Authors: Rebecca Pawel
“A number of those present in the audience were shocked,” Velázquez said stiffly. “And the day after Unamuno’s dismissal a number of us met, coincidentally, and discussed it.”
“Coincidentally?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
“As I said before, the university world is a small one.”
“Who was there?”
Velázquez snorted. “You tell me.”
“If I do have to take you to the post for questioning, I’ll make a point of waiting until your grandson returns,” Tejada said quietly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”
The doctor froze. Then he said very quietly, “Myself. Arroyo. A classics professor named Fernández. And one of my former students.”
“By the name of ?” Tejada prompted. There was a short silence and then he added, “I think Agustín would be upset if he were to return and find, say, his checkers game overturned, and possibly a few of the bookcases? He’s a bright boy. He might deduce a struggle.”
Velázquez’s fists clenched briefly. “Tomás Rivera,” he said quietly. “But I suspect that Rivera’s indignation had more to do with my convictions than with his own.”
Tejada, who suspected much the same thing, moved on to another question. “I assume that you knew Fernández in much the same way you knew Arroyo? A casual acquaintance?”
Doctor Velázquez, who had wearily decided that fighting the insistent questions was impossible, would have been gratified by the knowledge that his next words seriously shook the lieutenant. “Actually, no. I knew Fernández through his daughter. My daughter Anita was a teacher before she married, and Elena Fernández was one of her first students. They became friendly after Elena graduated. They’re close in age, you see, and Elena’s also a teacher.”
“I see,” Tejada said shortly, mentally placing the woman who had shown him upstairs next to Elena. “And you say that you lost touch with each other after the incident of this petition?”
“Fernández was in prison,” Velázquez pointed out dryly. “The rest of us didn’t want to be arrested for conspiracy, or worse.”
Tejada changed the direction of his questioning abruptly. “Do you know of any professional connections Arroyo may have had in France?”
The doctor blinked at the change in subject, but he answered readily enough. “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. As I say, we were never really close. I know that Arroyo visited Geneva several times. With regard to the League of Nations. I suppose he might have met French colleagues there.”
Tejada suddenly saw a possible explanation for Eduardo Crespo’s surprising statement. It was extremely unlikely that Arroyo would think of taking refuge in France now. But if he were using France as a way station on the way to Switzerland, he might well follow news of the war anxiously. “Thank you.”
Tejada stood. “If you hear anything from Arroyo, please contact the Guardia Civil.”
Doctor Velázquez rose also. “If I hear anything from Arroyo,”
he remarked, smiling slightly, “I suspect that the Guardia will already know about it.” Seeing Tejada’s startled look, his smile widened slightly. “I’ve been under surveillance intermittently for the last four years, Lieutenant. I am aware when I have a shadow.”
“You’re very observant.” Tejada smiled back. “Have a good evening.”
“Until Friday,” the doctor replied.
The lieutenant decided to postpone further interviews until the following day. Sergeant Hernández had been making dire predictions about the inadequacy of two new recruits for patrol, and there was a pile of paperwork on Tejada’s desk that he had already neglected for too long. He headed back to the post, wondering idly what subject Ana de Carrillo had taught Elena.
I
n his interview with the former professor the preceding Friday, Tejada had established that Quiñones and Sons was a construction company, and that Doctor Rivera was employed there as a bookkeeper. He did not learn that Ramón Quiñones was Rivera’s brother-in-law until the following day, when he set out for the business offices of the company.
“He doesn’t do anything political,” Quiñones explained nervously to the intimidating uniformed figure who appeared in his private office Tuesday morning. “Just balances the accounts, and makes sure the men get paid. With respect, sir, your predecessor never had any objection.”
“No, I gather not,” Tejada said.
Quiñones shifted his weight and wished that the lieutenant would be a little more forthcoming. “Of course, I have nothing to do with his politics,” he offered worrriedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have hired him. The only reason I did was because of the kids. I mean, Cristina’s just sixteen this winter, and he’s got two younger ones, and they’re my sister’s children as well as his, after all.” The contractor talked himself to a standstill.
“That was very generous of you.”
Quiñones flushed painfully under the lieutenant’s impassive stare. “He couldn’t work anywhere else. I did the best I could for him,” he muttered. “I mean, you’ve got to have a job to get ration coupons, so that was something. And honest to God, Lieutenant, he never did any real
harm
. He’s never been a Communist, or anything like that.”
Tejada reflected that Quiñones seemed unsure whether to apologize for not doing enough for his brother-in-law or for helping him at all. Randomized guilt, the lieutenant decided, definitely made people much easier to interview. “Of course,” he said, meaninglessly. “I’d like to speak to Doctor Rivera now, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Señor Quiñones led the guardia civil into a cluttered and windowless office, crammed with three desks and an ancient filing cabinet. Although the cabinet looked as if a slight breeze would make it collapse in a heap of rust, and the desks were chipped and scarred, the room was scrupulously neat. The stack of papers beside a typewriter had been squared off with mathematical precision, and even the telephone on the wall had been carefully hung in the exact center above the filing cabinet. A female secretary was seated at the desk with the typewriter. Two men occupied the other desks, and Tejada recognized one of them as the fourth of the petitioners. Quiñones wove his way between the desks and murmured something in his brother-in-law’s ear. It was a useless piece of discretion. His other employees were openly staring at the guardia civil.
Doctor Rivera wordlessly closed the ledger on his desk, capped his pen, and made his way to where the lieutenant stood waiting. “You wanted to see me, sir?” His voice was dull, and he kept his eyes on the ground.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Tejada glanced at Quiñones, who was hovering at his brother-in-law’s elbow. “In private, if possible.”
“I’ll take you into my office,” the contractor said hastily. As they moved toward the door the typist raised her voice. “Tomás! I-I meant to tell you. I’ll take that recipe over to Cristina at lunch today.”
“Thanks.” Rivera’s smile came and went so quickly that Tejada missed it completely. But the lieutenant suddenly understood that Rivera’s normal expression was terribly sad.
Tejada patiently asked Rivera the same questions he had asked Velázquez. As he had expected, the answers were not substantially different. Rivera thought that he had been introduced to Guillermo Fernández by Doctor Velázquez. Or they might have met casually elsewhere. It had all been years ago. He had only met Manuel Arroyo in 1936, when they had cosigned the petition. No, the petition had not been his idea. No, he had not seen Professor Arroyo in years and had no idea where he might be. “We’ve never been close,” Rivera explained, in the weary monotone he used throughout the interview. “He belongs to a different generation, a different profession . . . a different class.” For the first time there was a faint edge in the doctor’s voice.
“Oh?” Tejada asked, pursuing the edge with some interest.
Rivera shrugged, once more indifferent. “My father was a tailor, Lieutenant. I was the first of my family to graduate from a university. And Arroyo . . .”
“I’ve met his wife,” Tejada offered helpfully.
Doctor Rivera looked up, and met the lieutenant’s eyes for the first time during the interview. “Well, then, you can see.”
“Yes.” Tejada considered mentioning that the aristocratic lawyer had spent the last three years as a janitor, but decided against it. “How long have you worked here?” he asked, his mind still running on professions.
“Since the end of ’36.”
“You’re fortunate,” Tejada commented.
“Fortunate?” Doctor Rivera repeated. Bitterness temporarily colored his gray voice. “I was planning to spend that winter in Vienna. I had the money. I’d exchanged letters with the Psychoanalytic Society there. I was looking at schools for the kids. I started working for Ramón at just the time when I thought I’d be packing my bags.”
There was, Tejada felt, nothing more to say.
You were a damn
fool to meddle in what didn’t concern you
, seemed apt, but unnecessarily cruel. “Thank you for your time,” he said instead. “If you
do
learn anything of Arroyo’s whereabouts, please contact the Guardia Civil.”
“Yes, sir.” Rivera stood and followed the lieutenant to the door like an obedient child. As Tejada went out the doctor cleared his throat suddenly. “Lieutenant?”
Tejada turned. “Yes?”
“Am I under surveillance again because of Arroyo’s disappearance?”
“Yes.”
“I . . .” Dr. Rivera stared at the ground. “Would it be possible for it to be a bit more discreet? It’s only . . . my daughter . . . well, she’s at an age where—where if she goes out her friends are likely to notice and well . . .”
“I can’t make any promises,” Tejada said slowly, recalling with something akin to guilt that he had specifically excluded Elena from her father’s surveillance. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
Tejada left Quiñones and Sons feeling vaguely depressed, for reasons he did not bother to analyze. He returned to the post, examined his desk with distaste, and then considered who else he could question regarding Arroyo. The professor’s wife and brother-in-law were high on the list. And Guillermo Fernández. The lieutenant decided that delegation was the key to successful command. He sent for Sergeant Hernández. “Go and talk to Guillermo Fernández about the Arroyo business,” he ordered. “Find out when the two of them met, how they became involved with the other petitioners, everything you can. And see if Fernández knows anything about Arroyo’s connections to France or Switzerland.”
“Yes, sir.” Hernández nodded. “Right away, sir?”
“No.” Tejada shook his head. “Call Arroyo’s brother-in-law, and set up an appointment for me first.”
“Judge Otero Martínez y Arias, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“Does he have other brothers-in-law?”
Hernández shook his head. “Well, no one can say you shirk the hard jobs,” he commented.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Remind me to delegate more of them in the future.”
Hernández laughed, and reached for the telephone on his desk. His conversation with Judge Otero, or rather with Otero’s secretary, was lengthy and (judging from his expression) frustrating. After nearly ten minutes he hung up the phone. “His Honor can squeeze you in for half an hour at five-thirty tomorrow,” he said dryly, “if you will meet him in his chambers.”
“Well done,” Tejada said, because he felt that the sergeant deserved some recognition for the phone call. “Give me the address, and then go talk to Fernández.”
Sergeant Hernández saluted and then left, and Tejada turned his attention to other tasks. He managed to successfully distract himself from the Arroyo case until a few minutes before five-thirty the following afternoon, when he knocked on the polished oak door of Judge Otero Martínez y Arias.
A few minutes after six an obsequious secretary entered the waiting room, gave the lieutenant a nervous half-bow, and said that the judge was currently free and would the Señor Guardia be so kind as to state his name. Tejada, who had spent the better part of twenty minutes thinking of cutting things to say, contented himself with replying quietly, “Lieutenant Carlos Tejada Alonso y León. I had an appointment for five thirty.” The secretary, who was used to being the butt of people’s frustration, merely bowed and announced him.
Manuel Arroyo’s brother-in-law was seated behind a mahogany desk that might have been the twin of Eduardo Crespo’s. This desk, however, was completely clear. No ink stains showed on the blotter, and the only paper in sight was a small memo pad, placed carefully in one corner. The judge, Tejada thought sourly, did not look overly busy.
Judge Otero rose to greet his guest, and Tejada saw that although he grasped a silver-handled cane with one hand, he stood remarkably straight. The silver handle matched his hair, which was neatly slicked back. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Lieutenant.” His voice, unlike Crespo’s, was quiet.
“It’s nothing, Your Honor,” Tejada lied politely.
Dark eyes regarded him from under bushy silver eyebrows for a moment. “You will forgive an impertinent question, Lieutenant, but your surname . . . are you related to Enrique Tejada de la Vega? Of Granada?”
Tejada mentally ran through the catalogue of his relatives. “My great-uncle, Your Honor.”
“Ahh. I had the pleasure of meeting your great-uncle during his tenure as a deputy in Madrid. Is he still living?”
“Unfortunately, no, Your Honor. He passed away some years ago.”
“I am sorry,” the judge said politely. “Do sit down. Now, I take it that you are here in regard to my unfortunate brother-in-law.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Tejada waited. After a moment, it became clear that the judge was waiting also. Feeling slightly awkward, the lieutenant coughed, and said, “We are, of course, interested in his whereabouts.”
“You may well believe that I am too, Lieutenant.” The judge resumed his seat, sounding slightly rueful. “Manuel has been eccentric in the past, but this disappearance is far beyond what is permissible.”
“Eccentric in what way, Your Honor?” Tejada asked, surprised. His fellow petitioners had drawn a portrait of Arroyo as an eminently conventional man.
“Most notably for the event which first drew the interest of the Guardia Civil,” Judge Otero replied, with a certain wry humor. “But I might add that his decision to continue working after his retirement from the university was somewhat unusual.”
“For Doctor Crespo?” Tejada confirmed.
“Clerking for Eduardo Crespo might have been understandable,” Judge Otero said simply. “Cleaning his office is completely insane.”
Since Tejada found himself totally in sympathy with the judge, he risked a question. “Why do you think he does it? Or did it, until last week?”
“Because he is eccentric.” Judge Otero’s tone was half amused and half annoyed. “He always mutters some nonsense about the dignity of labor but frankly, Lieutenant, I suspect that he would cling to any excuse to remain in a law office.”
“The law is so important to him?” Tejada asked, curious.
“Paramount,” said the judge flatly. “Manuel has spent most of his legal career in an academic setting, you know, and he has remained quite idealistic, in a way that those of us who have chosen other paths cannot afford to be.”
“The League of Nations?” Tejada suggested.
“Exactly.” Judge Otero nodded. “And his work on Cuba. You’re too young to remember 1898, I suppose?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tejada said, privately marveling at how frequently people who seem perfectly capable of simple arithmetic asked if he remembered an event that had occurred a dozen years before his birth.
“Well.” The judge shook his head. “Manuel’s writings about it are interesting, but completely impractical.”
“I understand that your brother-in-law traveled frequently to Geneva, though?” Tejada said casually.
“Not since the early thirties,” Judge Otero corrected gently. “Although if you’re thinking he may have fled to Geneva, I suppose it’s possible.”
“Do you think he did?”