Authors: Rebecca Pawel
Her father touched her cheek. “Elena! Sweetheart! What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I came to bring you some things Mama packed.” Elena held up her bundle, as if it were a mute explanation.
“Then, you’re not . . .” Her father’s voice trailed off as he looked past her.
Elena was puzzled until she heard the lieutenant say quietly, “Señorita Fernández is free to go when she wishes.”
“Elena!” It was Doctor Velázquez, imploring, “Will you tell Ana and Augusto what’s happened? They must be frantic by now.”
She nodded automatically, and then said slowly, “But what has happened?”
There was an awkward pause, filled by a cacophony of screams. Three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on a point just beyond Elena’s left ear. Then a voice near that ear said, “It seems that Manuel Arroyo Díaz was murdered sometime last week. We’re beginning our investigation by questioning his associates.”
Elena turned. “Who?” The word “murder” had shaken her, but she could not immediately place the name Tejada had given, and fear and puzzlement combined to make her voice almost accusing.
“He was a professor of law,” Tejada explained, rapidly deciding that her question was the result of genuine confusion. Of course she wouldn’t know him, he thought. She was in Madrid when this whole petition nonsense started and there was no reason for her to have known him before that. Relief colored his voice, and made his tone closer to what Elena remembered from their first acquaintance as he added, “His signature appeared on a certain document your father also signed.”
“And you think that one of
us
killed him?” Elena demanded, outraged.
“We have no definite suspects at the moment,” Tejada replied. He considered reassuring her that her father was not a serious suspect but decided against it. Actions spoke louder than words, and Fernández would be released soon enough. “We’re only asking questions. We won’t make an arrest until we have more information.”
Against all logic, Elena found the lieutenant’s words comforting. Murder might be a capital crime, but at least it was a specific one. And she was sure that Tejada would stay within the boundaries of the law. Her father and his colleagues might be imprisoned for a long time but she could not believe that Tejada would allow them to mysteriously disappear. She turned back to the prisoners and took a few hesitant steps toward Doctor Rivera. “Would you like me to send word to your wife, also?” she asked, suppressing the urge to kneel beside the doctor as she would have knelt beside a frightened child.
He looked up at her through eyes swollen by bruises and perhaps by tears, but his voice had the calm of despair. “No, thank you, Señorita Fernández. I discovered Professor Arroyo’s body yesterday. My wife knew that I probably wouldn’t be coming back today.”
“Well . . . if you’re sure. . . .” Elena stooped awkwardly and her hand rested briefly on Rivera’s shoulder.
He did not respond, but Doctor Velázquez, who had watched the interchange with some anxiety, came to stand beside her. “I’m sorry to put you to the trouble, Elena. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
Velázquez embraced his colleague’s daughter, and murmured as he did so, “Don’t pay any mind to Rivera. Tell his wife what’s happened.”
Elena smiled at him, and nodded. Then she turned reluctantly to her father. “I have to go. Mama will be waiting for news.”
Guillermo managed to smile at her. “You tell her that I’m fine. Better, now that she’s sent me my pipe.”
Elena hugged him, realizing as she did so how thin he had become, and wondered how long it had been since she had thought of him as tall. “I’ll come again,” she promised. “If I can,” she added, with a sideways glance at the lieutenant, who had been studiously observing the floor.
The door swung shut behind Elena and her escort, and they were in the hallway of screams once again. At the top of the staircase, when the last sounds had died away, Elena heaved a sigh of relief.
“Come back to the office for a moment,” Tejada said, breaking in on her thoughts.
She followed him mutely, glad that she was not responsible for finding her way, or meeting the eyes of the uniformed men in the corridors. When they had returned to the office, Tejada went to his desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a form. He wrote silently for a minute or two, and then folded the sheet into an envelope and held it out to her. “This is a permission to travel, for yourself and your mother,” he said quietly. “To San Sebastián. For three weeks. You deserve a vacation.”
Elena took the outstretched piece of paper automatically. How could he think that we’d go on vacation and leave Papa in that place? she wondered, confused. Then she remembered that the “vacation” in San Sebastián had another motive, and she shuddered. How could any of the Fernández family take further risks, with her father already entangled in a murder investigation?
Tejada held the door of the office for her. “Good-bye,” he said awkwardly. “I hope your mother is reassured by your news.”
As a matter of fact, María de Fernández was so incredibly relieved by her daughter’s return that she hardly asked for news. It was nearly nine o’clock when Elena reached her home, and the sun was setting. María, who had spent the last two hours staring at the clock in an agony of guilt and suspense, greeted her daughter almost with euphoria. Elena summarized her trip to the post over dinner, tactfully limiting her impressions of the interrogation room where her father was being held to a strictly visual description. María was relieved by her account but began to giggle a little hysterically when Elena mentioned that the two women had received permission to travel. “A trip to San Sebastián!” María hiccuped. “A nice little vacation while Guillermo is in prison for murder! Because we deserve a vacation!”
The stress of the day had started to tell on Elena as well. She began to laugh also. Mother and daughter chortled helplessly for some time, wiping tears from their eyes. Finally, Elena pulled herself together. “It’s pointless anyway,” she reminded her mother. “The letter to Meyer didn’t go through, remember.”
“True enough,” María admitted. “Although there’s always the copy that was sent to Germany.”
“Yes, but nothing’s likely to come of that,” Elena pointed out reasonably but quite incorrectly.
The next morning, a little after 9 A.M., the Fernández’s doorbell rang. María, hoping that Guillermo had been released, flew to answer it, and was unexpectedly confronted by a boy in a dark uniform. “Telegram, Señora,” the boy said, holding out his message. “For Guillermo Fernández.”
Controlling her disappointment, María signed for the telegram and took it into the kitchen. She had barely opened the message, and was brooding on its contents, when the bell rang again. This time it was Elena who answered the door.
“Papa!”
The young woman’s joyous cry brought María from the kitchen at a run. Guillermo Fernández, unbathed and unshaven but otherwise unharmed, was enthusiastically hugged, kissed, and dragged into the kitchen for breakfast. The professor himself seemed dazed at his good fortune. “We’ve all been released,” he explained, in response to the eager questions of his wife and daughter. “I don’t know why. But none of us are allowed to leave Salamanca until further notice. That’s not a big hardship though.” He smiled warmly. “It’s enough to be home.”
There was a sudden, awkward silence. “What is it?” Guillermo asked, sensing the changed atmosphere.
“Mother and I have permission to travel to San Sebastián,” Elena explained.
“We just this morning got a telegram.” María spoke at the same moment.
“A telegram?” Guillermo echoed. “From whom?”
With a reluctant glance at her daughter, María held out the message. Guillermo took the telegram from his wife’s hand and read: THANKS. STOP. WILL PURSUE RESEARCH IN BIARRITZ LIBRARY. STOP. WIRE ME AT POSTE CENTRALE CARE OF JEAN SAMUELS. STOP. THEOKLYMENOS.
Y
ou’ve what?” snapped Captain Rodríguez.
“I released them this morning, sir.” The lieutenant was “ impassive. “We had no further cause to hold them.”
“You don’t call murder ‘further cause’?” The captain spoke with what was intended as blistering sarcasm.
“We have no evidence that any of them are involved in Arroyo’s death,” Tejada pointed out. “We haven’t even positively identifed the body found in the warehouse.”
“Observe the facts, Lieutenant.” Captain Rodríguez spoke with the false sweetness that some men feel obliged to use with children and idiots. “Manuel Arroyo Díaz disappears. The Guardia Civil spend a week apparently doing nothing to try to find him. A body appears with a wallet containing calling cards with Arroyo’s name on them. The body is found in a location with ties to a known Red, who is also known to have ties to Arroyo. The Red and his associates are brought in for questioning. Then they are released.
Where is the flaw in logic here, Tejada
?”
Tejada had not been totally happy with his decision to release the three former professors, but his commanding officer’s reaction made him feel that it had probably been wise. “With respect, sir, I believed that they had answered all of our questions satisfactorily,” he said. “They’ll remain under surveillance, of course, as we continue the investigation.”
Rodríguez, confronted with an excessively reasonable answer, made a dismissive gesture. “You might at least have arrested Rivera!” he said disgustedly. “For goodness’ sake, Tejada, he’s a Red. He practically discovered the body, and it was found at a construction site belonging to the company he works for.”
“We still don’t know if the body found in the warehouse entered it alive or not,” Tejada replied. He did not point out that only a very foolish man would choose to dispose of a body at a site that would so obviously link him to his crime.
“Well, he’s damn well guilty of something,” Rodríguez retorted. “We can’t allow Reds to go around murdering prominent citizens because the evidence is only circumstantial, Tejada!”
It occurred to the lieutenant that in this instance the Red and the prominent citizen had been colleagues of a sort. Captain Rodríguez apparently believed in speaking no ill of the dead. “Very true, sir,” he said quietly. “I’ll devote all of my energy to the case. And I’d like Sergeant Hernández to assist me, if possible.”
“I should assign the case to Sergeant Betances and be done with it,” Rodríguez barked. Tejada stiffened slightly, wondering if he was about to be relieved. Then the captain added ungraciously, “But since Judge Otero seems to think you’re competent, I suppose you’d better clear it up.”
“I’m honored by the judge’s confidence, sir,” Tejada replied smoothly, concealing his surprise. Otero must have contacted Rodríguez sometime yesterday, he thought. But why? And why go out of his way to mention me?
“I just hope it isn’t misplaced.” The captain stood, ending the interview. “Don’t mess this up, Tejada. Arroyo was a distinguished man, and his family is very upset by this whole thing. I want this solved fast.”
“Yes, sir.” Tejada saluted formally, and then left feeling pensive. Arroyo was a janitor for the last three years, he thought. And his family want this solved fast. So they can bury him and be done with it? “An embarrassment,” Judge Otero had called him. How much of an embarrassment? Had the captain guessed at Tejada’s thoughts he would almost certainly have removed him from the Arroyo case, and would probably have tried to commit him to an asylum. But Tejada had judged hastily—and wrong—before, and had lived to regret his mistakes. He settled himself in his office, and reached for the telephone. Sergeant Hernández had left Judge Otero’s phone number clipped to the top of the Arroyo file. Tejada dialed and waited. There was no answer.
The lieutenant thought for a moment. The judge might well be at home for the day. He picked up the phone again, and called the operator. “Do you have a phone number for Jorge Otero Martínez?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. His listing is four two zero one.” The smooth voice confirmed the number that Tejada already had, and then added, in a slightly less formal tone, “But Judge Otero is never in his office on Saturdays.”
Tejada, who had deliberately avoided mentioning Otero’s profession, winced at this further proof of the judge’s standing in Salamanca. “Thank you,” he said, resigned to a delay in speaking with Otero.
“You’re a guardia, sir?” The voice on the phone was chatty.
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could give you his home number, then, if you like.”
“Please,” Tejada said, surprised. He had heretofore considered helpful operators to be in the same category as griffins and unicorns.
“One zero zero two.” The reply was gratifyingly prompt. “He was the second one to have a phone installed in his home in that sector, after the doctor.”
“Really?” Tejada said, since the disembodied voice seemed to expect some reply.
“Yes, sir. In the winter of 1919. His daughter was taken ill with the flu, and he wanted to be able to call the doctor at any hour. Or so people said, anyway.”
“Oh,” Tejada said. And then, before his confidant could expand more on the history of the telephone in Salamanca, “Perhaps you could put through the call now?”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Tejada counted the rings, making a mental note not to discuss anything that he did not want retailed to the next person unwary enough to place a call that afternoon. On the fourth ring, a woman answered.
Tejada stated his name and business, and asked to speak to the judge. After a rather lengthy pause, he heard a click, and Judge Otero’s voice said, “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I assume you’re calling regarding the same unfortunate business we last spoke about?”
“That’s correct.” Tejada guessed that the judge had experience with Salamanca’s operators, and was alert to the dangers of indiscreet communication. He relaxed slightly. “Naturally, we’re all anxious to have it cleared up, Your Honor. I wondered if I could interview you again briefly?”
“I’ll be at home this afternoon,” the judge replied. “My sister has been staying with us since the unhappy event, and she’ll be here, too, should you wish to see her.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Tejada said. “Shall we say, four o’clock?”
“Agreed.” Judge Otero was brisk.
Tejada thanked the judge, and broke the connection, wondering if “four o’clock” in fact meant 4:30. After some consideration, he decided to err on the side of promptness. The Otero family lived in a handsome townhouse opposite the Church of San Martín. Tejada allowed himself ten minutes for the walk, made a point of dawdling, and arrived just as the clocks were striking 4:15. A servant opened the door, and led him across a wide hallway, and up a flight of stairs to a large parlor, furnished with the same subtle opulence that characterized Judge Otero’s office.
The room was exactly what Tejada had expected. He could have made shrewd guesses at the titles of the sheets of music lying on the closed piano, and the names of the painters of the family portraits on the walls. Even the diamond-patterned wallpaper felt familiar. His rapid and unconscious assessment of the room left him free to focus on the three figures within it. Judge Otero had stepped forward to meet him, lightly swinging his silver-handled cane, followed by two women. Tejada recognized one of them as Manuel Arroyo’s wife. The other woman was unfamiliar to him, but he guessed that she was Otero’s wife.
The judge confirmed this immediately. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming. May I present my wife? Josefina, this is Enrique Tejada’s nephew. He’s investigating Manuel’s death.”
Tejada automatically acknowledged the introduction and took the seat offered, while thinking rapidly. Señora de Arroyo was wearing mourning, as were her brother and sister-in-law. And the judge had spoken of “Manuel’s death” as if it were a settled fact, although Sergeant Hernández had made it clear to him the previous day that the body found in the Quiñones warehouse had not been positively identified. He wondered exactly what Judge Otero had said to Rodríguez about closing the case. “Now, do you have any information for us, Lieutenant?” the judge asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Tejada answered carefully. “But if it isn’t too much of a bother I do have some questions.”
“Of course.” The judge was gracious.
Tejada turned to Señora de Arroyo. At three in the morning, as an unwilling guest of the Guardia Civil, she had been merely self-possessed. Now, at ease in her brother’s home, she was formidable. “I am afraid, Señora, that it is likely that the man found on Thursday was your husband,” he said carefully. “I’m sure this must be a terrible blow.”
“I’ve been prepared for the worst since Manuel’s disappearance.” The presumed widow spoke calmly.
“Very wise,” Tejada agreed. “But we would like a positive identification of the body as that of your husband.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you implying that my husband may have staged his own death?”
“No, no.” Tejada reassured her hastily. “You understand, it’s only a formality. But—forgive the question, Señora—did your husband have any distinguishing characteristics? Apart from facial ones, I mean?”
“No. Not to my knowledge.” Her voice was disgusted.
“Perhaps I could view the body, once your men have finished with it,” Otero interjected. “I knew Manuel for many years, and I’m sure that I would recognize him.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Tejada decided not to press the point. It would not, he thought, be tasteful to explain that Arroyo’s skull had been fractured, and much of his face had been rendered unrecognizable even before decomposition had further damaged his body. “I do apologize for asking such a distressing question, but I was hoping that we might be able to expedite Professor Arroyo’s death certificate.”
“Is there likely to be any further delay?” Somewhat to the lieutenant’s surprise, it was Señora de Arroyo who had spoken, and rather sharply.
“Not a long one,” Tejada replied. He decided to needle the widow a little. “In cases like this, it could be oh, six to eight weeks. But perhaps we could issue one in, say, a month, given the special nature of the case.”
The lady was frowning heavily now. “I would like Manuel’s affairs settled more quickly if possible, Lieutenant.”
Tejada wondered what affairs needed to be so urgently settled, and took a shot in the dark. “Did your husband leave a will, Señora?”
“Yes.” Once more, it was Judge Otero who answered. “It was a simple affair really, as there were no children to be considered. My sister is the sole beneficiary.”
“You are aware of the contents of this will, Your Honor?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
“I’m his executor.”
“I see.” Tejada’s eyes passed over the Persian carpets, and rose to the claw-footed side tables with their lace antimacassars and porcelain shepherds, until they once more encountered Señora de Arroyo’s face. “Forgive me, Señora, but would a delay in putting your husband’s will through probate leave you in any financial difficulty? Naturally, if that were the case, we would make every attempt to issue a death certificate promptly.”
The lady pursed her lips. “No,” she said reluctantly. “It would not.”
“It’s not a question of financial difficulties, Lieutenant,” the judge intervened. “But Manuel’s estate should not be neglected. It includes some significant investments which should be overseen by an experienced money manager.”
Tejada suppressed a flicker of surprise—he had only thought of Arroyo as a petitioner, and not as a rich man. An aristocrat, perhaps, but one who had definitively thrown in his lot with the masses. He wondered if Arroyo’s fortune amounted to a sum that men would kill for. “What investments would these be?” he asked baldly.
Otero hesitated. Then he said slowly, “Large amounts of stock in Banco Bilbao Vizcaya. And smaller holdings in several foreign companies.”
“Also banks?”
The judge shook his head. “Pharmaceuticals, I believe. They’re German firms, not ones I’m familiar with. Manuel probably bought them on the advice of his medical colleagues.”
Tejada had been doing rapid mental arithmetic. Depending on the number of shares involved, Arroyo’s estate could well be worth murderering for. And the immediate beneficiaries of the lawyer’s death were sitting comfortably in front of him, probably the least arrestable people in all of Salamanca. He remembered that Señora de Arroyo had not reported her husband’s absence to the Guardia. But that doesn’t make sense, he thought. Not if she killed him for his money. She’d want everyone to know he was dead. And she wants a death certificate as soon as possible. So she’d want him to be easily identifiable. Unless she simply gave instructions and whoever carried them out got a little rough. But if she was involved she’d still come forward and report him missing. He dismissed the train of thought, and focused on the judge’s last words. “His medical colleagues?” he repeated. “Was your brother-in-law friendly with any doctors, Your Honor?”