and suggested that the women go out into the kitchen and take their dresses off. ‘What, again?’ said someone, and everyone burst into laughter. ‘She can save that till later,’ someone said, and again the place erupted.
It seemed a very jolly place, not at all like the café Seymour had previously been to. But this was Spanish, he could tell by the voices. That had been Catalan. The only Catalan voice that he had heard here had been that of the fisherman.
At the back of the restaurant was a large metal fish tank. He got up and went over to it. At this time of the day there were only a few fish in it, but a huge pair of lobsters, armour-plated dinosaurs with whiskers like aerials, probing out in front of them.
‘There’ll be more this evening,’ said a passing waiter. ‘Last night’s catch hasn’t come in from the fish market yet. They’ll be bringing it up right now.’
‘Fresh from the sea, is it?’
‘Straight from the boats. You can go down and see them if you want.’
‘Boats?’
‘Just through there. You wouldn’t think it, with the docks so close, but there’s a little harbour there for the fishing boats. It’s a nice little place. You want to take a look.’
‘Perhaps we will.’
‘Down that street and keep going. Eventually you’ll get there.’
Eventually they did, having almost lost their way in what became a maze of tiny side streets, where all the businesses were to do with the docks and the sea. In the doorways thigh-length rubber boots were hanging, with coils of rope and great drifts of netting. There was a carpenter’s, where they were working on a boat, and a place where they were mending netting. And everywhere there was the smell of fish and tar and the sea.
The harbour was very small, just round a headland from the main docks for the cargo vessels, not an adjunct but a kind of afterthought, although it had probably been there longer than the docks. It was full of little fishing boats. They would be ones which fished locally and would be out at night. Just now it was deserted, apart from a solitary man pulling a long net up from a boat and running it through his fingers before folding it neatly on the quay. When they got closer they saw it was the man in yellow oilskins they had seen earlier.
They stopped for a moment and watched him.
The net must have been about fifty yards long and it was about a yard wide. As the man ran it through his fingers he pulled out seaweed and tar and little dead fishes and squid.
‘Getting it ready for this evening?’ said Seymour.
The man grunted.
‘You’ve got to have it just right,’ said Seymour.
‘Sometimes it gets torn,’ said the man. ‘It fouls on something. And then in no time you’ve got a hole as long as my arm and anything can get through.’
‘What do you do? Tie it between buoys?’
‘Sink it. I use buoys but this net needs to go deeper. I leave it for a couple of hours and then pull it in.’
‘How far out do you go?’
‘About two miles.’
‘Don’t you have to look out for the big boats coming in?’
The fisherman laughed.
‘They don’t come in until the morning,’ he said. ‘And do you know why?’
‘Safety?’
The man laughed again. ‘It’s the Customs people. They don’t like it. They like to have a good sleep during the night and save their work for the morning. So everyone has to wait.’
He spat contemptuously into the sea. ‘The big boats lie offshore. So when I’m out there I just keep a bit further in. But sometimes they’re so close I can hear them talking.’
‘Or talk to them?’
The man gave him a long look.
‘Or talk to them,’ he agreed.
He bundled the net, neatly coiled now, up in his arms, took it across the quay, and dropped it into a boat. Then he walked off up the hill into the houses.
Seymour watched him go.
‘Lockhart liked fish,’ he said.
Chapter Five
‘Inspector –?’
From inside the guardroom at the entrance to the Navy docks came a stifled gasp.
‘Seymour from Scotland Yard.’
‘Jesus!’ Again from inside.
The seaman checking Seymour’s papers suddenly looked rattled.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
He dashed into the guardroom.
Through the open window Seymour could hear concerned discussion. Then:
‘Well, you go out, sonny, and ask him who he wants to see.’
The seaman reappeared. ‘Sorry, sir, just a minor point. I have to check. Who was it you wanted to see?’
‘Admiral Comber.’
An unmistakable ‘Christ!’ came through the open window.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get someone to take you over.’
He disappeared back into the guardroom. Seymour, left standing there alone, moved over to be nearer the window.
‘You’re for it, now, Ferry!’ said a jaunty young voice.
‘Christ, they’ve brought the narks in!’ said anoth
er, older, coarser voice.
‘I wonder why that could be?’ said the young voice innocently. ‘Something to do with the stores, do you think? You’re looking a bit green, Ferry. Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you. Sir.’
‘Ground moving in the stores, is it? Rough swell? Don’t worry, Ferry, he’ll just want to look at your records. And see how they match up to the stores on the shelves. That should be no problem, should it? Ferry, you really are looking rather green. Were you thinking of reporting sick, by any chance?’
‘As a matter of fact, sir –’
‘I’d hang on a bit if I were you,’ continued the voice mercilessly. ‘You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, do you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He won’t be bothered by a few discrepancies, anyway.’
‘That’s right, mate,’ the coarser voice chipped in encouragingly. ‘Small things are not going to bother him.’
‘It’s the big things he’d be looking for,’ said the jaunty one. ‘Just big things. Ferry, you are looking a bit off-colour. I’ll see if I can get something done about the heat in the stores. That is the problem, isn’t it?’
‘A bit hot, sir, yes. Just at the moment.’
‘Don’t worry, mate. He won’t know if things are shipshape or if they’re not!’
‘And they will be shipshape, won’t they?’ continued the merciless one, who seemed to be some sort of superior. ‘By the time he gets there? I think if I were you, Ferry, I’d get along to the stores pretty smartish.’
‘Yes, sir, I will, sir. If you don’t mind –’
‘Sir, he’s still waiting outside,’ said the seaman who had been checking Seymour’s papers.
‘Thank you, Parsons. We’d better get someone to take him over. In fact, I’ll take him over myself.’
The seaman came out, accompanied by a midshipman who looked about fifteen years old. He put out a hand.
‘Hello, Mr Seymour. I’m McPhail. The Duty Officer just at the moment. I’ll take you over to see the comber eel right away.’
‘Comber eel?’
‘That’s what we call him. The Admiral. But that’s unofficially. Nice to meet you, Inspector. Are you going to help us solve our problems?’
A Dead Man in Barcelona Page 6
