He dressed quickly, left the bedroom, and with the help of the landing light went quietly along to the stairs. He had reached the hall when there was a call from above.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Dolores. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out, to check on something.’
‘At this time? Have you drunk too much cognac again?’
‘I’m as sober as a judge.’
‘That’s not saying much, is it?’
‘Look, something important suddenly occurred to me about the case when I was trying to get off to sleep and I must find out about it.’
‘You’re worried about your work at this time of the night? You can’t be very well and that’s why you didn’t eat. Get back into bed and I’ll … ’
‘I must go and check.’
‘Stubborn bastard!’ she exclaimed angrily, before returning to her bedroom.
He unlocked the front door and went out. His car was parked a few metres down the road and he climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine at the third attempt, and drove off.
There was little moon and the Laraix valley was dark, but not sufficiently dark completely to hide the mountains: their crests ranged away on either side to define and contain the valley and yet, paradoxically, mistily to enlarge it. The car’s headlights picked out twisted algarroba trees, which seemed to writhe because of the play of shadows.
He parked in front of the gate of Ca’n Adeane, picked up a torch and his small, battered case from the front passenger seat, opened the gate, and walked along the path. Half-way to the house he stopped and picked a bunch of grapes: the grapes had ripened even in the few days since he had last tried them. At the house, he found the key in its usual hiding place and he unlocked the front door and went inside.
There was the scurrying noise of a mouse from above, then a flicker of sound from his right: when he swung the torch round, the beam outlined a gecko on the wall which froze in a curved position for a couple of seconds before fleeing across and down the wall with snake-like movements.
His best bet, he decided, was the bottles: Calvin would have handled them very frequently, but it was unlikely anyone else would have done. He went through into the sitting-room and in the torchlight the collection of objects seemed even more bizarre: the tiger’s eyes glinted evilly and, absurdly, he ran the beam along its length to make certain it was still just a skin with a stuffed head. Not usually disturbed by atmosphere, he was glad to switch on the overhead light.
He put the case down on a convenient chair and took out of it a small jar of aluminium powder and a camel-hair brush. He painted the powder over the body of a whisky bottle and brought into existence a jumble of prints together with several individual ones: he checked the individual ones with the help of a magnifying glass. A bottle of gin, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of rum, offered a large number of discernible prints and they were similar to the ones on the whisky bottle. There were at least three left-hand thumb prints and five right-hand ones. None of them matched the print which had been on the shotgun.
He stood up and whistled tunelessly. So there had been a very good reason for faking the suicide high up on the side of the mountain and that reason had nothing at all to do with the soul. On the contrary, it had to do with the leopard’s spots.
CHAPTER XVII
Willis could not hide his nervousness and his manner was far from its usual breezy self. He kept twisting the ends of his flamboyant moustache. ‘But how did you get hold of my name, that’s what I want to know.’
‘In the course of my investigations, señor,’ said Alvarez placidly.
Willis was wearing a faded khaki bush shirt outside his even more faded light blue duck trousers. He absent-mindedly lifted the shirt and scratched his stomach. ‘But I mean … ’ He let go of the shirt.
‘You were, I believe, in personal contact with Señor Breeden?’
‘We met and discussed … business.’
‘How did you like him?’
Willis seemed totally perplexed by the question. He’d been seated, but he suddenly came to his feet, crossed the tiled floor of the sitting-room, and stared out of the french windows, protected from the direct sun by the rush mats fixed to a wire trellis over the patio. ‘Like him? Damn it, he wasn’t really a bloke one liked.’
‘Will you describe him to me, please.’
‘Hell! I’m no good at that sort of caper.’
‘I am sure, señor, you will be able to help me.’
Willis looked perplexedly at Alvarez. ‘This bloke was … Well, it was like meeting a robot.’
‘Do you mean he was cold in character?’
‘Five minutes with him and you’d a bad case of frostbite. And crazy! You know how bloody hot it’s been here? Well, he went around as if it was November in London. A suit. An ordinary, heavyweight suit in this heat.’ Willis’s manner gradually had become more confident. ‘You know what was wrong with him, don’t you? He reckoned he’d got to keep the flag flying amongst a load of chaps who’d gone native. You could read it in his manner. Silly bastard!’
‘Is he a tall man?’
‘Not really. Taller than the locals, of course, but then they’re mostly chin-high to a midget … No offence meant, old man.’
‘Of course not, señor. And is he young?’
‘He’s not young, no.’
‘Old?’
‘He’s not old, either. He’s one of those blokes you can’t really tell. Call him middling.’
‘Is he good-looking?’
‘Not him.’
‘What shape is his head? Round, square, oval?’
Willis thought. He went over to a chair and sat down. ‘Like I said, I can’t remember the details. I know exactly what I thought of him, but as for remembering what he looked like it’s no good. He’s just a blur. What’s more, a blur I’m happy to forget.’ His sense of uneasiness returned.
‘Do you know where he was going after he went to Puerto Llueso?’
‘I seem to remember he mentioned something about France, but to tell the truth I wasn’t interested where he went so long as he cleared out from Playa Nueva bloody smartly.’
‘Which part of France?’
‘You do want to know some difficult things! Though hang on, something’s stirring, I seem to remember … It was Nice, I reckon.’
‘You’ve been a great help, señor.’
‘Have I?’ He was plainly surprised. ‘Seems like most of the time it’s been me not remembering. But honest to God, he’s one of those blokes you just don’t remember … How about a drink, eh? Talking always makes me thirsty. That reminds me. He didn’t drink! Didn’t drink! How can you hope to remember a bloke who doesn’t drink?’
*
The Hotel Valencia in Puerto Llueso was on the sea front, to the east of the harbour: opposite it, on the sea side of the front road, was a large patio and pier, built out over the water, where the hotel guests could have breakfast, tea, and drinks. Part of the hotel was quite old, dating back to the time when the Port had been little more than a fishing village, part was new having been added in the past ten years. The reception desk was set in the old part, almost underneath one of three beautifully proportioned arches which spoke of Moorish influence.
When Alvarez entered the hotel a dozen guests, newly arrived by bus from the airport, were booking in and he waited, quite content to let the time flow by even though he was very curious to know whether he had at last discovered a little of the truth.
The last tourist, a stout woman who was bulging out of her cotton frock, handed over her passport and was given a room key. She left to cross over to the lifts which served the ten-storey new part of the hotel. Alvarez introduced himself to the receptionist, who pushed the pile of passports to one side, straightened up, and smiled a professionally wary smile. ‘How can we help you, Inspector?’
‘First off, by finding out who was on duty here on the twenty-first of last month.’
‘Hang on, will you, and I
’ll make certain.’ He moved along the counter and spoke to the second receptionist, who nodded and searched through a dog-eared ledger. After a while, he pointed out something with his forefinger. The elder receptionist returned along the counter. ‘It’s like I thought. I was on duty from nine in the morning until eight at night — Miguel was only with me in the afternoon.’
‘Did you have any guests leaving that day — it was a Wednesday?’
‘There’d have been a load out. Every Wednesday and Saturday they go, every Wednesday and Saturday, they come.’ He sighed.
‘Will you get hold of the list of people who left that Wednesday, please.’
‘That’s going to be difficult.’
‘You’re talking to someone who’s been squeezed dry of the last drop of human sympathy.’
Alvarez lit a cigarette and propped himself up against the counter as he watched the people using the foyer. White faces, new arrivals: lobster faces, up to three days: tanned faces, the old hands. Strange to think that the sun had always been up in the sky but that only in the past twenty years of growth tourism had it proved to be so valuable an asset to the island. How did one explain the paradox of the desire for a skin darkened by the sun but not by birth?
The receptionist returned. ‘I’ve found the list — damn near didn’t, as a matter of fact. Another day and it would have been slung. The list is drawn up for the guests’ arrival and then filed for their departure. That leaves us supposedly knowing where we are.’
‘Give me a run-down on the procedure when people leave. When do they pay their bills for booze and all that sort of thing?’
‘We draw up their bills the night before they’re leaving and get ’em to pay these first thing in the morning. Anything they have to drink with lunch, or before it, they pay cash. That way, it makes it as difficult as possible for ’em to skip owing us anything when they go in the early afternoon.’
‘Do they keep their rooms until they go?’
‘They have to be out of them by eleven so as we can get ’em ready for the guests arriving in the evening. We tell them to bring their luggage down and store it over there, against the wall. It stays there until it’s loaded in the bus. If there are any women with small kids, though, we let ’em stay on in the rooms: it’s easier that way than having the kids crying all over the place.’
‘What about lunch?’
‘They sit at their usual tables. But like I said, they pay for the wine in cash instead of putting it on the bill.’
‘Is everyone on a package tour?’
‘Not everyone, but most. You know what it’s like now — the bloke on the package tour gets his whole holiday for the same price as the independent bloke pays just for the fare.’
‘If you’ve a bloke who isn’t on the package, how does he go about paying his booze bill and what about his hotel room?’
‘It’s exactly the same routine because we can’t alter things just for a few people. Pay the bill in the morning and if he’s staying to lunch, cash for everything with the meal.’
‘Fine. Now I’m in the picture, let’s have a look at that list.’ Alvarez was handed a typed list on which were ten names. The last one was T. C. Breaden. Someone had corrected, in ink, the a and changed it to a second e. ‘I want to talk about Breeden. D’you remember him?’
The receptionist shook his head.
‘Start trying.’
‘Have a heart, Inspector. There are people coming and people going.’
‘I know, it’s like the Avenidas in the rush hour. But he was English, he dressed like a tailor’s dummy, and he wasn’t on a package tour. He was out here checking up on other English who’d moved money out of their country illegally.’
The receptionist thought for a while, began to shake his head, then suddenly checked himself. ‘I do remember talk. Vicente said he’d heard an Englishman in one of the front bars shouting the odds about some bloke who was poking his nose into everybody else’s business and someone else … ’ He shook his head again. ‘I don’t know. With so many people, it’s impossible.’
Alvarez put the list down on the counter. ‘See this? Someone’s altered the spelling of the name. Ten to one it was him because from the sound of things he was the kind of person who always wants everything just so.’
‘That begins to ring a very small bell … Yeah! There was a man who got all upset just because his name was spelled wrongly. I tried to tell him it didn’t matter, but he wasn’t having any — his name had to be exactly right.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not a hope.’
‘Was he in to lunch on the last Wednesday?’
‘I don’t know and, straight, there’s no way of knowing now.’
‘Did he pay his bill on Wednesday morning?’
‘Must have done.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘We’d’ve marked him down on this list if he hadn’t. If anyone welshes, we tell the police.’ A trace of resentment crept into his voice. ‘Not that you blokes ever do much about it.’
‘You look like you’ve all got a long way to go before you starve. How was he travelling around the place? Had he a car?’
‘You keep asking questions I couldn’t answer in a thousand years … Although now I do seem to remember something … Keeps flitting around at the back of my mind …’ Alvarez produced a pack of cigarettes and offered it.
They smoked. The receptionist tapped on the top of the counter as he struggled to recapture the memory. All of a sudden he snapped his fingers. ‘I’m sure it was him. I remember wondering why he was wearing a tie and coat when the temperature was like an oven. He’d rented a car from the airport and had told ’em he was returning it one day and now he wanted it for a couple more days. Asked me to ring the hire firm and tell ’em. And I said, just hang on to it and when you turn up at the airport they’ll bill you quickly enough for the extra. But he was fussing away like mad so in the end I phoned … D’you know, he never even bought me a drink!’
‘Have you any idea what kind of a car it was?’
‘None at all.’
‘Or which firm he’d hired it from?’
The receptionist sighed yet again. ‘Inspector, I’m on the desk seven days a week in the season. Sometimes we’ve a couple of dozen people coming … ’
‘And a couple of dozen going. My heart bleeds for you.’ Alvarez smiled. ‘Change jobs for an easier life.’
The receptionist looked annoyed.
‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘If you should remember something fresh, give us a ring at Llueso.’
‘Sure.’
Alvarez left and returned to his car which was parked caterwise to the right of the entrance into the hotel’s patio. For a short time he appreciatively watched three young ladies who wore bikinis reduced to new minimum levels, then he started the engine, backed, and turned.
The drive to Palma took him well over the hour because there was heavy traffic in both directions, including a great number of coaches which reduced the standard of driving to an even lower level than usual, and in any case he had reached the mental age where he took great care of himself. Just before Pont d’Inca he turned off the Palma road and went cross-country to the motorway, then along to the airport.
He parked round the side of the main building — carefully saving the fifteen pesetas for the official car park — and stood by the car to watch a Jumbo jet take off. He wondered where it was going. England, France, Germany, Denmark? Countries he’d always wanted to visit: countries which, because he’d never travelled outside Spain, were for him invested with a glamour that was beyond correction by television or written description.
When the jet was well up in the sky, a bright ball of reflected sunlight which left behind slowly dispersing trails of dirt, he went into the departure hall which was filled with a seething mass of travellers who were struggling to overcome the problems of too few chec
k-in points, a loudspeaker system designed for incomprehensibility, and a cafeteria too small and too expensive.
He went up to the balcony and along to the Iberia offices. ‘I’d like some help,’ he said to a harassed clerk, after he’d introduced himself.
‘Oh God!’
‘What’s the matter? Busy?’
The clerk looked at Alvarez’s heavy face and failed to make out whether he’d been joking or had asked the day’s stupidest question. ‘Couldn’t you come back some other time?’
‘Not a hope. Anyway, I’ve only one question. Did an Englishman named Thomas Breeden fly to the South of France on the twenty-first of July?’
‘What flight number?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I suppose,’ said the clerk, with heavy sarcasm, ‘you can at least be certain he flew with Iberia?’
‘No, I can’t.’
The clerk muttered something. ‘Let’s have the rest of the facts.’
‘His destination may have been Nice.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Quite serious.’
‘But … but … Have you any idea how many flights there are out of this airport in a day by how many airlines?’
‘Thankfully, no.’
‘It’s … it’s bloody impossible.’
‘Remember the old adage: we can do anything, only the impossible takes a little longer. I’ll come back later for the answers.’
Alvarez left, returned downstairs, and went to the far end of the building, past the international arrival hall, to the two kiosks used by the car-hire firms. He spoke to the clerk at the first one. ‘Check your records, will you, and see if an Englishman called Breeden brought back a car on the twenty-first of July.’
‘Sure.’ The clerk left his seat and went over to the filing cabinet. He opened a folder and leafed through a number of forms, then brought one form across to the counter. ‘Yep, he was with us. He checked in at three in the afternoon.’
‘What kind of car did he have?’
‘A Seat six hundred.’
‘What was its colour?’
Two-Faced Death (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 1) Page 18
