Authors: Rebecca Pawel
“No, thank you.” Tejada resisted the urge to add that the ration books of the Guardia Civil were extremely generous, and that he would not dream of using a civilian’s tobacco coupons, though he would have staked his career that the cigarettes were contraband. Recalling his duties, he said, “You don’t have any idea where Arroyo may have gone? Or why?”
The lawyer exhaled a few thoughtful streams of smoke. Then he said slowly, “No. No, I don’t think . . . well, no.”
“You don’t think?” Tejada prompted.
Crespo sighed. “I have a guess. But it’s purely unscientific. Not the sort of evidence that would hold up in court. Or even be admissible.”
“No one is on trial,” the lieutenant pointed out. Very gently he added, “Yet.”
“I am fond of Arroyo,” Crespo admitted again. “I—if I could claim attorney-client privilege I would.”
“Given that the professor is your employee and not your client, however . . .” Tejada could not completely suppress the sarcasm in his voice.
“He’s been abstracted recently,” Crespo said slowly. “I stayed late a few weeks ago to finish up some work, and also just to have a chat, and he seemed very upset about . . . well, about the news from France. It was right after the Germans captured Verdun, I think, and he was quite concerned. He mentioned something about looking forward to seeing a colleague of ours, a Frenchman, who I’d lost touch with years ago. I assumed he meant that he was expecting a visit, but . . .”
“You think he may have been planning to flee to France?” Tejada said, reflecting that this did not seem like a wise, or even a sane, course of action.
“No, of course I didn’t think that,” Crespo protested. “I told you what I thought. And I told you that it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be considered evidence. The only objective fact that I can tell you is that for the last month or so Arroyo has seemed unusually nervous.”
“Like a man planning to disappear,” Tejada said grimly. He rose, and took a perverse pleasure in seeing Eduardo Crespo hastily stub out his cigarette, and stand also, looking surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. He’s used to dismissing people, not to being dismissed, the lieutenant thought. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful, Doctor Crespo.”
“You’re most welcome, Lieutenant.” The lawyer’s voice was once again jovial, and slightly avuncular. “The Guardia Civil are the bulwark of our nation.”
“That being the case,” the lieutenant smiled slightly, “we would appreciate it if you would contact us if you hear anything from Professor Arroyo. Or if you gain any further information or insight into his whereabouts. I, personally, appreciate your loyalty to an old mentor,” he added, “but my superiors may not see it that way.”
“Of course, Lieutenant. Understood.” Judging from the lawyer’s unimpaired good humor in the face of this threat, Tejada guessed that he knew Captain Rodríguez personally. “Good day to you. And good luck.” Crespo smiled, and held out his hand.
Tejada glanced at the hand, sketched a salute, and left. It was past noon, and shops were closing. He felt that he needed something to eat before tackling another interview. And preferably a bath as well. Crespo had left an oily aftertaste. At least you know where you are with the Reds, Tejada thought with disgust, as he returned to the post. Fernández wouldn’t have acted that way. Not if he’s like Elena. When
she
didn’t want to answer a question she just kept quiet. And she volunteered information too. Not that she has anything to do with this. Or her father, probably. Just a coincidence that he signed that petition four years ago. And even if it’s not a coincidence, she was in Madrid in ’36, so it has nothing to do with her.
A hasty lunch and a brief rest did not make the idea of calling on Manuel Arroyo’s wife any more appealing. Arroyo’s brother-in-law was hardly a pleasing prospect either. Tejada smothered his guilt by telling himself that he would interview the Oteros the following morning, and set off to meet with Arroyo’s fellow petitioners. Instinctively, he decided to visit the medical doctors first. I don’t know them as well, he thought, although in fact his brief impression of Guillermo Fernández on Friday had been almost completely obscured by shock. I’ll stop by to see Fernández on the way back, if there’s time. Or send Hernández to interview him.
Giving due respect to seniority, Tejada visited Doctor Velázquez first. He found Velázquez’s home, or rather, the home of his daughter and son-in-law, by consulting a map of the city’s outskirts. The door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties who froze at the sight of him. “Señora Velázquez de Carrillo?” he asked.
“Yes?” The familiar sullen hostility was a relief after Crespo’s effusive welcome.
“I’m Lieutenant Tejada. I’m looking for your father.”
“He attended his last parole date.” The woman stepped backward to let him into the house, in spite of her defiant words.
“I know,” Tejada replied soothingly. “I wanted to ask him a few questions that are unrelated to his parole—at least, I believe they are unrelated.”
Velázquez’s daughter clearly disliked having the lieutenant in her home, but she offered no further protest. She led him through the entryway and up two flights of stairs, to a landing with one door ajar. “Through there,” she said, her voice still hostile.
Tejada pushed open the door, and found himself in a low-ceilinged, sunlit room, with a bed, a desk, an armchair, and an improbable number of bookshelves, crammed with everything from medical texts to popular novels. The window was open, and the room was no more than pleasantly warm, although it probably became unbearably stuffy later in the summer. Seated in the armchair was a balding man whom Tejada recognized as Dr. Velázquez. Perched cross-legged on the bed, next to a checkerboard with a game in progress, was a boy of about eleven, wearing what Tejada recognized as the uniform of the Falangist youth, minus jacket and cap. Both looked up as the lieutenant entered. The boy became saucer-eyed. The man rose to his feet, somewhat stiffly, and moved to stand in front of the child.
The lieutenant nodded politely. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
“Good afternoon.” Dr. Velázquez appeared to be at a loss.
The boy slid off the bed, and stood next to the doctor with an air of defiance. Tejada smiled at the indignantly quivering little body. “Your grandson?” he inquired.
“Yes.” The doctor turned. “Run along, Agustín. You don’t want to be late for your game this afternoon. And the lieutenant and I have business.”
The boy looked as if he would have liked to argue, then he obediently headed for the door. It swung shut behind him. There was silence for a moment, and then Dr. Velázquez said, a little more loudly, “I said, run along, Agustín.” He smiled apologetically at the lieutenant as the creaking of the stairs signaled his grandson’s retreat.
Tejada laughed. “He’s very devoted to you.”
Velázquez shrugged. “Keeping Anita’s children amused is one of the few things I’m good for nowadays.” The bitterness beneath his words was unmistakable. “What brings you here, Lieutenant? Surely I haven’t committed any new crimes since Friday afternoon?”
“No.” Tejada gestured for the doctor to be seated, and then realized that there was only one chair available in the little room. He loomed over Velázquez for a moment, and then sat on the other side of the checkerboard, in the place on the bed vacated by Agustín Carrillo. “I’m here because one of your colleagues is missing.”
“One of my colleagues?” Velázquez was faintly amused. “As you are aware, Lieutenant, I am retired. I am not in close touch with any of my colleagues.”
“I didn’t mean a medical colleague,” Tejada said. “I meant Manuel Arroyo Díaz.”
Velázquez sat absolutely still for a moment. Then he said quietly, “I know nothing about such a disappearance.”
“Perhaps you could tell me the last time you saw Professor Arroyo?”
“The last time I saw him, Lieutenant, was over six months ago.” Velázquez sighed, and continued before Tejada could speak again. “It was a chance meeting in a tobacco shop. I hadn’t seen him for some time before that, and we exchanged no more than greetings. I may have asked after his family. I believe he asked me about Anita. As you must remember, I gave you all of these details on Friday, when you asked me the same question.”
Velázquez had in fact said exactly the same thing on Friday. Tejada pressed ahead instead with a new question. “Where do you think he might go, if he were to, for example, try to flee?”
“I have no idea.” The doctor sounded tired.
“Would you be surprised to learn that he had been involved in politics recently?”
Velázquez’s gaze flickered over the checkerboard between the two men. His mouth twisted. “Checkmate, I think, Lieutenant. If I say I am not surprised, you will ask me what Arroyo’s involvement consists of, and if I say that I am surprised, you will ask me how I can be so sure. Well done. I concede the game.”
“You haven’t answered the question,” Tejada pointed out.
“And no answer is equally damning as a yes or no.”
Tejada raised his eyebrows. “If I didn’t know better I would think that you were deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“I would be extremely stupid to provoke a guardia civil.” There was venom in the doctor’s voice.
“Yes,” Tejada agreed. “You would be. So why are you doing it?” He felt a strong urge to slap Velázquez and tell him to stop behaving like a silly child, but he found the doctor’s open antagonism easier to bear than Eduardo Crespo’s subtly patronizing friendliness.
The doctor turned his head away from Tejada for a moment, and the lieutenant followed his gaze to the face of a small clock on one of the bookcases. “Are you planning to arrest me, Lieutenant?” he asked, and suddenly his voice was no longer mocking, but tired, and old, and somewhat frightened.
“That depends on whether you answer my questions,” Tejada replied evenly.
“If you are planning to take me into custody for further questioning, I’d rather that you did so immediately.” The doctor’s voice was almost pleading now. “My granddaughter is having lunch at a friend’s house, and I’d rather leave before she returns, and before Agustín gets back from his soccer game.”
Tejada considered for a moment. “Suppose that you simply answer the questions,” he suggested finally. “That way your grandchildren need not be distressed by your absence.”
The doctor sighed, defeated. “I don’t know anything about Arroyo. But I doubt that you’ll believe that.”
“I haven’t decided whether I believe that, yet,” Tejada replied. “But I do have a few other questions. For a start, how exactly did you meet Professor Arroyo in the first place?
Doctor Velázquez thought a moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t really know.” He saw the lieutenant’s skeptical look and added despairingly, “I’m not trying to avoid the question, but I cannot tell you exactly when I met him. Close to a dozen years ago is the best I can do. I assume it was at some university function. Or we might have simply struck up a conversation at a café. One gets used to seeing the same faces around the campus, and sooner or later one talks to them. After thirty years in the same place pretty much all the faces look vaguely like acquaintances.”
Tejada nodded, briefly wondering what it would be like to remain in the same place for thirty years. Thirty years with Rodríguez, he thought with a shudder. And then, speculatively, thirty years in Toledo . . . in Madrid . . . ? “And when did you and Arroyo become friendly?”
“We never really did.” Velázquez looked almost apologetic. “As I said, we were acquaintances. We had lunch a few times. My wife and I went to one of his open lectures once. We lost touch after we both resigned from the university.”
“And how did you both come to resign?” Tejada asked.
“To become partners in crime, you mean?” The sarcastic edge was back in the doctor’s voice. “In retrospect, I can only say that we must have shared an extremely ill-timed—or well-timed— self-destructive impulse.” Seeing that Tejada looked impatient, the doctor continued with some bitterness. “In 1936 Unamuno was older than I am now, you know. Are you aware that General Millán tried to strike him, in full view of the assembled audience? And that the day after being assaulted and publicly insulted he was summarily dismissed from the institution he had given his life to? And that—”
“Are you quoting?” Tejada interrupted coolly.
“No. But no doubt you have my exact words on file.”
“No doubt,” the lieutenant agreed. “But you are once again avoiding the question.”